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Chapter Text

Emeet stared around her at her bleak surroundings. The sewers, day or night, were simply awful, in part the stench and in part the slime around her feet. It was dark, though night vision spells made that less of an issue. As long as she could keep them up.

Still, it was a way out, the only way out she could see. And she was alive.

Alive. She sagged with the burden that fate had put on her shoulders. She was free of the chains and the cage, but she was not truly free. She owed it to these people to carry out a task, one that would be dangerous. But she had already taken all the pain she could ever hope to muster this day.

Fate had dealt her a bad hand, and Emeet the odd-looking Argonian Windsneak... whatever that was... had to live with it. And make the most of it.

Card games were not her area of expertise. She was an artist with a sword, and sometimes with her clever speech, but her wits did not go to games.

She started forward along the grimy and dripping path, her bow at her side. She was so unused to normal materials, but how would she get her old bow back? She would have to make herself a new one. Of the Isles.

~~

The Shivering Isles. Emeet had lived here so long... By the Madgod, she had grown up here. It was hard to imagine that there was a place other than this plane of madness and inspiration.

But there was. She had been born in a place of mundanity.

The city of Bliss gleamed vibrantly with the mornings glow, it's citizens passed out in their beds, in other's beds, and in the streets from whatever festivities and vices they had partaken in the night before.

Emeet had studied. She regretted it, somewhat... But she finally understood Deadric. It had taken those last few hours of all-consuming study for the parts of the language to suddenly make sense to her.

She was tired but filled with a strange exhilaration. She snuck to the guardpost to listen to the Golden Saint's speak. Perhaps now she would understand them!

It was not to be, not yet.

She had to come to only one conclusion. They were not actually speaking Deadric. It was amusing, actually. A deadra speaking something other than Daedric. Was it Aureal? Did the 'Dark Seducers' have their own tongue too of Mazken?

She listened ever more carefully, now that she knew that she had to learn anew!

It was similar in some ways... but very different. At least a differerent series of modifying pronouns and adverbs!

She scribbled down notes in the back and margins of her old primer- the only paper she had on hand.

She knew she had to do this. It was, very simply, just what she had to do. What she needed to do. She had to learn the languages of the Aureals and the Mazken of the Shivering Isles It was just... her purpose. People had purposes, didn't they?

Perhaps some part of her mind took comfort in knowing that her burning obsession with their language was her madness, her personal tag of insanity. Her piece of the Madgod inside her. Perhaps not the only one, fortune willing, but a treasure none the less.

She listened carefully, breathing softly, meditatively. She reached into that cool place where her limited magika reserves lay and let her senses fill with power.

Slowly... but then suddenly, like cogwheels clicking into place... things began to make sense. She was starting to grasp it... or was about to!

She became aware of something she had never felt before. The plane itself... a pulsing web of inspiration and insanity, rooted into a reality by great and brilliant roots...

She was shaken out of her revelation by a more literal shaking.

"Psst! Emeet! They noticed you!" Her dearest friend, Ma'Jeerah, whispered. A khajiit. He lived on the other side of the city, in Crucible, and looked so out of place in Bliss that

She looked at the Golden Saints, who glared at her with their usual scowls. She waved at them. They still scowled.

"Come on, lets go..." said Ma'Jeerah, tugging at Emeet's sleeve.

~~

"Go..." choked Ma'Jeerah as he slumped to the ground, the assasin's blade wrenching free from his gut. He was mortally wounded in vain. The Blade he defended -like the noble young Demented Khajiit he was - did not have long for the world, either. The Blade's sword caught on the stone wall, and she had to reswing it... costing her seconds and her life. The assassin ran her through. Emeet could do nothing - she was holding off three as it was, and they died too.

The two other Blades descended upon the assassin, and Emeet took satisfaction as the human's summoned items faded back to Oblivion and he joined his victims in death.

She liked the Emperor, she did. In the time she had known him, and especially the short few hours she had seen him this day, she had grown to like his sadness, his quiet insanity. He saw clearly, and he no longer feared his own end. She respected that. She wished, as she had before, that she could have spent more time talking to him. Wasn't that always the way of things?

Uriel Septim was forgotten for the moment as she left his side to rush over to her dearest, best friend.

"Jeer? Don't leave me..." She whispered. She reached for her magic... Gone. She cursed her birthsign.

His eyes were closing, his breathing growing quieter, labored, fading...

She remembered the emperor again, a spark of desperate inspiration... he had some experience with healing spells, didn't he?

She looked at him, her odd-colored eyes imploring.

He shook his head.

A piece of her heart died in her arms.

~~

"Was this yours?"

Emeet held up the ball to the Suthay-Raht khajiiti kit. It dripped as she lifted it out of the water.

He had to be about her age, and so not very old at all.

"Mmm hmm!" he nodded vigourously.

She handed him the ball. "What's your name?"

"Ma'Jeerah!" He said, crouching down on the wooden dock to better see her upturned face. She floated in the water, effortlessly.

"I'm Emeet."

"Thats a funny name!" He giggled, "But I like it! Wanna be friends?"

Emeet wasn't sure whether to take offense or not. The young argonian hatchling decided, diplomatically, to not.

She didn't have many friends, and her mother had told her not to associate with Khajiit, as they were smelly and uncouth.

Still, she wanted to be friends with him. Even though she barely knew him, she wanted to be friends with him, if only because he was so... so full of energy.

"Sure."

~~

Emperor Uriel Septim died. It was fate, obviously. Too many forces were coming together for it to NOT be fate. She held the lifeless body in her arms, the Amulet of Kings in the other. She was to take it to Weynon Priory and set things in motion to put his bastard son on the throne. To keep the deadra invading, apparently. It was a story like any other, following traditional structures that she had burned into her mind, and stopped just short of searing into her very scales.

But what deadra? Not her deadra. The Isles had no need to invade Tamriel, and had far too many of its own problems as of late. But- even with other obvious exclusions, she had no answer. In fact, it shouldn't be possible, let alone likely. A few incursions, yes, a bit of trouble stirred up where the barrier between Tamriel and Oblivion was thinnest, but this?

She would think on it later, with a bunch of books, a few bottles of wine, maybe some Skooma. Later. When she was out of this stinking hole.

"Allright." she whispered, setting the man who had been almost as much of a friend as the one she had left earlier in the tunnels down as the Blades, battered and ragged, rushed in.

How had she become responsible for- at least in part- the fate of Two worlds?

~~

"Look out!" Cried Ma'Jeerah, fists raised against the drooling creature. It looked like an Imperial, talked like an imperial... but its eyes were as red as a dunmers and it had long fangs like a khajiit that somehow shone bright even against its pale skin.

It was a Vampire. Emeet had only read about them, and wished very much that they hadn't stirred it from its lair. She had only wanted to go adventuring with her friend, somewhere new, something interesting.

Anything other than stay put in Leyawiin their whole lives...

Would this be how it ended? A short chapter on two foolish children who ended up a vampire's meal?

The vampire smiled. "Come now, little kiddies, no need to be frightened. It won't hurt but a little, I assure you..." He made a grab for Ma'Jeerah, but the Khajiit was too quick.

Emeet wasn't out of magic yet, but had to save it in order to heal herself and her friend. She had just enough magicka for that. She had no potions to regain magic with - only the herbs to make them, uselessly staining her pack. She had materials, equipment, and a recipe book, well-loved and dog-eared, but she couldn't do anything in the middle of a life-or-death fight.

She darted in to strike with her sword, a nicked iron thing she had gotten cheap from the armory, darting back. It did very little if anything, and the Vampire only laughed coldly.

"It’s been so long since I've tasted the blood of children. Come to me, little cattle, let me taste your sweet, sweet blood..."

Ma'jeerah dodged again, and Emeet made her decision. "Run!" she shouted, and both she and Jeerah took off like bolts, the laughing vampire in tow. It didn't take them long to tire, though. The two panted behind a rock, their silent looks saying all that they needed to say.

What do we do now?

"Come out, come out, wherever you are, little morsels..." taunted the vampire.

Emeet bet he could see them. Her books hadn't said anything about it, and she burned with curiousity, but now? She just wanted to live.

Slowly, responding to a feeling that neither child could describe completely, they turned to see a small, roughly made stone statuette. Its eyes glowed a subtle silver blue. It seemed to be watching them. Asking them... something.

Did they want to go?

In unison, they looked behind them at where the vampire would be soon. He was getting closer. They could almost hear his arrogance. Something told them to move closer to the stone, and Emeet, the braver of the two, held her friend's hand as she gently touched the head of the statue, hoping beyond hope that it would work. That it would do something.

The Vampire stopped in stunned confusion as the life auras of the children suddenly vanished. He rushed behind the rock, but found no bodies, no sign of them. Nothing.

He searched until he lost track of time and the dawn blasted him to ashes.

The statue crumbled into rubble. And the two children were no longer in that realm of existence.

~~

It hadn't been hard to navigate the tunnels, in the end. Just ahead, she could see the thin light of day. She stopped before looking back.

She was leaving so much behind her. Ma'Jeerah was her stabilizing force, the Dark to her Light, the Energy to her Melancholy. Her other half.

What would she do now that he was gone?

And the Emperor... She had enjoyed talking to him in her official capacity as emissary of Madness. But she hadn't realized until a few hours ago how sad his world was. This world. Even the Dementia area of the Shivering Isles, embodiment of paranoia, depression, and despair though it was, had an energy, a life to it that this world lacked. She wished... she didn't know what she wished any more. Or if there was something to wish for. She would have to figure it out.

Emeet took a step through the gate and embraced the light of the daytime with tears of resolute sorrow on her face.

~~

Emeet opened her eyes. Her head raced with a thousand inspirations, a thousand opportunities, a thousand... everything. She felt her entire being...glowing. Radiating a potential she had never felt before. She felt like she was finally complete. Whole.

"E-Emeet?" stammered Ma'Jeerah, "Are... Are you okay?"

She looked at the sky. It was so beautiful. The skies of Mania were burning pink and bleeding scarlet on candied blue; the skies of Dementia were a poisoned green fading to a muted jade, ever-shadowed by azure-grey stormclouds... every hue possessed of a vitality and power that resonated, sung, screamed, within her very being. And beyond them... oh, beyond... Oblivion, and realms vast and incredible beyond comprehension. And she KNEW them. She could feel the knowledge of them like a whirling storm inside her, a cold fire. It was beautiful. It was glorious. Everything seemed at once brighter and darker, a contrast that brought the world into two... no, a billion fragments of color and light and inspiration.

"A-Ansha? Is... Is she supposed to be... Laughing?"

Emeet didn't realize she was laughing until then. The vibrations of her throat had meaning now. A laugh of ectasy. A scream of agony. It was both, wild and maddened. She felt like she spoke with two voices, screamed with two voices.

"No..." said the Mazken, awe in her voice, "But is it not... beautiful?"

"But..." Ma'Jeerah hesitated, "She IS supposed to be on fire, right?"

"Yes. She is the bearer of the Holy Flame of Agnon... But I never heard of a bearer acting in this way..."

Flame? was that what this was?

She looked down, at her hands. They shimmered with two-toned flames. Orange and black green. Her cries had calmed down, but they sprung from her anew at the aching, nostalgic coldness of the licking tendrils.

It was beautiful! So beautiful! This plane! The world! The Universe! All of it was beautiful and terrible! She could see it! The roots of a great tree, feeding the land, nourishing inspiration and despair, feeding into and from the minds of its people, its waters flowing up from the tree and out... into Tamriel. Into the hands of artists. Writers. Painters. Seers. The mad. The forgotten of Namira. The worshippers of the Deadra...

And she could see, too, the crystal spires. The obelisks of crystals that had always fascinated and terrified her as a child. They extended all the way down until they were at a level with the roots of the great tree of madness, the font of inspiration...

They were of this plane, she realized, but not entirely a part of it. It was so brilliant. The brilliance of the isles whirled around her, inside her. She felt full - Full of light, full of darkness, full of wild, beating insanity.

She laughed and raised her arms to the false sun. This was the beginning of something great. Something terrible. Something Amazing.

This. She knew with certainty.

*~~~*

Chapter Text

"You idiot. You absolute, complete, fool!" shouted Emeet, her frills flaring.

Jauffre reeled back slightly. "And how was I to know they would attack here?!" the monk asked. Jauffre was a formidable person, confident after long years of service. but the energy that seemed to be collecting around the Argonian made him uneasy.

"If you had thought about it - for a second, maybe, you would have realized that it would obviously be the first place they would look! The FIRST place they would attack!"

"If I may interrupt, the first place they attacked was Kvatch..." interjected Martin, a little unnerved. Emeet had never acted like this before.

"Indeed!" She said, after a glare at the robed man, "And then they would have gone here!" She turned back to Jauffre,"I don't know why I believed you, and the emperor, when I was told the Amulet of Kings would be safe here!"

"And this was the safest place for it. I hid it well."

"BUT. THEY. TOOK. IT. YOU. BROKEN. JESTER." Emeet half screamed. Her wounds sustained from the battle on the way to the priory reopened and bled red. Martin blanched.

Emeet took a deep breath, and then another, soothing herself. "It would have been safer with me. I keep myself moving and... and..." She looked at Jauffre, her eyes accusing, voice still sharp with rage. "And I think I know of a safer place we could have put it. Safer than your hands, obviously."

"Oh? And where, besides your pickable pockets?" the old Monk was close to snarling.

Her smile was very very toothy, and her odd eyes seemed to blaze slightly.

"The Isles, of course."

~~

"Emeet, where are we going?" Ma'Jeerah asked.

"You'll see!" said the young argonian girl, dragging her friend bodily by the hand, "I've figured it out, Jeer!"

"What?"

"Deadric! More Daedric!"

"Oh...?"

"I know what they are saying! I think I can talk to them, too!"

They walked the streets of Crucible, an odd sight. Ma'jeerah fit in there, he lived in this side of New Sheoth, but Emeet lived on the other side, in Bliss, and her bright clothing was eye-catching against the dismal browns and greys. They walked right up to one of the Dark Seducer guards. Emeet had never thought of them as particularly Dark or Seducing, though. The Mazken were humble and respectful of even 'lesser' beings, not sultry!

["Greetings, Mazken,"] she said in their language, gasping in excitement. She got a surprised look from the Deadra as her reward.

["Greetings, mortal, how is it that you speak this?"]

["Practice and study, Mazken. Do I do well?"]

["Surprisingly so!"]

["What was that?"]

["You speak well..."] The deadra smiled and shook her head, switching back to Tamrielic common. "So, studious citizen, what do you need of me?"

"Oh! Nothing!..." Emeet was near raving with delight. It had worked! She switched back to Mazken Deadric on pure impulse.

["I just wanted to show my friend that I could do it!"]

The deadra paused. ["...I see."]

"Well, mortal, Madgod's ble..." She stopped head, her intense eyes widening. "Milord!" she exclaimed, kneeling.

Emeet felt Ma'Jeerah tense by her side as she turned around.

~~

The sobbing of the Kvatch refugees reached Emeet amid the smell of hellfire and blood atop the hill. The gate to Oblivion sang to her senses, attuned to deadric energies as she was.

Emeet looked at her hands, summoning the fires of madness buried inside her.

If she went through, she would likely end up in a Deadric Realm. As an Emissary of the Isles, would that be trespassing? Would she cause a war between Lord Sheogorath and another deadric prince? Her homelands had enough trouble to deal with. Could it survive an apocalypse and a war right now? Obviously, her Prince could, but her people? Her land? Her realm?

Right now, though, Emeet had a debt to the dead emperor to fulfill. She couldn't simply stand by.

It was a crazy and possibly unpolitic idea...

Which is why she decided that Lord Sheogorath would, with almost alarming sympathy, approve.

Emeet stepped through into the portal, feeling the familiar sensation of being whisked away from Tamriel and through the seas of Oblivion...

~~

Black nothingness lapped around her as she pulled with a rope made of magic. She reached out a hand and tugged, hard. The resistance between her and It broke suddenly and...

The scamp burst out into the world, smelling like it had rolled in something foul. It probably had.

"Very good." said Haskill, too dignified to clap. It wasn't an occasion for clapping, anyway. It was just a scamp, just a basic conjuration. Her first successful one, yes. But just a basic one.

Emeet didn't know why the Chamberlain of the madgod himself was teaching her personally. She also didn't know why she'd caught his eye out of all of the (admittedly few) children that danced in the streets of New Sheoth, and it didn't matter: The young argonian loved magic even though she had been born with stunted magica, and conjuration was so much fun. At first, she had been reluctant. She only had so much magic to spare, and she would have to learn Deadric... But after the young argonian, just barely old enough to not be called a hatchling, had taken to the ancient tongue very well, as well as the other languages that she heard around her every day. All by the virtue of obsessive - intensive - study and practice, and apparently natural talent. So many people here! From so many places!

But she was used to the Isles by now. It had been a year since she and Ma'Jeerah passed through the Fringe into the realm of the Madgod.

Anyway, Haskill was nice enough, and she was having fun.

She couldn't have afforded books on her own, but Haskill had been kind enough to give her several, and provide her with whatever she needed, including some limited funding. And, frankly, she was thriving. Haskill had even brought magic restoring potions for this class, and had taught her how to make her own.

"Now summon it again, and do try it faster." He said, everlasting patience in every fold of his face. He had to be. Serving the Madgod required a great deal of patience.

Emeet liked to think that she was a relief to him...

"Yes sir!" she said, dismissing the scamp and dipping into her magic to practice the spell again.

~~

Emeet stood at the enterance to Weynon Priory, clasping the precious amulet on its chain that she had tucked safely under her cloak.

"Well, your majesty, here goes..." she said quietly, to nobody, "I hope he's as trustworthy as you believed."

Walking in, Emeet realized that hadn't been in a temple of the Nine of any sort in years. Prayed, yes, at the statues and altars of the Imperial City when she visited, but it had felt disrespectful to step inside the actual edifice. This was only a small priory outside of Chorrol, so she still hadn't gotten the full effect of the stained glass and altars, but it still felt odd. She felt almost like she didn't belong here. It wasn't home.

Technically, she was a Deadra worshipper, though she wasn't sure if paying respect to someone who rules the realm you live in would be considered 'worship'. But Sheogorath was a Deadric Prince, and she was of his court. The Deadra did not like the Nine. It was an odd feeling, one that she couldn't bring herself to share.

Worship of Arden Sul in the isles was complicated. He had been a man, or so it was claimed. A thousand stories about him, some of which contradicted each other.  Confusion... A natural phenomenon of the Isles, confusion. Confusion, and bifurcation.

Emeet was in a unique position to know the truth. Ever since the cold fire had burned within her, she had known. It wasn't a very interesting truth on its own to know, but she knew that it was up to her to make that truth mean something.

Not today. Today, she took the path her dearest friend Ma'Jeerah should have walked. And she would take it until she could find another to replace him in this fate. She felt some unease. Should she really leave the Amulet of kings here? What if its location was found?

Wouldn't it be safer with her? She never stayed long anywhere and besides, she was finding it's next wearer.

But when she saw Jauffre, she felt a bit relieved. She could tell, aside from his soft monk robes, he was a man of authority, power, and trustworthiness. She relaxed. If the emperor trusted him... She trusted the emperor. She, perhaps had loved him. But he was gone now, to whatever rest awaited him.

She would trust that this man would protect this vital artifact.

~~

"What are you talking about?" Jauffre snapped, "What 'Isles'? What place would be safe from these fiends?!"

Emeet's smile, somehow, grew toothier.

"Why, another deadric plane of course!"

"... What?!" The old man still had a sword from fighting off his attackers, he reached for it, sensing a sudden shift in the air.

"'What' what? There isn't anything unclear about what I've just said." Emeet tapped a claw on the table, leaning in, her eyes far too avid.

"Ah..." Martin interjected, " I believe the 'Shivering Isles' are another name for the 'Asylum', the Realm of the Deadric Prince Sheogorath..."

"And... And..." Jauffre seethed, caught between a desire to cut down this sudden unknown and reminding himself that Emeet had helped him. And was telling this of her own will, instead of keeping secrets.

"How would I do such a thing? Why would I do such a thing? Why would I even think of such a thing?" Emeet asked, cold as an icicle and just as sharp, "Simple, you old fool! I am of the madgod's court. His emmissary. And He would have thought it an excellent prank! Or not. Still, whatever Prince is involved in this invasion would think twice before tangling in our affairs..." her aura, Jauffre's hone sense of her presence, became something dark and unnerving as she walked to the window and looked out onto the Chorral countriside.

"There are so few who it could be, given the forces involved. Not Boethiah- not His style. Not Azura, He would not use such unrefined means. Not Malacath, he is too... well, given the lack of orcs, I doubt he is involved. Not the Webspinner or the Nightmare-Queen either. Too blunt-edged for them." She murmured thoughtfully, seeming to have forgotten the two who stood behind her, or their horror. Jauffre made a decision, tipping the scales one way or the other. "Only ones I can think of off the top of my head would be either the Lord of Rape or Dagon himself... and Dagon is the only really likely one..."

She turned back to them.

"So you see..."

Jauffre had settled into a fighting stance.

~~

"Look, I'm sorry Emeet, but I think Jauffre is right. I should stay in this realm."

"But Martin, can't you see that you would be safe there? Aside from a small apocalypse..."

"I think I would rather my people's potential leader be sane thank you..."

"Why would you worry about that? You'd only a short time to spend in the Fringe. Besides, I wouldn't say you are completely sane, Martin. Nobody in Tamriel is, these days, and I thank the Nine for that."

She rode beside him on her sleek black horse, a placid, loyal creature that Martin hoped she hadn't stolen. He and Jauffre rode painted steeds.

"You're a strange one. Why would you thank the Nine?"

"Strange? Not at all. They rule here. I pay my respects to them because that is their due." She shrugged. "Besides, I was trained to be a useful individual. Why not be useful to them?"

Martin only shook his head.

"You know," he said, slowly, "I... Can understand. I once... well, I had a shady past. Do you know of the artifact known as Sanguine's rose?"

"Yes. I am aware of it." Her eyes widened, "I see. Did you..."

"Yes..." he said, looking away, "I did. Something horrible happened and my friends were slain... so I turned my back on those dark ways."

"Not all of those ways are dark, my friend." Emeet said, quietly. "Some are lit quite well."

Her voice was wistful, and he noticed that she fiddled with her own amulet as she said it.

Jauffre's voice cut through their attention. It was harsh, still full of anger from the row in the priory.

"Stop dallying and hurry! We must reach Cloud Ruler Fortress before we are found!"

Martin gave Emeet a small smile and forged ahead to catch up with the monk.

Emeet closed her eyes, letting her horse travel at its own pace. A single tear ran down her scaled face.

~~

"Haskill?" asked Ma'jeerah. His voice was high pitched and tinny with fear. There was almost a yowl in there, or a whimper.

He worried for his friend, on her knees on the ground, laughing wildly and insanely at the sky. Or, well, not that exactly. People did that sort of thing here. It happened at least twice a tenday.

But wasn't Emee's style and she was also on fire. It didn't look like it was actually burning her, and it apparently was the flame of Agnon that they were supposed to get, but it worried him, still.

"Is she..." he tried to still his panicked breaths. "Whats happening to her?"

"Ah. I see." Lord Sheogorath's chamberlain murmured. "It is as I thought."

"What? What is? Please tell me, Haskill, I don't want to..." The khajiit wiped away the tears that stained his fur. "I don't want to... Lose her..."

"There is no need to worry, she will return to her usual self soon. She is simply realizing her potential."

"Oh... Thats good... Whats her potential?"

Emeet was smart. Ma'jeerah knew that. But she was born under the Atronach birthsign, right? so she couldn't have magical potential... could she?

"Well, she is an unusual case. You know of Arden Sul, yes?"

"Well.. Yes, sir... We go to the temple all the time..."

"Of course. Well, he existed, in a way. He was a mortal hero here, in a way. It is impossible to determine what race he was, how he died, or even some of his deeds for certain..."

"Yes, but...?"

"Let me finish. This is because he was a fragment of the madgod himself, placed in mortal form. He is surrounded by uncertainty because he IS uncertainty. What is certain is that he died, and also that he made the Isles livable for mortals."

"Really?"

"Yes. He is the creator of the Flame of Agnon, which has been relit. It is a piece of the plane itself, ignited by the life of a deadra. Given this life, it helps to protect the plane from outside forces and, in addition, stabilizes it against internal forces. A mortal is given the task of carrying the fire to the torch of New Sheoth each time it needs to be relit, as only a mortal may bear the flames for any amount of time. Hence why young Emeet stepped into the flame."

Ma'Jeerah could swear that the man smiled.

"That she had such a reaction to the flames means that what I suspected has indeed come to pass. Arden Sul, a mortal fragment of Lord Sheogorath, has been reincarnated..." He gestured, "As her."

"What?!" said the young khajiit in shock, his tail fluffing out, "What... What does that mean?"

"It means," a Mazken said, reverence in her voice as she knelt before Emeet, "It means that we are saved."

~~

"Why are you looking at me like that, you incompetent clown?" Emeet sneered, silhouetted by the window of the Priory.

Jauffre charged at her, sword flashing.

He was still adept despite his injuries and age, enough to surprise the argonian as she blocked it with her own sword, a look of surprise dispelling the disturbing aura that had surrounded her. "What is your issue?"

"How did I not notice that you were a Deadra Worshipper?! How could the Emperor leave something so precious to someone such as you?!"

"He did. He trusted me and knew me. He also knew who I represented and where I was from. And yet..." Emeet pushed him off of her, sliding around, her sword at the ready. "And yet he still entrusted me with his Amulet and his son. Why? Do you think I would betray his trust?"

"It was you! Thats how they knew it was here! You betrayed him! You betrayed us!" He attacked again, slashing and parrying with great speed. She managed to keep up, but his greater experience meant that he was tiring her out. Jauffre knew that it would only be a matter of time.

"Thats... Thats absurd..." Emeet said, fighting to keep up, her demeanor more insulted than anything else. "If I had wanted to betray you and the Emperor, all I would have had to do is kill Martin. One little 'accident'..." she fended off another of Jauffre's well-timed slashes, "One little moment of negligence..." She dodged, nearly dancing out of the way, one arm free of sword or shield and crackling with gathering magic. "And then, easy as pumpkin pie, he would be dead, and you would have no hope." She let out a invocation in daedric and the air beside her distorted and popped as a Flesh Atronach- its flesh tanned and pale over its glowing purple insides- was pulled into Nirn.

It growled, something organic and gutteral, looking to Emeet for its order.

"Hold that man until he listens to reason." she ordered, dodging Jauffre's next blow. The thing groaned an assent and trundled over to the man, shrugging off his attacks, and restrained him.

Emeet put away her sword.

"Now. I'm on your side, you incompetent fool. Act like it." Emeet sat down. "And I am prepared to discuss this until you understand."

Martin groaned and sat down on a disarrayed table. This would take a while.

~~

"Do you ever shut up," Martin snapped at the argonian, his voice harsh. "There are people are dying out there, there are Deadra everywhere, and we're trapped in this temple. Can you do something other than talk at me? Like help?!"

He was normally a patient man. But when the ugly argonian lady walked into the temple in Kvatch, as if it was nothing to walk through a destroyed city full of deadra, she didn't stop talking for a minute. About Amulets, and Kings, and fathers he had never known, and healing, and various anecdotes related to healing, and details about the sort of deadra that were out there, and how they were nothing compared to what she had faced before... The list of what she wouldn't stop talking about went on and on. It would have been interesting if she had just. Stopped. ONCE. He didn't need this bullshit right now. They could all die at any moment!

"I'm terribly sorry..." she murmured, visibly hurt, "I... It’s just I have been looking for you! And I've been travelling alone for too long."

"Fine." Martin knew that he shouldn't have snapped at her, but who could blame him? "Look, just... stop talking for now and do something to help."

"Very well," she said, looking dejected. Surely there was a better use for her feelings than that. Why should she feel upset that he was quieting her, when there were people who needed help? In here and out there?

The argonian walked over to one of the many injured patients and started whispering, her hands glowing with healing magic. She shook her head and walked to the next. This time, she gave them a potion. She turned to look at the other injured and frowned.

"Ah." she said quietly, "I didn't... have as much magicka left as I thought..." The argonian frowned at Martin, and he couldn't help but notice that, set into her squat features, her mismatched eyes- one bright orange, the other green. Didn't argonians have red eyes? The colors honestly didn't suit her.

"Martin, I'm afraid I am of little use here..." She took out a battery of potions and set them down. "I... Hope they will be of some use." She walked to the door.

"What on Nirn are you doing?!" he cried, "There's deadra everywhere! you'll be killed!" was this some sort of ploy to garner attention? What was she, some insane argonian that had fallen for him? Or something?

"I know. I will take care of them."

The argonian left before he could say another word. He shook his head sadly. Another death. He was sure of it. And, now that she was surely doomed, he found himself missing her incessant conversation.

~~

"Marvelous! Incredible! Brilliant! Awful! Marvelously Incredibrilliful!" cried Lord Sheogorath, "This is great news! Or just news! News of Greatness!" He twirled with his staff, spinning in the thick air of the room.

"I did need someone to do my dirty work. Some of it is even bloody! Or just dirty. Anyway, Perfect! She's very perfect! Perfectly very! Where did you find her, Haskill?"

Emeet blushed deeply in her clown outfit. It was made for someone more grown, and a man, and so felt uncomfortable and didn't show her growing curves as well. It was strange that she would notice this in her nervous exhaustion, but no stranger than her ordeal up 'til now.

Next to her was her sword- discarded in haste, and the manuscript Haskill had told her to bring, half read and also discarded. A painting, half finished, sat unbalanced, on an easel. Her surroundings were haste incarnate, indeed, but full of satisfaction and relief.

She caught the last juggling ball with her free hand, cradling them to her chest, feeling both embarrassed and amused. She wasn't sure what she had been expecting when Haskill had brought her before the Madgod. Maybe a recitation as proof that she now knew and understood multiple forms of Deadric fluently? She had gotten partway through the manuscript when the lord of the asylum tossed up his hands and said 'Boring, BORING'. When an insane god calls you boring, you think fast and do something else before he finds something interesting to do with you (that likely involves extreme pain or death.) So Emeet had picked up her sword and did an impromptu sword dance.

She didn't know how she had become attuned to this unusual audience so fast, but the second she could tell he was beginning to bore, she tossed her sword down, wincing as the metal hit the stone floor, grabbed a discarded easel, paint and canvas tossed aside in the corner of the throne room, and started painting. She didn't even know what she'd been painted. She didn't even know how that easel had gotten there in the first place - some discarded fancy of Lord Sheogorath, or perhaps Haskill had prepared it? She hadn't had time to wonder.

Sensing boredom again, she had stopped painting and held up a hand, begging for some time, and rushed out to follow her desperate inspiration. She had stripped down some poor clown on the streets of Bliss, racing back with the clown suit on and a trio of juggling balls. She didn't know why she had thought of it only that it had worked. She wasn't dead. He was clapping. She wanted to collapse.

"She is a child from the city, milord." said Haskill, bowing, "a girl of many varied and promising talents. I am tutoring her myself, milord. I hope that she will be of use."

"Wonderful! Wonderfulling! I love children, especially with toast." He chuckled and Emeet felt a chill down her spine, even as she decided not to protest that she wasn't actually a child anymore. Right now, though, she felt like one. "Tutoring, you said, Haskill? Thats very unlike you! You never care about mortals. Very unlike." The Madgod's eyes narrowed, “I don't know if I like. To unlike something that is unlike you.”

"I simply saw great potential, milord, and wished to bring it out. Are you displeased?"

"Not at all! Not at all!” The madgod's mood changed back to effusiveness just as quickly as it had darkened, “The mortal has potential! Potentially mortal, yes!" He frowned.

"Now begone, girl. I'll think of some use for you, don't you worry." His smile was like a slaughterfish, or worse. Definitely Worse.

Emeet bsmiled politely at him and bowed, gathering up her things as best she could before bowing again and leaving, happy that she was alive and intact... and deliriously happy in general. Haskill followed, letting his lord process this for now.

"I did it!" she squealed once she was safely in the palace courtyard.

"Yes. Very excellent job in there. He did like you." said Haskill. Was that a smile playing on his face? He was always so serious - this was a moment to treasure! "I think you and he will go a long way together. That has been my feeling from the beginning."

She looked at him with tear filled eyes.

"You... you think so?"

"Yes." said Haskill, his smile fading until it was only in his eyes, "Very far."

~~

Haskill's face was placid as usual, but she could see him thinking. His eyes never lied.

Why was there no sadness? No pain? No bitterness? Sheogorath was dead. The Greymarch was here, despite all of her preparations, despite her efforts, despite His efforts... She knelt by where the Madgod had cried out and become something else and then vanished. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry.

So why? Why was he so calm?

The powerful khajiit mage stood by awkwardly with uncharacteristic uncertainty, but he didn't matter. He was a mortal who should have been able to save this plane. But no longer. Now he was just baggage. Another mortal life on Emeet's hands.

The Argonian looked at Haskill, her eyes begging him to tell her that it was an illusion. A prank. That Sheogorath was alive and laughing at her despair somewhere. She knew it wasn't true, but she was hopeful. It would be just like him to do something like that.

Haskill spoke.

"I think..." he said, turning to the two of them, "I have an idea that may salvage this."

~~

"Don't panic, I have an idea" Emeet said to the terrified guardsman,"and I think it might actually work."

"What... What do you plan to do? We're blocked in by those... those monsters!"

"Oh, come now. Its only a troop of Clannfear. Hardly the worst thing we could find on this plane."

The imperial had no words for that just stared at the insane argonian, clasping his sword so tightly that he was sure that the woman could hear it shake with his nerves.

"Look... Whats your name"

"Claudius. Claudius Venedicus."

"Right. Claudi, I need you to run, very, very fast. I'll shoot them with poisoned arrows, and they should fall before they get you. Just don't let them catch you."

"What?! No!" he hissed, looked at the deadra meandering in the hallway ahead.

"I mean..." he said quietly, "Thats insane."

"And that’s why it will work! Come on."

"No. How about you do the foolhardy running, and I'll shoot the monsters?!"

She looked at him a moment and then smiled a wild smile.

"Even crazier! Or maybe saner. That might work, too." She took out a few bottles of some viscous substance and handed them over. "Coat your arrows with this and aim true. Don't worry about hitting me, I don't poison easily." She stood up and peered out of their hiding spot.

"But..." The former Kvatch guardsman hadn't expected her to agree.

"Are you ready?" she asked, patting the sword at her side and grinning maniacally. "Lets go!"

Claudius sighed and drew his Imperial Guard standard-issue bow, gingerly dipping an arrow into the solutions she had given him. She had gotten them this far, he told himself. He was going to trust her again. It was all he could do, as she rushed out into the hallway and started shouting at the deadra. He took careful aim.

He could only trust her. Even if it was likely to get him killed.

~~

Emeet took aim at the Deadroth charging towards them and loosed, her arrow catching it in its eye. It snarled and sputtered, clawing at it.

"Hurry!" she shouted at the two mounted figures.

"But!" protested Martin, his horse tossing in fear. The oblivion gate roared and sang nearby. A few spider Deadra screamed as they cast their spells. A bolt of lightning sizzled just over his shoulder.

"Get on with it! Get to the fort!" shouted the argonian, loosing another arrow.

"Lets go!" said Jauffre, grabbing the reigns of Martin's horse and leading them both at lightning speed away from the oblivion gate to the fortress that loomed not to far ahead along the mountain road.

"But she'll..."

"By the Nine, boy, She'll be okay. Probably." It was a sure thing that the monk was hoping she wouldn't be okay, but Martin intended to let that slide right now and try to take his statement as-is. "We're almost there."

Martin grabbed onto his horse as they left her behind. He looked back, wanting to help her, but he knew what she needed him to do.

He hoped that the monk was right.

"Gods bless..." he said quietly and kept his head down.

*~~~*