Appearing suddenly from nowhere, as only a god can,
Prometheus calls to the man. Hand cupped around the reeds,
burnt nearly down to his fingertips, he nods down at the embers with haste in his eyes

here, come quickly, my love. but be careful!

The man reaches out in greeting, to embrace the god who loves him and gave him life.
He laughs loudly, a shout of pleasure. He does not yet know what is happening to him,
to all of us, forever. How could he?

what is it, what could be perilous when given by you, beloved?

Gently, Prometheus shows the man how to select the dry reeds,
to bind them together, and to keep the flame burning as it passes from one to the next.
Together they light the pyres,
together they arrange the muscle and the bones,
the sweetmeats and the sinews such that Zeus will take the glistening offal,
and Man and his Fire will feast.

This little bundle of sticks, an offering made of love,
is holier than the highest temples, more precious than the rarest gems.
These two beings, not unalike in form, their bodies close, both understand what that faggot means now.

you deserve to live, dearest. you must not let the gods on the mountain keep your stomach empty or your nights dark.

The man clasps him by the hands.
Two sets of burns, in mortal and immortal flesh alike mark them.
It is the signature of the last veil lifted between men and gods. The man whispers,

after all you have done for me, these hands which shaped my flesh, you would burn the halls of Olympus as well?

that and a thousand times more, my love.