The haze clears.

He remembers why he’s chained to this throne of cobwebs and starlight, why he’s grounded here, at the edge of midnight. Hunger rips at him from the inside, a frenzied monster gone too long without sustenance. Thirst strangles him, burns his throat, but there is no relief. Even a god cannot drink dust.

On nights like these, when the moon is a silver disc of celestial decadence, he remembers his purpose and his games – his rules still stand; and like a child discovering a toy, he gloats and gleams as They watch from above and shudder at the sharp, lipless smile that splits his face.

He is here because Their subjects’ suffering was unbearable. The delightful irony of it nearly chokes him with childish pleasure.

And They had tried so very hard to distance themselves from the mortals.

He cannot stop it: the laughter erupts from him in a burble of raspy joy. It shakes the foundations of the room and rattles the unswept floorboards, makes him bend over with its force.

How he loves humans!