Waiting there is Papa Legba, threshold guardian and trickster, leaning expectantly on his cane. He glances at the flickering flame held by Prometheus and asks, “You sure that’s going to be enough?”—his tone heavy, the knowing witness of many travelers come undone. Glancing at the flame that suddenly seems perilously fragile, Prometheus steps back from the boundary. “I will return,” he calls as he leaves Legba’s realm.

​

Realising he needs more than fire to descend and return, Prometheus seeks counsel. Within the shifting tides of memory and intuition, he searches for Poseidon, lord of vast unconscious depths. Poseidon gives no direct answers, offering instead an image: a still surface hiding powerful undercurrents.

 

“A tsunami may pass beneath a ship without so much as a ripple,” Poseidon says, “but ever monstrous and all-consuming when it arrives upon the shore.” Prometheus listens, uneasy. Not all threats can be seen—or even felt. To intuit their nature requires descent to inky depths where fire cannot go, and light cannot reach.

​

From this descent into feeling, a darker voice stirs. Set, god of chaos and storms, steps forward. He does not threaten—he seduces. Offering wisdom, clarity, and unknown passage through the dark, Set speaks of power without vulnerability, control without pain. Prometheus listens, tempted. He makes the deal, subtle as smoke. In exchange, he is offered a new reflection—stronger, sharper, untouchable.

​

This reflected vision leads him to Narcissus, though Prometheus does not yet recognize him. A glamour enhances the reflection perceived in the mirror. What Prometheus sees dazzles: a self, resplendent, invulnerable. He becomes intoxicated by the image, mistaking projection for transformation—more: enlightenment. He is jubilant.

​

Propelled by this purchased self-certainty, Prometheus again brings fire to the people—but now from pride, not compassion. Zeus descends in fury. Lightning crashes. The sky god declares Prometheus to be chained again—not just for his transgression against the gods, but for placing the totality of belief in his persona without consideration of consequence.

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From his mountaintop prison, the clouds part and Archangel Michael appears—wings magnificent, seemingly on fire, sword gleaming. With one swift motion, he cuts through Prometheus’ chains—and with them, the false narratives that bound him.

 

“Knowing your limits is wisdom,” Michael says. “But accepting limitations without question is enslavement.” He leaves Prometheus with a gift—his sword of truth—and a question sharper than the blade: What does freedom truly require?

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The lesson on limits wasn’t rhetorical—it was foreshadowing. Enter Saturn, keeper of time and structure. The old titan offers discipline, boundary, and expectation. Prometheus, still tender from Michael’s blade, tries to prove himself. He labors to meet impossible standards, hoping to earn worth through endurance. But Saturn cannot be pleased. Exhausted, Prometheus collapses—not into punishment, but despair.

​

The clammy silence is torn asunder by fury—Ares, god of war, who arrives in a blaze of righteous heat. He does not comfort, he ignites.

 

“You surrendered your fire!” Ares bellows. “You forget that it was always yours–to yield, or to wield! Which do you choose?” Prometheus remembers. He lifts his torch again—not for ego or duty, but for truth. He adds Ares’ flame to his own, forged not from pride, but purpose.

​

In that sacred moment of fraternal support, the fractured self finds unity in a healthy reflection that leads back to one’s true nature. From Ares and Prometheus emerge Pollux and Castor—the twin selves, conscious and unconscious, now allied. No longer fragmented, no longer alone, they descend together into the true night.