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They called her hero once.
The title gets harder to remember each and every time, but today, in this small sliver of time, she remembers it. Hero of Kvatch.
How ironic, considering the fact that she was responsible for numerous assassinations during her time on Nirn. Sometimes, she can’t even remember her name. The madness and the presence of the divine drives all of her past self out and leaves only the memories painted over with the lens of a Daedric Prince. She — they — remember, but it’s not quite the same as it was in her mortal body. All of the pieces aren’t quite there, and the identity that she bears after her apotheosis wipes nearly everything smooth. Still, in this moment, she remembers that she was called the Hero of Kvatch once.
As she stares at this mortal dressed in dark armor and the spirit that accompanies her, she thinks she might remember another title they called her once.
Silencer.
The road back to the Imperial City is long, and Idronia’s stuck in a place called Pell’s Gate. Boredom eats away at her as surely as her hunger does, and so, she decides to explore the nearby Ayleid ruins. A Nord at Pell’s Gate tries to warn her away from the ruin, telling her that his old apprentice, Lenwin, wanders the ruins with a cursed sword. Idronia shrugs him off; she’s faced worse. If she could survive and even break the siege of Kvatch, she could handle a woman with a cursed sword.
She’s surprised to see that the woman is Bosmer: one of her kind. Idronia is hidden deep within the shadows, and her steps have been so silent within the ruin that Umbra — or perhaps, Lenwin — hasn’t noticed her yet. But even from this distance, she can sense a kind of hunger radiating from the sword. It only serves as a reminder for the hunger roiling deep and low in her stomach, and Idronis weighs her options. She could leave and find somewhere else to stay for the night. But also, she knows that this Umbra, this Lenwin, has killed over and over for the sword alone. Idronia thinks that murderous rampage is understandable in some cases, but the man at Pell’s Gate seemed terrified of her.
Hm. Idronia weighs her options before she shrugs and unslings the bow off her back.
It is a choice that is undoubtedly regrettable. Umbra wears a full suit of ebony armor, and although Idronia’s first arrow lands true, she finds that Umbra does not fall quite so easily. Umbra swings around with her longsword in hand and starts charging towards Idronia’s hiding place. Idronia’s forced to flee, and eventually, she clambers up a pillar and starts raining arrows down on the woman. When Umbra falls over, Idronia waits one more moment before she drops down and checks her pulse. Nothing.
Idronia exhales softly and offers up a prayer to Y’ffre before she starts her grisly work. She still follows the Green Pact. Half of her heart still lies in Valenwood, and she holds onto the few things she still has from her home. The Green Pact is one of them. Admittedly, it’s not a popular choice in other lands beyond her woods, but she keeps her promise to Y’ffre. Idronia thinks back to the first time she was imprisoned in foreign lands. She remembers the cold stone and the dank smell of mildew and human waste permeating the cell, but she thinks that her imprisonment was less of a crime and more of a point of cultural discontent. Men — whether they be Imperial, Nord, or anyone else — have such a strange perception of the Green Pact. Besides, the man she ate tried to murder her, and later, she found that he was a serial killer and a sexual predator. A death was a mercy for him, but no matter.
First, she strips off Umbra’s armor and carefully wipes it down. She prefers lighter armor, but there’s no doubt that this would fetch a pretty price from the right person. She has a set of butcher’s knives from Valenwood, and she uses them well in her work. Idronia lets the blood drain out first. The upper body is first. There are a series of exit wounds right along where her arrows landed, so Idronia carefully removes all of her arrows. They are made of wood, but Idronia admits that she has to make a few concessions when she is so far away from her heartland. The woods of Valenwood had creatures with sharp quills lining their backs that lumbered in the darkness after the half moon’s rise. Idronia remembers hunting them down with arrows made of the same quills from the same creatures. In Cyrodiil, there are none, and so, she must make do.
Meat, fat, sinew, muscle. She goes through each layer, guts the body well, and carves away thick slabs of meat. The major joints are cut apart, and the cartilage is nearly separated. A pile of offal grows by Idronia’s side — heart and kidneys and liver and lungs — and on her other side, she keeps the better cuts of meat. Bone snaps under her touch, and the sharp slicing sound of her knives keeps her company.
Idronia knows that she has to feel some sort of guilt over this, but the hunger clawing in her stomach makes her forget this. Besides, she finds it to be one of the few remaining connections she has with her family. She shuts her eyes and tries to picture them in her mind’s eye. The only thing she can truly picture is the twisting of skin into feather and fur, and she stops trying. Her village is long gone and lost to the throes of the Wild Hunt. She does not dare to think more about it, and instead, she bears the Green Pact as best as she can. Whether it be man or mer, both have meat worthy of eating.
She builds a fire to start roasting some meat, and the scent of it makes her mouth water. Her hands are stained red, and her teeth are nothing more than flashes of white as they tear into the meat and crack open moon-white bone for marrow. Idronia salts the rest of the meat down and ensures that it will last her beyond this single night. It will be good to have on her future travels.
Later, when she is sated, she looks at the blade. It hungers, but so does she. She places it aside for now. She prefers her bow made of bone and her daggers made of tooth, and she has little use for a longsword. Perhaps she’ll learn how to use it better in the future. She doesn’t bother sparing another thought to the sword and rolls over to sleep instead.
She’s awoken by a voice musing, "You sleep rather soundly for a murderer. That's good. You'll need a clear conscience for what I'm about to propose."
Idronia opens her eyes and runs her tongue over her teeth. A voice was definitely there. Her hand creeps towards her dagger, and she slowly pushes herself into an upright position. A man in a dark hood leans against the wall and smiles at her. Judging from the few glimpses of his face, she thinks he’s Imperial.
When she doesn’t respond, he arches a brow and says, “You prefer silence, then? As do I, my dear child. As do I. For is silence not the symphony of death, the orchestration of Sithis himself?” Idronia still doesn’t bother to respond, so he shakes his head and says, “Ironic, then, that I come to you now as Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. My name is Lucien Lachance, and my voice is the will of the Night Mother. She's been watching you. Observing as you kill, admiring as you end life without pity or remorse. The Night Mother is most pleased... That is why I stand here before you. I bear an offering. An opportunity to join our rather unique family.”
Idronia blinks. “In what way was the woman innocent?” she asks. She gestures to the gutted and cleaned body and says, “She murdered countless people with that sword. I simply returned the favor.”
The man narrows his eyes and sharply says, “And were your motivations as noble as you try to make them sound?”
“I never claimed anything about my motivations,” Idronia laughs. “I merely asked the question to see if your source of information was correct. Nevertheless, please continue, Sir Lucien Lachance.”
She tacks on the title to make her sarcasm even more evident, but Lucien settles back against the wall and says coolly, “I find your etiquette to be refreshing. You have no idea how rude some people can be before they’re killed.” He waves a hand toward the exit and says, “On the Green Road to the north of Bravil lies the Inn of Ill Omen. There you will find a man named Rufio. Kill him, and your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete. Do this, and the next time you sleep in a location I deem secure, I will reveal myself once more, bearing the love of your new family."
“Rather presumptuous, isn’t it?” Idronia murmurs. “On what grounds to approach me and then demand me to do something? For family? Laughable.” She knows that her family is dead, and if not, lost to her forever. The thought that this stranger would proclaim her to be potentially part of a family leaves a bad taste in her mouth that is far different than blood or marrow.
"Please accept this token from the Dark Brotherhood,” Lucien says as he hands a blade to her, hilt first. “It is a virgin blade, and thirsts for blood. May it serve you well, as does your silence."
“Again, rather forward of you,” Idronia drawls, but she drags herself up to stand. She takes the blade and looks it over with a critical eye. “A murder? You want me to murder someone? What do I get out of this? What are the benefits of joining the Dark Brotherhood?”
“Have you not heard of the Dark Brotherhood?” Lucien asks.
He’s taken aback, and Idronia scowls. “Of course I have,” she snaps. “I asked about the benefits of joining, not what the actual definition of the guild was.”
“We kill for profit, for enjoyment, and for the glory of the Dread Father, Sithis. We are family, with bonds forged in blood and death,” he tells her.
She turns the blade over and gently brushes her finger over it. Even the slightest touch manages to slice her skin. It’s a thin sliver of a cut, and Idronia barely even feels it. However, a few drops of blood bead up on her skin. Idronia looks up at Lucien and sees that his eyes are fixated on her blood. Idronia shrugs and rubs the blood into the blade.
A slow smile spreads over Lucien’s face, and he says, “The Night Mother made an excellent choice.” When Idronia stares blankly at him, he sighs, “The Night Mother is our Unholy Matron. From her shadowed womb we were born, from her breast we suckle malice and pain. She loves her children, you see."
“Strange,” Idronia comments. When Lucien bristles, she sighs, “Oh, don’t give me that look. Gods in their inherent natures are strange. Look at Y’ffre, look at what I did and what I ate, look at the Green Pact. Enough on the Night Mother. What about you, Lucien Lachance. Tell me more about yourself and why I should listen to you.”
Lucien draws himself up to his full height and says with a touch of pride, “I am a Speaker. My voice is the voice of the Black Hand, our organization’s ruling body. One of my duties is to find exceptional individuals, such as yourself, and offer a place within our family." A smirk lazily curls its way across his lips as he says, “If you wish to know more about me as a person, why then, I suggest that you join us as a Sister of the Dark Brotherhood.”
“Now that is a point of interest,” Idronia hums. “Rufio, yes?”
“Yes,” Lucien confirms. “Send him to his death, and the Dark Brotherhood will embrace you as family. And… I would welcome the chance to meet you again. Until next time.”
Idronia settles back down with her new blade. Murder is an act with simple motions. She doesn’t even need the blade. All she needs is her bow and a single arrow tipped with poison. Idronia has spent more years in the depths of Valenwood, shooting arrows, than most men and mer have spent practicing archery in their lifetimes. The only thing that makes her hesitate is the moral implication of it.
She’s not exactly the most moral person in Tamriel, and if one had to categorize her, she would land on the more unscrupulous side of the spectrum. In the eyes of some, her practice of the Green Pact for her fallen enemies would land her solidly at the very extreme end. But murder? Idronia rolls the idea over and over in her head, wondering if she should take the plunge.
She glances back at the woman once known as Umbra, once known as Lenwin, now known as food. Idronia looks at the meat and the offal and the congealing blood before she makes her choice.
Why not?
It’s funny. It’s so incredibly funny how the world and the gods seem to turn the wheel of fortune over and over again until they only have murderers and criminals as their heroes. Well, Sheogorath supposes that at the deep heart and core of heroes, murder stains the best of them. Some are simply exalted while others are reviled. It’s funny, and it makes Sheogorath giggle out loud. They watch the scrying mirror as the Dragonborn traipses through Pelagius’s wing in the Blue Palace.
Pelagius shoots them a dirty look, and Sheogorath leans over to run their hands down his cheeks. “What’s wrong?” they croon. “Something wrong with a little bit of laughter?”
"I'm afraid I don't know, sir,” Pelagius says. Safe choice. Too safe. Sheogorath thinks safety is a fragile concept, a little blip on the grand scheme of things, and although it keeps lives intact, there is no sense of living when you are bound to such a concept. Safety? Ha!
They reach out to tap his head and says, “Did you know? I found butterflies once? Butterflies, blood, a Fox, a severed head, and oh! Cheese! Wonderful, really. Marvelous time.” Sheogorath reconsiders their words and muses, “Tell me, why don’t I do anything that fun anymore?”
Sheogorath leans back in their seat and tries to think of something fun. They haven’t done anything fun. The last fun thing they ever did was… Hm. Sheogorath bites their lip. Hm. There was murder involved. Probably. Sheogorath runs their tongue over their teeth and thinks that they remember the taste of blood. Sheogorath glances up at Pelagius and muses, “What was the last thing I did with blood, Pelagius?”
Pelagius doesn’t respond, but Sheogorath digs through their own memory and replies to themselves, “I turned blood into wine once when Sanguine visited. Oh yes, yes, I remember that.” They pause and frown. “Not fun enough. Sanguine comes whenever he wants, and he always laughs at me. Great drinking partner though,” Sheogorath says dismissively. “Oh, that reminds me. I have to go drinking with Hircine sometimes. I always like hunting with him. Turned his hunters into cabbages once, and then! Oh yes, then! I started chucking them at his prey before I killed them all. Delicious. They tasted delicious. Drained and gutted and properly butchered, yes, yes. Oh, that reminds me of something. Ooh, I just can’t remember. Give me another one, Pelagius, my good man.”
Pelagius occupies himself with eating, and Sheogorath scowls. “You’re no good as company, you know that?” they complain. “I’d rather have a court jester.” Sheogorath pauses and then widens their eyes. With a clap of their hands, they yelp, “Of course, the jester. Why didn’t I remember him? Delightful to dig around in his mind, you know. Assassins have so much knotted up in their little minds. Fantastic people, wonderful to listen to, interesting and intriguing, but pull the wrong thread and they’re gone like that! I used to listen, you know, listen and listen and listen and listen, and I saw that. Oh yes, I did!”
Sheogorath settles down on their seat once more and looks at the mirror. Delightful. The Dragonborn has the telltale eyes of a vampire and the same ashen complexion as one. Looks like a Dunmer. Sheogorath finds that interesting and reaches up to tweak their own pointed ear. Not quite like a Dunmer’s ear, no, but similar enough.
They’re interested. Delighted, even. There are records in the Shivering Isles of heroes long dead and gone, but the touches of madness and the brief impacts they made on their realm remain. Some marks are indelible no matter how many times Sheogorath stirs them up. Sheogorath looks at Pelagius again. The ghost has finished eating and is about to head off into some other part of his wonderfully insane mind. They croon, “Oh, Pelly dear, try the tea this time.”
The ghost of Pelagius pauses and fidgets. “Oh, I couldn’t,” he says. “Goes right through me. Besides, I have so many things to do... So many undesirables to contend with. Naysayers. Buffoons. Detractors. Why, my headsman hasn't slept in three days!"
Sheogorath grins, and it is a terrible thing to see. "You are far too hard on yourself, my dear, sweet, homicidally insane Pelagius,” they croon. “What would the people do without you? Dance? Sing? Smile? Grow old? You are the best Septim that's ever ruled. Well, except for that Martin fellow, but he turned into a dragon god—” Sheogorath stops right there. Something in their heart twinges when they say Martin’s name. “You know, I was there for that whole sordid affair,” they breathe out.
"I do what I must do. I cannot stay to rebuild Tamriel, that task falls to others. Farewell. You've been a good friend, in the short time that I've known you. But now I must go. The Dragon waits."
Sheogorath chokes and doubles over on their throne, clutching at their throat. The memory ravages through their thoughts, breaking open like time breaks, and for a brief moment, she remembers Martin Septim with the amulet clutched in his hands. She sucks in a deep breath and tries to hold onto the memory, tries to hold onto the person that is Idronia, but it leaves her just as quickly as it came.
Pelagius cocks his head at Sheogorath — or is it Idronia? — and without missing a beat, he says, “Yes, yes, as you’ve said, countless times before.”
Sheogorath shoots them a razor-edged glare and snaps, “Well then! If you’re going to be like that, perhaps it’s best I take my leave. A good day to you, sir! I said good day!”
Pelagius shrugs and shuffles off as he mutters, "Yes, yes, go. Leave me to my ceaseless responsibilities and burdens..."
“I suspect you must be the Daedric Prince of Madness,” a voice says. It’s cool and soft, but it’s a far cry from the maddened babbles of Pelagius. In fact, it almost reminds Sheogorath of who they used to be. They turn to see the Dragonborn that they’ve been examining so rapturously in the mirror. She wears shrouded armor — oh, is that familiar — but the cowl doesn’t hide her vampiric nature.
“Jolly good guess,” Sheogorath cackles. “Quite correct, actually. I’m a mad god, oh yes, I am. The Mad God, actually. It’s a title of sorts. Got passed down from me to myself a while back. Charmed to meet you.”
The Dragonborn tilts her head as she regards the Daedric Prince, and she muses, “Somehow, I didn’t expect the Daedric Prince to be a Bosmeri woman. The limited records of you say that you appear on Nirn as a well-dressed elderly gentleman with a cane.”
Sheogorath glances down at their clothes. They’re wearing fine clothing. When they look at it for too long, the clothing flickers briefly to that of dark, shrouded armor and then, to Bosmeri armor made of leather and bone. Sheogorath looks back up at the Dragonborn who looks briefly disturbed at the flickering changes, and they shrug, “It’s my favorite shape, the original one before what I just mentioned happened. Title being passed down from me to myself and all that, you know. Well, you don’t know. No one really knows what happens.” They offer up a toothy smile and says, “You know, you’re more like me than you care to admit.”
“I think I am perfectly sane,” the Dragonborn archly says.
Sheogorath shakes their head. “No, no, you don’t get it,” they tut. “I am a part of you, little mortal. I am a shadow in your subconscious, a blemish on your fragile little psyche. But I used to be a presence in the blackest nights, you know, just like you. Blood and meat and orders and knives and poisoned apples and Listeners waiting in the silence.” They reach out into the air and pull out a blade. A virgin blade that thirsts of blood. It wasn’t a virgin blade for long, but the memory of the blade remains intact and whole in Sheogorath’s hand.
The Dragonborn tenses and whispers an old chant in susurrant tones. Her hand strays over to the dagger at her belt, and Sheogorath laughs, “What are you planning to do to a Daedric Prince, little mortal?” Their tone lilts up and down like a song as they hum, “Wouldn’t do that, no, no, not if you’re not partial to being flayed alive and having an angry immortal skip rope with your entrails. Don’t test me; I’ve got my fair share of experience with entrails. Small intestines are so long. Did you know that? So very, very long.”
They toss the blade behind their back where it fizzles into nothing again, and Sheogorath lapses into a brief song. An old lullaby that they used to sing in Valenwood. The melody shifts as Sheogorath rummages through the various plates and cups on the table, and then, Sheogorath recognizes it as the precursor to the chants that heralded the Wild Hunt. Not what Sheogorath wants right now, no, no. Pelagius’s mind is fun enough. They don’t want the Wild Hunt here.
“Now, dearie Dragonborn, do sit down and have a sweetroll,” Sheogorath says. “We can have such a lovely conversation since Pelagius seems to be too busy to spend time with a Prince.”
Sheogorath looks up to see the Dragonborn with a dagger in her hands and a spirit slowly starting to untwine from her hands and shoulders. Sheogorath’s ire sparks once, twice, before it silently fizzles out. Sheogorath blinks at the spirit as it unfolds. It’s the same color as Pelagius’s ghost, but it looks far, far different.
The spirit of Lucien Lachance hovers in between the Dragonborn and Sheogorath and whispers, “Silencer.”
The Dark Brotherhood is simpler than other things and other guilds. The only thing that they truly ask of her is murder, and that is one of the few things that Idronia can do well. She quickly rises among her brothers and sisters as one of the best trackers. Her time in Valenwood prepared her well for this aspect of the hunt. Once she’s assigned to a target, she follows them relentlessly through the days and nights until they are vulnerable, weary, or both. That’s when she uses an arrow or a blade to cut their life short.
She still honors the Green Pact, even in the Brotherhood. This means that she never goes hungry. Not like the days on the road back to the Imperial City, no.
Lucien always greets her when she returns from a mission. He is the one to help her wash the blood off her armor and sharpen her blades. When she tells him about the Green Pact, he searches for arrows that suit her tastes more. His habit grows expensive though, so Idronia tells him to give her regular arrows but with sharper arrowheads. He nods and brings her arrows sharpened to the keenest edge. When she brushes her finger against the edge — much like she did with the first blade he gave her — Lucien chuckles.
He names her his Silencer. Idronia pauses when he gives her the title and cocks her head. “Why?” she asks.
“For your skills,” he says. He purses his lips together before he says more softly, “For you.”
Idronia rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet before she dares to reach out and tug back Lucien’s hood. She’s short, so Lucien inclines his head towards her for easier access. She looks at his face, studies its form and shape, and she tries to memorize it. A good face, she thinks. A good face for a good man. A questionable adjective to attach to someone from the Dark Brotherhood, but Sithis and all the gods be damned, Idronia chooses to call Lucien good.
She nods and tells him, “Then I will bear the title gladly.” She pauses and asks, “I have my own duties that lead me to strange places. Are you still willing to name me your Silencer?”
“I would be even happier to give the title to you then,” Lucien responds. “A Silencer who goes to all places of the world knows more about it and is able to track down targets to a farther range. You have already proven yourself time and time again in terms of tracking though. You are a fine hunter, Idronia of Valenwood.”
“Very well, Lucien Lachance of the Dark Brotherhood,” Idronia says, mimicking the same lilt of his voice. He chuckles at the sound of his accent in her voice, and she muses, “Where are you really from? Surely you didn’t pop out of the Void and into the arms of the Night Mother right away.”
That earns her a chuckle from Lucien, and he admits, “I used to travel around Skyrim when I was young, but then I joined the Dark Brotherhood after finding a strange blade in the city of Riften. From there, I traveled south to Cyrodiil and then to Cheydinhal. Does that satisfy your endless curiosity, my Silencer?”
“I’m not that curious, you know,” Idronia grumbles.
Lucien shakes his head. “I beg to differ,” he tells her. “You have a curiosity that rivals your hunger for meat, and moreover, a sense of duty that prevents you from abandoning what you have set out to do. An admirable trait — and one that I admire and appreciate myself — but one day, I fear that it will become your downfall.”
“That seems to be a common trend among heroes,” Idronia sighs as she pulls up the shroud on her armor. The fabric settles cool and slick over her head and hides her features, but Lucien still regards her with a keen look.
“Do you consider yourself to be a hero?” he inquires.
Idronia pauses and rolls the thought around in her head. She thinks of Martin and the Daedric book that he told her about. The Mysterium Xarxes, if she remembers it correctly. It was supposed to be somewhere in the Mythic Dawn’s base, and in truth, she was planning to stop by the base after completing one of her assignments for the Dark Brotherhood. She supposes that she could skip the base and return back to Fort Farragut, but like Lucien said, there was something pulling her along the path to Green Emperor Way, to the horizon and the stars beyond.
She finally says, “Some call me that, yes.”
“I did not ask if others called you a hero,” Lucien chides. “I asked if you considered yourself to be one.”
“Frankly?” Idronia exhales. “No, but other people expect me to be and believe me to be. So I do. Not doing it feels almost worse.”
“There you go,” Lucien says. “The makings of a hero. Just make sure you don’t mire yourself too deep into that business. We assassins ply a bloody trade, but the trade of heroes is far more deadly, dangerous, and in the open eye of the public. Do not do everything simply because someone asks. Do it because you want to, because you are willing to do so. Be watchful and wary, Idronia.”
Idronia finds that she remembers this moment with Lucien clearly even after his body long grows cold with the touch of death. It's partially because it's one of the last times she met with him outside the final chaos and those fatal, final days of the Dark Brotherhood, but it's partially because his words resonated with her so much. There is still so much she has left to tell him and so much that she wishes she told him while he was still alive, but she settles for holding these words closely to her heart.
Later, far far later, when Idronia stands in the streets of New Sheoth, she finds herself remembering Lucien’s warning once more. Already at the beck and call of the Prince of Madness, she wanders down the streets to the section of the realm called Dementia. Something prickles on the back of her neck, and she shivers. Something does not bode well. She can feel it rattling through her bones. But it’s too late. She’s here, and she already agreed to be a champion — to be a hero — for Sheogorath.
It’s too late for her.
Sheogorath finds themselves at a loss for words.
This is one of the few times that it’s ever happened during their reign as the Prince of Madness, and they idly think that Haskill would appreciate the silence. However, the inner turmoil churning away in the gears of their mind prevents them from thinking on Haskill too much. Instead, a part of Sheogorath’s psyche briefly thinks about an old fort, a barrel of poisoned apples, and a statue of an old lady.
“Apples,” they whisper. “Apples, apples, apples, three hundred septims for an apple.” The whisper grows louder and louder until they’re veritably screaming, but they settle down in their chair and eye the ghost. “You had them for free though, didn’t you?”
The ghost looks… Sheogorath can’t quite remember what emotions are supposed to look like on faces anymore. They far prefer twisting and knotting such things called emotions and stoking them higher and higher with threads of madness. But they think, they think, they think the ghost looks heartbroken.
“I did,” the ghost quietly says. “Behind a lock at Fort Farragut. Although you were always particularly nimble-fingered and managed to pick it every time, even when I bought a harder lock to pick.”
“Lucien,” the Dragonborn says stonily. “What is the meaning of this?”
“There isn’t any meaning in anything, Dragonborn!” Sheogorath cries out. Finally, a topic they can speak for days about. “For what is meaning in a dream? What defines meaning and what enables you to do so? Oh, silly, silly mortal with a time-sliver’s soul, you must understand that you cannot understand in order to understand anything at all.”
“You aren’t making any sense,” the Dragonborn frowns.
Sheogorath cackles, “I am the Daedric Prince of Madness. What else did you expect?”
The Dragonborn draws herself up to her full height, and she says tightly, “Your people need you to return. That’s all I came to say.”
Sheogorath lets out a loud yawn and completely forgets about the ghost. Their full attention is on the Dragonborn as they drawl, “Oh, parden me, were you saying something? I do apologize, it’s just that I find myself suddenly and irrevocably… Bored! I mean, really, here you stand, before Sheogorath themselves, Daedric Prince of Madness. And all you deem fit to do is deliver a message? How sad.”
“Themselves,” the ghost suddenly repeats, and Sheogorath’s maddened eyes turn onto him once more. “You said themselves.”
“Of course I did,” Sheogorath snaps. “Are you going deaf?”
“Why?” the ghost asks.
“Because it’s the truth, fool,” Sheogorath snarls. Their patience suddenly wanes thinner than the crescent moons that float above Nirn at absent winters and low tides, and then, like a tripwire, it snaps. “Madness and sanity, both living like little blips within the vast psyche of things, is just the natural state, the natural order, of things, little ghost, and I am no exception. Neither are you! One lives on a flip side of the coin, but the coin always lands madness side up. Toss a septim, see which way it lands, and live with it until you have to flip it again!”
The ghost wearily sinks, but the silvery mist holding him together keeps him anchored in this space of reality. “Oh, Idronia of Valenwood,” he says in such an aching, tender voice. “How far you’ve gone in your travels. What made you stray so far away from Cyrodiil? Off being a hero once more?”
“Idronia of Valenwood?” the Dragonborn exclaims.
Sheogorath crossly glares at both the ghost and the Dragonborn and mimics her tone as they say, “Maren of House Telvanni?” After all, that’s the name that filters through Oblivion whenever news of the Dragonborn crops up.
The Dragonborn turns to the ghost and pulls back the shroud of her armor just enough for her to glare fully at the ghost. “Lucien Lachance,” she snaps. “Why did you not tell me that you knew the Champion of Cyrodiil? And why is she like this?” She gestures over to Sheogorath, and Sheogorath bristles.
They slam their hand down on the arm of their chair, and the entire liminal space shifts and flickers around them. “Do not test me, Dragonborn,” they warn. “You may be one of Akatosh’s little whelps, a bit of Lorkhan and Talos and whatever else the universe eddies up into a fragile shell, but you are not in Nirn anymore.”
“Champion of Cyrodiil,” the Dragonborn evenly says. “Hero of Kvatch, Savior of Bruma, Hero of the Oblivion Crisis and Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. You and I share a title between us both in that regard.”
“She’s dead, deader than dead can be,” Sheogorath snorts. In a rare moment of clarity, they say, “That mortal coil has long been unspooled and rethreaded into something else. Apotheosis, set into order and tucked into place for madness.”
“Hero turned god,” Lucien says quietly. “A fitting legacy for you but oh, how twisted it has become.”
“Twisted is as twisted does,” Sheogorath retorts. “Both minds melding into one, or is it one diverging into two right now? Whatever it is, I’ve got one bit shut up in New Sheoth because it won’t stop talking and screaming. Now enough on that. You came to deliver a message, and you delivered it. Fix Pelly up, and I’ll abide by what you say. Go on now, get!”
They toss the Wabbajack to the Dragonborn who catches it and tests their grip on the strange, gnarled staff. The Dragonborn shrugs and takes their leave, but the ghost lingers.
“Silencer to Listener to Champion and now to Daedric Prince,” he whispers. “What journeys you have gone on, Idronia. I wondered if you would also join the same service as I, to serve the Night Mother and Sithis beyond the confines of death. It seems as though fate has different choices for us both.” He bends his head and ever so softly, he murmurs, “You may not be the same person as you once were, but I—”
He stumbles over the word as he searches Sheogorath’s face for something more. Sheogorath cocks their head and stares right back at the ghost. The spectral figure of Lucien Lachance slumps before he says with a bitter, throbbing finality, “Farewell, Idronia of Valenwood.”