"If she's dead, can I eat her?"

Voices buzzed above me, almost as repugnant as the flies to my ears and throbbing head. I stretched out my jaw, grimaced at the taste of blood in my mouth. Soaked – I was soaked, exhausted and overfilled like an abandoned rag someone had forgotten to wring out. Whoever spoke, I paid them no mind. I let myself drift back into greyness as they chattered on.

"Don't be silly." A crisp, almost businesslike voice. "It was storming last night. Sheogorath has dropped a new sister into our lap. Or as a sacrifice. But we've enough limbs, haven't we?"

Sacrifice? Something about the word made my throat contract in a tight swallow, made my stomach curdle. I kept my eyes squeezed shut. It hit me then, that I was being moved – my shoulders and head supported, placed somewhere soft and warm. Another spoke, this one female and lilting, like a melody.

"A sister, Ortis, not a child, not here to sate your tastes reviled." My head was resting in the rhyming woman's lap, her fingers skating along my scalp, running through my mud-encrusted locks. Was I dreaming? "The light waits for her – he'll speak, if she has sight-beyond-sight. We need an offering – do we have a leek?"

"She'll have to do. We don't have any leeks, or soul gems, or fur or wagging tails." A rougher voice. Through my haze of confusion, I wondered if it was Tar-Meena. "If I'd been a better dog, I could have helped. But not today."

"She's got bugs!" A delighted squeal, childlike despite coming from another man. "Little, buzzing, delicious bugs!" Yes, there was a tickle on my bare chest, why was my chest bare? A hand, grubby and fat, landed there with a slap.

I –

At last, my eyes flew open to the surreal scene around me.

A man – the man who must have slapped me to catch a fly, face bright and eyes squeezed shut with glee – was licking his hand clean. Three others surveyed me – an Argonian, a Dunmer, a Nord. And my head, yes, my head was in someone's lap, I hadn't dreamed it. A High Elf – she gazed down at my fondly, eyes lidded, long fingers tracing along my cheek.

"Yes, yes. Open your eyes and see the light, so bright, so frightful and mighty. He brought you here, little sister, in the night and lightning."

I tried to speak, to protest. None of this made sense, but the words – sacrifice, sister, were enough to rile me. I moved to sit up, head swimming in dizzying circles. My eyes moved down the rest of me – yes, I was filthy, like the traitor had once said, muddied and welted and naked –

Finally, reality caught up with me. I squeaked and sat up properly in a jerk of movement, bringing my knees to my chest, hugging myself tight. My words left me in a high-pitched squeal, a single breath. "Wherearemyclothes!?"

"We'll give them back when you don't need them!" The Dunmer spoke merrily, holding clothes, holding my clothes to his chest. "Speak to my Lord, first. Or don't! But he doesn't like being ignored, little sister. At least, you might be a little sister. He's always adopting stray children, our Sheogorath."

My mouth was dry, eyes wide. "Sheogorath?" My gaze moved again, this time to the statue that had sheltered me from the storm the night before. A bearded man with a cane, grinning ear to ear, dressed in finery befitting any nobleman, any prince.

Oh, no.

"Come along, everyone!" He clapped his hands and the others fell into line behind him like obedient ducklings. "Give them some privacy, for now. We'll see what the Madgod has to say about her."

"If He doesn't like her, could He turn her into a cat? I miss chasing cats."

Mercifully their voices faded into the swamps, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the orchestra of crickets and frogs. I took several deep, shuddering breaths, trying to steady myself. Nothing seemed steady here, not even the ground under my feet, slick and molding around me. How had I ended up here?

I had run. Run from Bravil, from – no, I didn't dare think of that. But sensations came, even if I refused to name them. Hollow, starkly painful grief, fire and ash, then cold and dust and betrayal.

She chose.

I wanted to cry again, but soaked as I'd been, I was empty of tears. I stayed huddled under the statue – the shrine, then, to the Daedric Prince Sheogorath. I must have run here in the storm, in my confusion, taken shelter here.

Pointless, isn't it? Where I couldn't cry I barked a laugh. They'll find me, if they still want me. I'll serve, whether I want to or not. I'll serve or die, like her. They'll find me and drag me back to it all, the blood and black and dark...

"Well, that's rather up t'you, isn't it, lass?"

A shriek left me. I hugged my naked form tighter still, eyes doubling, staring around myself. There it was again – the voice I'd heard last night, the man who'd laughed. "… Hello?"

A roar. "Above ye, lass!"

Frenzied with fear I stood, still hugging myself, staring above me to see nothing but the laughing face of the statue.

It couldn't be…? No, I wasn't mad. No.

"Wait – below ye!" The voice turn jovial, then became a sinister whisper. I gasped at the sensation of touch on my shoulders, of something moving through my chest, my heart. "No, no. Inside ye. That's what they say of me, little dust-speck. I'm already inside you – ye've already lost."

My jaw shook. The whisper of movement, delicate like a breeze, passed through me to hover around my face, as though someone were holding my cheeks.

"But let's play, anyway."

I squeezed myself tighter, willing away the sensations, the sounds. No, no, I was not mad, I'd never been mad. I was exhausted, dehydrated and grieving and yes, I'd had voices in my head, but I wasn't mad.

Was I?

"After all, even I'm not so cruel to me children as her." Dark, pleased cackling. "I'm merciful, lass. That's another thing they say! About madness, 'o course. A bitter mercy, but mercy still. Who're they, do ye think? Them who write the books about me?" His voice grew dark, a sudden growl. "They know too much. All of them, too much, make books out of their skin…"

He babbled on, and I lost myself for a moment in memory. She'd called her loyal. She'd called her merciless.

"Ye've always had a spark of me in ye, itty-bitty speck 'o dust. Many do – I've got me fingers in a lot of pies." More laughter, almost childish in its glee. "Ye were never made for her world, all blood and steel and shadows. Predictable. Eternal. Boring! No, lass, I know what ye need. Ye've more colour to ye."

It struck me then, the vivid colours surrounding me now. Verdant shades of green, pulses of yellow light from glowing bugs, splashes of colour from flowers. Even Redworts – the main ingredient for my aphrodisiac.

That seemed so far away, now.

I plucked one, playing with the petals, letting them stain my hands. Not the dark red of blood but something brighter, hearty and warm. So rich, so vivid, feeling me with sensations. The warmth of a cheery fire, of spices and apples, of red lips and heated kisses, life.

"Y'see!? The prettiest shades, the brightest hues! Under my command, not hers, the best reds. Not even Sanguine gets those reds." He sounded smug, an unseen hand moving to pat my head. "I think ye'll be a fun little toy, for a time. And wouldn't it get the Night Mother's knickers in a twist, if I took ye?"

Mother. Mother was dead. It hit me like the impact of a wave, leaving me breathless, clinging to this new voice in my head if only not to drown. I nodded slowly, rocking where I stood.

Mum was dead. What did it matter – who would care if I went mad?

I've already lost.

So what does it matter, if I let go? I felt it slipping, my tenuous grip on control. If I go mad, what difference does it make? It would be so much easier.

No blood or death or mother at all, just life. Out here in the colours and lush green, the constant hum of life from insects and swimming fish and creatures creeping just out of sight, naked and mad.

I heard laughter again, high and sharp, scaring away frogs and bugs, calling back the other cultists who gathered around. Warmth from tears in my face, cheeks aching from the wideness of my grin.

It was some time before I realized the laughter was mine.