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It had been a long road he'd traveled to reach the threshold of such greatness. As a child he could never have predicted his awesome destiny. He had been weak then. Yes, weak from the beginning.
His mother had often told him the story of his difficult birth, three weeks ahead of schedule, and how the small, wet, shriveled, wailing thing in her arms had not been expected to survive for more than a few days. An inauspicious arrival for one who would someday become the destroyer of worlds.
He had survived, of course, and grown; but he had not grown well. His weakness as an infant hung on like a stubborn illness. He developed into a skinny, near-sighted child blinking at life through thick lenses in metal frames. He couldn't run more than a few yards without tiring, couldn't bat a ball or throw one. He had no skill at sports, no confidence in any aspect of life pertaining to physical activity. His body was an alien vessel in which his mind was trapped.