The Goddess Who Gave

“Forsaken places do not ask for forgiveness,” the Goddess said, her gaze fixed on the world below. “They beg for it.”

Beneath them, the earth turned in silence. Entire continents passing like slow breaths.

Gold caught along the Goddess’s skin, deep and luminous, as though night itself had learned to shine.

“With violence and pain,” the Other replied. His voice carried, though no air stirred.

“Pain grows from neglect.”

“And pride.”

Silence followed. Not emptiness, but distance—the kind that only exists above consequence.

“Then go,” the Other said at last. “Walk among them. But remember this: kindness is both gift and blade. It can heal, but wielded without care, it can wound just as deeply.”

This was the truth the Goddess carried as she began her journey, drawn to a place in a forgotten corner of the world.

Air clung like a shroud, heavy with the weight of despair.

The sun itself seemed to abandon the place she now approached, its light unable, or unwilling to pierce the thick veil of shadow.

The village, if it could still be called that, was a graveyard that breathed.

Bodies drifted through the streets like shadows, hollowed by hunger, eyes dulled by sickness. Skin sagged from bone, blistered and rotting, disease left to feast unchecked.

Young and old moved the same way.

Slow. Fragile—as though living itself were a sentence being carried out.

The ground beneath her feet was cracked and barren, unwilling to yield even the simplest of gifts. Water, the lifeblood of any place, had turned bitter, and the crops that once grew there had withered into brittle husks. The air tasted of ash and ruin. This was a place not merely forgotten by the gods but forsaken by those who once called it home.

Yet, as her gaze swept over the ruin, her steps faltered. From the shadow of a crumbling wall, she heard a sound.

A cry. Strong and defiant against the silence.

Following it, she found a child swaddled in tattered cloth, his tiny body lying in a crude basket. He was meant to be sickly, like the others, yet he was not. His skin vibrant, like the harvest moon against the ashen pallor of the villagers. His cheeks were full, his cry powerful, as though the very act of his existence defied the despair that surrounded him.

The Goddess knelt, brushing her fingers gently over the child’s brow. “Even the darkest soil can yield beauty,” she murmured. “You are proof that hope persists where it has no right to grow.” She lifted the boy into her arms, his cries softening into quiet contentment as he nestled against her.

In the heart of the ruin, she saw something no mortal could: the faintest flicker of light, fragile and trembling, buried deep within the rot. It was a seed of hope, so small it could have been crushed underfoot.

It was enough.

She stepped forward, her voice soft yet steady, carrying like the first notes of a forgotten hymn. “Come forth,” she called. “Take from me what you need to feel alive again. No longer shall you wither in pain or bear the burden of helplessness. Together, you will rise and begin anew.”

They came one by one—bodies bent, hands shaking as they reached for her light.

She did not count them.

She could feel them.

Each touch tore something loose inside her, and with every piece taken, another body straightened, another breath deepened, another pallor warmed.

She gave until giving hurt, watching the lame dance, watching pallid skin warm and gleam beneath the sun.

Time passed, and their suffering withered as prosperity bloomed, fed by what had been given. Their worship of her, however, grew like an unchecked flame.

“Do not worship me,” she cautioned. “For I am merely doing what needs to be done.”

But her words were a whisper on the wind, drowned by the fervor of adoration. They adored her so deeply that they erected a stone monument in her name.

She watched as the city’s darkness gave way to the silver light of ambition.

Yet, she saw something else as they thrived. Their devotion wavered, their prayers dwindling as their focus shifted to the rapid advancement of the city.

The statue, unwanted by her from the start, stood lonely beneath the sky, no longer adorned with offerings. She felt it keenly, her influence slipping away, drowned by their overwhelming desire to outgrow her.

She was not naive by any means. “This was human nature,” she had told young Tobias, knowing now was the time to part.

And so, she left them, but not without parting words.

“Kindness is a gift, but it can also be a blade. Wield it wisely, for it shapes both the giver and the receiver. Remember how far you have come and the kindness that brought you here. Let unity guide you and never turn away the hungry, even if you have little to give. A single act of kindness can change a life, but division is the flame that burns greatness at its roots, leaving behind only despair and anger.”

These were her final words to them.

She did not leave in hope of return.

A part of her knew she should not.

Taking the child she named Tobias into her arms, she turned from the city and walked away from the ambitions of humanity, seeking a peace she knew she would never share with them again.

***

As time passed, Tobias absorbed her lessons.

Her words.

Her kindness.

And the quiet strength she gave without ever naming it.

He grew into a man whose presence was as unshakable as the earth beneath his feet.

His aura was so great that even the wind seemed to bow in reverence. She had saved a child with a divine spirit, and in him, her legacy burned bright.

Tobias’s kindness was not loud. It moved like deep water.

Silent.

Patient.

Impossible to stop.

When others hesitated, he acted.

When fire tore through a farmer’s home, Tobias ran into the smoke without pause, emerging with scorched arms and a coughing child clutched to his chest.

When wolves circled the village at night, their eyes burning with hunger, he stepped between them and the sleeping homes. He did not shout or raise his blade. He simply stood. The wolves left.

In between, there were quieter acts—roofs mended, hands steadied, the frail guided through flood-swollen paths. He did these without witness or praise.

Kindness, his mother had warned him, was a blade. Tobias learned to carry it without letting it cut.

That truth lived in him, silent and heavy, like a storm cloud waiting to break. Each act of heroism was a seed, and Tobias knew not whether it would grow into a forest of renewal, or a fire to consume all it touched.

Yet even as his strength grew, he felt the slow unraveling of the one who had given it to him. Wanting to see his mother, Tobias returned home. He called to her using the ancient prayer she had taught him as a child, words that lingered like the hum of a song woven into his soul. When she appeared, his heart twisted with sorrow.

Once, her onyx skin shimmered like the night sky, bathed in the glow of a thousand stars. Now, that radiance had faded, replaced by a dull pallor that no light could pierce. Her divine aura, once so powerful it seemed to ripple through the air, had dimmed to an ember.

She was changing.

Diminishing.

Tobias could not bear it.

“How could the divine perish so quickly?” he asked, his voice trembling with a grief he could barely contain.

“Everything has a beginning and an end,” she answered, her voice fractured by a violent cough. “Life,” she wheezed, “whether divine or mortal, must end somewhere.”

He clenched his fists, his jaw tight with anger and helplessness. “But why you? Why now? Why this way?”

She looked at him, her gaze soft but firm, holding the weight of eons. “Long ago, I gave myself to a people who had been forsaken. This place was your home, and because of that choice, they flourished.”

His question hung unspoken in the air, heavy with unspoken doubt: Was it worth it? But before he could give it voice, she continued.

“I chose to die for something greater than a life of eternal youth. I chose to give so they might rise.”

“But you are suffering, Mother,” Tobias said, the words thick in his throat. “That is not fair.”

She cupped his cheek, her touch feather-light. “Life is not always fair, my child. But we can make it worth living by doing what is great.”

He nodded, his resolve hardening beneath the weight of her words. “I will do what I must to help you.”

With that promise, Tobias left his mother and began his search. He returned to the places he had been before, retracing old paths and asking new questions.

From his training in the arts of magic, he uncovered a truth buried in the whispers of ancient knowledge: the divine could give themselves to others, and in turn, that gift could be returned. A fragment of power from each person his mother had saved might restore her.

If they were willing.

He returned to her with this revelation, his hope fragile but burning bright. She listened, her expression unreadable, but he thought he saw the faintest flicker of joy in her eyes. Perhaps she had already known this truth, but she agreed to accompany him back to the village where he was born.

When they arrived, the sight before them was staggering.

Walls stretched to the heavens, encasing the city in a fortress of splendor.

A gilded gate stood at its entrance, the gold reflecting the sunlight in blinding brilliance.

Tobias had expected resistance, questions, or even hostility, but to his surprise, the guards stationed at the gate opened it without hesitation.

The fog wrapped around the city like an unwelcome embrace. At its heart stood a statue of her—proud, beautiful, eternal, but beneath it, children huddled in the cold, their shivering bodies ignored by the city’s wealth and power.

Tobias felt his mother’s hand tighten around his as she gasped. He followed her gaze and froze. In the distance, a group of men dragged a woman through the street, her cries for mercy drowned by their jeers. Tobias moved before his mother could speak, his sword drawn. The attackers fell quickly, their laughter replaced with silence.

Among them stood a boy, no older than thirteen, trembling as he dropped his sword. “They didn’t pay the tax,” the boy stammered. “That’s the rule. Pay, or give up your wife, your child, or your life.”

Tobias stared at him, his jaw clenched, but his mother’s voice broke through. “Where is your leader?” she asked softly.

The boy pointed toward a towering hall at the city’s center. Tobias nodded, guiding his mother through the streets. Screams echoed in the distance, cries for help unanswered by the gilded walls and opulence around them.

When they reached the hall, a crowd had gathered. Faces filled with suspicion, contempt, and greed. Tobias stepped forward, his voice carrying above the murmurs. “This woman gave everything to save you once. She gave her strength, her life, so that you could prosper. Now she needs you. Lend her what she once gave you, or all of this,”he gestured to the city around them, “will fall.”

The response was laughter. One man sneered, “And what do we owe her now? We’ve built this city with our hands, not hers.”

Another added, “She’s nothing but a shadow. Look at her. Weak. Frail. Let her die.”

Tobias’s grip tightened on his sword as his mother reached for his arm. “No,” she said softly. “They have shown us who they are. Let them be.”

But the crowd wasn’t finished. Someone threw a stone, striking Tobias on the shoulder. The crowd pressed closer, jeering, mocking, until one man raised a blade and lunged.

The blade came swiftly, aimed not at Tobias but at his mother. The sight of it made his blood turn cold. In a single motion, Tobias stepped forward, catching the attacker’s wrist and twisting it until the weapon clattered to the ground. He threw the man aside like a broken doll.

“Enough!” Tobias’s voice thundered, silencing the crowd. “You dare raise a hand against her? Against the one who saved you from ruin?”

The crowd murmured, but their defiance did not waver. One voice called out, “What has she done for us lately? Look at her! She’s nothing now. Her time is over.”

Tobias turned to his mother, his breath ragged. She stood silent, her face pale, her frailty more pronounced under the weight of their rejection. He could see the hurt etched into her features, the pain of realizing the people she had once saved had long forgotten her sacrifice.

“They will not listen, my son,” she whispered. Her voice was steady, though tears glistened in her eyes. “This place is lost.”

“No,” Tobias said, shaking his head. “They can be made to remember. They must.”

His mother rested a trembling hand on his arm. “Not all things can be redeemed. Some must be undone so that something new may grow.”

Tobias looked at her, his heart breaking. “But you gave them everything.”

“I gave them strength without wisdom, power without humility. I made them flourish, but I did not teach them how to sustain it. I gave them life, but I never taught them how to tend it,” she said.

“And so they turned my gift into a weapon, against themselves and others. This is not life. It is corruption wearing the mask of prosperity.”

The crowd, emboldened by their numbers, began to shout once more. Some demanded that Tobias and his mother leave; others called for harsher measures.

Tobias’s patience snapped. He stepped forward, his sword raised high, and the crowd fell silent again. “You would not exist without her,” he said, his voice like iron. “You owe her everything, and yet you mock her. You defile her memory. You leave her to die when all she asks is for what she once gave freely.”

“Let them be,” his mother said, pulling him back. Her voice, though soft, carried a command he could not refuse. “You cannot force the unwilling to give what they do not hold in their hearts. They have chosen their path.”

Her words hung in the air like a final judgment. Tobias lowered his sword, his anger replaced by a cold, hollow acceptance. He turned to his mother, his voice trembling. “What will you do?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze sweeping over the crowd, the city, the golden halls built atop the suffering of its people. “This place cannot be saved. Not as it is.”

Tobias saw the determination in her eyes—the quiet, unshakable certainty of a goddess who had made her decision. He stepped closer to her, his voice low. “What do you need from me?”

She placed her hands on his shoulders, her strength so faint that he could barely feel it. “Take my power. Use it not for vengeance, but for justice. Destroy this place. Not for the sake of my pride, but for the sake of those who suffer unseen in its shadow. Let no wickedness remain.”

Tobias hesitated, his chest tightening. “And what will happen to you?”

Her smile was bittersweet. “I am already fading, my son. This is the last gift I can give.”

Before he could respond, she placed her hands over his heart. A warmth spread through him, fierce and unrelenting, as her divine essence flowed into his body. She staggered, and he caught her, holding her close as the last light of her power left her form.

The crowd erupted into chaos as Tobias stood, his mother limp in his arms, his eyes glowing with a terrible, righteous fire. He placed her gently on the ground, brushing a hand over her cheek.

“Rest now, Mother,” he whispered. “I will finish what you began.”

He rose to his full height, his shadow stretching over the trembling crowd. For the first time, his voice thundered, cracking with restrained pain. “You will pay for what you’ve done,” he shouted, tears threatening to spill. “Not for me, not for her, but for the innocent lives crushed beneath your greed.”

And with that, he unleashed her power. The ground trembled beneath his feet, a warning of what was to come. The city groaned, its golden walls splintering as flames roared to life, consuming the streets in a torrent of heat and light. Monuments to greed crumbled, their once-proud facades reduced to ash.

Panic erupted among the people, their cries for mercy swallowed by the fire’s deafening roar. Tobias moved through the chaos, the divine energy within him surging with purpose. His voice carried above the destruction: “Your greed, your cruelty, your betrayal. This is the price you pay.”

He raised his hands, and the earth responded. Walls toppled, towers fell, and the great statue of the Goddess—their forgotten savior—shattered under the weight of its foundation. Each collapse was a judgment passed, each flame a reckoning.

When silence finally fell, the city lay in ash. Tobias knelt beside his mother, brushing the soot from her face. “It’s done,” he murmured, his voice a prayer.

Above him, the first rays of dawn broke through the smoke, casting the ruins in hues of gold and red. In the light, he saw not just the end of what was, but the beginning of what could be.

A world built not on greed, but on the lessons she had given her life to teach.