The god sat twirling patterns in the dust with his fingers. He could be patient when he had to be, and today required immense patience. The world did not revive itself without considerable efforts on the parts of the gods, so today he had to use every ounce of willpower in his mind. Almost absently, he chose a single speck of ash from among many, and regarded it with eyes that had beheld eternities, and now beheld an eternity of new lives in potentiality. The earth had been worn out, it was true, and was full of the fatigue of many years’ abuse, but what was a god good for if not for renewing strength and bringing life out of the depths of loss? In his hands, the fragment began to thrash loosely, expanding and growing under his careful gaze. In the hands of the god poison was thrust out into the void, and millennia of mistreatment and cruelty melted away into fresh, new days. In the hands of the god the world was reborn into fire and spring, and out of the ashes came life in perfection.