The Forge and the Hearth, Part One

It is often said that Drata herself forged the chains that bound Prometheus to the Zidoat Iponoço, and that only her craftsmanship could have withstood the pain of the great volcano. It is remembered that she pulled the iron from the red desert sand, and heated the metal in the fire of the world, and shaped the links on an anvil made of a fallen star. It is too often forgotten, however, that the chain was quenched in her flowing tears.

Drata has always overseen the forge, but she has not always tended the hearth. Fire was used for warmth and cooking by humanity long before it was used for smelting, but Drata had been almost unaware. Mortals were none of her concern; she was only focused on her craft, fueled by the undying fire of the world itself. For thousands of years, she did nothing but refine her artisanship.

However, Drata and Prometheus had long been as close as siblings. Though they had different ambitions and different perspectives, they felt a strong kinship. And over time, as humanity discovered the use of fire for creation and craft, Drata’s respect for it grew. She began to observe their work, and notice their struggles. And when they came to notice her in return, she helped them, showed them the way, and tended the hearth.

So she watched as humanity was deprived of fire, and when Prometheus stole fire back from the Ancients to give it to the people. When he did so he entrusted it in part to Drata, who has always watched over the forge and its flame. She respected and trusted him, and helped him, despite the will of the other Ancients.

And yet she forged his chains. Drata has always been the patron of all things made and forged, and she could not say no when the Ancients came to her door. No other could make chains to hold a god, or withstand the fires of the volcano. She put care and attention and craft into every single link and weld. There was not a single flaw throughout its length.

But in her heart and in her fire she knew that somehow, the chains would fail. She therefore could not even take pleasure in the quality of her craft, even as she was hurt by knowledge of its purpose. And so she wept as she worked. And then it was done.

She had been weaving a shroud, a somber affair of dark cloth and crimson thread. Until she saw them in the distance, clear to her despite the darkness of the moonless night, she had not known why. She once again began to weep.

Her door was already open when the stranger finally arrived, Prometheus heavy in their arms. She laid his body on the shroud, and offered the stranger a chair.

Though it pained her to know, it pained her more to remain in ignorance. They spoke together in low, husky voices for a long time. Though Prometheus was like a brother to her, Drata had never before met the one called Ichor, who spoke of a deep and passionate bond between them. Ichor was a fascinating person to listen to, with undeniable charisma and a wealth of stories. She could see why Prometheus had liked him. In the undertones of Ichor’s voice, she could tell that they had liked Prometheus, too. And somehow, she also knew this was the one who had broken her chains, chains strong enough to imprison a god. She tried to suppress a subtle tremor of fear. They spoke long into the night, and through to the morning.

By then the priests of the area had congregated. When Ichor heard that it was to follow local tradition, and that Prometheus’ body was to be burned and returned to the fire and the sky, they were overcome with an anger rooted in fear. Drata tried to reassure them. Prometheus was more than flesh, and the cremation would serve to free his true self. Ichor laughed bitterly, a canine smile contorting their normally attractive features. They suggested that Prometheus was perhaps less than flesh, but their anger subsided. She felt only sorrow. As the embers from the shroud began to rise into the air, and the fire that Prometheus had returned began to consume him, she wept once more.

For centuries, Drata turned her back on the gods, and despaired. Eventually, she isolated herself entirely in the city that had sprung up around her forge, and she buried herself in her work. She did not rest, nor eat, nor dream. She dedicated herself to ensuring that the fire would never again go out. She drew copper from ores found on the flanks of the Zidoat Iponoço itself, and tin from the rivers of Ikan, and smelted them into brilliant bronze. She heated the metal in the fire of the world, and  hammered at the searing bronze with her own fists, beating it into shape. Into the incandescent metal of the brazier, she carved intricate patterns of her own design, and she imbued these patterns with a certain magic that would ensure the fire within would never go out. The brazier itself came to her shoulder in height, and was large enough that she could not fully wrap her arms around it. For a hundred days and a hundred nights she worked, covering the entire surface, inside and outside, with her intricate carvings and designs.

When finally she was done, she bundled the massive brazier onto her back, and she began to travel. She was looking for fuel, good fuel that would burn long and with intensity. She traveled far and wide, and had many encounters, each of which is a story which will perhaps be told someday. Eventually, though, she arrived at the shores of the Great Lakes, and met a sect of Flame-Tenders in their temple. They did not recognize her, but they treated her with the kindness due a traveler. For a long time they spoke, and Drata asked them many questions about their lives and their beliefs. For these people did not scorn the gods, even though they had not met any, let alone Prometheus whom they revered. In fact, they respected all of the gods they knew of, even some that Drata held in ill favor. She felt that their worship was very naive, but they had a warmth and compassion when they spoke, and their beliefs were honest. They sought to help people as Prometheus had, in any way they could. Convinced, Drata unwrapped the brazier, and placed it on a pedestal in their temple. They marveled at its size and artisanship, and quickly filled it with black charcoal. When lit, the brazier burned brightly with a red flame. For the first time in a long while, Drata smiled. She knew that humanity would now always have fire, whenever they needed it most. She also knew that perhaps it was unwise to abandon the other gods. When the Flame-Tenders sought to thank her, she had already disappeared. She was headed home.