Swirling in pink, the child, as yet unfinished, drifted in proto-sleep, waiting to be born.

Who are you?

The question came from outside the pink, outside the child’s tiny world.

Who are you?

The child understood, but the answer had to be remembered.

I am the Hero, you made me The child sent the answer out.

What is your name?

I have had many names. The child replied.

Tell me them, that I may know you.

I am Michael, Moses, David, Arthur, more between and more besides. The names came unbidden, but the child knew they were right.

And are you ready?

I am always ready, my Lord.

The voice said no more, and no more was required. The child had been born countless times. He would forget this conversation. Here, in the womb, was his only connection with his true nature. Out there in the world life would take its course and he would play his part, all unaware of his purpose, the better to allow him to fulfill it. It had been this way for millennia. He was the Hero. The archetype. The One.