Rebirth
When Sheogorath awakens, the world lies in pieces around his throne.
He thinks it does, at least, from what he can tell. But playing guessing games does not help, for it is maddening either way – to sit around and keep his distance never suited him. Not even before.
Because there was a before, surely, maybe. Wasn't there a before?
He leaves the stray thought to rot in a corner of his mind. He has little need for chit-chat like that. Sheogorath came into being to shape reality, and that is what he always does.
To reach for the pieces is his first instinct. He is, after all, the lord of all things broken and incomplete. He sees them, the rainbow shards of creation, just one touch away – and when his hands finally get there, aching with confusion, he finds their images are all in his mind.
It is the whole world, broken down in his memories. Fragments of things that might have happened, or once were, and more than once. Pieces of all that is and will be, on the planes of existence he can reach for.
He can browse them freely, with fingers and eyes, like an open book on the vast tales of the universe. They are not lies – they are memories, his memories, and he is startled to find they all belong to him.
Is it supposed to be like that? They cannot be his. When the world was created, and the stars opened their eyelids on the void, he was not there to see.
But now, now he was.
"Martin, what do you think the Divines really are?"
"What I think… eh. Strange for a priest to be doubtful as I am, isn't it? But there is nothing wrong with doubts, my friend. The time and place we are in make them appropriate, even. With events like these, no certainty is spared from being shaken – ours most of all."
"I don't know what to believe, either. If that is what you were referring to."
"More than understandable. We are in the same position. Still, you are right to ask; to build a clear picture now is more important than ever.
I take it you are searching for a deeper answer. We are familiar enough with the basics. I must admit, to find one would do me a great favour, too. But our path will take us both there – and, while we wait, maybe I can help.
I told you in Kvatch, I am no longer sure of anything. I have been thinking nonetheless. Maybe the Divines are what we know them to be – just in a broader sense. Our world and our existence, the course of our action, what we see and hear and say. Are you conscious of this? Do you feel it, in the act of your living?"
"I must say, yes, I do."
"When you put it that way, then they are with you, no matter what. Follow their lead, and walk by their side."
Days later, Sheogorath follows a whisper in his head. Without a warning, as he should, he rushes out to take a walk.
While he goes nowhere in particular, his every step is a token of fate. The Isles change shape in the wake of his stroll – they are rewritten in grandeur and hue, and blossom in monstrosity.
As Sheogorath watches them warp under his gaze, a fierce, awkward response bursts out of his chest. He does not recognize it, not at first. For a little while, it is curiously new, as is the way his robes fit on his body.
Then, the mortal comes rushing forward in his mind. He occupies it fully. It takes the Madgod by surprise – not many things are able to do the same.
Of course it feels new, a rare sliver of lucidity whispers in his ear. The body he inhabits is a vessel. And the soul that very body once held, the servant's, has worn down to no more than a trace.
The shell Sheogorath was cast in belonged to a different person. A different soul, nourished and sustained by the same flesh and bones. On the same pages, another story – which will soon lose its meaning, overwritten by a million more.
The fragment of mortality he still carries inside sings to him in horror. It cuts through Sheogorath's carelessness like the edge of a blade.
In the end, the hero sentenced himself to forget. What he accomplished on Nirn is fading with the growth of his role – the small champion, who knocked on the doors of his realm in rags, will be consumed by the aftermath of a war he could only end.
Not that he is fond of remembering, actually. If Sheogorath means he can leave behind his greatest failure, so be it.
He conjures up a huge storm, destroying all he can of the forest he treads on. He does not care, nor worry – this world is his to shape, his last corner of creation to play with. He burns the yellow leaves to glimmering ash, tears away the weeds, his ears closed and insensitive to their lament.
He is so powerful now, Sheogorath thinks with fury. To think he can make a difference so easily, and couldn't do a thing when he most needed to.
"In the end, what did you learn about the Daedra?"
"I don't have much to say, I'm afraid. The things I needed to forget were so many. But there is one lesson, out of what I learnt back then, that is too important to leave behind. It is all I can teach you on the subject.
We say the Daedra are cruel and unforgiving, and have little concern for our troubles. That, my friend, is but a part of the truth. The whole truth is we can't handle them, for they are unbound and complete by themselves.
If the Divines are what we were made of, their domain is what reigns over us. To set our passions and our weaknesses aflame resonates true to their nature. When they succeed, which usually happens, they have the terrible strength of all that eludes our control.
What is plain for them to see is fear and unspeakable power to us.
Don't try to be the exception, dear companion. You could never. To seek the true nature of the Daedra is like grasping at water, or gazing at the wind."
A constellation of images orbits around Sheogorath's mind. Odours, textures and sounds, belonging to a mixture of human flesh and eternal intelligence.
One of the two must prevail. No guessing games are needed to predict which one will.
Every time he feels split in half, he draws the line between what he used to be and what he is. Every time, the border between the two gets shakier. His concern blurs away with it, too.
But who Sheogorath is, in his uneven nature, is crystal clear in any case. He is the architecture of disorder – he is blood and harmony alike, the embodiment of ephemeral, capricious states of mind. Sheogorath is everything.
The mortal is nothing, and hasn't got a thing worth clinging to.
"What of Aetherius? I wonder where our souls travel to, when they get there. And if they stay the same."
"Our beliefs, the comforting ones above all, may as well be wishful thinking. You talked to a few departed souls yourself, though. Didn't they seem hopeful, too? They spoke of being freed, didn't they?"
"They all seemed to agree on that. They certainly know better than us."
"I believe so, too. You are more perceptive than I am. Well, we may not know, yet I must say – when the time comes, dear friend, I hope to meet you there ."
"I pray you will."
For a little while more, that one crack outlives the ever changing cracks in Sheogorath's consciousness.
It is not a crack of his own. It is long-lasting, and filled with mortal fear. It doesn't fit in the nature of a Daedra – since it is the constant change of his moods to make the perfect balance, the one crack has to go.
Needless to say that, eventually, it does.
Unexpected, or maybe predicted from the start – who knows? – the final day comes. The day when the spirit of a Daedra rearranges itself, and what was left of the man is killed in the turmoil.
That day, the man closes his eyes one last time, and Sheogorath opens them again.
What was scattered before, torn apart by the passing psyche of a creature of Nirn, is scattered again, but in his own way. Once more, the fabric of his realm belongs to him to the smallest particle. He takes pleasure in roaming it as he likes.
Sheogorath stands, tossing his staff aside, and starts watching, with an old new interest which will soon wane for sure.
He blinks, and he is somewhere else. It is a particularly vicious day – his presence fills the Ayleid torture chambers to the brim. He listens to the cries of enslaved men, brought to the edge of desperation by physical pain, and smiles upon their struggles. He is inside them – he inspires their wailing, so they may better suffer.
He returns to catch a glimpse of Haskill, come bearing fresh breakfast from Crucible. He shoos him away. When the Madgod chases himself, there is no room for trifles like breakfast.
Sheogorath blinks again, and bones and limbs of divine creatures are drifting across Mundus. It is the beginning of some things, most things, but not them all. He begins with them, too.
He turns his gaze to the mighty vulcan. With a gentle stroke, he agitates its insides like it's the end of the world. Maybe it is. One instant more, and he is following ancient armies. He animates powerful shouts, sharp weapons, women rising in the light of a new sunrise. He is there, among them all, in the smell of metal and blood.
He blinks, to find himself wrapped in non-existence. He watches the everything of Aurbis tear itself apart into change, slow and inevitable – it began long before he was, and long it will be, time after time. He is lulled into existence serenely, twin shadow to the essence of order. It is the boiling cauldron, the mixture, swelling with all concepts and dreams and juxtapositions in the world.
He was already there.
He is here and there and in every time, all the way back and ahead. He is a part, and a singularity. He is both.
He opens his eyes once more. He is somewhere else. From the curtains on the void, one is coming along – the trickster, the buffoon. Out of the silly bunch, he always was the best. Sheogorath is smarter, and yet he likes him, more than he ever liked the others.
He sees an arrow cut the sky in half, and the piece crash into the newborn world. So much balance, disorder, hurt and joy is to come. He approves of it, from a distance.
He sees it all, from start to finish, the same way he first witnessed it. At long last, he is returned to himself. He laughs.
Sheogorath starts laughing, and does not stop for a long time.
"I will make sure you get back, Martin. I will help you get home safely."
"Thank you, my friend. You know I can't promise I will. In the end, whatever the path we take, we never get anywhere else than our fate."
"I know. But let me die before I fail to lead you there."
Sheogorath loves reminding his subjects of things he was there to see. The tears through the dimensions, the dragon, the whole sordid affair. One act of the same cyclical story, which happens redundantly, soul after soul – a disaster, more like a little fun, and its respective tiny mortal, sent to clean up after the party.
It is curious that, somehow, he does not remember who it was this time. The Mundus heroes, with their blessings or curses or whatever, are usually quirky enough for him to pay attention.
It doesn't change much anyway. It is not strange for him to forget about things.
Especially about the ones that do not matter.
That the Hero of Kvatch would be the Champion of Sheogorath too is not my personal headcanon. It is a mere possibility, which isn't even that likely in my book; I don't like the idea that the questlines must all be completed by the same character. So, don't consider this my definitive take on the in-game events – I am just playing around with headcanons or possible outcomes, from the Champion's identity to how the Champion-Sheo transition could happen.