Even the gods make mistakes, yet do not expect Them to apologize.

They act like They’re all high and mighty — and They are — though They too were once men, or women, or stranger things though mortal still.

Now that They’ve risen above us all, They’d like us to forget what They were: forget They still carry some remnant of humanity, some taint of fallibility.

It’s not just ego, though that’s plentiful. They need us to believe, to follow, to sacrifice — especially that. Without worshipers to feed Them, gods can starve; our doubt is Their famine.

While mánna’s called by men «ambrosía», meaning “immortality”, and epithetized as «tḕn dýnamin tôn theōn», “the power of the gods”, it is from the devotion of mortals that the gods’ power comes ultimately.

They depend for sustenance upon the voluntary donation of Their worshipers’ mánna, which rises to the Heavens above as surely as Their benevolence rains down below.

And so it is that, when one of Them sins, They need it cleaned up quickly and quietly: without scandal. That is where I come in. My job is to make Their problem go away and keep the flock content.

Their orders, I obey to the grámma; Their mercy, I carry out with studied neutrality; and never do I — without need — take lives. I’m the best there is at what I do, and what I do best is very holy.

I collect a fair wage and do not name Names. As for my own, you can call me Míklos.