In His Golden Throne

Leaning back in his golden throne, Sheogorath sighed, and this was a sound one rarely heard him make. Due to a lack of other distractions, his mind began to wander.

He remembered the time that a boy summoned him instead of another Daedric Prince, and didn't even realize it, although Sheogorath kept repeating that he was, indeed, Sheogorath. Angry at the boy's stupidity and in the mood for a bit of fun, Sheogorath gave the boy Wabbajack. The result was recorded in Wabbajack, the short story edition that held so much humor (well, admittedly not so much for the boy's parents).

And then there was the challenge he had made with the Daedric Prince Hircine, when each Prince was given three years to train a powerful beast that could beat the other in combat. Hircine summoned an ancient Daedroth and infected it with lycanthropy, the "werewolf disease," imbuing it with peerless strength. Sheogorath did nothing in preparation, and on the day that the epic battle was to take place, set a bird against the Daedroth. The bird flew this way and that for hours, flittering on different areas of the huge Daedroth as the Daedroth attacked it but eventually destroyed itself in the process. This was, of course, comedy of the highest quality (never mind that Hircine was furious).

A strict king had decreed that there was to be no singing, music, dancing, art, and feasting in his kingdom, among other bans. The people cried out to all the gods, but Sheogorath was the only one to respond. Every child from that point on was born with a mental illness, and the kingdom was much more interesting after that (even if the nation did become dysfunctional and fell soon after).

Sheogorath sighed again. With a thin finger, he traced the edges of a cup that sat on the armrest of his throne.

Once he had transformed a stupid Imperial into a goat, a prideful Dark Elf into a puddle, and caused a Breton to fall in love with a cloud. The results had been superb—for him.

To a mortal, there were innumerable possibilities, ceaseless opportunities for the Madgod. He could annoy them, torture them, trick them, and drive them insane with a million methods, never repeating himself. And to these mortals, Sheogorath's everlasting life was a glorious one that would always be ripe with imagination and creativity—for him. Only him.

Being a Prince, that rarely mattered. But recently, even he found little satisfaction in what had once been his greatest hobby.

It seemed like he had used the million methods. The possibilities were numbered. The opportunities were always there, but the ideas were not. Harmless pranks wouldn't cut it anymore; he always needed something bigger, something grander, something that had his sides splitting for hours—no, for days. As with all addictions, this one had forever controlled him, but now it was insatiable. His selfish appetite for laughter and madness at the expense of others could no longer be met even by the Prince of Madness. So, he wondered again, what is the point if I end up miserable too?

If he couldn't answer the question, who could? No one could, because nobody else could understand him. "His motives are unknowable," stated a common saying, and it was true. Being a Prince, that rarely mattered, but what about the times when it does? Like just now? Impatiently, he tapped the floor with an elegant shoe.

"Master, is there a problem?"

Sheogorath blinked, startled out of the reverie. "Why do you ask?"

Haskill raised an eyebrow, noting that the lively voice was rougher than usual, missing its usual vigor. "Seldom do you remain silent for so long. But my concern seems to have been misplaced. Carry on with your thoughts, my lord."

Nevil, a Dunmer who was aspiring to become Sheogorath's Champion, approached Haskill later. "Have you seen how Sheogorath's acting? So quiet. It makes me nervous."

"He did sound a bit upset when I talked to him earlier, and even appeared somewhat distressed." Not often were the gloomy words used to describe the Madgod.

Sheogorath did realize that he had done more than enough to deserve far worse than a spiral into depression. Being a Prince, that rarely mattered. But what about the times when it does? Like just now? Mortals were used to despair, but Sheogorath was not. He was used to constant pleasure, and could not handle it when the party ended.

"Really? What was he like?"

"As you said, he was quiet. Curiously enough, he was actually weeping. I believe he was trying to hide the action, but the tears gave it away."

Haskill could answer Nevil's questions, but who could answer the Madgod's? No one could, because no one could understand him, or even the question he asked. Being a Prince, that rarely mattered, but what about the times when it does? Like just now! His lower lip quivered. Here I am, responding like a mortal child because I'm bored. Nothing could be more humiliating than that.

Sheogorath sighed and began to contemplate his next trick, if only to abate the pain for a moment.

One more moment.

One more moment.