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If Prometheus had a father, he would likely be an ancient, towering Titan—older than time itself, with a presence as vast as the mountains and as deep as the oceans. His body would be weathered like craggy stone, marked by the weight of eternity, his eyes burning dimly like dying stars, holding the knowledge of ages long forgotten. Perhaps he would have once been mighty, a force of creation like Chaos itself, but now he lingers at the edges of existence, watching as his son defies the gods and shapes the fate of mortals. His voice, when he speaks, would rumble like distant thunder, slow and deliberate, filled with both wisdom and sorrow. Would he support Prometheus, proud of his defiance? Or would he warn him, knowing the wrath of Olympus is not to be trifled with?
