I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
“Islas,” he repeats because she had repeated his own. Was that tradition here, he wonders, but decides instead that he likes it. Likes the practice of it, like a confirmation, and likes the way that her name in particular sounds on his tongue. It does leave him with question though and he peers down, trying to make out the details of her. His vision in this form is weaker than what he is used to—everything is so dull here, so muted—but it is functioning enough that he is certain he is not mistaken.
There’s a pause, more out of an attempt for him to gather his own thoughts than politeness, before he asks, “Did your mother think you without eyes?” It was not uncommon in his home for names to have such bare meaning, stripped to the core, but it was rare for the meaning to be so misplaced. “You appear to have them,” he says, voice without any true inflection. “At least what appears to be eyes.”
He shrugs again, a giant, sweeping gesture to point to his dismissal of the question.
Why her mother gave her such a name was not truly his concern.
It was, however, his concern what she follows it up with, and this he chews on. “Does this land always take the elements and trap them?” He takes an unknowing step forward, drawn to someone who seemed to understand his predicament at least a little. “Why?” There’a a touch of anger here, although it’s not pointed toward her—not the woman of the skies and the heavens who looks up at him.
“I heard there was a mountain where I could go for answers.”
He pauses, waiting to see if the mountain rings any bells for her.
MORROWIND
