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"Patience is the companion of wisdom."

Saint Augustine

Martini glass in hand, Prometheus watched, amused, as the empousa Kelli, and the demigod Luke, disappeared from the inner courtyard and into the hall that lead to the demigod's room. He could practically taste the impatience rolling off the demigod's body, mixed with determination. And, could it be? Prometheus flared his nostrils, inhaled deeply, and smiled. It was, indeed, a twist of regret. The demigod regretted his orders.

"Come out, dear," the titan hissed, turning away from his window and narrowing his eyes behind their protective lenses.

From the shadows of black pillars and dark tapestries, a girl stepped forward. She was not one of his favorite spies: skin a little to pale, hair a little to dark, ears a little to finely tuned. Today, however, she was the only person he could refer to.

"What do you know," he asked, attempting to sooth the girl's fears by speaking softly. Unlike the demigod entertaining the empousa far below, Prometheus believed in creating a sense of trust with his acolytes, as opposed to fear. They were more likely to tell him the truth, and serve him unquestioningly, if they trusted him. "About the demigod princess being held here? I saw you speaking with Commander Castellan," he added, letting a minuscule smile descend over his scarred lips. "You fear him more then any of the other soldiers: you alone know what he is hiding."

"A bond," the girl, young woman, really, managed. "He called her his wife. She's here against her will, sir. He has her restrained with chains no measure of strength can break. She's tired, sir, she barely sleeps. She never talks to herself, not even when Commander Castellan leaves her alone. She just kneels there, staring at the wall and rubbing the chains that constrain her hands against the rope that bind her ankles."

Prometheus nodded approvingly. He had expected as much from a child of Zeus: the will to escape. In his experience, all the demigod princess and princesses were born with a strong survival instinct. The were akin to reptiles that were able to lose bits of their bodies and grown them back later. If you cut off a bit of a child of Zeus' freedom, they fought against whatever it was you had chained them with until they broke free.

He just hoped, for the son of Hermes' sake, that this princess would stop fighting after her vital organs were cut out.

"Very good," he smiled his thanks, and motioned toward a glass topped table. "Drink?"

The daughter of Nyx before him shook her head, her entire body lurching with the effort. "No thank you," she whispered, a hand moving to touch the sleeve of her loose shirt; and Prometheus could tell, if he glanced at the unusual creases in the fabric just right, that she had a weapon strapped to her forearm.

"You don't drink?"

"Not while I'm on a job, sir."

For the first time during their meeting, the titan felt a glimmer of respect for the demigod before him. She was smart, not to drink while in the company of others. Even smarter to cover her fear of poisoning by saying she didn't drink while she was suppose to be working. It was not an excuse many would argue with.

"You are to keep this matter of the princess a secret. You know that, of course," Prometheus kept his tone light, but he knew that, if the girl could pick up any sliver of emotion, or was anywhere close to as smart as the demigod, child of Hermes had made her out to be, she would pick up on his commanding tone.

The demigod nodded her head vigorously, saving herself from the instant death sentence Prometheus would have delivered, otherwise. "Commander Castellan told me so."

"Yes," Prometheus twirled the martini glass in his fingers, and recalled the regret he'd smelt on the son of Hermes' aura. "Keep an eye on him, would you?" He stated the question as if it were just that: a question. But the demigod before him knew, just as she had known before, that really, it was a command. "Report his every move back to me."

"Yes, sir," the girl whispered, eager to agree and be dismissed. "I'll come back every night, sir, and report to you."

Prometheus nodded encouragingly and sent her on her way. Only once she was gone, and the heavy door had closed behind her, did he allow himself a true smile. He had himself a spy.

The air was heavy with the smells of the oncoming spring. No mere Mortal, and very few demigods, would be able to pick out the exact scents, but Prometheus could. He could smell them all: prairie grass, scrublands, and at least half a dozen different pines. The temperature was rising, too, now in the mid-forties. It might not have seemed like spring to anyone else, but to Prometheus, the creature of life, it was the beginning of a cycle. Though, if he remembered correctly, there were still about two months before bobcats and white-tailed deer had their young.

Sighing, the titan stopped pacing up and down the deserted road, waved his hand in a seemingly unimportant manner, then stepped onto the property of the Oklahoman house he had met Chiron in, only a few weeks before. His thoughts returning to the births-to-come of animals, he sighed again. If only humans had children solely in the early months of spring: then there wouldn't be quite as many of them.

Everything was how he had left it. Sheets covered the furniture, and the only sound was a large, grandfather clock. The polished wood was covered in a fine layer of dust, but it still chimed: tolling the hours out, and ticking through the minutes. A smile that he was really using to often reached his lips, and Prometheus swayed, almost unnoticeably, in time to the constant ticking. There was something peaceful about this place: something he couldn't explain. And the ticking, it kept him grounded: reminded him of all the things he had yet to do. It was...serenely authoritative. If that was possible.

He felt quite at peace there. So much so, that, for a lingering instant, the titan considered buying another property, and keeping this one for himself. Regretfully, though, he realized that there simply wasn't enough time, and if he started buying up real-estate like there was no tomorrow, he would likely attract unwanted attention.

Running the tips of his fingers over the kitchen's granite countertop, Prometheus wondered briefly, why he had spent so much time, and money, changing the abandoned, practically run-down house into an up-scale home. The Mortals who's minds he'd had to Mist over had certainly not been worth the money: he could have done the same job, instantaneously, for nothing. Leaving the kitchen, Prometheus' smile left his face. He supposed that he'd spent so much time working on this little house because he didn't have one of his own. And probably never would.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, Prometheus pushed the master bedroom door open. Everything was so neat. Albeit, the drop cloths were covered in dust, but otherwise, the room was very nice looking. Pale blue paint cloaked the walls, hiding the disgraceful mess of plaster; where, before he had transformed the house, beige wallpaper had hung.

The place still wasn't quite ready. And there was still a bit more waiting to do; before sheets could be put on the bed, the floors vacuumed, the walls dusted, the water turned on, and the drop cloths removed from the furniture. Breathing in heavily, through his nose, Prometheus sighed. The day the house would become lived-in would be a bittersweet one for him. On one hand, he would be happy to see the place cleaned up, and "brought to life," instead of just sitting here, looking drab. But then, on the flip side, he knew for certain that the people moving-in weren't going to have the same affection and appreciation for the place that he did. Nowhere close.

"How is she?"

Prometheus' laugh was like an avalanche's rumble, and he continued for a brief handful of seconds. Chiron's face, crystal clear in the Iris Message, was pricelessly concerned. It was interesting, for the titan, to see another immortal so worried about the well-being of a person who would wither and die like a plant gone to long without water. Who, even if she wasn't a "guest" in captivity, would die of natural causes, or be killed by a monster long before the centaur passed any kind of important landmark in his own, possibly never-ending life. "She's seen better," he said finally, containing his good cheer as he reached over the water filled sink and refilled his martini glass. "Though, from the stories that have reached my ears, she has also seen worse."

Thousands of miles away, Chiron's facial expression twitched, and he frowned. "I placed her in your care, Prometheus. You had better not be starving or beating her."

"I have not lain a finger on her since she arrived," the titan assured, taking a long drink of alcohol. "Nor do I intend to."

Chiron looked doubtful. "Why not?"

Prometheus shrugged, and drummed his fingertips against the marble countertop in a rhythmic pattern. Truthfully, there were quite a few answers to the other immortal's posed question, but he only needed to tell the centaur one of them. "She is another man's wife, Chiron," he said finally, keeping his face emotionless. "And there are plenty of unwed girls running through the ground; I needn't go and steal, or discipline, someone else's wife."

Chiron sent him a suspicious look, but seemed at least slightly relieved by the titan's declaration. "I suppose there are."

"There are," Prometheus repeated, wondering, not for the first time, why these daily conversations were necessary. On a normal occasion, the centaur could be an interesting conversationalist, and Prometheus had also found him to be quite an excellent chess player. However, during these check-up calls, the half-horse immortal was nothing short of an irritation.

"Well then," Chiron said, blurring the Iris Message's quality as he shifted.

"Well then," Prometheus repeated. And then, because he had nothing left to say, he tossed his martini glass into the water, and watched as the resulting ripples first disrupted, then dissolved the image.

AN: Alright, so perhaps not the most eventful chapter ever, but necessary for plot-development just the same. The nursery rhyme I've chosen to form the titles for this chapter, and the next three, is very long, therefore, I'm only using part of it; a lesser known part.

The review challenge still stands, with the same rules as before. I'd also like to thank all the people who reviewed without asking for return-reviews: I appreciate each and every one of your comments! And AHumanRobot, thank you so much for all your constructive criticism, I am very grateful for your help.