Promethea
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A full moon shined bright in the starry sky, casting eerie shadows over the sleeping town, while also providing much needed light to a painter's workhouse, which was more of a barn that was converted to meet his purpose.
Hunched over near the canvas, the tired painter continued his work. His body had grown frail with neglect, his frazzled hair and skin colored with paint and grime. The strong addictive smell of the chemicals in his paint drowned out the stench of his week-old clothes and unwashed body.
Though physically tired, the painter had never been more alive in spirit. He was finally reaching the end of his Great Work, with the last painting nearing completion. Thirty two paintings dedicated to capturing the multi-faceted glory of the Goddess of love and art: Promethea.
Having come across stories of the Goddess at an old bookshop years ago, the painter (who was a young man who hadn't picked up a paintbrush yet) couldn't help but develop an obsession. She was so resplendent, even though she was only lines of text in a dusty book. He could feel her warmth through the words in a way no real woman ever had made him feel.
He worshipped her so much that his love turned into devotion, and shortly after, into a desire to serve her.
One night soon after, she had come to him in a dream, and they had spent the most magical of nights together. He had vague but unforgettable memories of serving her sexually. Ever since then he had sworn his heart to her. He also swore off all other women, saving himself exclusively for Promethea.
He scoured England to find historical books, stories, art, off-hand mentions, anything that would let him be in her presence, if only for a fleeting moment. The latest record he could find was over a hundred years old, but she had appeared throughout history. He could trace Promethea's origins back to Egypt, where she was the adopted daughter of an Egyptian God.
Whenever she appeared in history, she took different forms, although always as a beautiful woman. The only thing that remained constant was her name, Promethea.
She appeared almost exclusively only to artists, dreamers and people with imagination beyond their time.
He soon knew that to be truly be with her, he needed to call her out himself. That's when he started learning how to paint. But he dared not attempt to draw her magnificence until his skill was good enough.
His rise to fame was fast, with people all over England coming to see and bid for the chance to own one of his paintings. Some of his abstract masterpieces even made their way across the seas to the Americas.
But the paintings of Promethea were for his eyes alone. They were a work of pure passion and honest desire, unbridled by financial motivations. After the first twenty Promethea paintings were done, ten years had passed, and the artist decided that he no longer had time to paint other subjects. He abandoned his name and fame and moved to a quieter town to dedicate more time for the love of his life.
Sure enough, in another short two years he found himself in the present day, putting the finishing touches on his last offering. The last one was the biggest and most perfect of them all. It depicted Promethea alone in a moonlit garden balcony looking back at the viewer of the painting.
He paused for a moment, knowing well what the end signified. If his work wasn't enough to manifest Promethea into his reality, then this life was no longer worth living. He would end it all right there tonight, surrounded by the paintings of his love. Either way, he knew that his desire would be answered - in this life or the next.
The fear of his impending death was but a whisper compared to his honest belief that Promethea would appear to him when he finished his Work.
Soon, the final strokes were done.
The night grew quiet as he stepped back to look at his final masterpiece. With a sigh of relief and excitement, he realized he was finished. His heartbeat rose, pounding loud in the quiet night as he looked around expectantly. His thirty two paintings stared back at him with desire and love. She had so many doors to enter.
A couple of minutes passed by before the painter realized that nothing had happened yet.
"Promethea, my Goddess. Please accept my life's work and grace me with your corporeal form!" the painter stated passionately, looking at his paintings. But nothing happened. He waited. But soon, he realized that nothing was happening.
"Well?!!! Am I still not good enough!!" he paced the room angrily and shouted wildly into the night, only to be greeted by the silence of his paintings. Some birds could be heard flying away, scared off by the loud voice in the night.
The painted couldn't believe it. He knew in his heart - he knew - that this would have some effect. But now, he couldn't help but feel doubt creep into his mind.
He broke down into tears, knowing that Promethea had rejected him. Years of fatigue suddenly crashed down on his frail body, bringing him to the ground on a heap. If he lived through this pain, his next paintings would be legendary.
But the painter had no desire to so much as touch a paintbrush anymore. Realizing he was still desperately clutching his brush he angrily threw it away.
Time had come to use another tool instead. Shaking with the effort, he managed to pull himself up and go to the pile of clothes where he slept. He fished around in his item chest to bring out his ceremonial dagger.
It was rusty - he had never used it, saving it for one purpose alone, ever since the day he started painting. And he had never cleaned it, thinking that he would never have to use it.
He got into position kneeling on the ground, making sure all his paintings were within his field of vision. He held the dagger in both hands, raising it above his head.
He closed his eyes and uttered one last prayer to his heart's captor, "Promethea my Goddess. If my offerings were not good enough, please accept my life instead. I lived in love with you, and I'll happily die for your love."
He brought the dagger down to his chest in one quick motion, fully intending to pierce through.
A bright light suddenly washed over the entire barn, blinding him through his closed eyes. It made him falter, grazing the size of his torso with the blade rather than piercing his heart.
The pain did not even register as he opened his eyes widely to see the love of his life hovering before him. None of his paintings had come close to doing justice to her beauty, the artist realized. He felt shame in his audacious thinking that he could paint her.
She shone with a brightness that seemed to physically hit him. He dared not look away from her magnificence despite how it was blinding him still.
Promethea had the kindest of smiles as her brightness faded to a bearable level. "Put thy dagger away, dear one. It is thy love in living that hast given me life," she said in the voice of angels.
