Two black holes, two yellow-rayed suns whose rays burst from around the endless voids in the middle of two clear blue winter skies.
The embers of rage glow from black charred rocks at the bottom of the two deep, dark blue oceans, oceans whose waters stay quiet. And deep. And still.
Despite the stillness of the waters, the light of the fires burns outwards from them and pierces into the soul that gazes into them. And the fire shines from the the waters covered in a clear layer of icy cold.
The fire disturbs all that do not recognize what it is. And why it is. Trying not to stare too deep into the pools, the being that looks away has no choice but to look upon the face that holds them, and only sees the hard lines of it, the steel reinforcements.
The years that have made it into a rock. And those that didn’t run from the ocean will run from the hard sharp rocks they see, as if it were an unscalable mountain.
They will never know that the goddess lies beneath the mountain. Wounded, dying, and soft in every single way.
As she waits for freedom she watches unworthy after unworthy being flee, each time hoping they would break her a door out of the rocks, or throw her a rope, or speak a word of hope to ease her hopelessness.
And after each possible hero flees she sighs one more time, resigning herself to despair and imprisonment inside the steel mountain with the flames and the dark waters.