Hello everyone. It's sure been a long time since I've updated, hasn't it? A few years now, at least. Sorry about that, I just hit a slump. But I won't make excuses. I'll just say that, throughout all the time I wasn't updated, I've never forgotten my stories, or my commitment to finshing them. So, I thought I'd start small. I'm rewriting my first story ever published here . It's also my most popular one, but I feel like the beginning chapters may put people off, because of their difference in quality with the ending ones. So I'm fixing that. If you follow the story, my apologies for not updating more quicklyEither way, I'm glad you're reading, and I hope you'll take the time to give feedback :) I want to give a shoutout to my new awesome beta, Moonflower04, who helped me make this first chapter absolutely perfect for you guys. Now let's sit back, relax, and watch Sheogorath do his crazy thing.

"Ok… I'm still trying to wrap my mind around this. Say it one more time, and could you be troubled to do it while dancing? Oh, nevermind, you're never in the mood for that sort of thing. Just give it to me straight. Spare no details! Have no fears for my self esteem, I can handle whatever it is you throw at me! Well, throw in the metaphorical sense, since… oh just tell me."

With a sigh that spoke volumes, Haskill endeavored to explain the situation to Sheogorath once more. "It seems, my Lord, that you've received a… challenge to the legitimacy of your throne. The Duchess of Dementia, who you so wisely appointed, has seen fit to demand an audience with you, or else she'll take to the streets proclaiming your 'illegal possession of the Throne of Madness,' to use her own words."

Sheogorath sat back on his throne with a loud harumph. Turning to the Mazken at his side, he said, "You know, he's said it a dozen times now, and part of me is still saying he's talking gibberish. Does it sound like gibberish to you? I'm fluent in gibberish, you know, and I still have no idea how the words are coming out of his mouth."

The Dark Seducer, a particularly buxom specimen named Mika, shrugged her shoulders. "It is as my Lord says. It is senseless to think the Duchess would be anything but loyal to Him."

"THAT'S WHAT I'M SAYING!" the Mad Lord bellowed, turning back to Haskill and waving his staff about for emphasis. "I mean, I'm the sodding Prince of Senselessness, the King of Conundrums, the Lord of Insanity, and I'm stumped. Honestly, stumped."

Haskill, resisting the urge to heave another monumental sigh, choosing his next words carefully. "Despite the… apparent confusion, Lord Sheogorath, the situation is as I have described it. Inaction would be… most detrimental to your Realm. It is, after all, just recovering from an invasion. Perhaps an effort to rectify the situation, to… put things in a more sensible form of chaos, is in order?"

"Indeed it is!" affirmed Sheogorath, suddenly feeling the itch to smack something over the head with his staff. Turning to Mika, he cleared his throat, deciding to use his commanding tone for this occasion. "Mika, round up a… shoot, what do you call a group of you? A gaggle? A posse? A mob?"

"A force, Lord?" offered the Mazken helpfully.

"Yes! I love it. Sounds dangerous, and yet somehow subtle… anyways! Yes, round up a force of your Seducers, go fetch Antigone, and bring her before me. Perhaps she can explain things more satisfactorily than Haskill. Poor man probably needs a nap anyways, keeping so much nonsense in his head."

Before Mika could turn to leave, Haskill cleared his throat meaningfully. "My Lord… perhaps, if I may, a more tempered reaction is needed?"

"What's this got to do with a temper? I don't have a temper! I'll have your head on a pike Haski- Oh, sorry, misheard you. Please, go on, the voices are quiet now."

Clearing his throat again, Haskill tried to press his point. "My Lord… after all the Isles have been through… a war, uprisings, annihilation, and all this in addition to the normal strain on our society from… well, everything else. I simply submit to you that, perhaps, using yet more force of arms may send the wrong message. Antigone has just grown used to her role, and the people to her in turn. Simply removing her would… further destabilize things."

Grumbling to himself, Sheogorath turned and tossed Haskill's words in his head. "I hear you of course, Haskill, it just strikes me as a bit of a shame that the Mazken can't just kill her. It's so much easier, and it is what I pay them - actually, scratch that. Nevermind. I said nothing. Leave it be!" Crossing his arms, somehow impossibly folding his staff in between them, Sheogorath continued speaking. As he did, the staff wound further into his arms, before disappearing entirely. Moments later, it sprouted from the top of his head, like some kind of eye-topped tree sappling. "At any rate, you are correct, after all, Haskill. This simply must be dealt with immediately."

"I am awed by your expert statecraft, as ever, Lord," Haskill put in diplomatically.

"Just so Haskill," was his reply, though it occurred to him that perhaps his chamberlain had hoped to make Sheogorath see reason from the get-go, anticipating his urge to confront the problem directly with violence. Which could only mean one thing… "Was there any particular course of action you had in mind, Haskill?"

The Chamberlain appeared unperturbed, despite being fixed by one of his Lord's most withering stares. "I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean, Lord Sheogorath. I would never presume to overstep my bounds as…" he trailed off as the stare intensified. "Ah, well, there is something I had in mind… yes, I believe I have some idea of how we- that is, how you should proceed, Lord."

"Indeed, Haskill. Well, let's have it. Wouldn't want Antigone causing even more of a ruckus, would we?"

Folding his hands into his robe, Haskill once more had to pick his words carefully. "Yes, of course Lord. Despite my counsel against military action involving the Dark Seducers, I believe the direct approach is still the best. Simply make a public call on the Duchess, and see what she has to say. If it turns out she is indeed treasonous, you can always slay her then and there. I highly doubt she could match you in the affairs of war."

The Mad God 'hmm'ed as he considered this. Then, suddenly, he leaped from his throne, the fully-grown staff falling from his head to be caught by his outstretched hand. "Mika, let's have a go of it, shall we? It's been far too long since I've stretched my legs, and the people of Crucible could do with a bit of cheering, wouldn't you say? How it would brighten their days to see their Lord. Yes indeed, this is a grand idea, glad I thought of it. Come along Haskill, we mustn't keep the Duchess waiting."

"A-as you say, Lord Sheogorath," Haskill's deadpan voice sounded mildly relieved and nonplussed as he followed. He fell in behind Mika, who had taken her habitual spot behind her Lord's right side. She glanced at the Chamberlain briefly, her face as stolid as the others of her kind.

Outside the palace, the Dementia skies were darkening, pregnant with rain, as per the usual. The air smelled faintly of mildew, and other less pleasant odors. Vaulting from the palace steps, Sheogorath stabbed his staff into a mushroom tree, slicing its side open as his momentum carried him down the trunk. "Gotta move around in style," he said brightly to no one in particular as he alighted to the ground. Passerby either babbled incoherently or scurried away in fear.

"My Lord," Haskill called as he trotted down the steps after Mika. "I wasn't aware we were taking your suggestion about the people of Crucible quite so literally."

"Nonsense Haskill!" Sheogorath waved him off as he began walking down Crucible's main thoroughfare. "I never joke when it comes to my charges. Their mood could certainly use some lifting, wouldn't you say?"

"I… yes, Lord," Haskill acquiesced, not bothering to mention they were heading away from the Duchess' court. He and Mika fell in behind the Mad God.

Sheogorath proceeded to take his sweet time meandering through Crucible, going out of his way to stop and chat with his subjects. Most were either in awe of him, or too blinkered to know who he was, but that was hardly surprising or bothersome. "Twenty six variations on 'Hello Lord Sheogorath, how are you today' would get old, after all. This way I'm getting fresh material," he explained, even though no one had asked.

Despite this, however, his mind began to wander. It drifted back before all of this, before Sheogorath, the Shivering Isles, even before Cyrodiil. He remembered himself as Guardian, just a simple Argonian trying to eke out a living in Blackmarsh, before he was thrown onto a prison cart headed to the Imperial City, and everything changed. He had expected some sort of transition after being pronounced Sheogorath at the end of the Greymarch. Some sort of epiphany, awakening, he didn't know what, anything to give him more understanding than Jyggalag had done before vanishing.

Sighing a sigh that would make Haskill proud, he scratched his scaly chin as he continued musing over his situation absently. Motioning for his companions to stop, the Mad God leaned against a particularly greasy mushroom stalk to continue his introspection. Haskill stood dutifully by, folding his arms into his robe to ward off the brisk chill in the air. Mika, for her part, didn't seem at all uncomfortable with anything about the normally-off-putting Dementian atmosphere, and took a protective posture over her Lord.

As was becoming a habit, while Sheogorath's mind worked his staff withdrew into the folds of his attire, only to reappear somewhere odd. This time, the thing was perched on the tip of his tail, despite him waving it back and forth as he turned his thoughts over.

Of course, Guardian had not expected an easy time of preventing the Greymarch, whatever it could have been, when he had first signed on to assist Sheogorath. If a Daedric Prince, with playthings as powerful as the Aureal, Mazken, and the Gatekeeper, was afraid of something, then it sure as sure was worth being afraid of. And yet, now that it was all over, he wasn't sure what to make of everything. Here he was, a mortal man, suddenly thrust into a role he had no idea to fill.

Quite suddenly, Sheogorath was startled out of his musings. The perennially overcast Dementia sky had finally delivered on its threats. Thick, fat drops of rain began pouring forth, several striking the Mad God directly, eliminating the remainder of his melancholy. Haskill, despite an effort to appear impassive, flinched involuntarily as the rain spattered against his head. Mika glanced briefly at the sky, seemingly to assess whether the rain would be a threat.

"We'd better get a move on," Sheogorath mumbled, more to himself than his companions, feeling oddly sane for the moment. He hadn't expected this sudden downturn in his feelings, but then again nothing had happened how he had expected it to after entering the Isles. As he stood, the mud on his backside sloughed off, fought off by his clothing's magical enchantments.

Motioning for Mika and Haskill to follow, Sheogorath led the way through Crucible, doing his best to sidestep the forming mud puddles. After a bit, the spring returned to his gait, and it was suddenly a game; move as quickly as possible while spending as little time with both feet on the ground as he could.

The Mad God danced across the main street, picking the biggest puddles to try and avoid. He vaulted over mushroom-tree roots, skipped over smaller mud piles, and leapt across shop fences, often-times planting his staff in the ground to push himself higher and further. Oddly, the wood bent as though it were about to snap, but never did, and it always returned to its former shape as though freshly carved.

Cackling gleefully, Sheogorath pranced through the dreary city, making a bigger mess than he was trying to avoid the whole way. His companions followed stoically, both feeling slightly encouraged by this seeming upturn in mood.

Finally, the small party made its way up the steps that led to the Court of Dementia. Sighing in contentment and feeling surprisingly lighthearted, Sheogorath turned to look out at his city from the vantage point.

What he saw was a rotted cesspool, smelling of filth and decay, being drenched with greasy, disgusting rain and filled with the most violent and dangerous people in the entire Realm. It was a city that would put even Bravil to shame for its jaded, corrupted atmosphere.

He had tried to leave, of course. Leave Crucible, New Sheoth, the throne, the Isles, all of it. Five days after the end of the Greymarch, Guardian had informed Haskill that he wouldn't be remaining in the Isles indefinitely. He had felt trapped, smothered by the responsibility thrust upon him. He was an adventurer! A peerless fighter, a master of magicks, a blade in the night, a Crusader of the Divines! But he was no leader. Not a king. Certainly not a Daedric Prince.

Telling Haskill the Realm was his now, Guardian had packed his things, taking a few trophies for his trouble, and then traveled back across the Isles. He had taken Dementia to get to New Sheoth, and so he took Mania to leave it; enjoying the mild weather, charming-if-odd locals, and the lack of angry things trying to eat him.

Finally, he had made it to Passwall, and after a last, long look behind him, Guardian had passed once more through the mouth of Sheogorath, thinking he would never return.

One step into the Niben, and he was bent over, retching like a plague victim. Guardian's insides were on fire, burning, twisting, like no other pain he had felt before.

Through sheer force of will, he managed to put aside the pain long enough to cast the most complex healing spell he knew. The waves of magicka passed over him slowly, too slowly, far too slowly, abating the pain just a little more each time…

Just a little more…

Please, please, more, I need more, please…

Oh please, don't hold out on me, I'm dying…

Please, I'm dying! I need this!

Please…

Finally, after what felt like hours in a fetal position, he managed to stand, shivering and aching all over, gasping for breath. "Thanks for the help Gaius…" he muttered, stumbling down the small island's slope, finally pitching into the water.

Two days he stayed there, in the water near the portal. He cast the healing spell frequently, whenever he felt the pain was too much. He ate nothing, slept little, too afraid the pain would come back. But even when it was gone, there was still something.

Actually there was nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

It felt as though a part of him was gone, somehow.

Like an arm, or his tail, except more.

Like his soul was missing, and his body, and everything else that he had ever cared about or loved. All of it was just gone.

Gone away.

Away from him.

Because of what he was.

A small part of Guardian, the sane part, knew what this was. Knew what was happening to him.

That this was the Isles. They had claimed him already. Claimed him as their leader, their new Mad God.

Their new Sheogorath.

They were torturing him. Twisting his mind, his body, doing horrible things to make him return.

But-

The pain! Oh it's back! Please, give me something, please, please!

I'm dying! I need this! Please don't let me die!

You don't understand!

Please…

Please… I have nothing…

Finally, starving, sleep deprived, raving about pain and loss, Guardian had crawled his way back up the island, and into the portal once more.

And it was like a baptism.

He could breathe, move, speak, and there was no pain. No pain!

And no nothing.

Guardian had danced his way down to Passwall, gleefully hugging everyone as though they were an old friend. "I'm back!" he had shrieked, like it was a homecoming. He had even kissed the Gatekeeper's greasy, repulsive, undead skin, so happy to see him again.

Just six days after leaving, he had returned to New Sheoth. This time, like before, he took the path through Dementia, reveling in the darkness, the despair, taking it all into himself. Because Dementia was more than a place: it was a feeling. A deep, tangible, fundamental force in every person, just waiting to be released. He saw that now, after his time…

His time on the outside.

Dementia was there to show the worst in everyone, to bring it to the surface. Its people were hardened by their circumstances. Molded by them. Strengthened.

In New Sheoth, just before leaving Crucible to get to the palace proper and to assume his throne once more; Guardian had turned and looked out at the city, just like now. And he had seen the same things he was seeing now. The sickness, the abject sorrow, the cruelty and the pain...

And it was beautiful.

Sheogorath took a deep breath, glad for the memory's help in strengthening his resolve.

"Let's go in, shall we?" he said to his companions. "Can't keep the traitor waiting."