You are a selfish god.
You know this.
The world you watch over does not.
The Spirit also knows this. It has for a long, long time.
Niko doesn't realize this at first.
Sometimes, as you are passing by with Niko, you hear its static coming through speakers or lightbulbs or wires. It grumbles at you, it blames you, it hates you.
You smother it with your presence and the Spirit squirms away, like some worm pretending to be a snake.
Niko sometimes asks you questions. About you. About your home, or if you even go back to one at the end of the day. You can't answer that, directly, for you do not haveone. But Niko is just a child, and you don't have the heart to tell them that you are so, so lonely sometimes.
(Because the world is Dark and you are Cold and Niko is the first person to speak to you in such a very, very long time.)
So you give half-truths and vague answers. And Niko chatters on about their Mama and her pancakes. You wonder what pancakes taste like. If they are as good as your little Messiah says they are.
You will have to just believe them.
You travel with them through the city, and ignore the Spirit of the World you watch over. It is a troubled thing, one that you do not like. One you do not want.
"Not always the case," it hisses, a screen flashing its bold words. You snap at the computer, and Niko looks up from their book when it flashes, then turns black.
"What was that?" they ask, and you murmur something. They accept your answer and return to reading. "These clovers are sturdy," they comment. It takes you a moment to realize they are talking about the book they're reading.
Yes, you say. They are meant to be.
"Did you make them?"
Their question unsettles you, so you fall silent. After a moment, they seem to sense your shivering and silence, and they shrug a shoulder. And they change the subject.
(You remember crafting the little clovers, growing them and shining the Sun on them. You remember how you had been so proud, so exhilarated. You had moved on from clovers, to moss, to trees, to people. The exhilaration died with each new creation, until you were bored and cold and in the dark.)
While Niko rambles on about something or other, you split your attention and whistle for the Spirit.
It slinks back to the computer, screen flickering and dim. It does not like you, not anymore.
Child, you say towards it. I cannot tell them.
The Spirit is silent. The screen flickers. Finally, with a hiss of static that may have been a sigh, it says, "Then don't."
As was noted before, you are a selfish god.
[...]
Though you cannot help but tell Niko, later, just before the elevator doors open.
They fall silent. Their small hands tighten on the Sun. Your presence billows out, so concerned about your precious Sun.
"So I won't... ever go home?"
Niko's voice is small and your concern for the Sun dims, and is directed towards the child.
I am sorry, you murmur. Your Messiah makes a noise in the back of their throat, then coughs into their hand. You know they are covering up their sobs; you press closer in comfort, though they cannot feel you. I am.
They do not respond to you.
[...]
You are a selfish god.
Because when Niko asks, you tell them to save your World.
Distantly, you feel the Spirit howl in anguish. It does not want this.
But you do not care.
Niko glances up, as if to look at you. Their eyes are wide and mirror the glow of the Sun clutched in their hands. "Alright," they whimper.
But they know. They know that you care more about your World, than a small little kitten that was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Niko slots the Sun into the hole and the little chink it makes floods you with warmth. You grasp at the heat, so deprived of the light. You too have lived in the Darkness, just as your World has. You had suffered with it.
The light expands and washes out, and away, and the Spirit is silent.
Niko stares at the Sun, squinting against the light, but says nothing. Their eyes are not glowing any longer.
You are a selfish god.
Because you do not feel bad for the child.