No Light
To him, nothing is holier than colours.
Thadon loves his world because of them. They are joyous companions, painted all around him; unlike people, he can always command them to be bright. Rainbows shine beside him and within him, whether he is drinking, painting, or smelling new sights.
Colours build his realm. He loves it. On the other side, there is hers; and he loves her.
She is small and afraid, with the same elven bones as him, and her eyes are so fragile that he believes tears will burn them down someday. Her actions, however, have one singular energy nobody else would be capable of in these lands.
He is the Duke of Mania. Yet, looking at her is enough for him to disagree with them all. The people of New Sheoth can see everyone's madness but theirs; they call her a paranoid and a nuisance, caring about her delicious tortures alone. But they must be blind, he thinks, not to share with her the cleverest of fears.
There is, after all, a shade of perfection in Dementia. It is the other side of reality, and Syl couldn't be any better as its symbol. Fear of your enemies, strength on your subjects – if put together, as Sheogorath himself secretly commands, their two realms could melt in a whole, complete universe.
She feels frail in his arms, but she is stronger than daylight when she kisses his lips, accepting them just as they are. And they embrace quietly, content with it, when others cannot watch their words; their whispers rise to meet each other's distorted souls, deep in the night of folly.
It should not be like this; in the Shivering Isles, everything – even them – happens to be out of place. They still close their eyes, every night, and touch on.
It is mad and absurd, wonderful and pointless. It is just wrong. But it can't be helped.
It is up to him now. He may as well dive in a shelter of addictions, run away, forget his pain as he always did. Still, this time, he cannot bring himself to escape.
His city is torn apart; the hands of a stranger are driving Dementia away, more and more distant, detached. This is the way Syl's wounds bleed on his very body, fresh enough to send their pain to the depths of his blurred mind.
The Madgod cannot hide he is losing his madness. That was the worst of his fears and the truest of his suspects. Sheogorath's eyes are choking him, slowly, with that levity of theirs that soon will be no more.
Thadon needs light, he needs smoke and blood. He needs open air. What door to take will not make a difference, since everyone is in danger.
It takes but a couple of steps, a piece of dark street, and he is already lost in the crumbling of this world.
He had not seen Crucible in what seems to be thousands of mortal years. His golden robes shine so out of place; people are shaken out of their indifferent folly, amazed and silenced, as he walks past the doors of New Sheoth.
As much as he worries for his throne, for his forever lost joy, Thadon fears his Lord more than anything else. He fears reason, in front of which his words just fall from his lips. Although he knows what to do, he really has no idea what to say.
One thing is surely clear to him, though. Now that he has lost his former way of life, he recognises the order in it. Under the waves of drugs and oblivion, it has been there through his whole life.
Every day a new colourful adventure, yes, and a new mood; but the backbone of it never changed, and now he wants it back.
He wants her back.
His tears are so transparent now. He cannot help winning, not by this new lord's side; the moment will come when, under the eyes of a surprised Champion, Thadon will tear his heart out and sacrifice it to his burning pain.
He holds a bright sword and wears flawless armour. He has rivers pouring from his eyelashes, and lips that, with each of the chords in his existence, yell for vengeance.
However, Thadon is happy.
Lord Jyggalag will not sweep madness away. He is reason itself, and madness is his darkest part; he will let all wrong fade into him, cancelling what is left of a realm corrupted to the marrow.
His magic and his blade pour their rage on the unlucky human. He was deceived, poor soul, by a falling god; he will die for it, just like she did, without ever knowing why.
He will have no mercy for her assassin. Still, his heart is bleeding.
Thadon remembers his life. He will never forget his home, nor will let go of his place in it. The images flow in his eyes as his wounds grow in number; there is his blood, his rebel, poisoned blood, already escaping his veins to reunite with the raging waters of Sheogorath.
Blind with pain, he cannot stop wondering why. Why his life became so terrible, just when it was so beautiful, he fears he will never know in the little time he has left. But one certainty at least is fully his – her fate was but the first tragedy, the last warning, right before everything else followed her in death.
When he collapses in the mud, he knows it is finally over. But the last ray of light, this newborn idea, must come from his bright Lord.
For the first time, he can think straight; and a painful smile dawns on his whitening lips.
Maybe, the answers he has been looking for can only be found somewhere else. Maybe they have fled too; maybe they have run under the surface, just beyond the thin veil that enclosed his whole existence. And if his twitching fingers can no longer patch his wounds, his death will see to it, and will help him cross a barrier.
He is journeying to the other side. It is the side where everything is dark and gloomy, but gratefully at ease; a side holding unfortunate souls who, at last, are done with their suffering.
That is where he will reunite with his whole dead world; that is where souls aren't anymore, yet still are, in silence and peace. That is where she is now.
Thadon is happy.