I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
Morrowind doesn’t think to flinch at the cracking of lightning, never stopping to consider that he could be vulnerable to it in this world. It is a flaw in his thinking—yet another piece of the puzzle that he has not quite put into place. He is not himself here. He does not stop to think that the one thing that he could previously wield could be the thing that kills him in this life. It would be his undoing, potentially.
Instead of thinking of his own vulnerability, of his own mortality, he focuses instead on the way that she continues to mock him. It reminds him of the tricksters back home—the small things that would poke and prod. Useless things, he had thought in his past life. Good for nothing but angering others.
Perhaps she is such a thing.
It sours his mood even further to think that he would be greeted here with such a pesky thing, let alone one who wielded the same powers stripped of him. He scowls, barely hearing her giving him the answer that he seeks, instead watching as the lightning crashes between them and straight into her. His white eyes narrow, the black of his forelock falling down his massive head, nearly obscuring his vision.
“Am I crazy?” he echoes, incredulous. Of all of the things that he had been accused of in the past life, he had never once been accused of not being in complete control of his faculties. He had always been stern but reliable. Serious but intelligent. What kind of place was this for him to be the crazy one.
“Are you?” he asks, his voice a little quieter as he chews on the idea.
If she was, it would at least make sense of one thing in a place where nothing else did.
MORROWIND
