"Important," he says, only. "You - you are imp-p-portant."
They are that, ever since the Wormwoman Agnie had, through inadvertent whim, introduced the idea of worship, the idea of Gods. And he, who has been worshiped a thousand-times-thousand over, should find his wistful worship in a flame-haired girl, in a mapmaker lost, in a black-feathered boy. In a desert girl-storm. These were his gods, and they led their lives, and they ignored him or adored him, entirely within their whims. They looked to the core of him, peered through his Scar, and knew his thoughts.
He was lost, now, in this vision, fire-haired woman and lanky, red-haired girl, already showing the long limbs and large hands and feet for the tall woman she would be. His mind knew no other; awake or dreaming, it mattered not at all. With Genny's hand to support his cheek, he could stand - and, in the standing, his crooked shoulders crowd against the sky, and the earth moans at his weight.
"You are important." It was hard to speak, past the bells, his voice still carrying a hint of their power. It was hard to speak past the fleshy, smoke-wet protuberances that curled and dripped and gummed together the broad lips of his animal muzzle.
"Everyone has a horn."