The pain was intolerable. The poison ran through my veins and devoured every sort of comfort within my own skin. It soon paralyzed my entire left foreleg, yet the pain did not stop. I spent weeks applying medicinal herbs to the wound, but not even the strongest of concoctions were able to cure me. A depressed Heracles told me the type of poison that he used on his arrows. It was Hydra's blood, one of the few incurable types of venom in the known world. The only reason that it did not go straight to my heart and freeze my brain within the first ten minutes of injury was because of my immortal heritage. My immortality prevented me from dying, but I am engulfed in pain every second of my waking hours. It is tormenting, teasing me by bringing me to the very edge of death, when my soul longed for the sweet, dark oblivion that was the Underworld, but holding me back, prohibiting me to jump off the edge.
The pain soon numbed my senses, and I cannot feel anymore. I cannot walk. I have no intention to eat, and sleep was a lost art. It seems as if the entire world came to have a look at the failing Centaur King, the great Cheiron who is one of the best healers but cannot help himself. Kings and queens and ambassadors, my past pupils. They all speak as if I am already dead, and I might as well be. I talk little to the visitors and spend my days staring up at the blue sky, and counted its many unique colors as it changed from dawn to dusk.
It is two months after my injury when Heracles returned from one of his famed labors, insisting that we go on a journey up Mount Caucasus. "I will carry you," he declared. "You must come with me. There is someone I would like you to meet."
Out of curiosity more than obligation, I consented.
His arms were held back on a large rock, the chains unbreakable immortal steel. His blue-black hair touched his broad shoulders in dirty, knotted clumps. A ragged chiton, its color unrecognizable due to the many layers of blood, hung loosely around his waist in tattered shreds. He was pitifully slim; his cheekbones were sharp, his scarred skin was stretched taut over strong bones, the blue veins underneath striking.
"This is Prometheus," said Heracles. "The Creator of Man."
The Titan god looked up, and I was taken aback at the liveliness of his eyes, compared to the rest of him. Those eyes spoke of knowledge and perception that no god can compare, not even Apollo. Dark, snarled beard adorned his jaw, and his countenance was bold and defiant. His entire being radiated a sense of sagacity and experience beyond one's imagination, yet also a strange, proud sorrow.
"He is being punished for taking the heavenly fire and presenting it to man," Heracles explained. "Thirteen generations ago, my father chained him here, and he is deemed to suffer for all eternity. Every morning the eagle would come and devour his liver. At nightfall, his liver would regenerate itself—only to be eaten again within the first rays of Dawn."
Prometheus regarded me with those piercing eyes, studying me silently. Then he nodded, just once, in acknowledgement.
I nodded back. "Heracles, could you give us a moment?"
Heracles complied and trotted off. We are alone.
Prometheus spoke first. "You are in pain," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. There was musing in those words, one that sympathized.
I smiled. "So are you."
He shook his head. "I am numb to the ache. I have endured it for so long. Zeus just had to choose the most uncomfortable rock on this mountain, though."
I cocked my head to one side, deep in thought. This god gave mankind form, life, power. He taught them all he knew, and saved them numerous times from extinction. For his people, he was willing to risk everything. Yet he did not seem all that troubled by his condition. There was calm serenity in his face, as if he was content with what he had done. And he had just made a joke.
"Do you not regret your decisions to help mankind?" I asked.
"I knew of the consequences of my actions before I took it. I was ready for this."
"Why did you do it?"
His eyes flickered up to bore into mine. "I cannot just stand aside and watch as my people starve to death without food, relent to disease from devouring raw meat or poisonous herbs, or frostbitten and sunburnt without protective clothing. I cannot."
Those intensive eyes moved away, and I realized I can breathe again.
"They are my creation," Prometheus continued, his voice thick. "I brought them to this world; therefore I am responsible for their care, I must teach them how to live amongst themselves and with the gods. I care too much for them to just stand aside and leave them in their disastrous state. Then the purpose of my creation would have been lost. Mortal civilization would have ended before it began."
I was silent for a few moments. "Which fate do you think would be worse for one to endure: One who does not wish to die but is forced to, or one who prays for death but is denied it?"
He studied the ground. The blood from his abdomen had ceased to flow; and the warm red liquid gathered around his feet in a dark pool. I could almost see the reflection of his face on the scarlet surface.
He looked up. "Both."
That night, I stayed up pondering over the day's events. I thought of Oreus and Hylaeus and the many other Centaurs that were slain due to their imprudence and lack of civility. I considered Heracles', rising gallantly to his friend's defense and ending up mortally injuring another. I reflected over Prometheus, risking his own life to present men with fire just so they can live, and being severely punished for it. I contemplated the choices of Zeus, who knew how important a role Prometheus stood in both the immortals' lives and the mortals', but could not risk the chances of men forgetting their places in the world and belittling the gods with their new knowledge, and had to deliver the punishment to the god with whom he had entrusted the mission of creating mankind in the first place.
By the time Eos shed her gentle light upon the earth, I had made my decision.
I knew of Apollo's arrival before he stormed inside. A dozen pupils sparring wouldn't have drowned out the sound of his horses as he landed his chariot in a strangely ungraceful manner right before the entrance of my cave.
His fair hair was tousled from a speedy ride through the sky, as were his robe and the chiton beneath. His lips were compressed tight with anger, his golden brows drawn together in frustration.
"The Olympians. They talk of you giving your life to the Titan Prometheus. You know any of this ill rumor?" his voice was unusually clipped in his obvious effort to keep it even.
"It is not a rumor," I replied.
For a moment I thought he would explode, or the mountain will, or the world. He certainly looked enraged enough to do so. Instead, the god shut his eyes as if pained, and gripped his hands until they were deathly pale. Once he had his rising anger under control, he opened his eyes and looked straight into mine.
I forced myself to hold that gaze. Those light blue depths were accusing, searching, and—dare I assume?—pleading.
Something on my expression must have told him that I spoke the truth, for he drew in a sharp breath, his eyes widening in astonishment. "Surely you don't think of actually going through with this revolting business?"
I smiled weakly. "I had wished you'd be more supportive of my decision."
"Supportive? You are trading your life for a Titan and you wish me to be supportive of this thoughtless, suicidal atrocity?" he spat out the word Titan as if it had tasted vile on his tongue.
"You make it sound as if it is a horrible deed."
"This is not horrible, Cheiron. Horrible does not come close."
"''Revolting?' 'Suicidal?' Dearest friend, why are you using such strong words? For my life, another can be saved. Prometheus is the greatest contributor to man. It is a high honor to be the one to release him of his bond, and the consequence is more than worth it." Death was hardly a consequence at this point, I thought, but didn't dare voice aloud.
"He stole the sacred fire," Apollo replied through clenched teeth.
"For the sake of mankind. Really, Apollo, I thought you are less trivial."
He was apparently flabbergasted that this conversation was actually taking place. I know he knew this would come. He was the one who taught me how to prophesize, after all. But Apollo never liked to believe anything until he had seen them with his own eyes.
Then he seemed to deflate. As if his anger, boiling white-hot just the moment before, was cooled and drained away from him in a matter of seconds. He was suddenly weary, and ran his long fingers through his hair as he emitted a long sigh.
"I doubt this has much to do with your wound," he said quietly.
I looked up, slightly surprised. Apollo never discussed my injury more than he had to—he probably suffered more than I did after I received the fatal shot. He was forever tormented by the fact that he was the god of healing but could do absolutely nothing to treat me, to cure me of the great pain that he knew I was enduring.
I chuckled. "You are right, as always. No, my decision has little to do with my injury, much as it pains me. I have been through harsher pains before. You know that."
He nodded wordlessly.
"Many people thought my decision to be tactless and unwise, but you know very well that I am either of those things." He nodded again, this time more firmly. "I do not have a particular reason, I suppose. A life without ending ultimately loses its attraction for me." I smiled and stopped him as he drew in a breath, obviously to retort. "I doubt you would understand. Think of it this way: I seek neither new love—as you tend to do when life grows too dull for you—nor do I have anything left unsaid or undone in this world.
"It is time for me to leave."