I really didn’t need to re-experience the experience of being sacrificed to a Daedric Prince, never mind having deliberately done it to myself this time. My friends are right. I am absolutely insane.

I find myself engulfed in a land of ash with a sky of smoke. A figure appears before me, like an Orc with horns wearing nothing but a loincloth and I’m not going to think about Malacath’s loincloth now. Oh, and that ring that was supposed to hide me? It did not come with me, nor did anything else. The Ashpit saw fit to give me my own loincloth though, so props to Malacath for the dignity.

“What is this?” he says, looking down to examine me intently. “Nerevar? What are you doing here?”

“Ah, hello,” I say. “Malacath, I presume? You noticed my arrival awfully quickly.”

“I had my eye on the situation in Jathsogur,” Malacath replies. “Your involvement was… unexpected.”

“That’s me,” I say. “Ruling king of ‘unexpected’ since the First Era.”

“You had some means of concealing yourself from my sight,” Malacath says. “I had very nearly pierced it when you appeared here.”

“The ring was working? Oh, good. No, I wasn’t trying to hide from your sight specifically. I was trying to avoid the attention of my former friends. You know, the ones who betrayed and murdered me and sacrificed me to Molag Bal and made themselves into false gods. I don’t want them to realize I’ve escaped until I’ve found a way to reclaim my soul and strip their godhood from them and destroy them and tear down everything they’ve built.”

I may have reformed in a body without any calming substances in it and in the presence of a vengeful god. The madness in my mind might find Sheogorath alluring, but there’s something that appeals to me about the Defender of the Betrayed. It feels so very right.

“Ah!” Malacath exclaims, grinning widely. “Your heart burns with rage and desire for revenge! Those three betrayed you just as those they claim as their ‘Anticipations’ betrayed me…”

I give a ragged sigh. “Yes. That they did. Fetchers, the lot of them.”

“Why did you sacrifice yourself to me?” Malacath wonders.

“The book said the Silvenar would die if it wasn’t a willing sacrifice,” I say. “And I wanted to save him because I like him but like fuck am I sacrificing anyone else in a Daedric ritual.”

“So you sacrificed yourself instead, knowing that you have a tether binding you to Nirn and preventing you from being trapped in Oblivion,” Malacath says as he starts laughing. “Or were you not so confident you’d be able to return? Did you simply fearlessly hurl yourself into the Ashpit without knowing you’d be able to return?”

“Wait, I can return anytime?” I wonder in genuine surprise. “Damn. All I did was get wayshrine-to-wayshrine teleportation working. I didn’t exactly feel like experimenting with it further and I’ve been kept awfully busy hitting things.”

Malacath laughs heartily, then says, “You really didn’t know. Ah, I won’t mock you for it. You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. You’re more reckless than I’d have expected.”

“Yeah, well, being betrayed by everyone he cared about and then spending a few thousand years in Oblivion turned the calm, charismatic Hortator into a bloodthirsty lunatic bent on revenge. I’m sure you understand.”

Malacath rumbles in furious agreement.

Why couldn’t I have realized that when I thought I’d be trapped in Coldharbour again? Maybe I’d have eventually tried but I was far too ready to accept my return to the prison and that voice, that voice. That voice that would declare me champion of the God of Schemes and demand that I scour Nirn in his name. That constant fear that I would be forced to turn on everyone I care about and burn down everything I helped to build.

That thought that filled me with such terror only brings me rage, here and now. There’s no room for paranoia in Malacath’s domain. I might even feel safe here… and it reminds me of the Ashlands in a way that hurts with nostalgia more than I’d ever imagined.

“You left your friends to fight without you,” Malacath comments.

“I have faith in them to be able to kill a few more assholes,” I say. “A good leader trusts their followers and can’t fight every battle personally.”

Malacath grins. “And what are your plans for these Orcs? You… turned them to stone? Why?”

“So I didn’t have to kill them,” I say. “They’d been deceived by those Hircine-worshippers and it seems like every chief in Malabal Tor has simultaneously lost their minds. I intended to restore them to flesh once their chief and shaman were dead and convince them that I’m in charge now like I did at Dra’bul.”

“Dra’bul accepted a non-Orsimer as their chief?” Malacath wonders.

“I was very persuasive,” I say. “I challenged their chief to a duel to the death and then made his niece my hearth-wife.”

“You married an Orc?” Malacath asks. “Just to solidify your leadership?”

“No, not at all,” I say. “Roku is amazing and I… I love her dearly.” I pause. “Damn. I should probably tell her that, not you.” I laugh softly at myself.

“Yes, you should!”

“Malacath…” I say, then pause. “Would you rather be called Lord Malacath? Or Mauloch? Or whatever?”

“Whatever,” Malacath says with a shrug. “I lost my name, so it’s not like it matters at this point. Mortals bend the knee too easily. You’re not groveling at me, though. Stand tall! Bow to no one, not even me.”

“Still, I’d rather you have my soul than him,” I say. “And I’d rather return here than Coldharbour, whenever I’m done hitting things on Nirn.”

Malacath nods. “And you will need to wrest your soul from Molag Bal’s grasp for that.”

“That ring I had,” I say. “I had it made to try to protect me from those who betrayed me, who would use their stolen power to destroy me if they discovered me before I’m able to take my revenge. And from Molag Bal, to keep his eye off me on my next sortie into Coldharbour because I am not fucking done with him yet but I am not yet prepared to battle a Daedric Prince. I was told that I’d need the blessing of a god for that. Will you give me yours?”

Malacath is quiet for a moment, then says, “Not far from Jathsogur lies the ruins of an Ayleid city that was built upon the bones of my people. Now, Worm Cultists swarm the ruins, seeking to summon an avatar of Mauloch to wreak havoc upon Valenwood.”

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“Aren’t you Mauloch?” I ask.

Malacath shrugs broadly. “People call me all sorts of things. Some are more polite than others. In any case, it’s not like the destruction of Valenwood is in my best interests, and they think they’ll have me do their bidding, the troll-brained corpse fuckers. Go there and prove your strength against them and I will name you my champion! Bring your ring to the shrine there and I will bless it for you.”

“Consider it done,” I say, grinning wildly.

“Go now,” Malacath says. “Take your link to the wayshrines and reach out to the stars to cross realms. No one may hold you prisoner!”

I start the same procedure that I’ve done a million times to hop from wayshrine to wayshrine, but this time without having an actual wayshrine in front of me. My mind opens to the stars, albeit much more slowly than I would have done from a wayshrine, and I can feel the locations of all the wayshrines I’ve lit. I link up with the one outside of the stronghold I was just in, the most recent one I’ve found.

Smoke consumes my vision, and I find myself standing before a wayshrine near a wooden bridge. I cough involuntarily as my vision clears. My friends are standing nearby, as well as the Silvenar and his advisors, looking rather shaken but none the worse for wear.

“Neri!” Gelur exclaims, coming up to see if I need healing. “You’re alright. Guess we should know better than to doubt you at this point. Where’d you get the loincloth?”

“Ashpit,” I say. “I met Malacath. I think he liked me. What about you guys? Are you alright? Did you have any trouble with the remaining Orcs?”

“Nothing Gelur couldn’t heal,” Eran says.

“Still a bit weak, but I’ll be fine, thanks to you and your friends,” the Silvenar replies. “I’m glad to see you well from your sudden trip to the Ashpit. Were people so distraught when I died as my advisors were when I saw them?”

“Yeah, although they didn’t really have much of a chance to work themselves up into a full breakdown before you resurrected,” I say.

“I couldn’t believe how calm your friends were about it,” Sariel says, her voice shaking. “You went down screaming but they just acted like you do this every day!”

I exchange a look with my friends, who are unable to keep a straight face at that.

“This one is not sure which is worse,” Ilara says, ears flicking. “That you keep sacrificing yourself, that we keep letting you, or that you keep coming back anyway.”

“You have my gratitude, once again,” the Silvenar says. “I ought to be getting to Silvenar. There are still many preparations to be made. You’re invited to my wedding, of course. You’re all invited.”

“And you’re invited to mine!” I reply. “I wouldn’t want to overshadow the Silvenar marrying the Green Lady, though.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” the Silvenar says sincerely.

We part ways with the Silvenar and go back through Jathsogur. Merry restores the Orcs to flesh and I convince them to stop being idiots. They’re quick enough to acknowledge me being in charge now after what we’ve done here. For some reason the Orcs of Jathsogur find an ash-covered guy wearing a loincloth very convincing. Also there’s an Orc (Mog) who spent the entire fight fishing and thought their chief’s plans with the Houndsmen were stupid and he knew it would end poorly.

“He wanted to rule all the Wood Orcs of Malabal Tor,” Mog says. “Seems you’ve got a better chance of succeeding at that. Kind of funny.”

“You think anyone’s going to be terribly upset about being beaten up, turned to stone, and then berated to get in line?” I wonder.

Mog laughs aloud. “They’re probably going to be ashamed of themselves, to be sure. If they were stupid enough to challenge you, you’ve got every right to respond however you wish. You’ve proven your strength here.”

“Well, if it makes any difference, Malacath said he’d declare me his champion if I stopped the Worm Cult from defiling his shrine in the Ayleid ruins near here. Could I get directions to them? I’m very good at hitting things and very bad at reading maps.”

Mog makes a soft choking sound at that, and recovers after a moment. “Head back down to the main road and cross the wooden bridge by the wayshrine.”

I gather my party and head out to follow his directions, although it turns out to be easier than anticipated as along the way, we encounter a Bosmer asking for help. He wants us to rescue a woman named Arithiel, who of course turns out to be in a cage on the opposite side of the ruins and by the time we find her, we’ve already killed most of the cultists in the ruins exterior.

Arithiel tells us about what the cultists are planning here (which Malacath already told me) while Gelur heals her up. She seems quite concerned over the prospect of Mauloch stomping all over Tamriel.

“Yes, well, Mauloch himself told me to come here and kick their asses,” I say.

“Oh,” Arithiel says. “I wouldn’t have taken you for—uh…”

“A Daedra worshipper?” I finish with a chuckle. “We’re going to need to get inside the ruins.”

Arithiel is a little dubious about my proclamation but upon seeing all the dead cultists, explains how we’ll need those stupid blue magic rocks the Ayleids loved so much. We look for them while making sure there’s absolutely nothing left moving on the surface here aside from us, alive or undead. With those in hand, we take them to the entrance to the underground and set two of them in sconces to open the doors.

The interior is, of course, filled with more cultists and undead. Also a Khajiit spirit trapped in a room with a constellation puzzle, because an Ayleid ruin isn’t complete without a gratuitous constellation puzzle. We free her quickly and move on.

We place the last two blue crystals into their sconces to unseal the door leading further inside, but it still refuses to open. Another stone sitting in a sconce in front of it is swirling black ominously and I go over to take a closer look at it.

A voice echoes in my head and never have I been so thankful that a Daedric Prince didn’t immediately know who I am because it’s fucking Boethiah. I quickly break off my contact without bothering to ask any further questions just as Boethiah is telling me about how Arithiel isn’t trustworthy and should be sacrificed.

“Ugh,” I groan. “Boethiah. Here. For some reason. Just what I needed today.”

While the Chimer had considered Boethiah to be one of the ‘Good Daedra’, Azura had been my patron and I hadn’t been particularly devout toward the other two. Although the Chimer considering Boethiah, Mephala, and Azura to be ‘Good Daedra’ might say more about the Chimer than anything else.

“Alright, Arithiel,” I say, not wanting to shorten her name to ‘Ari’ because that’s someone else. “What’s your deal? I told you mine.”

“My deal?” Arithiel asks.

“Boethiah thinks I can’t trust you and I can’t trust Boethiah so I’m just asking you,” I say.

Arithiel reluctantly tells me about how she used to be a Worm Cultist and a worshipper of Molag Bal but had a change of heart after they destroyed everything she cared about and tried to force her to murder her kin. She does this with entirely too many pauses and diversions and thinks it’s horrible and we should sacrifice her so that she can atone for her crimes.

“We will not be sacrificing you to Boethiah,” I say. “Let’s just go grab one of the damned cultists. I think there’s still some crawling around here. Getting sent to Boethiah instead of Molag Bal will just annoy them and most of them are feeling stupid rather than repentant.”

“You’re showing me mercy?” Arithiel asks.

“You didn’t kill anyone I liked, I don’t think at least, and I’m a firm believer in second chances. But make no mistake that you’re working for me now.”

“Of course,” Arithiel says. “Thank you. I won’t disappoint you.”

I might have been willing to sacrifice myself to Malacath, but like fuck am I putting myself in Boethiah’s hands if there’s any alternative even if I can probably get out again. Fortunately, there’s still some cultists we missed hiding in a corner, who work perfectly well for getting the stupid door open. I swear, what I really need is a siege mage who can tear down walls. (Preferably without collapsing the entire ruin on top of us.) Magically sealed doors are annoying enough when they don’t require blood sacrifices.

We get into the inner sanctum and kill some more cultists and the Daedra they summon, including a medium-sized Ogrim. This one human woman seems to be in charge here but her shit-talking gets cut short quickly enough.

A round stone table with a large brazier behind it is flanked by two red banners bearing Malacath’s axe sigil, and the arrogant human cultist’s dead body lays in a bloody mess on the altar.

“It’s done, Malacath,” I say, going up to shove the body off the altar and causing even more of a bloody mess. Okay, I’m pretty sure Malacath won’t mind me getting blood everywhere in his shrine.

A much more welcome voice echoes through the cave. “Your actions have pleased me, Nerevar. My shrine has been cleansed with the spilled blood of these defiling worms! Place your ring upon my altar.”

I pull the ring off my finger and place it on top of the bloody altar. Smoke curls around it, and in a twist of blackness, the emblem on it changes from a sun to a battle axe icon with a bronze handle and a green orichalcum axe head.

“Take your ring, and my blessing,” Malacath says. “An artifact needs a suitable name. Call it… One-Clan-Over-Ash-and-Fire.” He rumbles a laugh at that. “Otherwise you might name it something ridiculous like I have heard you typically name your weapons.”

“I do love the irony, though,” I say, picking up the ring and slipping it on a finger.

“Azura had her chance, but you are my champion now,” Malacath says. “The others will not find you. Not the Eight or the Sixteen or the Three Betrayers. They will not see Nerevar the Betrayed. They will see only Neri gro-Drublog.”