A bit of background knowledge: My Oblivion character, story-wise, knew Martin before the siege of Kvatch. She lived with him and the previous priest for a few years, in fact. But then she left because she felt she was too messed up to be in his life.
Anyways...
First up, Gnarls Barkley - Crazy.
147, 4E
"Would Your Highness like a platter of finely aged Elroy Cheese?" Haskill droned, appearing from nowhere, sporting a silver plate of the morbidly pungent cheese that his master normally would take on Malog Bal to get at. (Needless to say Malog Bal was now very embarrassed whenever the topic came up that he could be beaten by a mortal girl.)
But Zoriana responded slowly, seemingly distant. "No, thank you, Haskill."
Haskill and Zoriana had a rather friendly relationship, much more close and understanding than the servant's old master, anyways. Zoriana still mocked him and played with him during her good moods in spirit of the old departed Prince, though spoke with him and confided in him during her lows.
Right now, though, Haskill was concerned to see that she appeared to be in no sort of mood at all.
"Are you quite all right, My Lady?" He asked.
"I'm not sure, dear Haskill..." She commented simply, waving a hand infinitesimally. "Leave me for a moment and let me decide if I am or not."
In another situation, the servant would have chuckled at the typical statement of Zoriana's, but he nodded, and left. When she asked him to leave, it was serious business.
Zoriana sighed quietly, sliding further down in the throne that was much too big for her. She was quite confused at her own inner utter blankness. It was quite unlike her. She was always- always! – either skipping around, grinning and singing, or grinning at a rather gruesome murder, and skulking in the shadows.
Right now, she felt... very, very empty.
She had been having a few moments like this every so often for the past... oh, hundred fifty years or so. But they just kept leaving her feeling more and more hollow. And, right now, she just felt... absolutely nothing.
She found herself thinking about a man. Many men, to be specific. All role models of hers, all strong, passionate... dead.
The first, the first was Martin... of course. Of course, of course, she mentally ranted to herself. Her first role model has always, always been him. They were friends... he was her only, her only friend, for most of her life. He... he was nearly everything to her. His sacrifice left her nearly shattered, before she went to the Isles.
And then there was Lucien. Zoriana had greatly respected him. Even before he recruited her, she had heard of him, heard of the mysterious hands-on member of the Black Hand of the Brotherhood. She had worked in knowledge of and in acknowledgment to the Brotherhood for quite some time. If she received an assignment on someone she knew was a target of theirs, she would smile and shake her head at the contracter. She always wondered what the man was up to while she advanced in rank in the Brotherhood. She was utterly distraught at the sight of him stringed up and seared and butchered like a pig.
And then there was Gogron, Vincente, Nels, so many, so, so many.
But mostly, mostly Sheogorath.
Though he never admitted it- and he never would have, ever- he gave his life- or did he?- for... well, something.
That part still confused her.
That man, though... of course, she couldn't understand him. No one could ever, ever understand him. He was the essence of random and spontaneity and confusion. Of, well, obviously, madness.
...She missed him.
She felt herself enter another state. Her eyes were slipping closed. She opened them again, inspiration and spontaneity from another place popping into her head, as it did time to time, when she was emotional.
"I remember when..."she whispered, blinking a few times and shifting on the throne, "I remember, I remember when I lost my mind..." She rose smoothly out of the chair, looking around to see the Saint and Seducer normally on guard had gone on break. Good, she didn't like singing in front of people. She strode out of the palace quickly, noticing the daedra outside were gone, too. Right. It was lunch time.
She gazed out over the gardens, the large tiered mushrooms, the bright butterflies. "There was something so pleasant about that place..."
She remembered Sheo. How he would smile at her, all the while joking about skipping rope with her intestines. He was one of very few people who could make her smile and laugh. He had blatant, random, constant personality swings- hers were just changes in mood compared to his. But he wasn't unable to control them.
She remembered, one night, when she was sitting in a niche in the wall, secluded in Crucible, close to the palace door. She was sane back then. But she was also slipping. She was remembering everyone. Martin, Lucien, Nels, etc. etc. etc. For some reason, for some random, spontaneous, unknown reason, Sheogorath managed to decide to stroll out to Crucible that night. He saw her sitting there, pent-up tears breaking and drifting, nearly, very nearly hidden, down her face. He was surprised. And he softly sat next to her.
In all the time she'd known him, before then, he was always loud, boisterous. She'd never seen him soft. Until then.
"Even your emotions have an echo in so much space..."
She suddenly smiled, her old moods coming back to her. She lept gracefully, grabbing onto one of the surprisingly sturdy tiered blue mushrooms on the Mania side, climbing up it and standing on the little circular top, looking out, over the walls, across the land, in the direction she knew the Door was.
"And when you're out there, without care... yeah, I was out of touch..."
A few years after she took the throne, Haskill had brought her something some mad mage somewhere had made: a window to Tamriel. She could watch. But it was magical, and started letting her watch all the time, in her head.
"But it wasn't because I didn't know enough..."
And it started letting her know. Why people did things. What would happen because of those things. Upcoming doom, dying laughter, frantic laughter and madness-
things she expected in this realm, not the province which she still felt protective of.
"I just knew too much..."
She closed her eyes, sitting on the mushroom, grateful the guards were off duty. Not that watching the Mad God burst into song and bipolar tendencies would be anything out of the ordinary. It just embarrassed her whenever she happened to do it in front of other people. The songs offered sight into her head. She was the Mad God. She was supposed to be incomprehensible.
But she wasn't. He was, though. She wasn't as good as him. She hadn't been able to fill the throne. She felt so small in it. So insignificant. So powerless.
She wondered what the people of the Isles thought of her. She knew they were angry. Most of them, anyways. Because nothing was changing.
And madness is change, and they depend on each other. Madness comes from change, and change comes from madness. And she was mad, yes- but not mad enough.
She was mortal. The position, yes, had granted her freedom from aging, but... if someone were to ever gain the courage to strike her down... that would be it. The throne would be empty.
And given she lived in a world of madmen... it was a good thing no one but Haskill knew that.
And she had no powers. Sure, she had the vision, from the window. And she had a few minor powers her position and other Princes had granted her. But aside from that... she was just a Bosmer.
She let out a shuddering sigh. This place needed him. This place was falling apart. Unraveling. She was unraveling. Everything was unraveling.
She needed him.
"Does that make me crazy?" She laughed. "Does that make me crazy?" Absentmindedly, she clawed at the fleshy blue mushroom, her nails coming away caked with blue and tan skin and flesh. "Does that make me crazy?" A thin wolfish smile played at her lips. "Possibly."
She suddenly flipped over, rolling off the mushroom and landing feet-first on the ground in one fluid movement. She walked throughout the garden as if it were normal.
She was thinking about Sheo, again, of course. Another thing that confused her.
Was he really gone?
He was immortal. She was mortal. Even if said mortal has access to special symbols of office that would allow her to take place of said immortal, said mortal cannot kill said immortal.
She shook her head. Too many saids. But still, not enough was ever said.
Where did he go? To Oblivion? This was Oblivion. The Isles were a plane of Oblivion. She knew, from past discussions with saints and seducers, that daedra went through a reincarnative process. How long this took, she did not know. How long this took for Princes, she also did not know. If reincarnation even happened to Princes beaten in special means by mortals, she especially did not know.
But she knew, she just knew, he wasn't gone.
"And I hope you are having the time of your life..."
Sheogorath was widely known for his odd decisions. One time, Zoriana remembered, there had been an attack on Passwall by Elytra, and Haskill had asked him what he wished to do.
He answered, he just made it rain flaming- no, not dogs- turtles, over the little town.
He didn't think things through. He was very fickle. He was childish, in this way. But she loved that about him.
But... she suspected that, this trait, when, if, he came back... would affect whether or not Zoriana would be able to finally confess to him.
"But think twice..."
A Prince and a Mortal?
That... was practically impossible, with faith and consent.
Right?
"That's my only advice..."
...She missed him.
So much.
For a moment, she imagined he was there. What would she say to him?
Before the final battle, they had had one major conversation. It had a slightly argumentative tone... but, really, it was all in fun. And he said it all to comfort her.
She was concerned. She didn't want to fight Jyggalag- him. She didn't want him to leave.
She never said any of that, but he could tell.
He reassured her that he could handle it. Whatever the problem was, he'd fix it. He could always fix everything- right?
It was all under his control.
But then, the next day...
She slowly stepped down the stone stairs. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
"Come on now, who do you... who do you, who do you, who do you think you are?"
He had been acting odd. Quiet. Emotionless.
And then...
She laughed at the irony. "Bless your soul..."
He had transformed. And teleported away. And joined the enemy army.
Leaving her there. Alone. Confused. Torn.
Slipping.
She gritted her teeth. "You really think you're in control?"
But then, she realized- if he came back...
...she would be beyond herself with joy.
She brightened just at the thought of it, a grin spreading across her face. "Well, I think you're crazy!" She laughed brightly. "I think you're crazy!" She shook her head, smiling widely, recalling rather humorous past statements of his. "I think you're crazy..." It had rained earlier, leaving a puddle on the stone. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in it, and her smile faded. She looked broken again. "Just like me..."
She sighed, and swung around, striding away, all the way down the stairs, out into the wild of the Isles. But in her mind, she was in another place. At Kvatch, exploring the woods with Martin. Swinging on trees, nurturing a lost baby bird, Martin trying- key word, trying- to preach to her. "My heroes had the heart..." She remembered seeing him again. After all that time. After all that changing. He hadn't changed, though. There was a bit more experience there... a loss of innocence... a dark knowledge... other than that, he hadn't changed. She had, though.
He hadn't recognized her. "To lose their lives out on a limb..." She thought of the hours she'd spent sitting at he base of his statue. Silent. Completely and utterly silent. But then she thought of Sheo again, helping and training someone to kill him to end the curse... and to save... what?
She still didn't know. The Isles? Himself? ...her?
"And all I remember... is thinking, I want to be like them..."
It was true.
A Prince... sacrificing himself. It was unheard of. Expected from a good man, sure. But from a Prince... from the stereotypical vessels of evil?
Sheogorath was unpredictable.
But he was not evil.
He saved a world. His own world, but still.
"Ever since I was little... ever since I was little, it looked like fun..."
She'd always dreamed about saving worlds. That was one of her earliest memories, and her most secret dream. She'd never told anyone- except Martin. She'd dreamt of being the hero, for once. Not the victim, not the midguided or misjudged villain, but... for once, just once... the hero.
How lucky for her it happened twice.
"And it's no coincidence I've come..."
Was it?
Why did she come?
She narrowed her eyes. She didn't remember. She remembered being hollow after Martin's sacrifice- more than usual. Much more than usual. She was wandering, looking for something, anything, to do, to commit herself to. Everything else in her life seemed to be in a permanent state of hiatus.
She heard the rumors of an island.
Of a portal.
Of people going in... and coming out strange.
And she figured, and hoped... that it might have just hopefully been a new party to save.
But now she was stuck here.
"And I can die when I'm done."
She was starting to feel that way.
She was growing restless. Careless. Uncomfortable. Alone. Trapped.
Why did he choose her?
Why did he choose to dump his position on her?
Why did he choose to make this little dark Bosmer girl kill a Prince?
She remembered the quest she did for him, before she came to the Isles. He hadn't seemed all that intrigued or interested in her. She paid him no mind. He was another Prince. And in her mind, a Prince was just a statue, an interesting adventure, and a prize.
Why did he choose her?
Why did he let her enter more or less intact?
Why did he trap her here?
Maybe... because... he liked her.
She let out a short laugh. "But maybe I'm crazy..." She shrugged, "Maybe you're crazy..." She somehow found herself back in the throne room. She had wandered back there. She glanced at the giant, empty, lifeless throne. "Maybe we're crazy..." After a moment, hesitantly, she sighed, and sat slowly back down into the throne, which she knew she would be in for a lot longer. "Probably," she whispered.
Rate and review!
What should my poor Zoriana sing next?