no matter what they say, I am still the king
Home is a concept - to some, it is a solid and turgid thing. Home is where they belong; where their heart settles into dusty soil, where their loyalty lies to no bounds. To others (like Him), home is nowhere. Home has been everywhere. But He never stays in one place for long (boredom is a tricky thing) - and so his home revolves around where his hooves lay - the river, the meadow, the Dale, the Valley, the Chamber (and now, and now - this desecrated land). It seems now, that this is your home too (or close to it).
Dying men cannot be beggars, no - but you are not quite dead yet (there’s a bit of life left in you to spare). Still, you are in no shape to be choosy, and so you drink while He watches. While the water may quench you, your body is still in sore shape, a mess of blood and skin, a story of what once was. (Where had you been? You cannot know - do not know, you are a haze of uncertainty and confusion).
“Pangea.” He answers your stuttered question - though He isn’t even sure if the name would mean much to you. Pangea - the start of the sickness, the reason why you are boiling blood and frothing a fever. “I am Eight.” An introduction (something he not often does). “Up.” It is a request, not a question. And while you are in little shape to do so, He will help. Tendrils of his magic reach out to your body, easing under you, boring into your skin to quell small bites of the Plague that rattles you. No, He will not ease your sickness through and through, but perhaps he will give you at least a small look at survival.
(now, the storm is coming in)