Prometheus regretted it the instant the chains slipped away and he tumbled forward off the crag. Swallowed, into a mouth of blue.
He fell for days, night passing into day into night, until his devoured liver regenerated and his torn flesh reknit itself, an unpain grown long familiar during his eternal confinement. The wind of his passage tore the moisture from his throat and eyes.
He has fallen before, many times, from earth to earth, from Ossa to Pelion, from sky to grave; this has happened before, will happen again. He could resist everything except a revolution — or, rather, revolution was worth failure; the fall was worth the climb.
Still: he had grown into the rock, and the rock into him, skin as hard as petrified oak; the generations of eagles that had grown fat and powerful on his recurring liver now old friends, loved the way a stone loves the root that shatters it. Breaking free was not without cost.