Dearly Beloved
Chapter 1: Dreams and Memories
He painted. He sung. He danced. He invented. He taught the mortals; he punished the mortals. He gave them gifts. He joked and laughed. Then wept what seemed like forever. He had set his wrath on them, have denied their prayers, have sent towns into mass hysteria. All without reason, simply because he felt like it. Why did he revolve his entire existence around them? They were tiny, so tiny in their lives, in their beings, in their destinies. They lived and died.
To be honest, they were boring. So boring.
But he adored them. He knew everything about them. What they could be. What they should be. What they would be. So much potential. So many reflections. Yet they were like lapdogs, too content to their reality. Tiny, tiny lives.
Except they kept surprising him. To know all their potential would not mean he knew which was the likeliest path they would take. That was His thing. But he liked to take a guess in the end.
They lived in the world where those left behind, those that did not fit in a square hole, those who couldn't be understood, a world where they left these mad people be to wilt, where they were alone, alone in a world different than theirs. No one who loved them for what they were. No one could understand them.
He was a Daedric Prince. He was their god. They had only him and his taciturn moods and his whims, and he only had them as his amusing, tiny, pitiful followers, his alone to subject. Not even time would take them from him, right?
But he had crushed those lives with his hands, had them purged in the gray fire of Greymarch. Their existence disappeared just like that. Forever. Jyggalag saw them as a stain on this Realm. Parasites.
He heard their prayers. Their pleas. Their screams.
Where were you, My Lord? Save us, Lord Sheogorath! Please, Madgod.
A dead Realm waited for him when he woke up from what felt like a terrible dream. He laughed. Was this what it meant to be the Madgod? To just turn around, betray everything what they expected him as their god, stabbed himself in his own back. He had no reason to bend to their expectations, over his own expectations even.
But his arts, his music, his cities, his towns, his works? They were all gone. Just a single crumbling ruin. Empty blank canvas. No laughter. No cry. No anger. Silence. A dead… dead Realm. He didn't like it. But it was beautiful in its own way. It felt like seeing his Realm for the first time. Unlimited potential just for him to shape. His Realm.
He started again. He painted. He danced. He made music. He invented. He taught mortals. He gave them gifts. He joked and laughed. He twisted their spines, their bloodcurdling screams immortalized in his mind. Living. They were alive. They were his. His pitiful subjects that only had him as their god. They were always more followers, more subjects waiting, easily replaced.
His Mazkens, his Aureals came back after he rang their bells and shattered Order hold on the music he had given to them. The chimes guided their souls in the silent void of the waters of Oblivion, a comforting rope for them to grasp. Even though knowing the truth, even though they remembered, they were still willing, they were still loyal. He wondered why they chose to make an oath to him when they were other Lords of Oblivion that were better and less treacherous.
He comforted himself that this was the present now. The dream was just the past, a distant memory.
But the nightmare came again. Resolute, he kept going, hardly bothered and tried not to mind picking up the pieces. He realized he hated the silence. This beautiful canvas that awaited him felt… sinister. But it made what was gone all the more beautiful.
He grew frustrated. He hadn't even finished his work! He had incomplete paintings, mortals to annoy, he had plans, his own schemes as a Daedric Prince ruined by other Princes. It was like they waited for this moment, taking advantage of this one lapse of judgment that wasn't under his subject, his own control.
He had a time limit. What kind of god was he to be subjected to some time limit?
He kept a pocket watch just in case but again forgot himself in his long work as the Prince of Madness.
A recurring nightmare. All his efforts, all his time, all his work goes to waste. Erased. His mortals, his followers… their last memory were their cries, their unanswered prayers, betrayal, bitterness, fear, hatred, anger over him, their clouded eyes cleared into a moment of clarity. He was their doom.
It was then he realized this was not what he wanted. He grew desperate, more anguished.
It was a curse. This was a curse. He started to hate Jyggalag. He started to hate this consistent pattern. His power would wax, and he would undo everything his Twin had done. Just to spite Him. But then it would wan, and it would be Jyggalag's turn to undo everything.
He was a joke. He was a giant fool of the cosmos. His entire existence was a big giant prank for Jyggalag. He was entertainment, something to be laughed at, something the Princes would hide their smirk. A mockery of a god.
He realized what triggered the curse. What made the cycle a cycle. The throne. The office. Their own divinity trapped into this pattern. Jyggalag prided in conquering Oblivion, bringing a change, Order over its vast seas regardless of the Princes machinations. The realms He clasped were His proof.
And it would be because of this nature, His own Realm would be His own undoing. When the curse struck, when he came to be, all swaths of realms under His rule picked apart until only one was left, the very Realm He first started, the very Realm that spoke of His status as a Prince.
Jyggalag couldn't let go of His Realm, wouldn't quit and abandon it, redonning his office with His unwillingness. Too much pride, would not let Himself bend over to the other Princes wish. He would come to have this in common later.
He was pathetic, without free will. Out of all the Princes, His sphere was the most accursed and ironic. Jyggalag despised the idea of treading away from the pattern, from this only order, His only authority left in Him, the only thing He had after what the Princes did to him.
He despised him, His own twin, He would never lose to him and what he represented. But if He did abandon this Realm… the curse would have been broken. And he, Sheogorath would have ceased to exist but at a price. What kind of Prince would He be without a Realm? He wasn't sure he felt thankful that Jyggalag didn't just up and left.
But if he ceased to be, his followers wouldn't have to suffer this miserable fate of false promises every single time. If he ceased to be, the curse would have been broken, the cycle ended. Except you can't end a Daedra. And why should he cease to exist?! He was just as much in this miserable fate as He.
He resented the suicides. They thought they could escape his will, their own treacherous fate. They wasted their potential! They chose to cut their lives short. He wouldn't let them go. He couldn't let them go. He loved them. He loved his mortals just as his mortals loved him.
Well, perhaps it wasn't love because how could you love something if you can't even remember the details like their name, their personality and confused them with some other. When he didn't even understand. Well, at least there was a part of him that cared for them, but it didn't make it a beautiful tragedy. It made it all the more painful.
They were his mortals, his own pathetic mortals.
If only there was a way for him to be there when it happened. A way to defend his Realm, to answer his people's prayers, lead them in the moment of despair. If only he was there to stop Him from taking the throne, from starting the cycle over again. But how?
His Mazkens, his Aureals, they could do nothing, couldn't leave a scratch on Him. A Prince power was absolute in their own Realm, but it was his Realm as well! He just needed to be there. Except he couldn't be there because he was HIM.
But even when he was gone, his powers were still there before it truly vanished just like him. He just needed someone who could wield this power. Someone who could sit and defend the throne. A… me against Him. A champion.
He started experimenting. Artifacts were the start. They could hold a portion of his power. Only a portion, though. Not enough to defeat Jyggalag. He needed something, someone to wield all his power. How about making a mortal into such a vessel?
Turns out, stuffing a daedric power, especially of a Prince was a bad idea. They've become... well, less than reliable. More of a mess. Mortals… so fragile even though he tried to change them into something that wasn't. With mixed results.
So, he couldn't just force his own powers down someone's throat all at once. He tried to give this power to one of his captains, but they couldn't even hold onto it. It was like his own power did not like being away from him, it would just come back to him. The nature of Daedra. Guess this was the problem being of divinity.
Mortals had more potential anyway.
Perhaps stuffing his powers all at once wasn't the right way. How about gradually instead? Not for their sake only, but for his own power to settle in them. Perhaps holding the power was too much, wielding it though, drawing it out gradually, a medium like an artifact, like his staff. Oh.
But that wasn't enough. Mortals who didn't know how to wield it, all of it, was useless.
He needed a capable, powerful champion. So, he searched for those with the most potential, weeded out the most capable, made them walk, taught them how. And one arose, leading his poor mad people in their despair, misery, laughter, and rage. And so did his hope.
His time was running out, but his plan, they would work.
He parted with his dear mortal, left him with his staff and told him what to do. If Jyggalag would not let go of his Realm, then he would force Him with all his power.
Finally.
He woke up to silence. Again. Didn't it work? Why didn't it work? How could it not work?!
Only eerie silence, the broken walls of his palace and a dead broken Realm greeted him. For the first time in his entire existence. He was shocked. Numbed. He sat on his throne, doing almost nothing without budging to pick up the pieces.
And his dear mortal? He… survived? He had half the mind to rip out his spine. Things were like this because he failed to do what he was supposed to do! But… there was something wrong with his failed champion.
He didn't need to look into his mind to know he had changed. His dear mortal gone. The power he left in him that had changed him was now gone, back to its own cursed owner. In a way, his mortal champion survived and yet died. Not quite what and who he once was, not quite what he was supposed to be.
He underestimated Jyggalag's power. He overestimated this mortal, his own plan. It should've worked. His own power should've been enough to face the Prince. But instead of saving his Realm, his people… it made this vestige the first but only survivor of the purge.
His once promising champion dared to nag at him, prodded him, questioned him, lacking proper fear or typical respect from his usual followers. He was like a lost frustrated lamb. Sheogorath stared amusingly at the mortal. "Your name is Haskill. You lived to serve me."
What was supposed to be his symbol of success became a symbol of his greatest failure.
You walked but failed to hold the throne, failed to stop the Greymarch and in turn, you failed to hold onto the mantle of madness. You've failed me. And I've failed you.
A vestige instead of his means of resurrection. He never bothered going back to this idea if this was the result. If it weren't for Haskill, he would've wasted a century sitting on his throne, not budging to pick up after Jyggalag's mess. His chamberlain had a habit to incessantly nag, bold enough to show his disdain in front of his lord, prodded him to once again… be the Prince of Madness.
He had resigned himself as a cursed god and embraced his existence, his purpose as a warden, as a prisoner, as a joke… His attempts to break this curse, this jail, trying again and again to stop Jyggalag, clowns in hole, pitfalls, traps, walls around the throne, everything. He tried everything, but he didn't like remembering the details as all ended in failure. It was only when His time was coming around that clarity would remind him not to expect anything of his plan.
The Princes were sure laughing at him, at Jyggalag. A once in a thousand-year entertainment. But soon they too grew bored after eons. At least he had some laugh, at least he had fun in making it hard for Jyggalag. But His will was absolute, and he grew tired of the game.
He may resign himself to this existence, but he would never stop finding a way. It wasn't impossible.
He was not like Jyggalag, he would not settle his fate to this eternal dance. He would not let Jyggalag win. He would not let Them reduce him into a simple puppet. There has to be a way. Things WILL change! He just needed to find a solution, until then he would keep trying.
The Aurbis can change. Change was in its song. In the Grey Matter, all was possible and yet not. All true and yet false. The oldest song in the universe would be his song. A song of freedom. A song about free will. About a change that would last. A change that mattered.
He tried the old idea again a few more times throughout the cycles with Haskill's encouragement. Just with some changes in it. Improve on it. New cause, different effect, felt like it was a fresh idea each time. But none of them came close, none could become the Prince of Madness. They could hold his throne, they could hold his power, but could never truly become him. And Jyggalag would wipe away what remains of his effort before taking the throne back and in turn… his power. All he was left was memories of failures.
No fragments, no vestiges, and even if there were, he wouldn't tolerate their existence as failures.
The most promising one out of all of them failed spectacularly. It turned out relying on a madman to carry out your plan wasn't a good thing, considering that madman made a giant fool out of himself with his death. All those promises and powers his prophet had didn't help his followers who saw his death as proof of their fantasies, dangerous fantasies that reminded him again what a failure all of it was… and he didn't need to be reminded of them.
Sheogorath hated failures.
The carnage that he had to clean up after that particular stunt.
Over time, he came to realize that at least, he could contain the damage, saved a handful of his people, even the fool of his prophet followers that still lingered long after his death… even ignorant Ciirta. He had yet to truly stop the curse on its track when its time come, but this time though he felt this was his year. He could feel change in the air, oh wait, that could have been Mehrunes Dagon.
On the year 433, the Third Era, the last year of the Septim Empire, the Dragon sang and left the faint echoes of its mad dragon to finish its own song. It spoke of promises and duties, a hand to guide its history. Pah! Too bad he had better use of that hand. He cared not that in a different time some other mortal came to be his champion, what mattered though in that vast river of time, the one that he needed would become his last piece of this puzzle and that was enough to send ripples to all others.
I tried to make my own freedom before. All those mortals, all those plans, all those champions… But none of them work, none of them succeeded no matter how much I've made them walk. Much good they did to my Realm.
But you… you're different.
The purple air swirled violently. Coiling, roiling, bristling, and shoving. Light streaked beneath the angry dark purple cloud, flashing blindingly, and rumbling deeply. A raging storm. Thunder crackled and the wind howled as the fierce air swirled in a maddening pattern.
A glimpse of gray could be seen beneath the angry purple; the gray obsolete, unchanging, and adamant under the shifting purple storm. It looked like an island… frozen, bleak piece of gray slab and the purple storm, like an unstoppable force, was trying to tear it apart.
The Isles… just sat there like an immovable rock. A cry of despair was barely heard beneath the howling and rumble. It was a heart-wrenching cry, a cry that sunk uncomfortably into his bones. The god hunched over his dead… dead Realm, weeping in his grief as the thunderstorm raged, drenching him in unending water.
Lord Sheogorath. He reached out toward him gently.
The storm seemed to dance around the Prince, as always in its maddening pattern while the wind lashed and tried to flick the Daedra playfully into its embrace. The just storm crackled as if chuckling while it swept across the surface of the Isles. A chuckle that broke into a weeping laughter of lunacy. Joyful. Triumphant. Relieving.
A hand rested on the god's shaking shoulder, but a death-gripping hold snatched onto his wrist. He slowly rose and turned around. Gray eyes of his own stared back, but instead of round black pupils, it was slit pupils of a cat glistening from tears. Theodore grinned at himself alike to the Madgod he once knew.
"Wakey wakey, shakes and bakey, Me~" Sheogorath said cheerfully with his mouth.
The Count of Kvatch woke up with a lurch, his chest heaving as his heart rattled within its cage, his hands clutched tightly on the thin white blanket that covered his thin frame. A man's heavy breathing permeated the humid night air.
It went on for a while until his feet slid off and settled down on the cold stone floor. They slowly made their way to the mirror that hung on the wall. The Champion of Cyrodiil stared at the reflection.
Faint moonlights through the uncovered windows painted the room with dim light and in the middle of it a gaunt man stared back him.
Hardly fitting the image of a holy man, the Divine Crusader. Let alone, a son of Warhaft. His black hair gone, instead, it was an unnatural white ethereal hair that was out of place in the pale darkness. Theodore sighed, scratching his cheeks where the stubbles of his white beard were starting to grow. A man at his age shouldn't have white hair this early unless he was some albino.
It was a hair that adorned the prophet he once knew, a sharp witty fellow who seemed to quietly make fun of him behind his prophetic preaching. No doubt, the Prophet had laughed when he asked if the gods would take back the growing white locks out of his hair.
But this was something he was now used to. It was his eyes that were the problem… his right eye technically. Theodore stared with a grimace. Slitted-black pupil. Now instead of gray, it was purple.
Not a good sign.