The next few days were – normal, I suppose. What I had done, the events of the past few days, seemed dreamlike and surreal. I could almost pretend my hands were free of blood, could almost pretend I was still nothing but an innocent, caught up in everything that had happened.

Three nights later, I couldn't pretend any longer.

I don't know what awoke me – the night had been soundless, and I'd finally been exhausted enough to sink into a proper sleep. Only in the dead of it did I wake, unable to see past the darkness but knowing I wasn't alone. Footsteps and a figure came into view, framed by what little moonlight bled through the window. Ocheeva, the Argonian mistress of the Sanctuary, now a Speaker in Lucien's place. She hovered in black robes over me, watching as I sat up, resisted the urge to bundle the sheets against my chest like a frightened child. I remembered the night I'd healed her brother, the night she'd thanked me.

"You know what you have done."

My blood ran cold. I nodded slowly and slid out of the bed to stand as she surveyed me, expressionless, eyes lidded.

"Taken an innocent life. You were led to the act, but it was your own hand that administered the poison. Your own hand that snuffed out that flicker of existence and sent it, screaming, into the void."

She extended her hand – a glimmer of metal. A dagger. Familiar little nicks along the edge of the blade dictated its age, where it came from. My mother's dagger that I'd stowed away in my bedside drawer night after night, hardly able to look at it. I inhaled through my teeth at the sight of it, skin prickling. I'd kept it with safe, but never let it taste blood since that night.

But now…

"This blade, forged in the name of Sithis, was never truly yours. Only now may you earn it, by relishing what you have done and accepting the Night Mother's embrace. By joining and serving our family as a murderer, as a Sister."

I finally had no other choice. No more skirting along the edges, no more avoiding the issue. I could hide behind the veil of innocence no longer. I swallowed hard to try and make room for breath, following the little tarnishes and marks of the blade with my gaze. A lifetime of death, my mother's stories engraved there for eternity and beyond.

My jaw trembled. I didn't dare to look up to meet her gaze, fixated on the nicks of the dagger, searching for words.

It all came back to me. Every death. My father and Falrung, Sirius, the Orc I couldn't save. Bellamont's corpse atop me, Phillida at my feet, maman, everything in a wave that made me want to crumple, to hide. The twitches that vile man made in my arms as he died, I killed him, I did that and now, again and again and...

"… I can't."

She withdrew into her robes, arms folding. A near imperceptible shake of her head. I felt tears well up and tried to force them back, steeling myself even as I felt like crumbling. There was no taking back the refusal. Lucien would hate me, I'd be a slave to the Brotherhood forever, I'd be trapped and alone but godsdammit all, I just couldn't. "I'm sorry."

"I expected as much. Live with the choice you have made, then, and you will act not as a Sister of the Dark Brotherhood, but as a servant, a tool." What the Listener Ungolim had named me so long ago, my skill that had saved my life. My throat caught as the blade, mum's blade, disappeared into the void of her robes. "You have no claim to this blade. You are not worthy."

"Please – " I wanted to reach for it, grab it back even if it meant slicing my hands apart. My last trinket, my last tie to maman, severed. But it was already gone and in a moment, so was she. I was alone.

I wanted to cry. To let something go, to have some release. Instead it just burned in me like an acid, cutting, not angry but hateful and exquisite in its agony, grief and fear and exhaustion.

How many in my life had died? Because of me, whether by my failures or hesitations or at my own hand. Papa and Falrung, so long ago, when I'd poured that damned mead. Sirius, because of my mother's secrets. The Orc – I couldn't even remember his name, sick with self-loathing as I realized that – dead because I'd followed orders. A soldier in Kvatch, dying trying to stop me from entering Oblivion. Maman, fear slowing me. Phillida, because I was a gullible fool. Now the Altmer.

And yet I couldn't bring myself to accept the life of a murderer.

I remembered laying on the bed with Anya, feeling her swollen belly, the life within it. I couldn't have that life, either, could I? A pretty dream, but that was all it was. The Brotherhood would never let me go. I could leave with her, find a husband, have a baby, but I'd always be under their watch, their command, just in a different place. And while Sheogorath's invitation always hovered temptingly at the corners of my mind, I was too frozen by fear to act or pursue.

Pathetic. I'm pathetic.

I cried then, and hated myself for that, too. All I ever did was cry, didn't I? Useless, pathetic, unable to save or help anyone, least of all myself. Too cowardly to choose a path, to commit, too fearful and sentimental to simply cut ties and run.

Claws clicked, stirring me out of my reverie. I glared at red eyes in the darkness, snarled in response to the little grunt of confusion as he approached my bed, putting his forepaws atop it. I stuttered through my sobs, half-heartedly pushing him away. "D-don't you dare come up here. Don't you dare – "

He did, of course. I bared my teeth, but he only crooned and nuzzled up to me, dragging a warm, wet tongue up the side of my face. I wrapped my arms around him and held him tight, burying my face in his fur, sobbing.

"Why did she send you? You're from her. I told them no. Why are you still here for me?"

He only kept licking in response, rubbing the side of his face against mine or just resting his snout on my shoulder, stoic. At last I let myself fall back onto the bed, let my head hit the pillow, and patted the spot beside me. He seemed to hesitate, ears perked, gazing at me as though to make sure.

I could almost laugh at it all, bitter laughter at myself and him at my side. I gave him a weary smile in spite of it all. "C'mere." I closed my eyes as the bed shifted under his weight, as he settled beside me and I nestled close enough that his fur tickled my cheek.

"Damn dog."

Someone was downstairs.

I could hear them – pacing around, rifling through my shelves, humming tunelessly and accompanied by a tap every other step, a cane on wood. I didn't give a damn. Let them rob the place blind – it was the middle of the night and I was exhausted, stubbornly digging in my heels. No more. I'd tolerate no more, not until I'd at least had one good night of sleep. I whimpered as sunlight streamed through the windows and landed squarely on my face, flopping over to bury myself back into the cool dimness of the pillow before realization hit.

Wait. Sunlight?

A customer. It was a customer downstairs, and I was still up here. How did they get in?! Damn it all, I must have forgotten to lock the door and of course they would think the shop open, stupid, I'm so stupid -

"J-just a moment!" I practically flew down the stairs, only taking a moment before to strip off and throw on rumpled robes in a flurry. Dammit, dammit, how had I slept so late?! The one thing I still had for myself, my little shop, and I was about to sour my reputation with it. "I'm so, so sorry. Please, is there anything I can – " I had to stop and catch my breath as I whirled around the bottom of the stairs to my counter. "Ah-anything I can do for you, help you find?"

"Well! Good morning! It is morning, isn't it? Or am I wrong?" My cheeks flushed. The man who spoke was good about it, at least, even as he teased – friendly as the morning sunshine, an elderly gentleman in fine clothing, his cane bumping along the floor as he walked. "Don't suppose ye've got a few minutes to spare?"

"Oh-of course." I swallowed hard, looking him over. Had I seen him somewhere before? He looked familiar somehow, sounded familiar. It tickled at the edges of my mind, light as the brush of a hair and out of my fogged grasp. The events of last night still swirled and reeled sickly in the back of my head, making the bright everyday seem dreamlike. "What can I help you with?"

"Well, I got the damndest crick in me neck." He groaned and stretched, rubbing the back of it with a wrinkled hand. Poor man – at his age, he probably had plenty of cricks and aches. "Yer a healer, ain't ya? I can't go to the chapel for help, y'see. Bad blood, there."

"M-more of an alchemist, but I'm happy to try and help."

I gestured towards my chair and he sat happily, one leg resting on the other. Still half-awake I moved behind him, coaxing his head forward and moving my hands to run down either side of his neck. He chuckled – where had I heard that before? "Tickles!"

"Sorry, sir." I began to manipulate his head back and forth, feeling for resistance, for the right spot to pop the joint and offer some relief. "Does this happen often? I'm hoping to create a balm that could soothe such things." I'd been experimenting with a heated balm of flame salts and typical healing pastes for a warming, relaxing effect on aches, though I'd hit a wall at the danger of fire salts.

"Ooh, creative! That's a blessing. More than ye know, lass." That hit something, made me pause and furrow my brow until he spoke again. "But crack it first, will ye? One good snap ought t'do it."

I'd done that before – an easy enough little fix for pain, if temporary. Finding the right spot I gently, but firmly cracked his neck.

It snapped as easily as a dry twig, and his head came away between my hands.

I screamed. I don't know how long it took me to stop screaming. The head, still grinning and giggling, tumbled from my hands and rolled along the floor. My screaming, his laughter, where had I heard that before –

Oh, no.

"There!" The body picked up the head. A frown furrowed his brow and he held himself, his own head in one hand while licking the fingers of the other, rubbing his wet thumb across the stump of his neck as though to make it stick. A wet, sickly sound as he set his head backwards on his body and sat, facing where I'd stumbled to the floor behind him with a feral grin.

"Much better! Oh, that's a relief, lass, let me tell ye. Not good for me t'be too whole. Got t'fall t'pieces every so often. Like you! Or at least, what y'seem to be doing. Falling apart at the seams. Seams you're in need of me help! Hah? Hah! Seams! But now that I'm all adjusted, we can talk."

I stared, mouth agape, shivering and near whimpering like a cornered, terrified little animal. His name left me without my realization in a whisper. "… Sheogorath."

"That's Lord Sheogorath t'you." He spoke haughtily, reaching his hand towards his back and stroking his beard like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Don't look so shocked, lass! Ye called me here, after all."

What? No, no, I hadn't, I'd done no such thing. I wasn't ready. "I – th-there must be some mistake. I didn't – "

"Ye did! Inside out and upside-down, but ye did. From your bed, no less! Little minx." His grin grew menacing and I swallowed another scream, pressing myself against the wall. "Just as they told ye to, in the ruin. Remember?"

I scoured my thoughts, not daring to move. Upside-down, from my bed, it made no sense – except it did. A terrible, mad kind of sense as all the pieces came together. What had they told me to do, in the ruin? The memories that had been so muddled now echoed clear.

Call the damn dog. Upside down and inside out – damn dog, mad god.

I'd meant Luke, of course, but that didn't seem to matter. I'd called him, and he'd come. I swallowed hard, searched for something to say to placate him, and found I could say nothing. He only clucked his tongue and stood, making the macabre sight of his head backwards on his neck all the worse. My stomach turned.

"Not a very good host, lass. Sleeping in, screaming like a pack 'o harpies in a wheat thresher. Least ye could do is get me some tea, don't you think?"

"O-of course!" It took a second for the message to come through, but when it did I practically flew to my feet. Hands trembling I set on making tea, stoking the fire into life and filling the kettle. Tea – I was making tea for the mad god. Was I dreaming? I had to be dreaming, yes, now and the night before were all some awful dream -

"Yer not." He interrupted my thoughts aloud, making me shudder at the invasion. "Trust me, lass, ye'd know if it were Vaermina in yer home, drinking yer tea. Much less fun, and she only likes it black! Boring! Don't worry about yer herbs," he interrupted again as I moved to reach for my little tin of lemongrass. "I've got me own little satchel for it. Just heat the water. And don't burn yerself! You humans are so good at that, hurting yerselves." A low, sinister chuckle. "Ye'd almost think ye enjoyed it."

I stifled another scream as he took hold of either side of his head and, with a mighty twist and sickly crack, turned it back into place. Flesh scoured, bone scraped, and yet when it turned he looked normal, whole and hearty.

I gaped uselessly until he joined me at the hearth, nudging me aside with a wink – again I felt my stomach swirl at the sight of him, the wrongness of it – and added something to the kettle. I caught only a glance of purple, yellow and black, colours shifting and twisting.

"Two mugs. No delicate little teacups, hmn?" He leered over my shoulder as I rummaged through my cupboards, shivers climbing up and down my spine. "Not very Breton, lass! Nor very noble. But ye've never been too good at fitting what you're supposed t'be, have ye? Like tryin' ta fit a square peg in a round hole. Only works if ye sand off the corners."

He paused. I barely choked back a whimper as he trailed a finger lightly along my shoulder, thoughtful. "I assume ye'd like to keep yer limbs?"

I only nodded, hard and fast enough that I feared for a moment my own neck would break. He only grinned and chuckled. I poured out the tea, the liquid steaming and roiling. He accepted a mug with a pleased little nod.

"Now this is the proper way t'have a chat, isn't it?" He sat delicately, gesturing for me to do the same across from him. I clutched the mug, trying to draw comfort from its warmth, instead only nauseated and tingling at the scent of it rising hot to my face. "Two friends, over a cuppa. Or I thought we were friends. But ye never do talk to yer dear old Uncle Sheogorath, do ye, lass? A god starts t'feel neglected!"

"Sheo – Lord Sheogorath – "

"Ye made a vow to me, lass. A promise. Perhaps not in so many words, but as good as one, under me shrine in the swamps. Not t'mention to them in the ruins, me sweet children." Suddenly there was something in his free hand – a doll, like the doll Nura had given me, dried corn husks and a painted, placid face. But blue eyes, black hair – my hair, wearing a little green robe just as I did. He chuckled and danced her along his knee.

Did my legs itch, or did I only imagine it?

"Ye promised t'play with me. I invited you, and ye took this long just t'speak to me again. Hurts my feelings! And ye don't," he emphasized, leaning forward and towards me with gleaming eyes. "Want t'offend a god. Trust me. I've done it and they all made me mad as a fish in a garter."

"I…" I searched for words, my tongue bumbling against my teeth, throat dry. "I'm so sorry, my lord." How could I have been so stupid? I as good as called him here. I'd had a link with him since I'd spoken to him at the shrine, whether I indulged it or not.

"As ye should be." He nodded solemnly, almost somberly. I nodded along with him, eager for his approval, his happiness, whatever would make him go away. He smiled blankly back, leaving me all the more startled when he roared.

"DRINK YOUR TEA!"

I squeaked and gulped down a mouthful, barely managing to swallow it down as I sputtered and coughed. At first there was only heat, then mingling tastes – blackberries, rust and copper, mad glee and hollow, howling sorrow all at once. I shuddered, but didn't dare lower the mug until he grinned at me again.

"Better," came a purr. He laughed low in his throat, tawny eyes lidded as he regarded me up and down. "Now, ye've been reading my myths, hm? Good stories, good stories! I had the author made into a statue. He still screams sometimes! But it's hard t'scream with molten gold in yer throat, I wager. He's a talented bard. Now, y'remember the one with the king? Him who banned me inspiration in his folk? No paintings, no singing, no parties! I shudder at th'thought of such boredom." He played with the doll-me again, now having her move in little circles on the arm of the chair.

It was hard to keep up with his winding tangents, but I nodded along as I clung to my mug. "I remember, my lord."

"Good lass." He stood abruptly, leaving the mug hovering mid-air where his hand once held it as he stalked over to me. I stiffened like a hare as he examined me, then slid his fingers under my chin. He was touching me, touching me, how did he feel so normal –

"And ye remember what I did, hm?"

I swallowed hard and nodded as small as I could, inwardly begging him to pull his hand away. He only smiled, catlike and sinister. "Y-you gave his kingdom your other gift."

"That's right. But things'll play a little different for you, lass. Ye don't get one without the other. Hard t'dance with a chain around your ankle, isn't it? Hard t'be inspired when all you know is fear."

A shudder down my back. "I… I don't…"

"Suffocated, you are. Breaks my heart t'see it. You need freedom. Without it you'll strangle, with that filicidal vixen's leash 'round your throat!" A bark of laughter, barely heard through the lash of anger inside at the thought of Her. "But come t'my realm, lass, and you'll have it. Freedom at last, room to be what you are. But here – here, my gifts will wither. My blessings, whatever that means for ye." His hand pulled away, but my relief was cut short when instead his fingers landed on my brow. I gave a little gasp, then there was a flash of light and –

I couldn't place it. I was still in my home, in my chair, still holding a strange mug of tea and still in my own skin, but something was missing. I blinked and let my gaze wander, settling on the doll-me that now danced where Sheogorath had sat, of her own accord.

I couldn't even begin to comprehend it. It made no sense, it was mad, and I wanted it gone. To blink out of existence. Before I knew what I was doing I was standing, grasping the doll as it struggled in my grasp, squeezing it tight.

"While yer destroying yerself," Sheogorath spoke, calm and cool as a spring breeze. "Be a dear and think back, hm? On all yer fun little projects. Ye said something, didn't ye? A balm for this poor, creaky neck? Or that ambitious little thought fer clean water – so altruistic! I could vomit."

I couldn't think, couldn't think, could only act in what felt logical and right. This thing in my hands wore my face and made no sense, so it had to go away. I stopped squeezing and paused, trying to remember. Formulas, experiments floated just out of my grasp, beyond the perception of this lacking mind. "… I can't do it. It doesn't make sense. It's impossible." How had I ever conceived it, when nothing quite like it existed? It was strange, unique, mad.

That purr again, sending a shiver down my spine. "Not with my help, lass."

He took the doll from my grasp and snapped his fingers – I found myself falling back into my chair, breathless like I'd been punched in the gut. Colour, understanding, realization came flooding back. The formulas that seemed senseless just a moment ago clicked back into my head, a swirl of images and sensations and possibilities.

"There is no genius without a touch of madness, dust speck."

That was it. That was what he'd taken – his gift, his madness, his creativity. The world had been, for a few painful moments, colourless and dead. I inhaled hard, my ribs aching, heart pounding. He chuckled and as delicately as a serving lady offered me my mug back, then sat to take up his own.

"I wager ye aren't too interested in losing that for good, hm?"

No. No. It had been a piece of me he'd taken, making me into little more than an unfeeling, stagnant automaton. And what he'd placed into the doll, my spark, his blessing – I'd wanted to destroy it. Was that what I would be, without his gift? Denying anything beyond the orderly and logical, losing all the colour and creativity I cherished?

I shook my head. A cackle – he drained his mug, giving a satisfied little sigh before beginning to crunch soundly into the earthenware of it.

"I'm always a little nippish after doing that. So!" He gave me a blood-streaked grin, little splinters of the mug sticking out of his gums. "Ye'll be coming to the Isles, then? T'play, like yer supposed to?"

I couldn't bear the thought of losing myself again, and in that moment it was all too easy to agree. To let what would happen, happen.

And for once, how freeing that seemed.

I swallowed hard and nodded. He stood, his hands aglow with spiralling colours and the hum of magicka.

This was it – I was going, and I was helpless to stop it. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited.

A tick. Two. Slowly I opened one of my eyes, only to find the Madgod entirely occupied with a mirror he'd conjured, examining his reddened grin. He turned only after digging out a shard, raising a brow at me.

"What are ye doing, lass?"

"I…" My stomach heaved. "… I thought – the Isles, Lord?"

He blinked. Then, cacophonous laughter – at my expense, I was certain. My cheeks flared hot as he doubled over, the mirror vanishing from his hand.

"The Isles, Lord?" He simpered in mimicry between giggles, nearly squealing with glee. "Oh, that's cute. You mortals are so full 'o yerselves! Little mayflys, maggots on a corpse hardly worth notice, and yet ye think yer gods yerselves! Oh no, lass." He wagged a finger, and I did my best not to show my indignation. "No, no, no. After all, if I escorted ye to the Isles like a princess in a carriage, I'd have complainers. 'Why did you transport her and not me, Lord? Why don't you take me, my Lord? Why won't you stop chewing on my wife's femur, my Lord? No, ye'll find yer own way in."

At last I lost my temper, nights of sleeplessness, guilt and anger exploding out of me. I stood, snarled. "How!?"

He deadpanned. "How does anyone do anything, lass? Learn. Ye've got books. Ye've got eyes. Unless ye want me to take 'em ahead with me!" I drew back with a gasp as he lurched forward, fingers rubbing eagerly together and headed for my face. "Show ye what yer missing. No? In that case," he paused, voice lowering to a reverberating rumble. "Mind yer tongue."

My blood ran cold. I barely heard my own whisper. "… I'm sorry."

His eyes, those liquid gold eyes pinned me down for a moment, helpless. Then he squeezed them shut and cackled, moving to rub my hair like I was nothing more than his misbehaving niece. "There's a good little speck of dust. A gift for ye. Incentive." He palmed something as though doing a magic trick, then pressed it into my hand. "Ye'll find yer way! Or else ye'll live out the rest of yer days a slave in endless monotony, drown in yer own indecision like a fly in brain pie. One way or another…"

His image before me faded. What remained of his mug fell to the ground and shattered beside the other, his grin and half-moon, golden eyes alight. "I'll be watching."

I fell to my knees. He was gone. All evidence of him gone, too, save the shattered mug. No tea, no doll, nothing. No – that wasn't true. I parted my hands, staring in wonder at what he'd given me.

It was unlike any plant I'd ever seen. Bulb-shaped, glowing vividly orange and somehow warm in my grasp, comforting like thawing cold hands by a fire. I pierced the skin of it with my nail and let yellowish liquid seep out, attacking my nostrils with a peppery, spicy heat. It gave warmth, yet unlike fire salts it didn't damage bare skin.

It was perfect for the balm I'd been imagining.

How does anyone do anything? Learn. I could follow this thread, this invitation and through it maybe...

I remembered the madfolk in the ruin, their offer. My time at the shrine. The times I'd escaped, however briefly, from the blood and shadow dominating my world. Remembering what they'd told me. The easiest thing in the world. You must be your own light in the dark.

I thought on it all day tending shop, only half listening to customers, dipping downstairs to check the usual brews I kept in stock. Going through the motions until at last as the sun dipped I could put up my sign, throw on my cloak and go, the word ringing in my head.

Learn.