13.8 billion years ago

The four gods stand aghast, holding their breath.

First, there was nothing.

Now, a universe expands around them—stretching further with each breath.

A blink spans a millennium.

“What was that? What have we done?” Water says, voice rumbling like a gentled storm.

“Was that an explosion? Was that you, my Fire? It was, wasn’t it? You’re too much. You have no control!” Air snaps, a little flustered, her wind swirling with each breath.

“I thought you liked that about me, my little nymph,” says Fire, a flicker of hurt beneath the heat.

“Oh, my fierce one… I do,” Air sighs, softer now. “But not when we’re trying to _make_ something.”

“But I promise you, my sweet breeze, it wasn’t me. Not this time. I tried—truly—to control it.” Fire’s voice lowers, now laced with uncertainty.

“That was no explosion,” comes the thundering voice of Earth. “Come. Look.”

They drift toward the centre of the newborn universe, now twinkling with balls of fire, rock, gas, and ice.

There—floating in the dark—is a sphere of glowing silver light, humming with electricity. It pulses with power, sending ripples that spread through the fabric of space around them.

“What do you suppose it is, my wise one?” Water asks his wife, voice deep with reverence.

“It is not what it is, but what it _can_ be, my deep one,” Earth replies, her tone calm and ancient.

“Do you always have to be so ominous? Can’t you just say you don’t know, _for once_?” Air huffs with annoyance.

“That was already implied,” thunders back the sound of Water.

Earth moves closer to the pulsing light, admiring its divine power.

“We shall call it _magic_,” she says. “And we will plant it. Let it grow.”

Air floats through the young universe, revelling in its beauty.
She grazes her fingers across clusters of cosmic dust, making them swirl and spin.

“Your little fires, my love,” she says in wonder,
“They look so beautiful. They twinkle and burn like your fiery heart.”

“We’ll call them _suns_, my little whisper.
And these bright things you set aspin—we’ll call them _galaxies_,” says Fire, content that he’s made her smile.

The gods look around, admiring their work.
It truly is glorious to behold.

They have made magic—and adorned the universe with their own work of art.

“How should we grow the magic, my resilient queen?” asks Water, not having forgotten the ball of light aglow at the centre of their masterpiece.

“We need to make life, and let it grow within it, my rain,” replies Earth.

“Oh! I know!” says Air, her wisps curling with excitement.
“We pick one of these little things—let’s call them _planets_—we bless it with our gifts, and then make creatures to live on it. And we’ll see what they can make with it!”

“That is a brilliant idea, my love,” says Fire, glowing with fondness.

Earth smiles. “Yes. That is what we shall do.”

Water picks a small rock that looks _just right_.
“This one. We’ll name it _Earth_—for you, my queen.”

He blesses it with oceans, seas, rivers, and lakes.
Then he makes clouds and rain to water the land and help it grow and flourish.

Fire blesses it with heat and volcanoes, with precious metals and stones that make it rich.

“Not too much, my love,” Air reminds him gently. “Your fire goes a long way.”

So Fire brings the planet closer to a sun and sets it _just right_, so Earth can thrive and creatures would live.

Air blesses it with winds and currents, letting the clouds move and the trees grow stronger.

The gifts they place upon the planet are in perfect balance.

Perfect, as they were when they created the universe around them.

Perfect, as when magic was born.

Perfect—so that magic might thrive, and grow, and multiply.

Then Earth shapes a creature and blesses it with life—
and the power to create life of its own.

She draws a glowing tendril of magic and places it in its core.

The creature now holds magic.

And so, the gods wait.
And watch.
And let it grow.

The creature evolves in a few blinks.
The magic inside it lets it grow faster—smarter—than all others around it.
And the magic carries on, from parent to child, over and over.

And then, it becomes a _human_.

The gods marvel at what they have made.
What a wonder, this beautiful creature.
So intelligent. So resourceful.

The human breathes, hunts, farms, builds—
wonderful things.

What a creature.

“They haven’t learned to use their magic yet. Should we show them how?” Air asks, her voice flickering with impatience.

“They will learn,” says Earth.
“They are still young. They will find it, and they will grow it. And it will blossom—like the world around them.”

And so, they wait a little longer.

Then, some humans find the magic and learn to wield it.

They make wonderful things and they multiply and grow.

“You were right, my wise one,” says Water, his voice rippling with pride.
“They’ve found it. They’re learning to use it... to grow it.”

But then—
_blink._

__

Where did all the magical people go?

They called them witches.
They hunted them.
They burned them.

_Burned them?_

__

They thought they were strange.
Unnatural.
Unholy.

_Unholy? What could be holier?_

__

They’re gone.

But the elements are in balance...
Some magic must have survived.

_Blink._

__

What happened?

Why is the air we gave them so polluted?


_The Industrial Revolution_, they called it.

What about the sea?
And the forests?
What’s happening to them?

They call it money.
They want more of it—
and they will do anything to get it.

Even if the world beneath their feet
turns to dust.

The four gods look at one another,
saddened.

The magic they made—is gone.
The gifts they gave—misused and mismanaged.
The world they created...
has failed.

“We must start over,” says Fire.
“I’ll let my fires devour this world, and we’ll make a new one. We’ll change the rules.”

They look back upon the planet.

Water speaks. His heart heavy.
“I don’t think you need to.
Looks like they’ll burn it and destroy it... all on their own.”