Moebius
Hey! Wake up, silly. No time to horse around. Wake up!
I… I am not sleeping.
You say so, lazy bones. Don't you know not answering is rude?
Who are you?
Haha! What are you asking for? I'm you! And maybe your horse, too. I can't promise anything.
You aren't me. You're a voice in my head. Why won't you stop?
Rude, aren't we? What else to expect from a farmer, bah! Don't forget, little mortal, you are your own best friend.
In the Nine's name, what is going on? Get out of my head right now!
Ah, the Nine, yes? Not so fast, silly. We aren't getting there anytime soon. But drop that fork, the fields can wait. There is no time for trifles like that. You must take care of what is really important.
Like what?
Like the beginning! The start of it all. Have you heard the story of the Dragon God?
An old farmer of Kvatch is found dead, barefoot and frozen by the night. A stolen snowdrop in his hand. When the Skingrad watchman turns him around, she realizes he was starving, and still he crawled towards the Imperial City.
Ocato, my old friend. Long time no see!
I never heard your voice in my life. Where are you from? What liar god are you?
Nuh-uh, brain pie, not like that. The first rule is, never underestimate me. Are we clear?
Altmer don't interfere with what they do not know.
If only that were true, Ocato dear. Your buffoon brothers wreak havoc upon the world, and you can say that?
What are you talking about?
Ah, mortal friend, my mistake. Forgive me. Way too soon! The Dragon flies in circles, you see. He spirals up and down. Easy to get lost. You know-it-alls could think his flight is straight? You are dead wrong! Or maybe just dead, where I am. Hahaha!
Whatever I am worth, I understand the borders my mind cannot tread. O Daedra, you speak of Auri-El, and with such things mortals mustn't meddle. Please, let me walk my path freely.
But of course, it suits you. Young, and ambitious as you will always be. Go meet your future. Just a thought… have you considered Cyrodiil, perhaps?
He is in the Temple of the One when the dagger flashes gold, to mirror the torches and the fear in his eyes. Unable to act, Ocato sheds blood on the claws of the Dragon. His last memory is the whisper, the voice which led him here so long ago; and for a moment, a mystery to himself, he wonders where Sheogorath may have disappeared to.
Help me…
Oh! So it was you who called me. Funny for someone else to be around. It never is too crowded nowadays… it didn't use to be, at least. How can I be of assistance, little mortal?
Whoever you are. Please, help me. It's… unbearable…
What's that, friend? Is it about the yellow skins? Well, can't pretend I don't inspire them, but… overdoing it a little, aren't they?
Oh, it's you… I beg you, serjo, make my mind numb. I have no care for the n'wahs and their gods. I care for my life. Why do they torture me?
Am I what you need, then? I see you in the Temple, after all. What do you believe in, son?
I don't know what I believe in. I don't want to die. Help me…
I don't want to die, either. Laughing is so much better! Isn't it? I don't want you to die. Or me! I don't want him to die, either. What, then? What can I do?
Ah…
Yes, laugh! Like your mind does. Like that. Maybe…
…
Then… it… looks like there was nothing I could do, little mortal.
…
I'm sorry.
They are collected in the Temple, or what remains of it. Among the debris, the statue stands intact; Masser shines on its open wings, enhancing its shine with the blood the Thalmor spill on it continuously. There, it has been decreed, the executions must take place. Wings open to protect – a useless effort – shield a Dunmer severed head, with many others.
What do you think Paradise feels like, o Mankar?
You… you are not my Lord. Get thee gone, foul parasite Daedroth.
It would be nice, wouldn't it, Lord Mankar. To play around with things you cannot even begin to comprehend as you would play skull ball. Which is nicer than it sounds, by the way! Care for a game? In your head?
You can drive me mad if you like, Daedroth. That will not stop my plans.
Oh, I know, cheesecake. I know most things about you and your arrogance. I know most things about us, too, unlike you. Why I'm here, maybe not that? Anyway, never mind. It is a warning I bring you, Mankar.
So be it. Speak, disgusting fiend.
Those little plans? Do reconsider. 'Cause if you don't, I will walk backwards. I am good at that. Paradise or not, I will dig you out of your rathole. And then, when I find you… haha! Hahahaa!
I will kill you.
The agony of his slit throat doesn't keep him from remembering. The glint of this puny man's blade has an echo of future – the trace of something he never lived through, something he may be bound to meet. When the last hit pierces through him, in fire, Mankar Camoran sees yellow eyes.
Haskill! Hey, Haskill! What are you doing in my head?
Nothing of importance, my Lord. Checking on your health… as per our agreements.
Oh, come on, no no no. What did I tell ya, brainy brains? Not before half a mer life of silence. You promised…
Sire, it has been longer than that. Way longer.
It has? Oh, Haskill, you joker.
I live to serve, my Lord. You trust me, don't you?
It has…?
May I offer you my humble advice, Lord Sheo-
– and yadda yadda, yes, sure. Cut it with the formalities already!
I… yes, sire. So… how about a vacation, my Lord?
Hahaha! Hahahahaha! You sure are something, brain pie. Me? On vacation? With my favorite beach sunk in ashes and lava?
Not necessarily, my Lord. Another space, another time? Or both. Believe me, you need to leave all this behind.
This what?
I – I don't know, sire. But if you do… maybe you'll find a replacement.
The Madgod leaves with an oblivious smile. So lost he is, he did not even notice his journey was already prepared. Left alone, Haskill turns his gaze to the Isles as a whole, with the weight of their next Interregnum entirely on his shoulders.
He walks to the throne. By his side walk the words left unspoken; for whenever he tried to fill the chasm, entwining what Sheogorath remembers and what Sheogorath believes he does, a blast of fury silenced half of Oblivion.
May this be the right time, Haskill' memories whisper to themselves. For his sake.
Glad to see me, Pelagius dear?
What would you like to hear, Lord Sheogorath?
The only possible answer, my dear. Of course! Unless you want your intestines out.
Of course, sire, of course. What brings you here today?
Vacation, Pelagius. Vacation! When Haskill needs some space… you know how it is. An-noying! But I owe him, after all. And I was tired… sort of…
Heavy duties. Such is your life, but mine too, my Lord. I have important matters to take care of, and –
My life, eh. My life… which one? When we walked around the perimeter, under the stars? When we fancied of what could be – or what was already, in the spaces between our fingers?
My Lord… well…
Tell me, Pelly, is it you I'm looking for?
Eh. I couldn't say, sire. I guess we shall find out together.
What a delightful idea, my friend. Now, here's what I call a real sensible person. Care for some tea?
In a dingy asylum, cramped wherever the afternoon still throws a shadow, what is left of Pelagius hides from the outer world. His head hangs low, his mouth open. He emptied his stare of all meaning two days before.
A crash, blood, and the touch of cold tea. A grunt. His mind rearranges itself in convulse paths. By the time the maid rushes to his cell, to step on shattered china and a broken tray, Pelagius' eyes are blank. She touches his wrist to find him as he is – a corpse, at long last cured of his madness.
Hey, Dragon Kin. Or whatever they call you. Remember me? Haha! It was a joke, I don't really care if you do. You sleep soundly, for a savior of the world.
What about you, then? Have you heard the story of the Dragon God?
Duh, there's no time. You're too sleepy to talk, I'll do it in your stead. I was wrong, you know? All wrong. For so long. It wasn't the gadget, oh no, nothing come from the outside. It was within him all along.
Sad stories end soon. The thing splits his chest open, it turns him inside out, body and everything. The calling of his blood, his birth? His origin? He was doomed to return where he came from.
It is not funny. But listen, when I think of this, Dov, I laugh even less. The thing is, that wasn't just the story of the Dragon God.
It was mine too, a long time ago. Many times over. I was the outline of the circle, and also the point where it begun and ended. Trapped in his flight I was, I say, from my realm. And now that his scales flow smoother than clouds, again, I feel him closing around that broken cycle.
Wake up, half-mortal. Wake up, I say. That is an order! You sent by the Dragon, you of all people, must know –
if he embraces me, why can't I touch him?
Between Oblivion and Skyrim, two centuries go by; in their own way, they pass for Sheogorath, too. A complex story, dense with theories, possibilities and headcanons discussed with renmorris at Tumblr, regarding the fate of Champion!Sheo and his memories.