"Because I'm the Herald," you say. "So it only makes sense. Are you sure there isn't anything Heraldy I should be thinking about, though? With the sun? Am I supposed to want to bring it?"

"It's a metaphor. It's..." Richard brushes his hair off his forehead. "We do not have a sun. The sun circles the world. Thus, when the Herald brings us back the sun, it will bring us back to the world. That's all."

"That's it?"

"I suppose there's also... you know the Wyrm supports the world. It created the world. It is heavy and solid like the world. It is the world, in metaphor. The sun is part of the Wyrm, but separate from it. It is white and shiny. It has rays like spines. It brings the daytime. The Dawn. Thus the sun is the Herald."

"...In metaphor."

"In metaphor, Charlie, of course not literally. Becoming God is bad enough."

"Ellery was a sun god," you protest.

"And from what I hear, he did a rather bad job. Up you go. Come on."

He's offering you his hand. You eye the slippery lip of the font, then take it, though you hold it only gingerly. "Can I do a cannonball?"

"Not without more height, Charlie."

"Can I climb on your back and jump off?"

"Maybe next time. How about this?"

He lets go of your hand and delivers a sharp shove to your back. "Hey!" you say, then your face hits water, and you know nothing.

...
...
...

You float in place, neither rising nor sinking.

The water is the temperature of your body.

You are—

CHEEP
CHEEP
CHEEP

You are—

CHEEP
CHEEP
CHEEP

You are somewhere. Everywhere? It is loud where you are. Also warm and wet, but that's pleasant. The loudness isn't. There's a... there's something... within... there's a bird. A loud bird. You know that bird. You had... you made Richard... oh, right.

You are underwater in your mind. That's the right sentence with the wrong emphasis. You are underwater in your mind. You are the underwater and the mind. But not the bird. The bird is not-you. You are currently... what were you here for? The sun in your chest. You don't have a chest. The idea of a chest feels foreign. But you try, anyways, to have a chest, and succeed in localizing yourself first, and having a body after, though not very well. You are transparent. You might be made of water. But it makes it easy, very easy, to see the gleaming sun inside you, and easy, very very easy, to push through and hold it. Just hold it. It takes two arms. It is whitegold, and warmer than the water, though not very. Hug it. It's you, too. You are the Herald is the sun, metaphorically, or not. You are the Herald is the sun is the way to the world, is the world, is the Wyrm. You are the only hope for the world. Any world. All the worlds. If Satellite is the moon, it chases the sun but can never catch it. Always. You have to catch it back.

(3/4)