Petition to offer bath salts to the big man?

They’ve never spoken about the fights themselves, how it makes them feel. About how facing the witch, even if it is in an unfair fight, is the most alive Heracles has felt in gods know how long. Keeping the forces of Ephyra at bay every night, it was just another labor. And this is his reward. Different than what was promised to him, at first glance. Immortality, they told him then; he would be purified of his sin.

Purification, indeed.

“Then perhaps, Agent of Change,” Prometheus continues, “I should address my warning to you.”

The witch tilts her head, hair falling over her shoulder in a way that makes Heracles’s mouth dry. "How thoughtful of you, Lord Prometheus," she says, scorn dripping from her words. "You've never bothered to do so before. I suppose your Foresight has shown you my satisfactory victory?"

A laugh escapes him, as though surprising even himself. "Satisfactory," he repeats. "Indeed, it shall be satisfactory. Perhaps it is foresight of your own that compelled you to use that word."

"Enough!" Heracles roars. "Blather on, and I shall end this fight myself."