Arc Two: Rise
Harry floated in the Void for a long time. He stood at the centre of a set of spokes, like those on a wheel. It was an impression, nothing more, just the barest hint of something a mortal mind might be able to comprehend.
He couldn't feel anything, but how his mind burned! There was something inside it, growing, pulsing, reaching out and clawing at his very existence. Whatever it was seemed to gain power the longer they spent in the Void.
Something was fighting in his head. He heard a high cold laugh, and the echoes of a dragon's roar.
It was all he could do to keep himself together here, wherever here was. It was enough to drive him mad.
Slowly though, the world grew form, spinning around him in a kaleidoscope of brightly-coloured butterflies, and suddenly there was an empty chair and an empty book open to an empty page on a bone-white table.
But soon enough, that too was gone.
There were shards then, falling from the sky in a wave of glorious light.
Feeling came to him then, in a wave of painful tingles, almost like his whole body had fallen asleep and was just now waking up.
"The fox he said, 'I'd better flee with my kill or they'll soon be on my trail-o, my tail-o, my tail-o!'"
Harry awoke in a place that seemed both familiar to him and not. The balmy breeze drifted by with the scent of the sea. The houses were old fashioned, as were the dress. A suspicion built up in his heart, but no, it couldn't be.
It was the spitting image of Solitude. The Blue Palace glittered in the early morning sun. He'd only been here once for a brief moment before he headed out to tour Skyrim province.
He walked up to someone. "Well met, stranger," Harry greeted them. He ignored him. Well, that was rude. He tried several others, but all they all had the same reaction. The last one he reached out and tried to grab his shoulder, but he fell through him. Disoriented, he sat on the ground and wondered why he wasn't sinking through it as well. They couldn't see him. Perhaps that explained why no one recognised him for who he was.
"Will no one help me?" He heard a wail. He walked towards the source of the noise, and through a couple of people.
He saw an old bosmer pulling at the sleeves of passers-by.
"Please, take pity on an old madman!" They scowled and shook him off, but it didn't stop him from trying again and again. "Who among you can help me?"
"Please wait! I'm begging you!" he said to a burly nord. The man pushed him down roughly and kicked him in the side, spitting on him.
"Why does everyone ignore me?" he sobbed, clutching his face in his hands. Harry shook his head. He walked up to him. The smell of wine and mould wafted from him strongly, and his knotted, filthy beard looked as if it hadn't been washed in an age.
Harry tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. "What bothers you, Uncle?"
The man jolted, doing a double take. "My master, he is lost between worlds and I cannot bring him back!"
"You can see and hear me?" Harry asked.
"Yes, yes!" he said fitfully. "Everyone ignores me too! Even my master, my blesséd master, ignores me!"
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Harry asked.
"Yes!" He looked at him as if he were his lifeline. "Convince master to come home, to take Dervenin home, please!"
"I don't know if I can," Harry said doubtfully.
"Please try! He's abandoned us!" he wailed, "He leaves our people to live colourless lives, lost from his Glory, Forever disconnected from—"
"He doesn't sound like a kind master," Harry cut in.
"He's so very rarely praised, but he is a great man!"
Harry sighed. "I'll see what I can do."
"Oh, Master be praised! You are a kind boy." Dervenin enveloped Harry in a stinky, mouldy hug. Harry tensed and patted the bosmer's back awkwardly. "Here you are." He placed a large stack of rags in Harry's hands. Harry was surprised it didn't fall through as well, but the man could touch him. "Go ahead," the old man urged, "Open it!" Dervenin bit his lip, rubbing his hands together.
He unwrapped the ragged package. Harry looked at the item in his hand, curling his lip. "A hipbone?"
"Not just any hipbone! The hipbone of Pelagius III. The greatest emperor the Empire ever had!"
Harry knew exactly who he was talking about. An old High King of Skyrim, and a member of the Septim dynasty. He could recite the entire line backwards and forwards, up and down and sideways now. His alleged progenitor. "I see."
"Yes, yes! You're the only one who has! He's hidden in the Blue Palace, this will get you in." Dervenin gushed at him. Harry tried not to inhale his rancid breath. It confirmed where they were, though. Solitude. He knew he could smell the sea!
He walked up the long path to the Blue Palace. He was at the beginning of his tour, and they were due to arrive in Riften any day now. He was extremely confused. How had he made it the journey when he had no recollection of setting out on it?
Shaking his head, Harry walked right into an invisible barrier.
He poked at it with his forefinger, but it was as solid as stone. Cautious, he felt all along the barrier, following it inside. It seemed to guide him to a locked door in the side of the grand hall. He tried the door; that didn't work, so he ran his finger over the lock and whispered, "Alohamora." The door swung open as if guided by an unseen hand.
He walked through desolate rooms. Shattered wood from furniture and broken glass marred everything. At one point, something had scored the floor, deep gouges that spoke of something angry. Cobwebs dotted most of the open space, and Harry grimaced as he had to keep wiping them from his face.
Moving a few feet farther inside the room, Harry stepped cautiously over a pile of cabbage. He was watching his feet, so he didn't quite realize when the room opened up into a clearing in the middle of a forest.
Harry glanced back and saw the dusty chairs and broken glass. Huh.
"Hello! You're just in time for another cuppa. Aren't I right, Pelly?" A familiar face looked over the table at him.
"I suppose," said a blond man, idly stirring his cup. "I keep telling you how it goes right through me, but you never pay attention." He slammed his fist on the table, causing Harry to startle and reach for a non-existent dagger. "And there's no time! None at all! I have so many things to do. You know how they are when I leave for any amount of time. Yet you're always asking me to tea."
"Pelagius, darling, there's always time for tea." He pursed his lips and primly took a sip, holding his pinkie in the air. He held the saucer with his other hand. The gesture faintly reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall. "It doesn't have to run in a linear direction, you know. Always back, never forward and all that rot."
Harry struggled to place the old man's face, but then he remembered. He recognized those slitted yellow eyes from when he summoned him that night a long time ago but he knew who he was, now. "Oh, it's you," Harry said. Sheogorath. Mad God and Lord of the Shivering Isles.
The man got up from the table and walked around to face Harry. He stroked his elegant beard, dusted off his brightly coloured clothes, and stared down at him, leaning on his cane, peering into his eyes. "Oh, it's me? Reeeaalllyy? I thought I might have been you. Or were you me? I can never tell." He held out a setting. "Would you like a spot of tea?"
Harry inclined his head and held out his hand. "As a matter of fact, I think I do. You did say you'd must have me over for tea sometime." He had an idea who this man was, now. He wasn't as naïve as he used to be, not about the gods. Or Daedra, as it were. "Or with your tea. But I must warn you, I'm not very tasty."
Sheogorath looked down at Harry's hand and ignored it, licking his lips. "How would you know? Have you ever tasted yourself? I bet your brains are delicious! Oh, but I've never met you before. Or have I?"
Harry smiled, taking it all in stride. "We've met before, certainly, though you may not remember it. However, you did say 'sometime,' sir. I don't quite think it matters whether it was past, present, or future, do you?"
The man frowned. "Of course it matters. I prefer the present. I rather like presents you know. There's no time like the present. And no present quite like time."
"You've said that before," Harry pointed out.
"Ach, no!" Sheogorath said, putting his fingertips over his lips and gasping in shock. "I've run out of material!" Then he shrugged. "In that case, we could always play the skipping game."
"The skipping game?" Harry asked.
"Oh, you shouldn't have asked," the blond man muttered, palming his face and shaking his head.
"Yes!" Sheogorath crowed. "It's the part where I take your entrails—and skip rope with them! Care to donate?" He growled. "Great fun to be had by all! And the winner gets cheese! A whole wheel!" He waved his hands, fingers outstretched. Then he scratched his chin. "Or was it breasts? I remember Tiresias—"
"I'll pass," Harry said, wrinkling his nose.
"All mortals do eventually," Sheogorath said. "You say that like it's great news! Like Pelly here," Sheogorath leaned over to confide in Harry's ear. Harry suddenly found himself clothed in elaborate purple finery and seated at Sheogorath's right. "Dead for an age, and then one mortal comes and steals his pelvis!" He frowned, tapping his jaw. "It might have been me, come to think of it."
"You, sir?" Harry said, confused. It seemed to be a common theme when around the Madgod.
Sheogorath looked taken aback. "Why, have you never met yourself, man? You should try it sometime! It's fun! I am the best conversationalist I've ever known!" He stroked his beard. "Too much dancing, though."
"I don't think it's possible to be two places at once," Harry said slowly.
"That's because you're not trying hard enough!" The Madgod said. He waved his hand. "Ach, you'll meet yourself soon enough. It's always entertaining. Now where was I?"
"Tea, sir?" Harry said.
"Oh yes, tea. Here's a cuppa for you, lad." He slid a saucer of tea over to Harry. "And one for you, dear Pelagius." Sheogorath downed it in one gulp, pinky out, and then gazed deep in the bottom of his cup, frowning. "Not nearly potent enough."
Pelagius the third drank his down, shuddering, "Oversteeped. To hide the bitterness of POISON! I KNEW IT!" he said, sweeping one arm off the table and knocking all the setting off the tables. "The Wolf is after me!" he pointed a finger at Harry. "I told the Library, but noooo!"
Harry ignored him, instead turning to Sheogorath. "Where are we?" He knew better than to drink the tea, even before Pelagius's outburst.
"Couldn't you guess?" said Sheogorath. "This beautiful verdant hillside is the landscape provided by my dear host," he gestured to his surroundings. At Harry's confused look, he added. "We're inside his mind, mind you. The mind of Emperor Pelagius III, best Septim since Martin." he sighed happily. "Fox chases, severed heads...butterflies in a kaleidoscope of colour. Those were the days! Not that an immortal Daedra needs days, oh no. Why have days when you can get an eternity!"
"But shouldn't you get back to your people?" Harry asked. He licked his lips. They were dry. He was so thirsty now that he had decided not to drink the tea.
Sheogorath yawned. "Boring, boring, boring! What's the point of a holiday if I've brought my work with me? Work work work all the time. I think something a little bit further out is in order, don't you?" The Madgod snapped his fingers.
"Wait! Harry said, reaching out to stop him; not that he could really do anything to stop the Daedra lord but it was instinctual. He grabbed hold of them just as they disappeared.
They reappeared in a set of catacombs dank with moss and rot. Bones lined the wall.
"Perfect!" Sheogorath crowed. "It's always the same, and I'm tired of the retellings. It's enough to drive one mad! Some things should be experienced new, and I have to see a Friar about a frying."
Harry kept silent as they moved through the place. Sheogorath calmly walked along, drinking his tea. They walked out of the burial chambers and next to a small fenced-in church. Harry saw a faded word that started with a C—. Harry couldn't quite make the rest out. It had been worn away by time.
"Friar Laurence," Sheogorath said, every inch of manic madness gone.
"Milord," the brown-robed man said, inclining his head. "What is it that you require of me?"
"You know what I've come for. Have you perfected it yet?" The man said, tapping his fingers together eagerly.
"Ah, I, uh, yes. How did you know?" Laurence said, keeping his hands inside his sleeves, as if he was fingering a dagger. The movement made Harry tense, but he seemed about as invisible to this man as he was to the entirety of Solitude.
"I told you I would. We've discussed payment?" Sheogorath crossed his arms, leaning forward.
"Yes." Laurence pulled out a purple vial out of his sleeve, handing it to the Daedra, who snapped his fingers and made it disappear. The Friar didn't seem surprised, which struck Harry as a little odd. He'd only seen these kind of clothes on the telly, on Earth, and had no idea what they had to do with Nirn.
Sheogorath grinned, and he made to step back, but he only handed the Friar a small bit of folded parchment, and with another snap, they found themselves at the bottom of a sea.
Harry choked, holding his throat as he gasped in water. He coughed, or tried to. He thought back to his research on spells; water was going down his throat and it burned as it filled his lungs. He forced himself to let go. He didn't have much time, but he brought his arm around, desperate for the spell, and cast.
The water still filled him, but he took a deep breath, and it flowed in and out of his mouth, easy as air. Now that he wasn't panicking, he looked around.
The Madgod sat down on a wooden chair, feet propped up on a rusty old cannon. "You made it, welke." The chair itself sat on a double-mast ship, cracked near in half with a large hole in the side, nestled in some rocks. Harry could see bright blue above him, so he wasn't too far underwater. Far off in the distance, there was a reef, some sand, and an abrupt drop off. "Ahh, much better."
Harry didn't know how Sheogorath's words actually came out as words, but he opened his mouth to nothing but bubbles.
But Sheograth was shaking his head. "Hmm. Boring. Dance!"
Harry found himself clothed in a jester's cape, paraded in the middle of a party in an opulent hall, unlike anything he had ever seen, Hogwarts or Skyrim so far. There were masks, and Harry saw a bald-headed man. "King Lysandus," he heard a female altmer whisper. "Who is this child?"
The stately-looking man garbed in rich finery shook his head. "I did not arrange the entertainment for Saturalia, Medora. Perhaps a joke of Emperor Uriel's?"
Harry felt himself colouring. The whole room stared at him expectantly; save for the loud whisper of the King, it was silent. It was like one of those dreams—walking out in front of a crowd of thousands with nothing on but your pants. He stood still. The whole room stared at him. Harry felt panic well up inside him. Shor's Stone! I thought I was past this! I will NOT be afraid! I'm a Gryffindor! I am King!
As if he were reading his thoughts, Sheogorath said "You'll need a royal sceptre for a royal fool!" tossing him a staff. Harry dodged, cursing, but the staff hit him in the back of the head, knocking him flat on his face. The whole room exploded into laughter.
Even the staff was laughing at him with a gaping mouth wide open. No, it had three laughing faces, each one grotesque and twisted. Harry picked up the staff, and immediately dropped it as it zapped him, turning him into a rabbit. He tried to hop around, but he got his foot stuck in the open mouth.
After a few moments, he turned back into himself, whirling around wildly to look for the Madgod, only to step on something sticky. He picked up his feet, moving back and forth to try and get his feet not to stick to the bottom of the floor anymore.
He made it to the edge of the crowd, where suddenly the floor wasn't sticky, so he lost his footing and fell against a small Breton woman, who caught him. She spun him around, and then everyone started dancing.
She handed Harry off to another person, which started a chain of several people until finally, he was dancing with a familiar red-haired, dark-skinned elf that winked at him. She leaned over and whispered, "Wabbajack."
As if that were the magic word, the room cascaded into butterflies, and Harry found himself sitting at the table in purple finery again, his tea cup half empty. He didn't remember drinking it.
Pelagius the third pointed at him. "I told you it was POISON! POSION I say! You don't drink it! It goes right through you!"
Well, considering he could still see through his hand, it must. Out of curiosity, he looked down, but there was no wetness on the ground.
"I remember. You said Wabbajack had been handed out, but you gave Wabbajack to me," Harry mused. How was he so calm now? His easy acceptance of it infuriated him—or it would if he could feel anything but a strange sort of mania. "Of course you did. Why didn't you mention it when I met you before?" It was true. The staff lay across his lap.
"I met you before after? No. You aren't the you you were then. It's an entirely different you," Sheogorath waved his hand away. "Why would I mention it?"
Harry tilted his head to the side. "I see your point."
"Yes, it's rather sharp, isn't it?" Sheograth said, taking another sip of his tea, pinky out.
Harry blinked, and then woke up with his head spinning. He looked out from the tent over at the fire. The coals burned eerily in the darkness.
He rubbed his face. His skin was still tingling. What a dream. He laid back down and rolled over, ignoring Ven's snoring, and felt something jabbing into his side. Knowing he placed his sword against the table next to his pillow, he lit his hand with a magelight and glanced down.
A three-headed staff grinned at him in the dim light.
First of four interludes.
Poison is intentionally misspelled above.