He was a strapping young lad too, once, he thought, as he shook his salt and pepper hair with a vigour uncommon for his years. Beads of sweat scattered like sparks from the ambers of a dying fire.
He glared at the nascent sun, his eyes brimming with jealousy and hate. He could crush it like that, once. Like a sickly lemon, it would bleed all its warmth through the cracks of his fist. Not anymore. Now it was an irritant, hovering at the hem of his field of vision.
Heat crawled like an army of ants up his neck. It slithered like a centipede down his brow. Oh, how it was to fall, and yet, live. It’s not easy to be a mortal, after having been a God, once.