A bridge cleaves through the space between stars. On it, the Titan, with ceaseless patience, takes the furious golden serpent and uses it to bait his hook. The wyrm is as large as a mountain pass, the hook like the sweeping curve of an island shore.
Others of his kind, crossing for who knows what purpose, pause to watch the Titan work. Some may ask his intentions. By way of explanation, he casts his line.
A hubbub erupts in the vast darkness where his bait is swallowed. The ordeal of reeling it in reveals profane shadows, things that should not be, swarming the wyrm as it fights for its life. The Titan strains. He hauls them up to where he sits on that narrow span across the void, mountainous legs engulfed by the dark.
Every last one of the demon-shapes is intent on devouring a legendary soul. The Titan knows how dangerous they could become if they did. But he is also sure of his purpose, his strength.
He plucks the bestial forms from his hook one by one, popping them between his fingers. They evaporate, spitting black fire. The serpent’s great sides heave. The Titan extricates it, gauges its vitality with one astronomical eye, and returns it to the hook.
The other passing Titans nod. This is worthwhile work.
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