He felt it then - that spark of familiarity and overwhelming emotions trying to wash over him, yet he was struggling to feel much of anything. He knew. Maybe he didn't know, but a part of him did. The body remembered. One or two pieces of the fragmented mind was intact, and there was something here that was so much bigger than he could envision.
"I don't know," he said quietly, gaze distant. He never thought about it. What was there apart from things he didn't have and could no longer do? Where was his purpose in that?
"I never had a choice," he added, and it took a while for him to actually think about what he was saying. He was never asked who he wanted to be - just constantly told that he would never be as good as he should have been, falling short in a dozen different ways from an image of himself that he didn't quite understand.
"Gods are who people want them to be." Wasn't that how it worked?