There is a gravity to memory.
He's on Earth, on a bridge, looking down. He's not motionless to anyone who doesn't know him. Rocking on his heels, to the balls of his feet, to his heels. The creek under the bridge is mostly covered in ice though a bare open patch is near the bridge, dark with cold. The water underneath the ice is fierce. But it is nearly covered.
Few people remember. They know what they read in the Library or were taught. Janus learns how to control the ocean's waves and teaches this trick to Oannes. He blows the waters. He'd once demanded if Yves had meant it as a pun. Yves had just smiled and pointed out that either was true.
True, yes, but not everything. Not really. One line cannot cover the joy of discovery, of rings and wings and laughter and touches and the shudder of form on form.
Reduced to a line in a history book. Reduced to a pun. Janus hurts at that, though it appeals. A good pun. A hint. But Oannes' memory is slowly being hidden beneath the surface meaning.
He clambers up onto the rail and people start paying attention. Fingers point. Voices reach out. Stop, don't jump! It's not worth it! He spreads his arms as if embracing the sky, back arched, feet braced on the rail. He can hear the water.
Don't jump, man, come down from there!
He does not jump. He tumbles instead, allowing memory to weigh him down, and crashes through the ice. Cold water is slick and stinging on his skin. He is the last person to need air. Face down, he exhales.
His breath rises, a force that cracks the ice for miles downriver.
He can taste the polluted tang of river water and laughs, drawing water into his lungs and expelling air.
The river cracks. He can taste it.