A Life Rich in Irony

by Shadenight123

Louise summons a different familiar...she simply doesn't get the Hero of the tale this time around though. A disillusioned Hero, chosen of the gods both for Cyrodiil and Skyrim, ends up spurred by Sheogorath on another quest. Was it mentioned the hero is the obvious 'Can do everything' and a Necrophiliac? Of course this matters little in the great scheme of things...of the Irony!

1. The Irony of the Situation

A Life Rich in Irony.

Let me tell you a story, which begins in a realm far away. Let me tell you of my story, which starts in a prison, continues throughout the land of Cyrodiil, and ends with me taking up the fight against the Mythic Dawn and its Daedric lord, bringing forth the rise –and quite frankly– immediate suicide-by-awesome of the heir of the Septim dynasty.

Let me tell you of the sequel of my story, which continues in a realm, further away, further down in time.

It doesn't start in a prison this time, but it starts on a carriage. I remember being shoulder to shoulder with the so called King of Kings of Skyrim. He wasn't that tough, once I broke his ribcage and shattered his head like a ripe watermelon.

I was the Prisoner. I was the Dragonborn.

But I never was myself.

I fought in the Legion, hoping to bring the glory of the Empire back.

I failed, and the Thalmor remained, even as I walked my way through the shadows of the Dark Brotherhood, even as I spoke to the Night Mother and she spoke back to me.

The Gods, the Aedra or the Daedra or maybe both, probably enjoyed seeing me struggle. Sheogorath at least was mad, but what was the excuse of the others?

Why could I not simply die?

"Legate," people saluted me as I walked the cobblestone stairs that would bring me up to Dragonsreach. "Dragonborn," others said with awe.

Where was my name, in all of this?

I didn't have one. It didn't matter to the gods.

For them, I could have been called 'Darkness' or 'Light' or 'Thomas'…they couldn't care, because the Gods made it so.

I was a symbol, not a person.

The amulet of Mara thudded against my leather armor, the dark black and red of the Dark Brotherhood eerily sucking in the light of the day. Irony was rich, and something I never lacked to show off as I walked.

My wife was probably the only one, who actually had taken notice, but then again she was the Queen of Hypocrites, and the most loyal I could find at that.

Lydia and the children were what kept me sane through my normal routine. I looked towards the Jarl, who stared back at me trying to act like normal, like I wasn't the Bane of Alduin, the slayer of the Dragon that could eat the world.

Like I wasn't capable of killing him and taking his place in combat, if I so wished.

"Dovahkiin," he spoke with annoyance. Since I knew him, he never spoke with any other tones but those of annoyance, displeasure, mild boredom and occasionally anger. Maybe he actually wanted to be challenged by me?

"Is something the matter?"

"To the south of here," the Jarl began. "Strange lights are seen at night, on the road."

I frowned. "Is it the headless hunter once more?"

"No," the Jarl shook his head. "They claim it is a green sphere, hovering and floating about."

Only because I took it upon myself to accept requests from anyone, didn't mean I actually did everything immediately. I nodded to the Jarl and he made a hand gesture to send me away.

To think sometimes, at night, I enjoy crawling right in front of the Jarl's beds and play with my daggers an inch away from their necks. They never hear me.

They never do, really.

The Gods gave me a second life, and I lived it fully. I was a Chosen of the Nine and the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. I still am, actually.

I understand there has to be some irony when you're the Legate of the Legion and you're also the one responsible for killing your Emperor.

Maybe my name could be 'Irony'. Hey there, Irony Dragonborn, at your service.

Cue people laughing, because otherwise it's not fun.

My horse doesn't have a name too. It's just 'The Dragonborn's Horse'. I'm starting to think there's a conspiracy, or maybe it's all part of a greater plan that I'm not privy to…yet.

I suppose this could be considered just a chore, nothing extremely dangerous or that warrants getting back home to slip in my heavy armor. Let's face it: the Dark Brotherhood armor? Wonderful, stylish, black and red and all of that but…protection wise, it's Daedric you need to have.

Of course when you wear the Brotherhood's black, there's no way they'll hear you coming.

The Ancient one also has that…vintage feeling, you just can't stop loving the feeling of the leather gauntlets as they press against the neck of your next victim.

Lydia still has no clue I'm the Listener.

Actually, she has no clue at all of my…Dark associates.

Sure, she helped me with the Thieves' Guild, but then again stealing from others apparently is in the tenants of the 'Help your Thane' code.

Nocturnal was pretty much a horrible God though. I burned her armor just to spite on her a bit.

The road is clear, and my horse is near the stables, brushed and well kept. 'The Dragonborn's horse' –a white and brown stallion– is eager to see me, and as I mount him and begin slowly making my way out of there, I can't help but spur him.

The wind hits me on the face, as I laugh at the exciting sensation of the cold breeze that Skyrim seems to possess everywhere I go. My heart beats loudly as I scream in exhilaration with just a wrangled set of vocals that hold no meaning. Finally I set up camp halfway near the abandoned fort –overrun by bandit once, and now inhabited by their corpses.

If everything goes well, in a few weeks I'll have convinced enough persons of my trust that they'll hand over control of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim to me. Once that is done…

I'll march on those Thalmor bastards and show them why you don't imprison the Dragonborn.

I never blamed the Legion for Helgen.

I blamed the Thalmor, and Talos help me…the High Elves will pay for what they did to Cyrodiil.

I was an Imperial, back in Cyrodiil. Here I'm a Nord, and yet my motherland will always be the central hub of the Empire.

I roll the sleeping mat down on the ground, and then I cross my arms behind my head as I rest with the sun's rays over me. My horse stands guard close by. I don't need anything more. It's not like anyone with a minimum of sanity wouldn't recognize me or my horse.

And if they still attack then they deserve dying a horrible death.

The night falls before I can even think more about it, and as the moons rise up in the night sky, I mount my horse once more and begin my long and boring patrol.

It isn't actually a boring patrol. Starting with a flock of Hargraven that apparently decided to try and be suicidal –they ran away when they realized that no, it wasn't just a courier but the Dragonborn on that horse– there were a few bandits and a couple of Tiger Sabers.

Why they decided all to try and attack me, I'll never know. Being a Courier is a heavy responsibility around here!

Swearing to myself to give a big tip to the next courier I will meet, I finally see what the light is all about.

There is a green portal hovering in the middle of the road now, it is green, fluctuating and there is a voice calling from beyond it.

Sheogorath is also dancing atop a pile of cheese next to it, but that's really nothing important considering what the god of madness can really do.

"Go, Go!" he gestures me to enter. "Come on boy, show some spirit of initiative."

"Sheogorath," I remark trying to keep my calm. I know I can defeat him, but still it's a god we are talking about and I did say I left the majority of my equipment back at home, didn't I?

It's better to play it safe with the God of madness. Giving him what he wants –and that is cheese, a chicken and some type of random mad event– usually calms him down enough to drop the Wabbajack and leave. Why he never cares about the stupid staff I'll never know.

I know I'd like to try and turn him into a form of cheese once.

"You have to go through my boy!" Sheogorath insists. "Someone is waiting on the other side for you!"

"Really?"

"Of course! Would you like some cheese?"

I'd like you to take my sword through your guts, Sheogorath…

I'll settle with touching the portal.

The moment I do, I barely have the time to see a raven haired boy with a strange blue and white cloth stumble out and fall in the middle of the road, that I'm absorbed by the orb.

I don't even ask myself what a kid was doing there, because…Sheogorath.

It's easier on the nerves to just not wonder what the god of insanity and madness does or why he does it.

Sometimes…sometimes you just need to go with the flow, you know?

So I end up falling down through this green portal, and as I land on thick and luscious grass…

Well, what do you know, Sheogorath sent me to a magic academy. If the towers don't give it away, then the people dressed in robes and the mage –holding a staff– are a clear sign of where I am.

The fact I can't understand their tongue? It means nothing.

My eyes move from the wizard, who is apparently talking to the pink haired girl that looks angry, towards the other mini-wizards.

And all of them have a strange beast next to them. I see…what the hell are those things? Giant lizards, I understand. Owls, giant moles…those too I can compute. What is a strange floating eye doing? Why is there a dragon going 'Kyuu' at my sight?

Dragons don't go 'Kyuu'. They either talk or they don't.

I point my finger at the dragon in question. The dragon flaps its wings. First off, the thing is blue. I never saw a blue dragon. Secondly, it doesn't even have scales or if it does, they're too small to be visible from the distance we are at.

She doesn't seem hostile, and so I avoid taking out my sword and slash her apart to devour her soul –for the moment anyway.

My gaze goes back to the pink haired mini-wizard –who looks more affronted than anything else. She's walking forward towards me, and you have to understand…she's what, half my size? Maybe a quarter, or a third? She gestures for me to get down to her level. It's like watching my daughter wanting to be taken on my shoulders.

Well, she doesn't seem a menace, and so I start to kneel. The moment her hands go to my face however, I grab her wrist and spin her so that she can face her classmates.

Oh, did I mention I'm also holding Mephunes Dagger to her neck?

Sorry, if I forgot about that but you see…

I always hate being called by the gods to do their stuff, and if I can avoid it…well, who am I to say no?

The rest of the class is visibly incensed, affronted or what-not. The wizard has his staff ready, but I…I can fight even with my hands occupied.

For I am the Dovahkiin.

"FUS-ROH-DAH!"

They fly. The mini-wizards and the staff wielder are sent flying backwards and hit the ground, as my Thu'um sounds out clear and strong in their midst. The girl in my arms goes limp.

Well, the kid in my arms goes limp: now that she's closer, I can see that she can't be more than fourteen or fifteen years old. She also does look sort of pale, and flat-chested. She doesn't weight much, so I actually swing her over one of my shoulders as I grab a better grip on my conjured long sword.

They said Conjuration was useless.

I shoved a Conjured sword up their guts for that.

I'm running before they can stop me, grabbing from my hip a small grey flask that I quickly drink. I turn invisible, the unconscious girl now looks like she's floating, and it's kind of funny I suppose to watch –if not highly traumatic for poor young maidens.

I smell the dung of horses before I can even see them, and soon I'm vaulting over one of their academy's horses, 'buying it' for the meager sum of zero Septims, or zero pieces of Gold.

The staff-wielder has actually recovered his wits by the time I'm spurring the horse out of there, pink girl knocked out cold on my lap. The mage is flying now, and I snort. Why is it that everyone knows the trick to flying except me? Dragon priests, necromancers, Dragons…why can't I learn it? Is there something against me flying around?

"TIID-KLO-UL," I roar to the heavens, and soon time slows. I conjure forth a bow in a moment, and the arrow is quickly summoned and launched. The bolt of arcane energy soars through the air, and slams against the wizard's chest. He seems to collapse after that, falling down on the ground. I don't actually look back at him, but spur the horse more.

I'm leaving behind a cloud of dust, as I gallop way out of there.

Sheogorath isn't around yet, but I'm not surprised. Whatever he wanted me to do probably will have to do with cheese, dancing or madness. I'll do what I always do when I deal with gods: I'll look around, try and find things to make myself more powerful, and eventually go and stick a sword through their guts.

It always works on humans, orcs, argonians…why can't it work on gods too?

I don't stop running until the sun is settling, and I watch with half-amazement at the new firmament of stars I'm seeing.

There is no warrior, wizard or rogue constellation. There are no stars to guide my path. There simply…there's nothing but pretty lights. They hold no meaning to my heart.

I was born beneath the sign of the Wizard in Cyrodiil, and the constellation I followed was that of the Warrior in Skyrim. Here…here there are no choices.

The girl moans a bit as I heft her down from the horse and against a tree trunk. I don't have any rope to tie her, but then again I'm not much of a hostage-person. I either kill or give to someone else the duty with hostages. The girl doesn't take much to wake up and whip out some sort of strange stick. I ignore her and set up camp.

She screams something incoherent, and I don't understand half a word of it.

She keeps moving that stick of hers around, up to the point where she suddenly stands up and points it at my nose. I look at it: what is it supposed to be, a mini-staff for a mini-wizard? How cute can that be?

Cuddling cute, I suppose.

"Fus," I state plainly, and she goes falling backwards as her wand splinters to bits. She grits her teeth and moves her right hand to her back, before she stares at me with something akin to fear. Her mini-staff is nothing more than sawdust now, and she seems on the verge of crying.

I ignore her expletives as I grab one of my Skeever rations from one of my pockets, delighting myself with the wonderful remembrance of how I killed the particular rat from which I carved the bloody piece of flesh that I'm now eating contently.

The girl's stomach growls hungrily as I start a fire. I don't have a pot, but I grab a branch to pierce a few of the dried mushrooms I have on my person –half of those are poisonous, but it doesn't much matter since cooking them removes the risks of dying a horrible and painful paralyzing death.

I hand over the stick to the girl, who swats it away to fall on the ground.

I could take it back and eat it in front of her, but I just shrug and stand to tie the horse left unchecked until then to the nearest tree. It was an unneeded precaution, as the horse is just as trained as my old one. He's standing there, looking at me with dull eyes, the type of eyes that sort of just tell you 'Hey, I'm a horse, I don't care if you're a murderer, a saint, a necrophiliac, or Vivec himself turned god, just let me eat in peace and you can ride me wherever you want'.

I actually take offense to the term necrophiliac: vampires are undead creatures, but that doesn't mean I'm a necrophiliac!

It's just…let's face it: everyone has a dark period eventually, right? Well, my dark period was going steady with a vampire.

No, that was before marrying. I'm not someone who…ah, who am I kidding? As long as it had two legs, and wasn't an Argonian or a Khajiit or an Orc…well, I am an adventurer. You know, the profession kind of entails having a wife in every port, like the sailors.

And when you're cleaning yourself of dragon guts, you want to be doing this because there's a hot and sexy elf waiting for you back at home, or a strong Nord ready to rump for five hours straight.

You're not saving Skyrim from Alduin because 'it's the right thing'. You're doing it for the chicks and the money, the fame and the power.

The Gods may consider me their plaything, but hey…I'm going to milk this for all that is worth.

The girl has left the camp by the time I turn around, already gone gods know where. I shouldn't actually care but…well, you remember me going steady with a Vampire?

Yeah well…she taught me a few tricks.

My eyes turn red as I watch the life of the girl moving away, the girl now a bright yellow blur in a forest of blue. There are a few wolves nearing on her, probably attracted by the movement she's making…or the screams for help.

I sigh and grab my bow. I don't even need to move from where I am. I just fire, one shot after the other.

After the first shot, the rest of the pack disperses. Wolves are not stupid, or feral. They're actually pretty tame when you compare them to Saber Tigers. There's not much to say about the girl though: she has to be stupid.

She probably hasn't considered I could easily kill her if I wanted to.

I'm inclined in letting the young girl go about her daily night without help. I'm actually willing to, but then my treacherous brain decides that she resembles too much my daughter to simply let her die in a ditch somewhere in the forest.

It's short work walking towards her.

The fact Sheogorath actually takes that moment to reappear, running backwards on a round form of cheese…

Did I already say not to question the god of madness, if you want to retain your sanity?

Well, he's juggling with the Wabbajack on the tip of his nose, and even thought the terrain of the forest should make it impossible for him to keep a straight line…he actually can.

"Well then, Dragonborn!" Sheogorath exclaims. He has that sort of voice that just grates on my nerves, you know? The one I actually wouldn't mind silencing permanently. "Have you met your master?"

"My master?" I retort calmly.

"Sithis, the Void!" he makes a wide gesture towards the direction the girl is.

I know I shouldn't rise to the baits of the God of Madness but this…this is preposterous.

"She is Sithis?" I ask in disbelief. Yeah, that was a mistake.

"Are you calling me a liar!?" Sheogorath screams, before slowly starting to laugh. Oh, and the juggling balls become rat heads, just like that, for no reason. "I'm not a liar!" now the rat heads are lumps of coal. "I'm a god, gods can't lie."

"And that's written where?" I'm making the same mistake again: never bait a god, and never bait Sheogorath in particular.

"On the fine print on how to be a god of course!" he looks affronted. "Well, you've got to have asked yourself the question on where the hell has Sithis gone to, right?"

I haven't. I actually served the Brotherhood because…

It was only business.

There was no superior call of sorts, no 'ultra-veneration'. It was business, plain and simple. The fact Sithis was the patron didn't matter. I served because it was business, not of blind fanaticism.

My gaze wanders to where the girl is. "She is supposed to be the god of the void?"

"Well," Sheogorath hesitates, before starting to cough slightly. "She has the Void! Yeah, that's about right!"

"So…I'm supposed to?"

"Well, I thought to myself!" Sheogorath says as he jumps down from the cheese form that morphs into a deer which runs away in fright. If I were turned in a form of cheese, I'd run away too.

Sheogorath keeps on juggling as he walks next to me. "Poor Sithis has been trapped away, with no powers and his powers are gone elsewhere! So…so why not reunite those powers!?"

"I have to kill the girl?"

"What? No!" Sheogorath exclaimed. "You have to kiss the girl! And then kiss the masters of the other familiars of the Void…after you kill their familiars of course, or if you don't like the master you can kill him and kiss the new masters before they get a familiar, your pick. Anyway, go power of love!"

I blink. Then I remember I'm talking to Sheogorath.

Yeah, this is normality for him all right.

"Understood," I exhale slowly as I pick up my pace, leaving the god of madness behind.

"Nobody understands the madness but the madmen themselves!" he screams at my back, but this time around I ignore him.

I reach the girl just as she's about to all on the ground from fatigue. I grab her delicate frame and quirk my lips up as I watch with amusement her trying to fight. I'm a Nord, muscle-bound typical Viking that can usually shrug off a Dragon bite like it was a flea…and she is flailing and kicking around trying to get out of my grip.

The stupidity of people…

So, I have to kiss her.

This reminds me of Babette.

She was two-hundred years old though.

This girl is pretty much human. She actually stops fighting when I lift her up with both of my hands as if she were a newborn. She looks mightily pissed, but I actually don't need to do much. A kiss will do, and a kiss is what she'll get.

I kiss her on the forehead, and she starts flailing again. There, it should be done.

I turn to leave, only to see Sheogorath in the shadows putting his hand to his face and then moving his two hands to mimic a kiss on the lips.

I frown and I look back at the girl who obviously can't see the god of madness –maybe because I'm the only one slightly mad out of the two?

I drop the girl on the ground, and pin her with my right hand on her shoulders.

She freezes like a deer that catches an archer ready to fire hiding in the bushes.

I kiss her on the lips, before departing and looking once more back to Sheogorath, who actually smirks and brings up his thumb before disappearing.

I sort of feel dirty.

I'll find myself a whore later in the next town.

"D-Don't," she whimpers with tears in her eyes. Wait, is she finally speaking the tongue I know?

"Please, my…my father will pay you handsomely," she's pleading now. "Please don't…" she closes her eyes and looks sideways.

I frown and stand up.

That's when it hits.

It's…well, it's not as painful as trying out a bunch of 'new and exotic' alchemy ingredients of which the majority is poisonous, but it's not something nice anyway.

I don't feel any different, and I don't look any different. So the power of Sithis would be…

I don't actually see any type of power. If Sheogorath had me kiss a child for no reason but getting his usual kicks out of the system…

That would be just like him.

"Thank you," the girl's voice is quiet as she speaks. "You can't understand me, can you?"

I give her a puzzled look for a moment, and then slowly I try.

"Now I can."

She widens her eyes, and then stands up angrily.

"You! Do you know what you did, you commoner!? I am Louise Françoise Le Blanc de la Valliere! My father is a Duke and my mother is Karin the Heavy Wind! I am not–"

"Does your mother suffer from gas attacks?" I ask barely holding back my grin.

Silence falls around the girl and I. She's sort of looking affronted, and angry, and probably pissed off but…but it's kind of cute watching her try and fail to hurt me by punching me on the chest and ending up jumping around holding her hand in pain.

"You commoner!" she wails. "Why did I have to…to summon a barbarian!? Who are you anyway!?"

"You don't know me?" I ask curious about this. Everyone knows who I am in Skyrim, many newborns' have their first word be 'Dragonborn' after all. Their second is usually 'Daddy' and nine times out of ten it's actually correct.

You remember the saying of the sailor, right?

"Should I!?"

"I am…" I frowned. Should I actually say that my name is Dragonborn? 'Dovahkiin'? Should I call myself the hero of the Septim Dynasty? Should I invent a name for myself?

Then again, unless Sheogorath sends me back, I don't know what is going to happen to me. I need to find the other Void users, whatever they are and then kiss them after killing their familiars.

I just know it's going to be peachy.

The problem is: I don't know how many of them there are to kill. What if it was the entire academy?

There were quite a bit of people there…

"Yes?" the girl taps her foot on the ground, her face red in embarrassment. She has no idea who I am, and apparently she's trying to forget what happened earlier.

I'm not forgetting it though: I'm actually replaying it in my mind.

Like I do every time I'm about to kill someone.

"I don't have a name," I shrug.

"All right then," the girl, Louise was it? She grits her teeth and starts thinking. "Dog."

"No."

She stutters for a moment, but my gaze is murderous enough –coming from a murderer after all– that she relents.

"Reginald?"

"No," I frown in disgust.

"Gabriel?"

"No," I shake my head vividly.

"Robert?"

"Ugh."

"Thomas?"

"Never."

She starts to walk in circles, starting to ponder on what to call me until, after a few minutes, she has an idea judging by how her face lights up.

"I know!" she exclaims giddily. "I'll call you Vittorio!" Clapping her hands, she then adds. "It's the name of the Pope, so it's a holy name! It will temper your–"

I can't hold it, and so I release it before she finishes talking.

I start laughing like a madman, holding my sides as my laughter echoes throughout the night air. She called me like the pope? Like the head of a church?

Me?

The slaughterer of thousands in two lives?

Me? The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, the Leader of the Companions, the Archmage of the Wizard College, the Leader of the Thieves' Guild? ME, the one who brought down the Vampire lords at the head of the Dawnguard, ME who battled the fake Dragonborn? ME, the one who turned Skyrim into a bloody battlefield and brought the might of the legion to bear on the Nords?

Me?

And that is my name now, isn't it?

Vittorio.

I am Vittorio.

I am the Dovahkiin…

...and my name is rich with irony.

Author's notes

Just wanted to try my hand at a first person piece. Nothing more.