Fortuitous Arena

Prologue

Nirn has become boring. Sheogorath sat down in front of a canvas. The portrait in front of him still wet and unfinished with its subjects paying no mind to the Madgod's mulling as they groomed each other on their perch on the back of a simple wooden chair, picking loose feathers and whatever debris they found in each other's fold.

Normally when the supposed centre of existence became boring, he would happily remedy that with his own expected brand of chaos on the unexpected. Except, there was a sense of dissatisfaction whenever he wondered on his usually schemes. It was not from reluctance of disturbing whatever this peace Nirn has found itself – as peaceful as Mundus can be, Sheogorath dwelled resignedly.

No, perhaps Nirn itself was not the issue. Oblivion and its many myriad realms and schemes also has bored him. His non-siblings bored him. That's not a rare thought, Sheogorath had always found his siblings boring in some way or another. Most of existence was boring in fact. Boredom had always been his number one enemy, and it's rearing its head in the most alarming way.

Sheogorath gazed at the unfinished portrait of blue jays before his eyes lingered on the pair of songbirds.

"I'm thinking of leaving." He spoke this thought out loud.

It was not an epiphany, or a moment of eureka. It was just a profound note of change in the Madgod.

The bluejays stared at him, their beady black eyes settled on the Prince, tilting their heads side to side.

"It's not a vacation." Sheogorath shook his head. "It's not an abandonment either," he added mindfully, and a deep part of him reminded his jester of a chamberlain would go into shock of some form on any mention of leaving.

He will bring his realms. They were his after all. It's not like he can't bring his belongings.

It was more like…

"I'm moving," Sheogorath finally said it.

What did that meant?

Does he suddenly stop being a Daedric Prince just because he has decided to leave Oblivion and Mundus behind? Does it mean he would become one of Magnus' pals? Sheogorath sooner give that snore a pair of eyes so he could gouge 'em to paste again. Eternity ago, he did actually received an invitation from the stars, although he didn't exactly refused, but he didn't accept as well, and it wasn't like he needed to be officially invited just so he could be found hanging around in Aethurius.

Sheogorath was always accepted in places that he was unexpected, hence he wanders around freely in places a Daedric Prince wouldn't be like some neighbourhood stray cat.

During Landfall, there had been tempting thoughts of giving up everything, his crown, his throne, his realms to become one of them. To give up his Princehood. To give up himself. To give up his name. He had long abhorred such thoughts because of what seemed like an eternity spent under a curse, but time had sunk his claws in him and brought a change, much like the wind, much like the smell of spring, and the singing of birds. There was a sense of peace, stability, happiness when dwelling on such tempting decision.

Unlike the previous invitation, he had explicitly refused. He needed to. It was dangerous to dwell on it. Dangerous to even dwell amidst them, because the option was there to take everything away, at his own choosing even. That was the worst part, he could imagine himself easily choosing that option.

Perhaps it was not boredom. Perhaps it was some deep instinct telling him he needed a break from any stench of mortality. A sense of self-preservation. Leave.

Leave Oblivion. Leave Mundus. Turn your back from this obsessed dream the gods has decided on. It was giving up in some way, but at least it didn't mean cutting everything off. This way he can still be himself just with different colleagues, ones that are less obsessed.

"To permanently become a star," Sheogorath announced.

The birds in answer took flight all of a sudden, leaving their perch behind. The empty wooden seat instead was taken up by a woman who had long accepted him as a loving but obnoxious blight in her existence. His over enthusiastic grin greeted her as usual and entirely ignored the eldest of dragons, the World Eater wrapped around her neck like a snake and his twin intertwined the opposite to prevent him from harming his captor.

"Drago-"

"Uncle, you're invited to my wedding," she cut him off aptly by offering a very traditional paper-folded letter that positively smell of a flower Sheogorath did not recognise.

"Did Dibella actually make a new flower for this!" Sheogorath screeched when he snatched the letter off her and disturbingly took a deep whiff as something dark settle in his eyes.

"To this day, uncle, I still don't understand how she still could love you," the Last Dragonborn muttered.

"It's Dibella, she loves everyone," Sheogorath said dismissively.

A look of frustration crossed Dragon God's truly and forever youngest.

"Except Molag," she corrected him, deciding not to dig into his personal relationship with her step-mother. Technically step-mothers to be more accurate as Mara herself admitted she loved that crazy fool, and that fact was less surprising because it was Mara. As for Kynareth… Kynareth was complicated, and she respected the Sky Goddess immensely to leave that alone.

"Except Molag," Sheogorath agreed with a dreamy grin still stuck on his face, the wedding invitation itself glued beneath his nose.

"This will be your tenth marriage, Dragonborn."

"Sixth, and those don't count. I didn't agree to any of them," she refuted.

"You agreed to one."

"I didn't agree wholly," she corrected him.

"Who's your next husband this time?" His nasty streak came out as usual.

But only this coming from him, she knew he was being obstinately in denial of her relationship.

"The Nerevarine."

Just like that, whatever happiness the perfume brought broke instantly. A mention of Molag didn't cause this, her snappish answers didn't cause this. No, it just had to be the idea of her celebrating being together with the Nerevarine that upsets him.

Her father himself was not the asshole she had expected to be, and he was a dragon, the Dragon God. It's the Mad God himself, the uncle she never asked to have in her life, that has issues with her relationship.

Sheogorath was frowning. A frowning Madgod means a less peaceful existence.

She could never understood what he had against him. They had adventured together, they were briefly her companions, they even got along. Did those times didn't count at all?

"You're welcome to be the wedding's maestro," she added, a planned tactic to pacify him quickly.

Like a switch that has been clicked, he was smiling again.

"No bones orchestra."

Sheogorath scowled.

"Songbirds only. That's the challenge, uncle."

Just like that, he was back to smiling. The gods may find this highly amusing, but to her such interaction was exhausting. Birds are a safe option when it comes to him. While he could technically make an undead skeletal songbird sing beautifully like some form of bizarre macabre instrument he would invent, the Madgod was truly fond of songbirds and enjoyed them as they are even in their predictability.

"I will only tolerate less than a hundred and sixty pages of music, standard size, uncle," the Last Dragonborn corrected, knowing his prone of jokes would result in ginormous sheets of music or the tiniest that would require the Dwemer coming back just so they could read them. "This wedding will be more of an anniversary for Nirn than about-"

Sheogorath left with a simple curtain flip back to the Void he had come from, leaving his wet and unfinished painting behind. It was not a common sight to find an unfinished painting out of nowhere and in the most unexpecting places, but what was left of the inhabitants of Nirn had long decided to wisely leave such scenes untouched.

The Last Dragonborn simply sighed resignedly at his nature.

"No one is going to ask that he mentioned leaving?"