Once again, thanks for the support, and an especially big "thank you" to all who left a comment!
Hellfire: While it's not really apparent here (him being pretty much OP in the non-flashback parts of the story), Simhaud is more capable as an archer than as a swordsman, so he tends to go with the "shoot first, hope you hit something vital and then only if your opponent is still alive switch to close combat" tactic. In fact, all the times he engaged someone in sword to sword combat it was because either it was too late to start shooting (the Mythic Dawn assassins) or he hadn't any other choice (the Dremoras in the Kvatch Gate, Raven Camoran, Jyggalag...). Speaking about Jyggalag, he's obscenely powerful, but he's a really predictable opponent. With Sheogorath's power and "thinking out of the box" attitude, victory was assured regardless of Simhaud's ability with swords.
Guest (meh, I really hope I could address you in some other way...): I believe this chapter will answer a part of your question ; D
So...Thank you for reading this, and feel free to leave a comment!
"Well, at least he's noting but efficient."
'Efficient' was definitely the right word. Simhaud had received the mission to investigate about spies' activity in Bruma two days before and now he had returned, the spies killed and solid evidence that connected them to the Mythic Dawn. Still, Baurus couldn't help but to feel uneasy about that rapidity.
"I know, sir, but…"
He tried to find the right words, but Jauffre nodded before he could finish.
"You fear he has some connection with the underworld, and that he used those to complete his task faster."
He had understood perfectly. Baurus nodded, and the Grand Master sighed.
"I had my suspicions, too, even before this, so I had someone investigate about him…starting with the motive he had to be in that prison cell."
Of course he had. After all, the Blades hadn't managed to protect the Emperor for so long (well, except that whole Tharn business) by being sloppy. Jauffre closed the book he was reading before Baurus came and announced him the good news, before looking again towards the Redguard.
"Sadly, for now, we've found nothing. No one seems to know...which isn't that odd, if we're talking about petty crimes or something along that line. Those guards probably arrest at least ten people on a daily basis."
It did made sense, but something in the tone of his superior meant there was more he was going to say.
"I sense a 'but' in that last statement, sir."
"Indeed. The thing is…no one seems to know him. The closest thing we had was an Argonian who knew a Nord matching the description, but he also said that this friend of him died five years ago."
…Which meant 'we've found nothing'. Simhaud was not a reanimated corpse…and definitely not a reanimated five-years-old corpse.
"If I may, sir, his background seems to be a little shady, but at least he's surely alive."
Jauffre nodded, a little smile forming on his lips for a moment before disappearing again.
"Without doubt." he added, in the end. "I wish we had the resources to extend the search to Skyrim with the same rapidity…but sadly that will take time, no matter what."
Of course, the simplest explanation about why no one seemed to know him was that he didn't live in Cyrodiil…sure, Baurus remembered him saying that he knew his way around the Imperial Province, but he could have acquired that knowledge even as an occasional visitor.
"In any case, he doesn't seem to be associated with the Mythic Dawn. Right now, we can't afford to be picky about who helps us: he's capable and willing to help the Emperor, and that's what it counts. If he turns out to be one of the Thieves Guild or, Gods help us, one of the Dark Brotherhood, well…we'll deal with him when this will be all over."
The Dark Brotherhood…now that he thought about it, an assassin raised into one of their sanctuaries wouldn't have many contact with the outside (except for assassinations, of course), and display many of the abilities the Nord had shown to possess, like stealth and archery. However, that raised the question about what he was doing in a cell, probably for a petty crime. He shook his head: thinking about it was useless and it wasn't his task, to boot. Still, the possibility of having an assassin nearby wasn't really reassuring…
Dammit.
Simhaud scoffed, trying to remove a stubborn stain of blood from the Ebony Blade, courtesy of Mephala. He had stopped to her shrine on the way back from the Mythic Dawn sanctuary (where he had been rewarded with the artifact and some info about the cultists), but he hadn't had an occasion to use the sword until that day. The Blade was a fierce weapon, sure, but had definitely too much of a liking for blood…really, a normal sword would have been cleaned by now, and this would too if it hadn't been clinging to that stain like its edge depended on it. Ah, to Oblivion with it, he thought, definitely annoyed, while putting away the artifact in its sheath. He knew that his irritation was only partially due to his new sword, but he was reluctant to think about it again.
His mission had been, even if not a disaster, much slower than it should have been, even with Mephala's advices. If only he had had his old mortal self's contacts with the Thieves Guild…okay, Ongar the World-Weary wasn't exactly the most observant fence out there, but it beat having nothing. And, if he had to be completely honest, Ongar was not only not an option, but an additional problem as well…damn, using his old self's image hadn't been a bright choice, honestly. He really wasn't keen on the idea of his old fellows to know that he was, somehow, still alive and kicking...Okay, fine, Simhaud was no more, but they definitely couldn't have deducted that. Anyway, he had been extra careful: the most anyone would have got of him was a glimpse, nothing more, but that had also required additional time to complete the mission. Oh, well: at least, he was pretty sure that the Blades, on their own, would have done that in much more time than two days.
He sighed, before getting up from the bed he was sitting on and going towards the main hall of the fortress. The sight of Martin, surrounded by a heap of books, was definitely a strange one, but he supposed he would get used to it. He smiled for a second, before walking towards the Septim and clearing his throat, after a few seconds he had arrived in front of the table. Martin jumped (again) in his seat, before settling on a nervous smile.
"Oh. Good day, Simhaud. It seems that I'm not able to hear you coming…"
He briefly shook his head, before lifting his eyes on the Nord in front of him, a timid but victorious smile forming on his lips.
"I've made some progress with the Mysterium Xarxes, finally! Apparently, the book is both the gate and the key to Camoran's Paradise. In some sense, the book IS Camoran's Paradise. Mankar Camoran bound himself to the Xarxes when he created his Paradise, using dark rituals which I will not speak of further. A gate can be opened from the outside, however. It will be more difficult, as I will have to temporarily bind myself to the book. But I believe it can be done."
A small pause.
"In fact, I've already deciphered part of the ritual needed to open a portal to Camoran's Paradise. "
Simhaud grinned, pleased by that revelation, but didn't say anything, waiting for Martin to speak more.
"The Xarxes mentions four items needed for the ritual, but so far I have only deciphered one of them: the 'blood of a Daedra Lord'."
The smile from Simhaud's face faded almost immediately. He had not expected that, and he definitely didn't like that request. He could have easily provided a cup of blood (damn, he could even have used his own), but how he was going to explain that to everyone? Somehow he doubted that 'this Daedric Prince was feeling generous and gave me some of his blood' would have convinced someone.
"Yes, I know this sounds crazy, but I've found a workaround. In fact, Daedric artifacts are known to be formed from the essence of a Daedric Lord, from whence they derive their great power. Not an easy thing to come by, obviously, but we will need one to destroy for the Ritual."
It was then that the Septim's gaze shifted on his sword…damn.
"In fact, it seems that you already have one."
If Martin thought that he was giving away the Ebony Blade, then he was going to be bitterly disappointed.
"No, wait. I can't give up the Blade…it's too useful, especially with those Gates opening everywhere."
He hadn't encountered another one of those portals, true, but rumors were travelling anyway.
"Well, unless you can gain another artifact I don't see another way."
Oooh, foolish mortal. He could obtain every Daedric artifact he wanted, and all he had to do was ask.
"Besides…may I ask how did you obtain something so dangerous as Mephala's Ebony Blade?"
Ouch.
"The shrine was on my way when I returned from the Mythic Dawn's sanctuary."
He wondered why Martin hadn't noticed the sword before…probably because it had been the blood of the spies that had awakened the artifact, and that blood had been spilled only a few hours before.
"That's not what I asked and you know it."
He sighed.
"I don't worship Mephala, if that's what you're asking. Nor Mephala, nor any other Prince." he said, crossing his arms. Worshipping himself or one of his colleagues would be definitely awkward. Even in his mortal life he had always been reluctant to worship full stop, be it Aedra or Daedra.
"That's not the point. What did you do for Mephala to judge you worthy?"
"I asked nicely."
His answer, even if was the truth, was enough to enrage the Imperial.
"Simhaud!"
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think something to escape that situation.
"Look, I didn't kill anyone. I simply gave away some dirty secrets I knew, and Mephala seemed happy enough."
It was a lie, but was credible enough. Martin didn't seem to be calmed by that phrase, though.
"Of course she was! She gained a terrifyingly capable soul to do her bidding without giving away almost nothing! This may seem a good deal to you, but it's not."
A few Blades looked towards them, but didn't intervene. Good, he was already in trouble even as he was.
"Are you worried about my soul? Really? Oh, come on, just an artifact isn't enough for her to claim anyone."
He realized too late that he was showing too much competence than he should have…shit.
"…Or at least, I hope. Look, we need an edge in this war: in the Gate I closed I got lucky because they didn't think a mortal could be capable to enter and stop them, but that won't happen again. Do you know what would happen if I were to face an opponent with full Daedric armour? There's no way I could harm him without this Blade."
He really hoped he had covered his earlier slip. Martin sighed, rubbing his right temple with one hand.
"I know…I just wished you didn't get involved with Mephala. I mean, there's not such a thing as a good Daedric Prince, but still..."
Simhaud nodded, definitely amused by the whole situation, now that the immediate danger had passed.
"Don't worry, I plan to pledge myself to every Prince available except Dagon, so they will spend the next eternity arguing about who gets to keep me."
Martin looked at him, a hard expression on his face.
"I'm serious."
"I know."
He paused, a sigh leaving his lips.
"Please, trust me. I'm not a power-hungry fool that wants to play the Daedra and expects to get away with it. I know the risks, but I also know there's no other option."
Now he was definitely lying through his teeth, but he was saying what Martin wanted to hear, which made the mortal immediately relax.
"…Then you're wiser than I was. I just hope this doesn't end in tragedy."
"…You really had it bad, uh?"
Silence.
"Sorry. I will bring another artifact, I promise."
Martin shook his head.
"No, you don't have to apologize."
There were a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, before Martin spoke again.
"Is your offer…still valid?"
Offer? Oh, of course. He had offered to hear his story, how he had become (briefly, apparently) a Daedric worshipper.
"Obviously." he said, smiling.
"Thank you. I think I still need some more time before I do, but I think talking about it with someone I trust could help."
He…trusted him? Oh, boy, that was more than he had expected. The day had started bad and had progressed worse, but apparently the wheel had started to turn.
"…And I think I'm close to deciphering more of the ritual. I hope to have made some progress by the time you return with a Daedric artifact."
He nodded, briefly.
"Then I'll see you when I have one. Just…try to get some sleep. Your brain will turn into a mush and fall down from your ears if you keep studying night and day like the Blades told me you did."
Martin made a confused expression...Whops, he definitely had slipped too much Sheogorath in that phrase.
"Uhm…thank you for the advice?"
Simhaud made a low laugh, waving goodbye. He exited into the courtyard, the cold wind of the Jerall Mountains ruffling his white, messy hair. He inspired deeply, thinking about his next move.
"Simhaud!"
Thinking was postponed, apparently. He turned his head to his left, looking at Baurus that was coming towards him.
"Baurus. Something going on?"
The Redguard Blade stopped some steps away from him, pointing the door he had apparently just got out from.
"Yes. Grandmaster Jauffre wanted to speak with you. I suppose he has a mission he needs done, but it's just me guessing."
"Good, I was just asking myself what to do."
He was about to say goodbye, when he noticed a faint trace of nervousness emanating from the Blade.
"Uhm…Baurus? Is something wrong?"
He almost jumped, but repressed the motion at the last second.
"Oh, it's nothing. To think that those spies were so near to us…" he said, shrugging.
Liar. He was a master of paranoia, and the one the Redguard was feeling right now was definitely directed at him.
"I understand. I'll go see Jauffre now. Goodbye."
He moved, a frown forming on his face when he was sure no one was seeing him. Great, he had gained the trust of the Emperor and the suspicion of the Blades (maybe just Baurus, maybe everyone), for some reason he didn't know yet but could reasonably figure out once he had decided to put some thought into it. He really hoped he could avoid worsening his position, or his mission was seriously endangered.
He hid his face into the palms of his hands, trying to not think about anything else other than the sensation of cold emanating from his fingers. No, he couldn't. He closed his eyes, laying his head on the wall behind him. After the fight with Jyggalag, Haskill had had the good sense of pushing him inside with some kind of excuse he didn't bother to hear, effectively shielding him by the cheering crowd of Mazken and Aureals outside. Mercifully the throne room was empty instead, or he seriously doubted he could have managed to keep this calm…and right now he wasn't calm at all.
"My Lord?"
He snapped his eyes open, directing them towards the chamberlain. He looked at him for some moments, before sighing and closing his eyes again.
"You must think I'm rather pathetic, don't you?"
"Pathetic? I would never dare to think such a thing."
Damn you, Haskill. He was being so deadpan (more so than usual) Simhaud didn't even know whether he was being sarcastic or genuine. Not that he cared much, right now.
"You are no longer a mortal, My Lord. You must have thought that too, in your duel with Jyggalag."
He sighed. Always straight to the point, uh? Well, he couldn't say he didn't appreciate that trait, honestly.
"Maybe. I'm not sure what I thought during that duel…mainly that I needed to defeat Jyggalag, so Sheogorath could came back."
Simhaud shook his head, the enormity of what was expected of him threatening to crush him.
"Damn. I had things back on Tamriel…a guild to run, a woman I had projects with, some good friends..."
He was rambling, he noticed. He inspired, trying to regain his composure. The results weren't exactly what he had hoped for, but better than nothing.
"I didn't even want to lead the Thieves Guild, I hate being the one giving orders… and now I'm supposed to be a Prince. I know I said I would do everything for the Isles, and I meant it…but really, how can I be a Daedric Lord? How can anyone start being a Daedric Lord?!" he said, in the end.
Haskill, as usual, didn't show any trace of emotion. If he was considering Simhaud a pathetic whiner (which was very probable, by the way) his expression didn't betray that.
"I see. May I offer you my opinion?"
Simhaud looked at him, then nodded.
"Are you familiar with the concept of mantling, My Lord?"
"No."
"I thought so. I could go on and on about it, but, for sake of brevity I will limit myself. 'Walk like them until they must walk like you'…it may seem like nonsense, but if you became so similar to someone no one can distinguish the two, even the universe ceases to consider these two identities distinct."
That sounded like a monumental pile of bullshit, honestly.
"So…are you saying that I must mimic Sheogorath, and that eventually I'll become him?"
A little smile appeared on Haskill's lips.
"My Lord, if that was so simple then every mortal would try to mantle a God."
The smile faded, while the Breton's face returned to its normal, deadpan expression.
"Mantling it's not something so superficial: you must act like Sheogorath, yes, but also think like Sheogorath…you must be Sheogorath, in every aspect. The fact that Sheogorath willingly passed his Mantle and authority to you probably simplifies the entire process."
Simhaud was about to ask more, when he remembered something.
"You said…Think like Sheogorath? I remember that…during the duel…I had one side of me cheering at every blow and the other one pointing out all the possible moves Jyggalag could have made. It was…" he stopped, trying to find the right words. "Mania and Dementia."
The chamberlain nodded almost absent-mindedly.
"As I said before, the fight must have prompted you to merge with your Mantle. It's a start, and it means that you can indeed become the new Lord of the Isles, given enough time."
Silence. Even if he could really become Sheogorath, that left other matters still open.
"But what about the people I left in Tamriel?"
Haskill sighed, before answering again.
"My Lord, my advice would be to simply forget about them. Mortals disappear all the time, after all, they will cry for some time and then move on, and they won't suspect a thing. But…I suppose saying farewell to them would probably put your mind at ease. As I said, I don't recommend spend more time in Tamriel, but it's your decision, Lord Sheogorath, and I will support it, whatever that choice may be."
It was hard, saying farewell, but he had to admit it was probably for the best. He needed to become Sheogorath, and leaving Simhaud behind was definitely the fastest way to do it, at least at the beginning. Still, disappearing without further notice…no, he was not going to do that.
"You're right. I will…visit them one last time, make up some kind of lie and then disappear. Besides, I would be a terrible leader if I left the Guild without a Grey Fox…an officially appointed one, I mean."
Haskill nodded.
"Very well. However, I recommend doing something about your eyes before going back, My Lord."
His eyes? What in Oblivion was wrong with his eyes?
"Oh. Here, Lord Sheogorath."
The chamberlain had noticed his surprise, and he had reached for something in his suit, before offering it to Simhaud. A little round mirror, he realized. He took it, not without some kind of hesitation, before putting it in front of his face. While his features were absolutely the same, he couldn't help but wince. His sclerae were pitch black, and the iris had abandoned its previous pale grayish-blue colour, assuming an intense azure pigment. He could have sworn that the irises were radiating a dim light, but that could simply be the contrast between the bright disk and the darkness of both the sclerae and the pupils. He had already seen those kind of eyes before, on the Dark Seducers, but to see them on his face…
"What…when…"
"When you bathed the Staff into the Font of Madness, My Lord. If you're wondering about the colour, it's because you are more attuned to your Dementia side, unlike the old Sheogorath, who preferred Mania."
Simhaud muttered a distracted 'ah', still looking at his eyes on the mirror. Haskill sighed.
"I can show you a spell to alter your image, My Lord. It's not difficult."
That phrase seemed to get Simhaud's attention, who lifted his eyes from the mirror.
"Oh. Thank you, Haskill."
He gave back the little trinket to the Breton, before getting up. He had had enough time to despair: now he had to act, because the road in front of him looked like a definitely long and arduous one. Even if he could have sworn that the enormity of his new role was about to crush him, at least he had Haskill to support him, hadn't he? He tried to form a little smile, with not-so-much success.
"So…I guess I should hurry and end my mortal life, uh?"