Dawn

"Companion," Cielo called out, a thunder descending on the mesas.

Tierra stands, turning away from their favorite of the lonely things—a spindly figure of brown earth.

"Yes?" They answer.

"Have you pleased yourself? Sol has reached the horizon."

"No, my companion. I am giving them a boon."

A boon? Cielo scoffs. A boon for these creatures of clay? They could not fathom the gift. Why give these things something they would not appreciate. These things crawling from the earth, lingering in the eyes of their companion.

"You have been working over them for seven turns of Sol. She has grown weary of holding the rays to bake them. Even Mar has been catching his sea spray, for fear of melting them. When will you cease?"

When will these things go away?

"I have great affection in my heart for them, so we shall wait one turn more," Tierra decrees.

Cielo nods, as all adoring friends must nod, with surrender in their body.

But Cielo, as all great, prideful gods—would not surrender.