A/N: This is just a little drabble I wrote for Shivering Isles. I love that expansion pack—I liked the game originally, but a Prince of Madness? Awesome! Finally, some recognition for the lunatics among us. So, because I tend to fall into my characters more than is usually healthy, I found myself playing around with my own character, intoning narrations in my head, and came up with this. It's pretty AU, not set according to the plotlines of the game at all. Figure the time period to be a few generations before Uriel Septim, and it fits a little better.
He replays the scene in his head as he stands at the well, his head bowed, dreadlocks brushing the nape of his neck. Her, on the verge of tears, angry in her lack of understanding; him, unable to explain, on the verge of… something, something too specific for words. There is a pattering noise all around him, and he wheels. It's too late; maybe it was always too late. It takes a moment to orient himself, and then he's off, running due East, over the gently undulating hills. So peaceful, so quaint, so normal…
Blaise is homesick. The rain starts up, soon escalating into a steady downpour, streaming in small rivulets down the fur on his back. Her voice, sing-song in his mind. What are you homesick for, Blaise?
He doesn't cry, but his face is soaked from the rain anyway, it probably wouldn't make a difference now. What are you homesick for? You've lived here all your life, you had the thieves, you had a title, a place, a niche. Didn't you? Where are you going?
The shore is in sight now, a blue line on the horizon.
Blaise is homesick for his prince.
She would have wept, if he had said that; maybe it was good sense, subconsciously holding him back. Maybe he didn't know, even then, so short a time ago. He bows his head and sprints, in the rain, completely soaked now. As the shore draws nearer, he slows again, back to a steady jog. He is homesick for his prince, for the one place where he found what he was looking for, because there were no niches… nothing.
A few steps over the wet sand, and he leaps, full-bodied, into the water, diving towards the bottom. Blaise has always been unlike in that, too. He loves the water, loves to swim, loves the rain, most of the time. It was one of the things that marked him, in the end; now, it takes him a moment to adjust, and then he can breathe again. Another token from the Isle, the amulet around his neck glows briefly as he scores the bottom with his claws, drawing water into his lungs.
Her voice, in his mind again. Blaise, Blaise, what prince could pull you from me?
The world grows lighter as he pushes off from the bottom, towards the surface.
He is homesick.
The pull seems to grow stronger, the closer he gets. He wonders, briefly, how much purpose is there, in that pull? But it doesn't matter, really. He gasps for a second, as his lungs shift again, and then he is breathing air, breast stroking along the surface, the splashes he kicks around him mingling with the rainwater—all water, water and air, and droplets and bubbles, mist and perfect equilibrium, disturbed by a balance, sought, he seeks…
Influence, on his mind, bends. He has to smile, under the aches in his chest. He's been away too long. One moment, it occurs to him, would be too long. He never wants to leave again. Not for the Emperor, not for the thieves, not for Aida—not for anyone. Ever.
There is a disturbance, in the smooth, splashingly blurry line of horizon. He hopes, hopes, swims a little faster. The rain is letting up, now, slowly. As the sun breaks through the clouds, scattering brilliance across the surface, he arches his back, arcing over, and back down through the water, pointing his body until he is a few feet beneath the waves. He can't see the spot in the distance from here, but he heads in that direction anyway, hoping, hoping.
It's not the kind of thing you'd pray over, and anyway Blaise has never been the praying sort. The Nine might be there, but he doesn't really care about them. He grins, thinking about it. And he wouldn't pray—well. He fights for his prince, not for anything else. He's no knight.
Knights wouldn't do it, anyway. He tried that, too. A knight, a knight-errant, a soldier running errands for a glorified warlord, a thief running errands for a glorified bandit, keeping his nose clean, Fighting the Good Fight, all that bullshit. Knights, wearing armor, brothers eternal, blood fraternal, loyal to the Empire, crossed swords again the evil demons that threaten this realm, all that bullshit. He shakes his head. Never follow a Cause.
Now he follows his prince. That's all. He wouldn't pray…
There probably wouldn't be an answer anyway. And if there was, chances are he wouldn't really be happy with it. At all. No one could accuse his prince of not having a sense of humor, that's for sure. Well, they could, but they probably wouldn't stay alive much longer after saying it.
He surfaces briefly, and notes that the bump in the horizon is now a full-fledged object, looming out of the water. With renewed strength, Blaise breaks out into a full breast stroke, grinning widely despite himself. Soon, he will be home.
And, as it nears full noon, he pulls through the stone tunnel, and onto the sloping pathway up into the floating island. It's a tiny place, barely visible from the shore, but oh, so welcome. He collapses into a heap on the path, leaning his head up against the stone wall, grinning tiredly. There, he rests a few minutes, letting the soreness evaporate a little, before springing back to his feet and trotting up the twisting path, to where the door casts a blue glow over the surface of the island. The guard eyes him warily, untrusting, and the Khajit woman sways back and forth, muttering. He feels a pang of pity for her, but steps around. The guard flinches as he walks by, clearly holding back his loathing as best he can.
Blaise ignores him, slows his walk as he approaches the softly humming portal. Closing his eyes against the light, he puts a hand to the force and lets himself be absorbed into the gate.
The dark butterflies swirl around the table, and he smiles, feeling the sudden tint of atmosphere sink into his soul. Even the air is different, here. It is… beautiful. Slowly now, he walks around the table, down towards the path into the heart of the Isle… his home.
With a glad heart, he receives the rain that begins to fall, soaking the fur on his shoulders in a matter of moments. He is close to singing as he passes through the Fringe, and then the Gates, in chainmail greaves and boots, and not much else.
A gnarl ambushes him, as he sets out at a steady run towards New Sheoth, and he slays it quickly, and passes on his way undampened. A grummite and a baliwog meet the same fate, and he is on the bridges before he knows it, as the sun sets slowly in the West.
Nevertheless, it is dark by the time he reaches the gates of Crucible, and he is more tired than he thought he would be. He wanders the dark, twisting streets until he finds a quiet place, in a narrow nook between two boulders. There he curls, a ball of dark orange fur, quietly sleeping the rest of the night in the peace he's found in the Isle of Madness.
The slow trickle wakes him, in the morning. People are beginning to stir, the guards are extinguishing the torches. He pulls himself up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Fully rested, Blaise slips out from behind the rocks, into the streets. Whistling, he makes his way through the shadowed avenues, towards the palace. He gets hardly a glance from the passersby; a half-naked Khajit is hardly the oddest thing they'll see today. Leaping the multicolored streams here and there, he finally finds himself at the base of the long stair, up towards the palace.
He stands there a moment, looking up at the doors. He couldn't have been gone too long… he hopes. He takes the stairs in leaps and bounds, and halts, panting, at the doors. After a moment, he steels himself and pushes them inward, walking through, into the throne room.
Sheogorath sits, as before, on his throne, deep in some trance or other. Blaise walks to the foot of the steps, and kneels there, not approaching any further. He can feel the glare on his bowed head. There's a rather pronounced sneer in his voice when finally, he speaks.
"And the prodigal son returns!"
That cuts, deep. Blaise had forgotten the power that the madgod seems to have over him, a little more than simply mental. He answers, as usual, without considering his reply, or collecting his thoughts, as he would normally.
"My lord, I beg your pardon. I don't know what I was thinking."
He barks out a laugh. "Who knows what they're thinking? That's not an excuse! You don't have an excuse! Don't hide from me with your rationale, Blaise! I hate rationale!"
"I have—" his voice cracks. "I have no excuse, my lord."
"Humility," the Daedra sneers again. "How boring. Don't bore me, Blaise. I only let you back in because I thought you might be a little fun. It was fun, before. No one's…" he trailed off, snickering under his breath. Blaise wondered what he was thinking about. Most people don't wonder about the madgod's thoughts. That's the kind of thing you don't want to know.
Blaise wants to know.
"Who let you back in?" He snaps out, abruptly, glaring down at the kneeling Khajit. "Who said I wanted to see you? I saw you coming, I saw you find your way to my gates again…"
"I did not see you, my lord." He blinks, as the words come out. Obviously, he didn't see him. The presence of Sheogorath does this, tears his mental, rational barriers to shreds. Pretty shreds, like wisps of dried mushroom, floating in the hot air currents… Dammit.
Sheogorath is snickering again. Blaise would feel indignant, if it wasn't so much fun. Even feeling the pain, the pain he knows that his prince wants him to feel, even uncertain about his banishment, there's something about these banters. Again with quick suddenness, the madgod replies.
"Of course you didn't see me! I did not wish to be seen! I am not seen when I wish to be not seen! Even—even now! I do not wish to be seen!" He is shouting by the end, and there is a flash of light, bright enough to hurt Blaise's eyes even through his bowed head.
His head clears, and he hears a few stepping noises. Hesitantly, he looks up. The throne is empty. Heaving a deep sigh, Blaise moves back a few paces from the steps and kneels again. Moments stretch on, turning to hours. He thinks. It's impossible to be sure. Doubts play around in his consciousness. Maybe he should've waited for a summons. No, he definitely should've waited for a summons. But it's harder to do what you should, here. Here, it's impulse… compulsive… he swallows.
Maybe he's not coming back. It's probably been two hours now. Or longer. He sighs. Maybe he'll just feel a sudden coldness and get a knife between the shoulderblades.
A Golden Saint walks by, and pauses to glare at him. "You should leave, mortal," she says. It says? "The madgod has been most generous, allowing this foolishness for so long. I wouldn't push his kindness too much farther." He ignores her. "Do you value your life?"
That's a good question, and he ponders for a moment. Without Sheogorath there, scrambling his good sense, it is easier to find his thoughts. "Not as much as his favor."
She snorts. "I bet. You mortals are all alike. You say that, but if I gave you the choice, right now…" He feels a cold point on the back of his neck.
"You can't give me the choice," he says calmly. "Obviously, only he can do that. And, since I'm still here, with your sword at my neck, I don't really…" he suddenly chokes, for a moment. When he resumes, his voice is shaken. "No. I don't value my life. Not particularly. I came back, didn't I?"
The Saint laughs again, and walks away, sheathing her blade. Blaise breathes.
More time passes. He is glad that he isn't trying to count—he would be losing it, by now.
"Patience, mortal." This voice is a bit kinder. A Dark Seducer stands behind him. "He has not slain you yet." He can feel her smiling, and his heart grows a little stronger.
"Thank you."
She says nothing, but he sees her shadow nod in reply, and she walks away. More time passes, and he finds himself tiring. It's probably been days. His eyes are heavy, his ankles hurt, his back is falling into a curve. His breaths are more unsteady as the hunger takes a toll. Both the Duke of Dementia and the Duchess of Mania pass through a few times, though neither comments on him. He assumes that the Prince of Madness is receiving them in another chamber.
The suspense begins to take a toll on his already twisted sanity. Blaise is grateful that he was born with a bent of madness, and not for the first time. He wonders, inwardly, what Aida would think of this. He wonders if it would've been better to not come back, and immediately discards the idea. Better, as he told the Saint, to die here on Sheogorath's carpet, than to live rich and fat and long in Cyrodil. It occurs to him that he will die before Sheogorath tires of making him wait.
The thought that follows is that he will not see his prince again, before he dies. There is a sudden heat on his face, and it takes him a moment to recognize it.
He realizes, with a touch of shock, that he is weeping, silently, and hard. He should be embarrassed, but he's not.
He continues to cry, letting his emotions take their course, until it dries away. Wouldn't do any good to hold it in, anyway, and here in New Sheoth, there's not much point in fighting your own mind. It finally ceases, leaving the fur on his face matted and salty. Dried up, done, tired and empty, he waits, hopeless and finished. What will be, will be.
The sudden noise behind him starts his senses, but his mind does not respond, at first. It takes a few slow, evenly spaced repetitions for him to register it as a slow clap. Eventually, after whatever point of sarcasm would have been long passed, the clap is joined by footsteps. Blaise feels his heart contract.
Slowly, almost jauntily, Sheogorath walks past him, around to face him. Blaise, past the point of any supposed dignity, and long having forsaken any survival instinct or wisdom of any kind, does not bow his head. He looks up, directly into the madgod's yellow eyes, and swallows, hard. After what could be the longest moment of his life, the Daedric prince smiles.
"You," he says, with characteristic blunt loudness, "Are crazy."
It has to be the best compliment Blaise has ever gotten. He can't even say thank you without his voice cracking. His throat is beyond dry.
"Get up, Blaise." Sheogorath reaches down a clawed hand, with uncharacteristic… care. "If you don't eat something soon, I'll wind up having to dispose of your corpse, and the skinned hounds are getting fat."