By MM Dameron
The eagle circles overhead. It is hungry, as I am. I gaze up at my tormentor with anticipation, knowing come sunrise it will gorge itself upon my own flesh. I shift my gaze to the horizon. The first spears of light have begun to spill over the edge, painting the sky in a hue of pinks, oranges, and blues.
A sigh escapes my lips as I ready myself for yet another day of torture. I no longer scream during its feast anymore. I’ve long since lost my voice, crying out to the heavens in hope of forgiveness that will never be granted. I don’t even feel the pain anymore either.
A storm begins to brew in the valley far below my perch atop the mountain. I stare down, watching the clouds begin to swirl and congest into a single shape. Lightning cracks, and I remember a time when I appreciated the sound of thunder. I recall brighter days when I knew its wielder as an ally. As a friend. As a brother.
Memories of my youth flood my thoughts, as I return to that moment in time. I see it in front of me, as if the clouds are reflecting my daydreams. I see a face I once claimed as my own, a titan who towered above the world, though it has felt like eons since that time. That titan was young and foolish in those days. His allies were not yet gods, only children in the midst of rebelling against their parents. It was a war between gods and titans, yet he found himself opposed to his own kind. The turncoat titan and the commander of lightning stood together, side by side against the gods’ creators who feared them taking their places as rulers of Earth. They were their mistakes, their failed experiments. They were the children of tyrants, and the other titans no longer wished for the gods’ continued existence.
But, as they say, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. The gods defeated their masters, casting them deep beneath the Earth so that they might never return. Though the man in the memory was of titanic origin myself, he was permitted to become a god in my own right. Within the storm’s illusion I see the first moment of their freedom. The caller of thunder turned to the traitor that aided the gods and smiled, and he returned the expression. We were both so young then, him and I.
I no longer remember how to smile. How times have changed.
The eagle begins its descent. I feel my own flesh tying itself back together, as if taunting the bird, challenging it to consume. The creature’s eyes give away its hunger for flesh, ready to rip my body open yet again.
I keep my gaze affixed on the storm clouds. They begin to turn dark, encircling themselves like a spinning top. My mind mimics their raging spin, fading out the memory of two young and smiling gods. It is replaced by two clay sculptures, one tall and strong and the other lean and fair. They stand before their creator, who judges them as if they were on trial. The sculptor shares that same young face I once wore, with more wrinkles marking his brow. He admires his handiwork, adjusting small details until he’s finished his masterpieces. They exist as visages in the likes of the gods themselves.
The craftsman sets down his tools and readies himself in front of the statues. He closes his eyes and releases his breath, letting the fire of creation imbed itself within the clay. He steps back as his sculptures begin to feel their fingers, to lift their toes. He gazes at his work as it begins to take on new life. He grins with the youthful delight of creating something new and powerful.
His creation is not titan, nor is it god. His creation is something much smaller, yet with much more potential than anything before.
The god has joy in his eyes, as man takes its first breath, and love in his heart when they finally open their eyes. A sting of anguish pierces my own.
My eternal torturer has begun to feed. The sound of my body being torn apart is drowned out by thunder. Lighting strikes the earth, as the vision changes again. Images of many faces pass by as I can make out the expansion of humanity
What started as two has become thousands. Man covers the Earth, eager to learn anything and everything it can. They climb mountains and dive beneath waves. They raise creations of their own and tell tales of past glories. The sculptor is proud of his creation–his children–but few others embrace his living clay statues. They curse them as monsters, as creatures not deserving of the world. They begin destroying his masterpieces with storms and fire. They burdened man with death and decay. They tricked those who would be innocent into slaying one another in rage and jealousy. The gods had become as titans, fearing the loss of their own grasp upon the Earth to beings they cannot understand.
But this upset the craftsman, who had hoped to be different than his own parents. He loved his children, and wanted them to one day be as gods as well. He began to despise the rest of the pantheon. They took from his masterpiece, stealing back the fires of creation with every soul slain. They feasted on man’s misery, while he weeped in despair for their plight. He begged the others to see them the same way he saw them, but they refused. He dropped to his knees in front of the king of gods, who was once his ally and friend, and begged him to spare his offspring such suffering. The king only brushed his former ally aside.
Now, the sculptor, god himself, had lost his faith. He looked down upon man, pity and sorrow for their unjust plight rife in his heart, and knew he could not let his love be tarnished. He concluded there was only one way to protect his clay sculptures so that they may thrive in the face of tyrants that call themselves gods.
He would forsake his newfound kin yet again for his children. He turned to the sun in the sky and from it he extracted the secrets to the fires of creation. He descended before man with his stolen gift, and provided them with the power to become as gods, just as he had wished for them. He showed them how to build clay sculptures and paint beautiful scenes, hoping that one day they would be able to turn those works of art into a new form of being, just as he had for them.
I watch this memory play out as the eagle fills itself. Its talons dig deep and its beak rips sharply, but I do not flinch. The storm rumbles, shaking the very rocks I lie upon. My chains rattle and quake, and I close my eyes. I no longer wish to examine the storm, for I already know the rest of the story well. I feel its consequences gnawing on my liver, taking pleasure in the job as my eternal punishment. I do not scream nor fight, I only sigh. Heartbreak fills my soul as I savor the memories from before, when mankind were my children.
However, my own children forgot about me. I gave them the secrets of the gods, accepting my fate to be punished until the day the Earth ceases turning, and yet they no longer speak my name in their stories. Instead, they tell legends of the ones that once tried to wipe them away. Their tales are of gods as they appear to them, wise and beautiful, not as terrible and ruthless tyrants as I came to know them. They swear fealty to those who once wanted them dead, and go to war over their wishes and demands. The gods have spread death to my beautiful sculptures, and all they had to do was tell them to destroy themselves.
But I know how they truly feel about man. I know that they fear and despise them. I understand that they will never try to understand what I have created. They want my children to slaughter themselves so that they may stay in power. So that their godhood cannot be challenged, as they did to their parents.
As they did to me.
Yet, hear my words, oh, mighty king of gods! Mankind is ever expanding and ever growing. There shall come a time when my children will free me from these chains, when I am able to grab your bird by the throat and toss it within your own storm. In time, a champion of man shall free me from my bindings atop this accursed mountain! When that day comes, I shall lead them up the slopes of Mount Olympus itself so that they may take your place as rulers of the Earth.
The time of titans has long passed, the time of gods is coming close to an end, and now the time of man is fast approaching.
So, until the day that it arrives, I shall let this bird feast and take as much as it likes. After all, I’m always healed come the next night, and though its talons are sharp and its beak deadly, it’s the only form of company I have atop this lonesome mountain.
I open my eyes once again, and gaze over the valley as the sun sets. The storm has dissipated, revealing a beautiful city resting below. The eagle once again flies away to return to his nest at his king’s side, leaving me to remain chained to the rocks, alone once more.
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