Hexalogon
Six myths of the Madgod and the Dragon
by Seylen Hlaalu, Zealot matriarch
O siblings in faith!
It is our sacred duty to stand for all the Madgod is in His completion, for His nature of deity encompasses mind and body alike. For Him, as for us in our misery, we seek the jewel at the purest heart of Madness: the Truth.
To think less of Him than a god is heresy and lie. To silence the wretched unfaithful – for no less! – your deceased brothers faced their martyrdom; to get a glimpse in the Spiral Archive itself, inner sanctum of our Lord's thoughts and memories.
There, where divine magic pours the motions of His mind upon an eternity of tomes, our brothers explored its most intimate folds. After all, o dearest siblings, what guiding light can we turn to in His absence? What beacon could we seek in this raging war, if not the radiant judgement of Sheogorath Himself? An act of heroism it was; and may it remain fruitful and steady, as long as He deprives us of His presence.
Great was the risk, and swift the punishment – yet our esteemed brothers did not die in vain. The pages they recovered lie in the Order's grasp still. To spread the true essence of our Madgod, for Him to show himself in his full splendor: such is the motive behind my reconstruction, which you, dear siblings, can wholly appreciate within this tome.
Praise be to Sheogorath and the Order whole
Seylen Hlaalu
In the year 59 of the Third Interregnum, year IV of the Dichotomy
I.
Later on, several moons after the end of Reconstruction, Sheogorath set foot on Mundus for the sixth time since the Last Greymarch. He wore the aspect of a hoary pilgrim, clad in an emerald green mantle. To the heart of Cyrodiil He made His way, under the full moons, and His vigorous step awakened surprise in the few waking hearts of the Imperial City.
The Temple of the One stood around Him, a tight circle of solitude and silence. Like a pilgrim he knelt to the mighty dragon, and Akatosh, moved by His divine presence, spoke to Him.
"We cannot bestow blessings to the likes of you," the Dragon said. " Who are you to us? You are no mortal."
"I am not, and I won't be again," He replied. "I am Sheogorath, Lord of the Isles and of all mortal minds. When I last knelt on this floor, myself I was not; but myself I will be, time and time again, until the Dragon reveals themselves to us. Keep track of my words, o Akatosh, and until next time – you had better dwell upon who you are to me."
II.
As yellow bells flourished in the Isles, so did the vermin of chaos on the mortal plane. Sheogorath followed its growth on Mundus, through frequent visits; and while He did, in his absence, His left behind realm harbored the roots of disarray.
He repeated whatever He saw to the Dragon, as if the mortal struggles pressed into His agitated mind like splinters. Never did Akatosh reply, if not to His question.
"Who I am to you", he said one day, and the Madgod's heart swelled "is Time. You feel its passage like the gods do, yet perceive it still. I am Time to you and to mortals alike; I still am for your shell, the mortal who inhabits you, and whose flesh you inhabit."
"What we are is similar," Sheogorath replied; "you are All and I am the Nothing you create, according to your own nature. You reign over me, yet could not Be if I Weren't; wherever you can reach, I come to be as well. That is true for you as it is for your shell, the mortal who inhabits you, and whose remains you inhabit."
III.
From His flask Sheogorath drank, after rushing in aid of the thirsty for both realms he considered His. He lay against a giant stone foot, mortal body amongst many others, almost changed into empty shells by poverty and hunger.
He spoke of their fragility, on the wave of a memory not His. He told the Dragon of shattered destinies and bodies, and claimed that the essence of Time bore little to no difference.
"The way I break," Akatosh said, "is told in mortal legends; yet none of them can come close to the truth of its core. Time follows no structure – to read the shapeless is but divine. If they touch Time without enlightenment, they are shut out, and equally unknown is their fate."
"It does not mean they cannot comprehend," Sheogorath replied. "They break in each and every moment they spend in your flow. Yours is the reign over loss and change; they experience it directly from your essence. And if you comprehend all that is – why won't you speak to me the way I ask?"
IV.
The river of the years washed away all traces of serenity. The time came for a war like no other to approach.
A nagging anxiety awoke the Madgod's mind, who, in the shape of a much younger pilgrim, walked to the Temple so He could alert the Dragon. Again, He had no means to speak with whom He intended. His companions, Paranoia and Passion, took the reins of His thoughts, to the point He accused Akatosh of not comprehending death.
"The difference is we remain," Akatosh said. "Finite is how they were created, and even their Time – the Everything – bends to that primal rule. I determine the moment of their last breath, as well as the first movement of their conscience. Their life is also what I am."
"The difference is you aren't them," Sheogorath replied. "Neither am I. Not now, not tomorrow. But I make my home in the folds of their conscience, I inspire their deepest terrors and desires. You are not the opposite of you, o Akatosh, even when you are everything. You, by yourself… never knew what death means."
V.
He came back after a decade, when the start of the Interregnum was close, and the war on Mundus had littered the floor of the Temple with so many corpses that not a single tile showed.
For one moment, the Madgod's proud forehead bowed with divine grace. Without uttering a word, He let His mind whisper a prayer that was meant for someone secret, between the smooth marble and the moonlight. Feeling His apprehension, the Dragon responded.
"You deceive yourself," Akatosh said. "All the while you chased things that were already yours. Where the Infinite Is, so Are the Limits; and some are part of you, even to this day. Such is Existence. Time, the Everything, walks its own path; and the foresight you lack will be brought to you after your Fury, for such is the movement of its tides."
And the Madgod turned away, unable to answer.
VI.
His last visit occurred when the moons had vanished, and terror swayed countless minds, nourishing His presence. Like a gale He stormed through the land; He left woods and cities behind with a blinding fury, not far from what every mortal soul around Him felt.
He voiced no words for the Dragon ahead. Cold stone, deserted, was what He found wherever He looked. Only in the open fields did Sheogorath muster the heart to speak; and though the inky sky hid His aspect to the world, nothing could muffle the flood of His newfound despair.
"Ah, dear friend," He lamented, "we are not our own. We were swallowed by eternity before we understood. I know now that if you talked – if you ever did, or will – I could not find your voice in those sweet words; I am no closer than you are, forever slipping farther. So many times I longed to hear you speak, as many times I pushed you back. I will never again hear the voice I love so well, for I am not there, and no longer myself."
And too far He was, swallowed by that corner of His mind; too far to recall that Time walks its paths nonetheless, sure to bring waves of disaster and relief. Even so, the Dragon God joined Him in His madness, and to His divinity he murmured in His ear:
"Yet I am me, and you are you. In our eternal change, my friend, We are still."
A giftfic for renmorris, in form of a Zealot forbidden book, written during Sheogorath's absence from the Isles and the civil war. I like the idea of the Zealots accepting Sheogorath as a god by accepting him completely for what he is.
I won't say much about the context and the theme of the story; it is very easily understandable by several clues written throughout the text, provided the reader has good knowledge of Shivering Isles and the Skyrim quest for Sheogorath.