Just for fun.
Please enjoy.
Sixteen cabbages, forty-nine wedges of cheese, a handful of rolls to be cut into quarters, spools of thread for hat making after supper, and chilled slaughterfish eggs to be spat out after a fine game of pin the foot on the corpse.
Perfect for a baby shower, she liked to think. Everyone would notice that everything was in miniature. From the food down to the chairs and the hand-woven rugs. She then tapped her chin and wondered. Would it be better for everything to be ten sizes larger?
She clapped her hands and nodded. Yes! It was perfect! Why hadn't she thought of it before!
She pulled on her earlobe and summoned Haskill, who appeared with a delicate puff of violet smoke.
"Darling. The tiny, it simply won't do. I want everything huge!" She spread her arms and gestured to the immense room. Servants who had set out food and decorations immediately began removing them. She was sure they had giant furniture in storage somewhere.
"Yes, my Lord." Haskill drawled, but his staff was already to work. The whim of the God of Madness was impossible to ignore. Especially of late.
She strolled past him, holding the swell of her belly and grinning delightfully. She kicked at her skirts and watched the room change. Blue and pink banners twisted among the rafters, and divided the room in such a silly way.
It was almost like her mania and dementia! How fitting that her child's gender would simply be a mad guessing game!
She knew what it was though. There was no doubt about it. So she watched the room transform, and used one of her servants backs as a stepping stool to sit on an immense chair. Her teacup was as large as her head, and she sipped dreamily from it with a smile.
Aye. Even Haskill had seemed mildly interested in what her child would be.
It's not everyday that the Prince of Madness deigned himself worthy of having a child. But then again, who could stop him? He probably had hundreds of children, creations of madness and magic, running around the Isles. Wait. This plane was his child! How funny life could be.
Should she start sending out cakes and tarts to pay for its care? Or maybe itty bitty baby proof daggers? He hated to think the Shivering Isles was a bastard.
He rather liked the small bones in the pinky. Maybe those could work?
But, she drank her tea, and enjoyed her shower by herself. Nodding at the tea cups, other citizens from all over sat around her.
It soon evolved into a chorus' of laughter and conversations of art and flowers, and using stretchy intestines to measure the Mad God's belly.
But she'd have none of it.
So instead, she asked, "Isn't anyone going to guess the baby's gender?"
Everyone laughed and chorused in.
"Fish!"
"A candlestick!"
"Strawberry tart?"
"A girl!"
"I think fish as well."
"It has to be a book on cat naps. That's the only one that could fit."
"What a silly tea-cup I have."
The Mad God laughed and kicked her heels and stood up on her giant chair. She held her belly with both hands and laughed.
She was dark with violet hair, and pointed ears, and the face of a fine-looking mer. This Dunmer Mad God stood there and laughed. For she already knew. If only she'd tell. If only they knew.
That the Mad God had once been clear as the day. As clean as a whistle. Perky and bright, and the hero of all of Cyrodiil. She'd seen the last Septim, and had gone simply, simply mad.
"Yes, yes. All of those things. But no!" She waggled her finger at her guests. "Now shut it or I'll skin you alive for a new baby bonnet!"
They grew silent and she poked the nearest meat pie to her and flicked it at the table.
"That's good. Now. Soon, we'll have our own little... Dragon!"
Everyone 'oohed' and 'aahed', impressed and excited.
"I said dragon, now didn't I?"
"Did she say a fish? I couldn't hear from down here."
"My teacup is empty."
"A dragon! Ooh, we'll have to fire-proof the nursery."
"What color will it be?"
Everyone let out excited giggles, and suddenly the baby's color became the main topic and the Mad God stamped her slippered foot in irritation.
What a ridiculous idea! The baby, a color? Bah! Oh wait.
She tapped the end of her nose and Haskill appeared, and she gripped his hand as she stepped down from her chair. She treated the air like stairs and it worked just fine.
No one minded the Mad God's departure, and she didn't notice when they all disappeared in billowing plumes of swirling orange and purple smoke.
She allowed herself to get lost in thought, as if such a thing didn't happen all the time. She fluttered through flittering butterflies, and picked at flower petals. When the baby kicked, she sought out the kitchens, and let Haskill brush her hair as she munched on slices of cheese and ordered the servants to juggle upside down, then poke out their eyes when they couldn't.
He wondered where in the Isles the child could play.
New Sheo would be too small, and she didn't want the baby eating people when there were things to be painted, and lutes to smash, and sewage to fling.
The Isle of Flame, too ironic. And what if the baby had his flowing locks? Such pretty, violet locks? Twould burn up in a moment. No, no, no.
The baby needed to play. Somewhere fun. And somewhere soon.
He'd been with child for nearly two hundred years, and it was time.
She squealed and dropped her cheese, standing and doing a jig as she laughed and laughed. Haskill placed her brush on the table and watched as it jumped to its feet and scurried across the surface.
"Oh Haskill. I've just the place. It's perfectly perfect. With cheese abound." She patted his head and tweaked his nose. "For what baby doesn't love cheese?"
"None of the good ones, My Lord." He responded, holding up the lime green fur wrap for the Mad God as she snapped her fingers. She wrapped herself up in the fur, and danced at the Throat of the World. She spread her arms and twirled in the snow.
It was a sight, the Mad God with her swollen belly, dancing in the swirls of white.
"Well? What do ya think, Haskill?"
The world loomed beneath them, vast and bright. The sun touched everything, and everything was touched by winter and frost.
"It's 'perfectly perfect', my Lord." He drawled, and the Mad God laughed heartily. What a perfectly perfect answer!
"It's a good thing you agreed. I'd hate to have to kill you." She giggled and threw her hands up to her mouth. For a moment, the Prince of Madness grew silent. The life within him stirred, and there she was. The hero of Kvatch. The Champion of Cyrodiil. Staring out over the world in silence.
"She will be something great." She said, and Haskill nodded solemnly from behind her. She turned and looked him in the eye, her hands holding her stomach as she took a deep breath.
"She will be great, and you will watch over her. Promise me, Haskill." She was already slipping away. She came and went so rarely nowadays. Soon it would be over and she'd be dancing again.
"A new force is catching up with time. A powerful force. It will change the world or end it." She said, and the wind whipped her hair into a frenzy, and her words became panicked. Her eyes were wide, her hands ripping through the air in anguish.
"This force will bring her forth. She has Martin's blood, and the Septim destiny. Promise me. Promise me!"
The Mad God closed her eyes, and Haskill gripped her arm before she fell away into insanity.
"I can not ask you again. Guide her to her destiny. Promise me."
"I promise, my lady. I promise."
Then she smiled, and Haskill withdrew, standing straight and tall. He relaxed until his brow no longer creased, and the Madness was back, standing before him in all His glory.
"Aye, it's bloody cold out here. I'm thinking my toes might fall off. And I might let them!" The Mad God looked down at his boots and grinned. "What an interesting necklace that would make!"
"Yes, my Lord." Haskill said, his back stiff, his upper lip the same. For the Prince of Madness took them back, and New Sheo was ripe with chaos. And as the last swirls of snow danced away from their backs, and they walked off the Throat of the World into a stone hall, the Mad God said,
"Once this thing is born, I'm goin' on vacation. Have you ever been to Solitude, Haskill?"