"This is insane."

"Astutely observed, my Lord," Haskill says, his stony face doing nothing to hide his sarcasm.

"I was the Champion of Cyrodiil," I continue, half doubting it myself. "I watched Akatosh banish Mehrunes Dagon back to Oblivion. I was the famed daedra-slayer! I can't be a Daedric Prince!"

Haskill nods. "Self-delusion, denial. You're making excellent progress."

I shake my head and sit back into the Throne, feeling the wind flow over mushroom trees on the far end of the Isles. How did I end up like this? This isn't who I am, I'm certain of that. Fairly certain. They did warn me, at the Gate, that those who passed through went mad. No longer themselves. Maybe I should have listened to them. Of course, if I had, someone else would have been chosen. Or everyone here would be dead. Probably the latter.

What would Martin say if he could see me now? Maybe he can see me now. Maybe he ascended to some higher plane of his own. I never was quite sure about what happened there. Of course, even if he is watching from a higher plane, why would he turn his gaze to the Madhouse of Oblivion?

I still miss Martin. He was a good friend, and a good leader. We went through a lot together, really, from escaping Kvatch to leading the defense of Bruma to him almost becoming the Emperor. But instead he became some god who didn't care about me, and left.

And who did I find to take his place in my life? A Daedric Prince, of all people.

Until the exact same thing happened to him.

I'm sure that if he still could, Sheogorath would be laughing about that. Not Martin, though. Martin wasn't the type to laugh at these sorts of things. He tended to take things seriously.

I laugh for both of them.

Haskill briefly glances at me, but otherwise shows no reaction. He seems to be used to this. It's probably the expected behavior.

There's another thing I don't understand. Haskill. He seems so serious, so sober, so sane. Entirely too sane to be here. He is not like the others, and perhaps doesn't belong. And he always seems to know what's going on, and what needs to be done, and what Sheogorath is thinking. In fact, he seems to know more about that than Sheogorath himself does.

I wonder. What if Haskill is more than he seems? What if he's the real Prince of this realm? An Underking, a Jagar Tharn, an Ocato.

"Haskill?"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"How did you come to be here?" I ask bluntly.

Haskill seems to actually be caught slightly off guard by the question, as if he doesn't want to reveal the answer. Or perhaps he's surprised that I don't know. "I was once a low-ranking magistrate in the court of Wayrest," he says. "I summoned you and offered you my eternal servitude in exchange for a more lofty position; the usual sort of bargain mortals tend to make with Daedric Princes, really. So you brought me here and made me your Chamberlain, thus fulfilling both terms of the agreement. Quite clever of you, I must admit."

"But why me? I mean," I say, catching myself, "why Sheogorath? Surely there are other Daedra more associated with courts and politics..."

"Indeed there are, my Lord," Haskill says. "As a matter of fact, I was attempting to summon Boethiath. It happened, however, to be raining that night." There is no bitterness in his voice; at least, no more than usual.

I pause and consider his story. It seems plausible enough, at least, from the little I know of him. Something in me isn't quite convinced, though. He could be lying, while keeping his post here for his own purposes. If only there were a way to be sure...

I could simply release him from my service. If he were to refuse to leave, then I would have a good reason to suspect that he had some hidden motive to stay. But the idea doesn't appeal to me; what if he actually left? Then I would be left here, alone, without guidance. And besides... I somehow know he's telling the truth. I shudder as I realize how.

I remember that rainy night in Wayrest, long ago.

This makes no sense, which is, of course, the conclusion I drew from the beginning. I can't be him. He's someone else. And so am I. Aren't I? It reminds me of something Sheogorath said once, not very long ago: I already feel not quite myself. Not quite someone else...but not quite myself.

He had two sides. Mania and Dementia just scratched the surface of that. Perhaps he became two someone elses. Someones else? I remember when I came to the door in Niben Bay, looking for a world to save, for someone to give me direction. It was a rainy night.

Sheogorath became Jyggalag, and became me. Or I became him. Maybe someone else back in Cyrodiil will become me, now that I'm not going to. Maybe everyone will take one step over into the next person's shoes until it seems like nothing ever happened. When Sheogorath said that he might take my eyes from me when it was all done, I didn't quite realize that he meant he'd see through them.

I can already feel the change beginning. I feel like I'm not quite here. I'm not over there yet, but I'm not quite here...

The Fringe is still dead and Orderly; not at all the right sort of place to greet visitors. The Palace grounds need cleaning up as well. And someone or two will have to be found to rule Mania and Dementia, now that one of the rulers is dead and the other one was me, and I've become Me instead. I know about these problems because they seem to be knocking on the door of my consciousness and asking for help. Because I'm the one who has to do these things, now.

And Jyggalag might decide to come back and invade the realm again someday. And of course, the minds of mortals will become flat and lifeless without Someone there to give them a good twist...

I stand up from the Throne (while remaining there), twirling my Staff. "Haskill?"

"My Lord?"

"Come with me," I tell him. "We've got a lot of chaos to catch up on."

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Note: In Daggerfall, the game Wayrest is from, trying to summon any Daedra on a rainy night will instead summon Sheogorath.