I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
He watches with sharp attention, fascinated by all that she is and reveals. She is a bridge for him, a way to connect that which he knows with that which he never could. She explains this world to him in a way that he can understand but does not do so in a way that feels callous. She doesn’t look down upon him for not truly understanding this world—and it is a good thing she does not, because he is far too arrogant to allow such a thing. But as distanced as he is, he at least can recognize the value that she provides him.
And he is not so callous as to recognize that he is fond of it.
He nods at her statement, not minding the bluntness of it. He is used to such things from the gods for they had never truly bothered to soften themselves, not even for he—an equal of them in every way. “I suppose that I am,” he allows, rolling a shoulder that feels so frail. “Although I would not mind the power with it.”
Morrowind misses that more than anything. The way he had commanded the skies, drawing them to him with the ease of a breath. “I can understand,” he says, softer than before, his heavily angled face a little kinder. “You don’t need to explain to me how different life can be in the before.” He had never live in the cosmos like she had, but he can draw the same conclusions. Can understand what it would have been like.
“I can imagine what you must have been like,” his smile grows a little wider, a hint at the mischievous god he had been beneath the seriousness, the severity of his expression. “It must have been marvelous.”
He guffaws once more, shaking his massive head.
“Please never conform to them here. What a waste that would be.”
MORROWIND
