Whole Again

For centuries, she lay dormant beneath the earth, her body entombed in stone, her power slumbering in the marrow of the world. She was forgotten, reduced to myth and legend, her name spoken only in whispers by the few who dared remember. But the world had fallen far from what she had envisioned when she first shaped it with her hands of fire and light.

The skies were poisoned with ash and smoke; the oceans, once teeming with life, were choked with humanity’s waste. Cities sprawled like tumors across the land, their towering ruins monuments to greed and excess. And everywhere, the cries of the suffering echoed—a chorus of despair and ruin.

It was this cacophony that woke her.

Deep within the crust of the earth, her fingers twitched. The ancient roots of the world, entwined with her essence, carried the songs of pain to her resting place. Her eyes, closed for millennia, flickered open. They burned like molten gold, twin suns of wrath and compassion. The earth quaked as she stirred, fissures splitting open to release her power into the air. Forests bloomed overnight in desolate lands, their roots tearing through the concrete and steel. Rivers burst forth from dry riverbeds, carving paths of renewal through the wastelands.

And then she rose.

She was vast, her form woven from earth and sky, her hair a cascade of rivers, her eyes the storm itself. She walked among the remnants of humanity’s hubris, each step a reckoning. Machines, lifeless and cold, crumbled before her. Towers that reached arrogantly toward the heavens bowed and fell. Yet, she did not come solely to destroy.

From her touch, life returned. Seeds buried deep within the soil for centuries sprouted and grew, wrapping the dead ruins in green. Animals long thought extinct emerged from hidden places, their songs filling the air. To the humans who remained, she was a terrifying, awe-inspiring force—a reminder of the power they had forsaken in their pursuit of control.

She spoke not in words but in the language of the earth itself. Thunder cracked as her voice; the winds carried her decree:

"This world is not yours to ruin. It was made with care and love, and so it shall be again. But not by your hands—not while they remain stained with greed and folly."

Her wrath was measured, her mercy earned. Those who sought to change, who worked to restore rather than take, were spared and taught. She gathered the willing, teaching them the old ways—the harmony of living with the world rather than against it. For those who clung to their machines and their power, she offered no quarter.

And so, the goddess walked the earth, a force of reclamation and renewal. The world began to heal beneath her touch, though it would take generations to undo the damage wrought by humanity. Yet, there was hope—hope that the cycle of destruction could finally be broken, and that the world, under her watchful eye, could be whole again.