Giordano Bruno was of the belief that the sun was just another Earth, and that its glow emerged from eternal forest fires that sprawled across its surface. While such forests have never existed, Bruno’s hypothesis is not entirely incorrect, as stars produce their light by burning that which isn’t there.
For this reason, those who visit the surface of the sun find that is covered in wonders. Tourists might find what remains of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, or even the Atlantean Hall of Records; however, those expecting grandeur will be disappointed when they find that only ashes remain of the former’s flora, or the latter’s papyrus. There, it is possible to find just about anything that no longer exists, or has never existed at all, with just one caveat: whatever it is, is forever burning, wrapped in yellow tongues of nuclear fire.
Most who visit the sun eventually make a pilgrimage to the hollowed sandstone that remains of the Library of Alexandria. In its emptiness, it has become a temple to all that is forgotten and can never be recovered. There are no scrolls or palimpsests left within; just the overwhelming sense that there ought to be so much more.
That being said, the sun’s surface is by no means merely a bonfire of accumulated history and myth. That which does not yet exist, but someday will also serves as its fuel: everything from cities unbuilt to forests unplanted. The flags of a thousand nations yet to be established flutter in the solar wind right alongside all those conquered and fallen. It is difficult to tell them apart through the flames, though this is true of all empires when viewed from a great enough distance.
Despite the extraordinary nature of the landscape, journeys to the sun are best kept brief. Those who spend too long wandering its surface inevitably find something, or even someone, they’ve lost among its flames.