A five year stretch for B&E..
He'd become too used to the method employed by humanity for entering a domain normally denied them - breaking the barrier, usually constructed of glass, with whatever heavy device happens to be at hand. In most cases, that device was a rock; Prometheus had in turn grown used to having the facilitator of his entrance on hand whenever the situation called for it. To enter the Underworld was roughly similar in theory - find a 'barrier' constructed of 'glass' and break through - but in reality the pursuit of such a goal was much more difficult. The countryside in which Hercules had found his cave was comprised of just that - countryside, and caves. It took hours of effort for Prometheus to locate the proper cave, and even longer for him to facilitate his entrance; an endless chain of cigarettes that affected him not one jot littered the ground outside the cavern.
Prometheus muttered under his breath - yet another bad habit. The fact that Rhea and Mnemosyne had been less than willing to back his play was of no real surprise; he loved them both dearly, but one could not rebel against their very nature, no matter God or mortal. He didn't begrudge them neutrality, real or imagined, or any other state of being they'd chosen. Perhaps Hades would have more to say, though he doubted it greatly. Still, he had to do something.
"Well, let's do it, then," Prometheus muttered again, and he started forward.
It grew darker almost instantly, and the silence of his passage was not something he savored. Solitude, he'd had enough of, all those long years on a mountaintop with only the eagle as his company. Had he been possessed of a will any smaller, he might well have gone mad, but thankfully that sad fate had been spared him. Prometheus didn't relish the venture, and to take his mind from its morbid wanderings, he lit another cigarette. The small spark and larger flame were enough to show him bones pressed against the cavern walls, rock surfaces slick with dark stains that he had no desire to investigate further. The cigarette he lit, but the Zippo clicked shut quickly, and he did not light it again.
Eternity was a long time for a being to stretch on. Perhaps, by taking the long view, the Gods denied themselves those pleasures that only man could reach. Pleasures of the flesh were there to be had, for any that wanted them, but such engaging practices as sports were denied to a God - the simple fact would be that victory did not matter, because one had an eternity in which to obtain it. Not for the first time, he asked himself who wanted to live forever, and if he would have taken that option given his druthers. Of course, ignorant of the drawbacks to immortality, he might well have come to regret that decision. Such was the frailty of limited understand.
How long did this damn passage stretch on?
"Stop talking to yourself," he told himself sternly.
"People are going to think you're crazy."
Maybe he was. Maybe this was a passage without end, a trick, some kind of trap played effectively by the denizens of the Underworld. Perhaps he was never meant to reach the depths of the Underworld - no, he was sure that he had never been meant to gaze upon its inner workings in the manner which he sought only currently. The cigarette was discarded, and he chided himself silently for thinking that it would be enough to distract him from his aimless thought. He had a difficult time not thinking, on most journies of this type. He took them entirely too often to suit his taste.
Almost as though it had been forced upon him, or he it, Prometheus breathed easier. Although it was too dark for him to see more than a few feet in front of him - he wasn't using any of his strength at the moment, just what was needed to anchor to him his mind and sense - he started out confidently, sure that in mere moments he would be noticed by someone that might guide him from here. And if not, perhaps a dive into the River Lethe, and a fresh start from it. Either result might be pleasant, but the darkness was not, and he struggled against his desire to be on edge, despite his relative immortality.
"Maybe you are," he told himself.
"Crazy," he added as an afterthought.
Let someone show up soon.
Prometheus muttered under his breath - yet another bad habit. The fact that Rhea and Mnemosyne had been less than willing to back his play was of no real surprise; he loved them both dearly, but one could not rebel against their very nature, no matter God or mortal. He didn't begrudge them neutrality, real or imagined, or any other state of being they'd chosen. Perhaps Hades would have more to say, though he doubted it greatly. Still, he had to do something.
"Well, let's do it, then," Prometheus muttered again, and he started forward.
It grew darker almost instantly, and the silence of his passage was not something he savored. Solitude, he'd had enough of, all those long years on a mountaintop with only the eagle as his company. Had he been possessed of a will any smaller, he might well have gone mad, but thankfully that sad fate had been spared him. Prometheus didn't relish the venture, and to take his mind from its morbid wanderings, he lit another cigarette. The small spark and larger flame were enough to show him bones pressed against the cavern walls, rock surfaces slick with dark stains that he had no desire to investigate further. The cigarette he lit, but the Zippo clicked shut quickly, and he did not light it again.
Eternity was a long time for a being to stretch on. Perhaps, by taking the long view, the Gods denied themselves those pleasures that only man could reach. Pleasures of the flesh were there to be had, for any that wanted them, but such engaging practices as sports were denied to a God - the simple fact would be that victory did not matter, because one had an eternity in which to obtain it. Not for the first time, he asked himself who wanted to live forever, and if he would have taken that option given his druthers. Of course, ignorant of the drawbacks to immortality, he might well have come to regret that decision. Such was the frailty of limited understand.
How long did this damn passage stretch on?
"Stop talking to yourself," he told himself sternly.
"People are going to think you're crazy."
Maybe he was. Maybe this was a passage without end, a trick, some kind of trap played effectively by the denizens of the Underworld. Perhaps he was never meant to reach the depths of the Underworld - no, he was sure that he had never been meant to gaze upon its inner workings in the manner which he sought only currently. The cigarette was discarded, and he chided himself silently for thinking that it would be enough to distract him from his aimless thought. He had a difficult time not thinking, on most journies of this type. He took them entirely too often to suit his taste.
Almost as though it had been forced upon him, or he it, Prometheus breathed easier. Although it was too dark for him to see more than a few feet in front of him - he wasn't using any of his strength at the moment, just what was needed to anchor to him his mind and sense - he started out confidently, sure that in mere moments he would be noticed by someone that might guide him from here. And if not, perhaps a dive into the River Lethe, and a fresh start from it. Either result might be pleasant, but the darkness was not, and he struggled against his desire to be on edge, despite his relative immortality.
"Maybe you are," he told himself.
"Crazy," he added as an afterthought.
Let someone show up soon.