Author's Note: I've been wanting to write this for a while now, and just got around to churning it out. You all should very well know my love for the Daedric Princes. This piece goes to show for that even more. Again, I'm continuing with this whole philosophy kick I've been on lately. Yes, hardly any progress has been made on A Crimson Conspiracy of any of my other non-one-shot pieces for that matter. It'll get done eventually, *sigh*. But enjoy my series of one-shots while they last :). Again, if you have any questions, please ask them in your reviews. Or just review for that matter! I like hearing everyone's thoughts, positive or negative. :). Knowledge is a lovely thing...

Crypt

Years upon years stood testament to the wealth of knowledge gathered there, just like the layers of dust upon ancient tomes and wrinkled scrolls. It was over-powering. The smell. The mere thought of what lay here. The only sound that broke the silence was the simple flip of pages, creating a most beautiful staccato that could only bring the feeling of hope to his heart. Hope that the world could still be saved.

With a crinkle of his nose, smothering the reaction to sneeze, the Philosopher opened another book in search of answers. Answers that could not be found anywhere. Of all the experts of the world, his answer could not be found with them. Why? Because his question had never been asked? A smirk came to his wrinkled cheeks, straining old muscles. He would like to think that. How lovely it would be to have a question that had never been asked. He was sure many had asked it before… and searched and wondered… Found an answer? Perhaps. But did they ever tell anyone?

Never. They could only guess. Never know.

Daintily, he picked the page up nimbly between skilled fingers. Of all things, knowledge had to be protected, in all its forms. To destroy knowledge was affront to life itself. If it existed, it had a right to be known. Forbidden knowledge was an oxymoron in his opinion.

It had always been the scholars, the teachers; the magicians and the historians that brought light to this world. By the quill, not the sword; that is how they lived! It had always been they who instilled enlightenment in the young, and breathed life into the old. Their other kin? Those who lived and died by the sword, for the sword? Surely they were once of their kind, he would agree. But they, they tried to censor knowledge! Forbid it like their Gods themselves tried!

He shook his head, vanquishing his thoughts. The book had nothing to do with what he quested.

Putting the book away with a solid thud, he moved away, his eyes darting between titles of all languages. The books and scrolls all looked so tantalizing to him, the dust illuminating their mysterious power as beams from Sol itself pierced through the ancient stained glass windows. Who could possibly know everything in the world? To know everything… to have the memory to know everything, would to defy time and space itself.

Infinity.

Oh how he lusted for it.

He grew farther down, between the rows of hallowed authors and victorious scribes. To write was to inscribe a memory into reality, to bring a thought into the physical world where it would only exist as magicka and energy; that was to defy death itself. To create… it was such a beautiful thing.

But what was it to create memory itself? To create the divine?

Further he delved; immersing himself of the texts that caught his eyes, ones that he felt may help him find the answer. The key to all life itself. Pieces of a puzzle it was. Of course he knew he would not find them all in one place! A lifelong search it had been, but it was one he was proud of to have followed. With proud recognition of the feats of man and mer, he was determined to find the gears of machine that drove the soul! The greatest secret! The greatest answer!

And yet, as close as he felt to reaching it, the closer he felt the drains of life grow on him. The burden on his shoulders grew heavier and heavier, darker and darker his eyes grew… once full of life and the yearning to learn! The twinkle in his eyes was leaving him, the ruins of squinted eyes left behind in well-marked crow's feet.

A dry lick of his lips left him with the after-taste of his morning glass of wine again. Yet another book left him with no answers. Just hints. Just clues. The fossils of memories and ideas… they formed the trail! How would he ever discover the answer in time! Another solid thud echoed throughout the library, the trademark noise of a philosopher scorned. Patience was a virtue. But he had lived his entire life by the virtues of historians and scholars before him. Could he not be at haste in his finals years?

Somewhere, in the dark, dank confines of his home was the answer that was driving him to his end. More and more he noticed books and scrolls he had already scoured over, torn apart literally in his mind in search of the rich seed in the middle, surrounded by the unnecessary flesh of fruit!

Deeper down the rows he traveled, until he found himself in a place where the dust ran thick, hanging in the air like specters in the fog. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled a handkerchief from inside the folds of his robes. For once, he saw before him books he had never seen before. Black as coal, absent of titles down their chilling spines. Their power, their knowledge; it shook his brittle bones to their hollowing core. Eager hands and widening eyes, he set himself upon each one. Hidden treasures, found at last! Each book read revealed to him yet another secret unknown to man and mer.

As he read, he could no longer feel his body. Needs became incessant, but then ignored. Urges were smothered. This was the only satisfaction he required. This was his life, and knowledge was his soul! In mere hours it seemed the philosopher had become a master of knowledge, to rival the said abilities of the Gods themselves.

And yet, he could not find the answer! Of all this hidden knowledge, of all this forbidden thought, there was no answer to his question.

Another book was opened before him by his distant hands, pale in ghostly in appearance. Disconnected almost but still intact. His eyes passed over the Daedric print. The true nature of Oblivion. The nature of the Daedra themselves. Reading and devouring, he became enlightened to even the most shadowed of spheres. The nature of Mephala's Web, Meridia's Colored Rooms; all were revealed. He came to a sudden stop, his eyes freezing upon a certain passage. He felt, poetically, that his heart should've stopped too.

But no longer did it echo in conjunction with the flips of the pages. The beat was gone.

He gazed up, in fright, at how clueless he had become. A prisoner of his own thoughts! A slave to his need, his quest for knowledge! Around him sat the dust, only shifting when another lonely soul passed through them, causing a ripple effect as if it were water. Above him towered ageless shelves, countless books, blackened and untitled.

Infinite.

Now, he knew. He should've known. That library that he called his home… he knew it like a home. These collections were never there.

His desire for knowledge had driven him into death and beyond. It was so painless. Peaceful and enjoyable in fact. Now he would roam, forever, learning everything there was to be learned. He would find his answer, but it was too late for him to share.

This was not Aetherius. Rather…

Apocrypha.

Time was no longer an issue. Yet he could only assume thousands of years had passed into silence and dust. Into boundless infinity.

Not even mighty Hermaeus Mora knew.

The Philosopher never found his answer.