//increasingly tenuous metaphors
Every evening King's chapel and the sky go to battle to prove who is the most magnificent creation. They sit together on the wall in front of it eating chips because it was warm and because the sun had finally stayed up for tea. Frobisher scoffs, "The sheer power and magnitude of the sun easily out does any pile of rocks put here by humans." Sixmith rolls his eyes, he smiles, he tries not to think about the fact that Frobisher ought to be in his lap rather than leaning into his shoulder.
Truly they both know that it is not a battle. King's chapel was built reaching towards the sky. An exultation, not a challenge. Joyous, the sun shines down on the chapel and paints him in rich gold. Every evening the chapel and the sun tower together, the peace of the sky and the power of the earth. Each together more than either alone.
