Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of Oblivion or any characters, plots or other elements there within, and I gain no monetary profit from the writing of this story. I do claim responsibility for Elowyn Demark and one or two random characters scattered throughout the story.
Chapter 52
"Haskill. I'm bored."
The reedy Breton raised an eyebrow at the woman sitting on the garish throne. She was leaning forward, an anxious frown across her face, and the sound of her fingernails drum, drum, drumming rapidly against the armrest was exceptionally irritating. "Shall I summon a dancer?" he drawled.
Elowyn snorted, looking even more agitated by the suggestion. "No. You entertain me, hmm?"
Haskill leveled a dry look at the Madgod, an expression she mimicked perfectly in return. Sometimes he missed Sheogorath. "Entertainment is not my area of expertise." Had he been anyone else, he might have felt guilty at the despondent, childlike expression his words inspired, and he sighed. "Madam, you only returned to us days ago, and already you complain of boredom."
Elowyn pouted and lounged back into the throne. "I don't like boredom. I like complaining. I get to listen to the sound of my own voice without torturing everyone by singing bawdy tavern songs."
"And we are most grateful for that," Haskill replied archly, but the woman did not even seem to be listening anymore. She stared idly off toward the far end of the hall, her fingernails continuing their staccato assault on her chamberlain's ears. Haskill resisted the urge to grind his teeth and offered up a suggestion. "You have yet to visit the Fountainhead, madam. Your Chosen have been most…anxious in your absence."
The woman perked up for a moment, but Haskill watched with muted curiosity as her expression faltered. She seemed sad, perhaps even a touch guilty at the mention of her two favorite male Mazken. Odd, he thought, considering the blatantly shameless antics the trio had been party to before her departure months before. Just thinking about some of the things he had unintentionally witnessed made him shudder.
"Maybe you're right." She looked appraisingly down at herself and frowned. The usually glittering amber of her armor had been dulled to an ugly brown from layers of dirt and old, dried blood. She leaned forward and lifted up one booted foot to examine the bottom. A foul, thick, mud-like substance that Haskill was certain could not be mud coated the entire surface and left little chunks behind on the rug beneath her feet. "Is that smell coming from me?" she asked.
"Most assuredly," he replied.
She seemed bemused as she nodded slowly. "That's truly an impressively repulsive stench."
"I agree completely, madam."
"Then a bath it is," she declared. "I've neglected too much for too long, haven't I? Myself included, hmm? It's stupid to punish myself for him."
"'Him,' Madgod?"
Haskill chided himself for asking the moment the inquiry left his mouth, but Elowyn was staring off again. "It's not like he's pining away for me, hmm?" she muttered, her foot suddenly tapping the floor nervously and in a completely different pattern to that of her drumming fingernails. More of the non-mud flaked off of her boots and onto the rug. Haskill felt the muscle at the corner of his eye twitch. "I left him behind…but the bastard didn't even follow me like he was supposed to."
The Breton pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Who was supposed to follow you, madam?"
"No one!" she snapped at him, her voice echoing through the chamber so loudly that the two guards at the end of the hall snapped to attention. "Haven't you been paying attention? I supposed he would follow, because I thought there was something between us, but he obviously supposed differently because he's not here now, is he? Therefore, logically, no one was supposed to follow me!"
"Ah, yes," the chamberlain flatly agreed. "Logically."
She sighed in exasperation. "I swear, sometimes you can be so obtuse, Haskill."
"Apologies. I am certain that this gentlemen you left behind could have dazzled you with his dizzying wit in my stead had he supposed there was something between you."
"Oh, be silent," the woman growled as she shifted moodily in her seat. "You both have sticks up your asses, I'll give you that much. Only difference is Thedret's doesn't come to a sharp point and wag out of his mouth in lieu of his tongue like yours does."
Haskill arched an eyebrow, but the woman was suddenly on her feet and stomping down the steps, leaving a lovely trail of filth in her wake. "And speaking of sticks," she said as she breezed past the chamberlain, "and mouths…and tongues…it's bath time! I am not to be bothered unless there is some kind of invasion. And maybe not even then. Oh, but cake is a good reason! Yes, I think you should bake me a cake invasion. Immediately, hmm? Oh, and Haskill?"
"Madam?"
She turned her head to stare at him over her shoulder. "I'm closing the door."
"The door?"
"The door, Haskill. Cyrodill doesn't deserve access to my home anymore." A scowl flitted across her face before she turned and stalked off. "The ungrateful bastard," she muttered to herself before shouting back at the Breton, "Tomorrow! Or whenever it is I finish my bath, hmm?"
Haskill sighed at her retreating backside, then frowned in disapproval at the dirt covering the rug. With a wave of his hand, the mess vanished and the Breton nodded to himself in satisfaction. Now that the grime – and the Madgod's incessant need to constantly make the most irritating sounds in the realm – was gone, his oppressive headache began to lift slightly. Still, the general sense of mislays that had fallen over him since Elowyn's return remained on the fringes of his awareness.
In the courtyard of the House of Mania, Haskill could sense an argument brewing between two Aureals, one which was heated and could turn violent, but the subject matter was foolish and trivial. Just that morning, a mob had gathered outside the Museum of Oddities, smashing windows and screaming obscenities at nothing in particular. He still had no idea what had caused the trouble in the first place. But he was starting to suspect a correlation.
All had been relatively peaceful in Elowyn's absence, the Isles filled only with the standard random acts of insanity that they all knew well enough. A few minor uprisings and disturbances had taken place, but the Mazken and Aureal forces had kept things stable, and what they had not been able to take care of themselves, Elowyn had addressed immediately upon her return.
Haskill was certain she had not rested at all in the last several days. She was driving herself, refusing to let herself stop for any amount of time, and now with the mention of this "Thedret" fellow, he was starting to see the bigger picture. With all the disturbances lately, and Haskill's own affliction when in her presence, he had come to realize that Elowyn was not going to be the only one suffering until she forgot about this male from Cyrodiil.
A great rumble of thunder boomed overhead. The hall was suddenly filled with the sharp patter of what sounded like a shower of hail bouncing against the roof, the sound irritatingly similar to Elowyn's fingernails on the arm of the throne...only greatly multiplied. Haskill sighed.
"We survived the Gray March only to find our downfall at the hands of a mortal woman's mood swings. Wonderful."
With a last glare upward at the ceiling overhead, the chamberlain set out in search of cake.
