This took forever to figure how to upload this. Kept on erroring/timing out on me when I was uploading this so I just copied and pasted.
"Tried to give you summer, but I'm winter/"
Alien Ant Farm, "Summer"
Sheogorath's countenance told me that he no longer wished to remain in this dreadful room. I didn't want to, either. I tugged on his right sleeve. He turned his head towards me, and gazed at me pensively. I took a look out the window birthing blood red light. For me, there was nothing but the image of uneasy void. I supposed this was much different from what he was seeing, because he was quite entranced. Horrified, almost. I said to him quietly, "Let's go. I don't want to be in this room any longer. It gives me the chills". He nodded, saying nothing as he took me outside in the hallway.
He led me to a door beside the room with the pool and the ghost he did not see. The hallway had not changed since last time. The door he was standing in front of was a bright red wood that I did not recognize. The knob of it was gold, and he opened it slowly like he usually did, savoring the sweet sound of it not squeaking. I jumped at the occasion to take the first peek inside. "Please be careful in there, Walter," Sheogorath bid me in a concerned, almost caustic voice. I was indifferent to his remark, and took a few steps inside.
Its appearance was friendly enough. The room had several lit candles in it, a clean wooden floor, a large, reddish brown rug center on the floor, a lit hearth, a large, two-person bed at the northern end, a wardrobe on the south-eastern end, and a bookshelf on the western end. It reminded me faintly of the former room of the long-dead father. I ambled towards the fireplace and held my palms out vertically close to it. I felt much warmer. I heard Sheogorath stride over to me.
"This room appears as my room did," he remarked matter-of-factly in his soft, nostalgic voice. I gazed up at him. He was slightly bent over, his hands on his knees, looking at me. His green eyes were so fervently pained. I leaned on his legs a bit. "So his room became yours?" I asked him politely. I tried not to sound so disinterested. He nodded despondently. He looked increasingly tired. He sat down beside me, and slumped over. His eyes were held low, as was his head. It was my turn to do something. I, yes, as paradoxically as it seems, carefully pushed him over, and crawled onto him. I kissed his lips and neck, hoping for just a tiny response, and none came. His eyes had a glazed-over appearance, and he was staring at the ceiling. I despaired.
"I wanted you to be fire for me again," I whispered in his ear softly, "but you are as cold as ice." He turned his head slightly towards me, and gave me a horrid gaze. It was a lachrymose sort of glance, one so painful you can hardly look at it without going into tears. Now, I didn't wish for him to be sad. I sat up on him, and my eyes were on his. "Has your soul gone cold, Sheogorath? What makes it so hard to shake you?" I asked him. I had been overtaken by passion. Damn it, I wanted him to be happy. But I thought at this point that it was futile, moot, insignificant, useless, hapless!
The gleam in his eyes had changed, though only slightly. He looked damned feverish. "Walter," he said in a low voice that hardly carried to me, "the world has made me cool." I took his hands, and glared at him. "You will show me more, as you have promised," I demanded. He didn't protest, but he wasn't pleased. I felt his mind grasp mine, and ignored the pain as my body became mindless again. It was a traumatic experience, yes, but by now I was desensitized. Yes, it was disorienting to be in someone else's head. Yes, it was disorienting to have no palpable grasp on the world. But third time is the charm.
The image this time was the adolescent Sheogorath in new, much finer clothing. He had been approached by shorter humanoid beings, all festooned in hooded gray robes. From their stances, I took it that they were young. I heard their androgynous voices, and wanted to shudder. If I had a spine then, it would have curled.
"You are the 'heir' of the late master Tyrius, correct?" one of the hooded figures asked, which one I'm not entirely sure. It was a snake-like voice, full of hisses, though it was not ominous as much as it was creepy. Sheogorath looked at the individual with a cocked head, and then answered, "Yes, stranger, but why do you ask?" His eyes were squinted in the bright light of the afternoon. One of the hooded figures took off the hood. It revealed an elven-looking male, with narrow, slightly slanted golden eyes. His skin was olive, and his pulled-back hair was a similar fiery red. "We are the few local members of the guild he was a member of," he replied calmly. The mer had a pretentious noble appearance.
"Come with me, and we can talk somewhere else. Somewhere with more privacy," the elf whispered to Sheogorath. Sheogorath cleared his throat gruffly, and let the small group lead him into a building he had never been inside of before. It wasn't that large, but it was large enough to occupy the group and himself. It was barren, except for a large table and chairs. They began to sit down. It looked almost synchronized, because everyone, except Sheogorath, sat at the same time. Sheogorath sat shortly after them.
"As you may know, according to traditional inheritance of services, you are a master," the elf said while running a hand through the tail of his hair. He continued projecting, "However, because, in this guild, you are much too young to be a proper master, we cannot allow you to have an apprentice quite yet. But, the older members can train you as such." Sheogorath nodded his head. His countenance was somewhat perplexed. "Now, tell me," the young, then-mortal asked, "what is this 'guild?'" The members were silent as the apparently older, and much more experienced elf answered his question.
"We don't have quite a name for it, you see. But, we are for the intellectuals interested in the arcane art: magic," he responded loudly. Sheogorath looked a tad bit bored as he tapped his short fingernails on the wooden table. He perked up slightly when the elf had mentioned "magic". The members' gazes were on the taller, not quite inducted Sheogorath. He was sitting completely up now, and such made them nervous. "So. I'm assuming there are such rules and regulations to such an exclusive guild?" he interrogated the members curiously.
The elf answered him, "Of course. We value a structured environment. Our most basic rules, that anyone should be able to follow, is to not steal from other members, or kill. You are expected to do duties for the guild and study diligently. There are various other rules, but they don't apply to you right now." Sheogorath remained silent for a brief moment. "I understand," he spoke as loudly as he could, though it came out slightly broken. The hooded members began to chat amongst themselves for a few minutes. The elven member broke the silence with, "Since that is settled, we can officially consider you a member."
The members began standing up and stretching. "Am I dismissed now?" Sheogorath questioned the elf. The elf had stood up, and too was stretching a bit. He yawned, and passed Sheogorath a glance. "Yes, yes, of course," he replied with a gesticulating dismissal. The newly-inducted sighed, and began heading out of the building. He was mostly unnoticed as he left. The members were busy chatting with themselves, and the elf was observing his peers.
The memory of himself was walking home. As he did, he was talking to himself about now actually having responsibilities. He didn't seem very phased about it. In fact, he was grinning widely. He seemed so full of hope, radiant with life, that it become hard to believe that in his after "life" he would be a miserable individual. But I guess Sheogorath had his ups and downs, but they were the most extreme. As I was pondering, the image of the adolescent man had reached the house, and entered. It had also begun to darken, and blur.
He did not shake me from his grasp. Oh no. He showed me more in his past. But this was quite different. The image was focused in what appeared to be a large classroom, with the western wall black, and full of chairs organized by rows and columns. The image focused on a man talking to what was probably Sheogorath. It certainly looked like Sheogorath, but it was much different from what I expect the adult Sheogorath to look like. He was as tall as he is now. He still had red hair, he still had a finely-groomed goatee, and he still had green eyes. His red hair was long, probably longer than mine. Sheogorath looked to be in his autumn years, at least in his early forties. He was wearing a brightly-dyed, fine maroon robe. His aura was still aristocratic, bright, and erudite.
The image ingrained itself into my mind. Now, I reminded myself: Sheogorath had been a pariah since birth, never well liked, and, something more recently, lost Zarrexaij. I still wondered what made his transition from having a little bit of hope to none at all.
