I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
She is nothing like him. She does not know the wonders and majesty of his past home. And yet—and yet—there is something comforting in being near her. Something comforting in just being in her presence. She at least knows what it is like to be stuck in a place where you do not belong. At least she knows what it means to find yourself trapped between the beginning and the end; in the place where the world ends.
At least, for him. It ends here, he is sure of it.
He towers over her, dark eyes unreadable. He shrugs his massive shoulders at her explanation of her name. “It is good that you still have eyes,” his tone has little inflection. “Although I am certain that you would still do fine without them. There are plenty of souls in my old home that do.”
Why her mother found such a thing humorous, he had no idea.
Perhaps humor was yet another thing different about this place.
He continues on the conversation though, the anger crackling below his skin. “That’s what I was told. It seems as though the deities of this place have a warped sense of justice.” Why would they feel the need to strip someone clean and then hold it hostage? Why take what was his by birth? Why bring him here at all?
“Still, it is worth trying, I imagine.” He watches her. “At least for a scrap of understanding, or a piece of myself. It would be worth the sacrifice, I imagine.” It would not be the first time he had sacrificed.
A pause, as he considers her.
“Have you ever tried? Returning home? To your former self?”
MORROWIND
