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His hands were hurting. They pulsed in agony with his slow heartbeat. He lifted them and looked down. The palms were blackened, charred still after all these years. What a cowardly trick. What an insult that he, of all people, should be affected, burned by mere jewels. He clenched his hands into fists and the charred skin cracked, sending his ichor running red like rubies and gold over the broken skin. His rage flashed brighter with the jolt of pain. How would he hurt them? Once he succeeded, he would bring his siblings to their knees, force them to kneel before their rightful king. He would break their precious mountains, burn the cities of the so-called Firstborn where they worshiped.
Firstborn! As if he was not the eldest of all, as if he was not the true firstborn of their accursed father. Firstborn, first-made, and first in power, greatest of them all.
His hands, clenched tight, dripped blood onto the dais of his throne. The droplets shone in the light from his brow. Who had done this to him, bound him to a single form that would not even fix itself? Was it his rebellious, disobedient siblings? How dare they strike at him! He would grind them beneath his boot once his dragons laid them low. Was it their accursed father? His eyes sought the sky as a flicker of fear ignited in his heart. Would he ever win the struggle he was in against the most powerful being in the universe, the one who created him?
But he could not see the sky. The ceiling of his hall hid it. That and the thousands of tons of stone between him and the peak of the mountain above and the smoke that choked and hid the sky. He was hidden. He was safe. For now. His hands pulsed as if in a reminder that his safety could easily be shattered. His rebellious kin would come again and drag him out again and chain him and lock him up for more eons as if they had any right to do any of that.
He needed a distraction. He stood, like a mountain, and strode out of the tomb-silence of his throne room. Somewhere in his halls was an elf who would scream for him, die in his hands, and satisfy his mood.
He wiped his bleeding hands on his robes and smiled in anticipation.