While I’m back at the Mages Guildhall in Marbruk, I take the opportunity to check in with Valaste. She looks like she’s been depriving herself of sleep again and her fancy Altmer-blonde hair is almost slightly less than perfect.

“Translating not going well?” I ask.

Valaste sighs. “No, no. I already translated it. I just haven’t been able to piece together any clues that would lead us to the next piece of the puzzle.”

“Maybe you just need a madman to look at it,” I offer with a mad grin.

“Be my guest,” she says, gesturing broadly.

I go over to read the book. It is primarily comprised of the words ‘happiness is loneliness’ with odd spacing. This could be quite the puzzle to puzzle out if it didn’t immediately pull me through to somewhere else that I’m guessing is the Shivering Isles given that Sheogorath, his chamberlain, and some guy I don’t recognize are standing there.

“Welcome back, Nerevar!” Sheogorath exclaims. “That was fine work you did at Southpoint. Mayor Aulus is settling in nicely. He even already found a town to take over. Which he immediately failed at and wound up in a hut in the wilderness trying to tell the local wildlife to respect his authority. Ah, I had high hopes for that one. Well, now he’s the Mayor of Squirreltown.”

“Well, I’m glad he found his niche somewhere far, far away where he can’t annoy me anymore,” I say.

Sheogorath cheerfully explains what he wants me to do, in between laughing about it. He wants me to perform a play to entertain him. Violently. He even has a script for me. Sounds like fun. I even have an audience of dead lunatics. (Some of the other ‘actors’ are probably dead lunatics, too. That, or Daedra. Or just outright hallucinations. It’s hard to tell in here and doesn’t really matter anyway.)

The ‘play’, such as it is, involves each act involving one of the three alliances. First, we have the Ebonheart Pact, and the fake, ruined city is filled with Dunmer, Argonians, and Nords all peacefully living and working together in harmony. Then Sheogorath comes in and reminds that they’re supposed to hate one another, and they begin fighting. My part here is to kill everyone, because of course it is.

As I’m making my way through the ‘set’, I come across odd ghostly scenes playing out that appear to be Valaste’s memories. A lonely girl who liked to read growing up to become a brilliant member of the Mages Guild.

“Time for an intermission!” Sheogorath declares as I’m leaving that area. “Cheese for everyone!”

“Huzzah for cheese!” I say, and grab a piece to munch on.

“At least you’re not one of those boring sorts who refuse to eat cheese with me!” Sheogorath says. “So, what do you think of my little play so far?”

“Mm, very bloody,” I say. “Oh, doesn’t there need to be intermission music or something?”

“You’re absolutely right!” Sheogorath exclaims.

With a wave of his hand, three scamps playing a piano appear. They’re terrible at it.

“Ah, man, if I were a mage, I’d want a ‘Summon Scamps Playing a Piano’ spell,” I say. “It would be the perfect thing to set the mood. Although it might need some violins, too. Can never have too much violence.”

“Of course! I invented music, after all. Tell you what. You don’t actually care about these books anyhow, right? How about instead of the book, I give you the power to make music in thin air whenever you want?”

I sigh. “Alas, I’ll have to decline. As fun as that might be.”

“Oh, very well,” Sheogorath says. “On with the show! I think you’ll be familiar with this next batch: The Aldmeri Dominion!”

This time, the actors include facsimiles of Razum-dar, Queen Ayrenn, and some Bosmer I don’t recognize. No idea what he’s doing here instead of the King from the big tree. Not that it particularly matters since he doesn’t exactly have much to say anyway.

The faux Queen Ayrenn sends some mages (including me) to ‘exile’ via electrocution. Tickles a bit. (I should be more disturbed about having to bloodily chop up images of people I like, shouldn’t I? Oh well, huzzah for mental problems.)

Once the entire Aldmeri Dominion is dead (or at least the handful of fake ones in this ‘set’) I take a look around at the ruined buildings. Now I’m seeing memories involving Shalidor. I wonder if this is supposed to be part of the ‘play’ or if there’s something weird going on here. What am I saying? This is the Shivering Isles. It’s both.

Judging by these images, Shalidor lost his secret island to Sheogorath somehow, and then his wife left him. After talking to him while he was working and not even trying to get his attention first, and then claiming that he loves his work more than he loves her. Wow, that’s rude. If he’s anything like Seht, and I’ve seen that expression on Seht many times, he might lose himself in his work or reading to the point where the rest of the world might as well not be there. Not because he deliberately doesn’t care about anything else, but because that’s the way his mind works. I know I can get that way when I’m fighting, too.

(Did Ayem ever think I loved fighting more than I loved her? Somehow I don’t think even that would excuse avoiding talking things out like rational adults and skipping straight to the ritual murder.)

Shalidor is despondent in the next memory. “I would have given up the island for her…”

It’s probably far, far too late to give relationship advice to a dead archmage. It probably wouldn’t help to tell him that someone who truly loved him would respect something that was obviously important to him. But what do I know of true love, anyway? I tried to be a good friend, a good husband, a good Hortator, even if it was hard to be all of them at the same time. And yet… No, I’m not going to dwell on this. Not now, not here. If I’m going to dwell on how much of that all was my fault, if any of it was, it’s not going to be in the Shivering Isles. This place has a way of twisting your mind on the best of days, as much as I try to laugh it off. Focus.

The next part is, of course, the Daggerfall Covenant. I don’t know any of these people and don’t particularly care as I kick their asses. Pieces of fake Bretons, Redguards, and Orcs go everywhere and quickly vanish into the mists of Oblivion.

I’m apparently supposed to be rescuing my acquaintances from the Mages Guild, but it’s not exactly them them. I don’t think, anyway. I mean, it’s not like Sheogorath can’t yank Shalidor around all he wants and has before, but Shalidor is already dead. Just a very solid sort of dead. Kind of like me. (I wonder if Skyshards can be shoved into him, too?)

After concluding the climactic final battle and going through a brief denouement, Sheogorath asks for my opinions and critique even though he’s really not asking for critique but praise, so I give him praise.

“The sideshows showcasing mental illness were a nice touch,” I say. “I can’t speak for the characterization of the other two alliances as I’m not familiar with them, but the likenesses to Queen Ayrenn and Razum-dar weren’t bad. Oh, and there was plenty of action. Tension! Conflict! Every good story needs plenty of conflict, after all. In fact, it being pretty much nonstop conflict, that must make it an excellent story.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Glad you liked it!” Sheogorath says, and gestures toward another book fluttering in the air. “As promised, here’s your book. Unless you’ve changed your mind on wanting that music spell..”

“No thanks,” I say. “I’ll just pay someone to follow me around with a lute, I guess.” I pause thoughtfully. “Can I still get it if I get some royal person to do a spit-take?”

“Hmm, I like the way you think!” Sheogorath says. “Deal! This better be good.”

I pull out my butterfly net and catch the glowing purple book. As I do, the world shifts and I find myself back in the Marbruk Mages Guildhall.

When I see Valaste, I remember the images I saw of a young woman who was mocked for liking to read too much, then being afraid that her books had betrayed her when she couldn’t make sense of these pieces of insane literature. Who, at the end there, sounded like she was starting to crack.

“Valaste,” I say. “Where do you see yourself going when you die?”

“Aetherius, I assume,” Valaste says. “Although I should hope not for a long time yet! Why do you ask? Is this about something you saw in the Madgod’s trial?”

“I saw you there, or a vision of you at any rate,” I say. “Shalidor, too. Listen, I know this project is important to you, but you ought to take a step back and take a break. Spend some time talking to Shalidor. I think you’ve got more in common than you may realize.”

“But I want to get started on translating the next book right away,” Valaste protests.

I smirk widely and toss the book in my pack. “Nope. Mandatory break. For your own mental health. You’re going to lose it if you stare at the Madgod’s words for too long. I know I’m not the best one to talk about mental health—I know I’m nuts—but I’m also the only person you’ve got willing to play the Madgod’s games and I’m going to be busy for a while. I’ve got to deal with some racist bandits who want to kill a plant man, and then catch a shifty guy who stole a magic stick from this Guildhall and probably hit him repeatedly and take the stick back from his corpse.”

“Wait, something was stolen from this Guildhall?” Valaste asks.

I give her a look. “Vicereeve Pelidil is the prime suspect in the theft of the Staff of Magnus. You didn’t hear about it?”

“Right under my nose!?” Valaste says. “I was so busy working on trying to puzzle out that book…”

“Yeah, that’s not your fault,” I say. “The people who were supposed to be guarding it dropped the ball and weren’t suspicious of a guy they had no reason to be suspicious of. Me, I’m suspicious of anyone that acts suspiciously, and that guy has been suspicious every time I encountered him.”

“Still…” Valaste sighs. “Are you sure you won’t let me read the book?”

“Only if you can tell me that you intend to consign your soul to the Shivering Isles,” I say.

“Was it that bad?”

“Is that a no?” I ask.

Valaste stares at me for a moment, then glances around the room. “Well, Sheogorath is brilliant and I wouldn’t mind a visit as I’m sure it’s lovely there, but I hadn’t really intended on spending eternity there. Very well. I suppose I will have to take a break, then, if you insist. I suppose I have been overdoing it a bit.”

I head out of the Mages Guild to locate Queen Ayrenn and let her know what’s going on with Bramblebreach. I probably should have done this before taking a jaunt to the Shivering Isles but I completely forgot that there’s actually someone in town who might care about what I’ve been doing in a sense other than exchanging stories for the sake of bragging rights at Brackenleaf. (Bragging rights are a valid currency good for a mug of rotmeth at many Bosmer establishments. If you tell a good story about a tough fight you had once, someone will probably give you a drink.)

Ayrenn has taken up residence at a house in town. Naemon assured her that he had given no orders to Pelidil to do anything like this, and she believes him. I’ll take her word that she trusts her brother still and go upstairs to question him myself.

Naemon is uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes barely leaving the floor to glance up at me for a moment when I come in. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Nice to see you again, too,” I say.

“I’m sure you’ll forgive that you’re not the person I would most choose to spend time with,” Naemon says.

“Who would be?” I ask. “Vicereeve Pelidil?”

Naemon sighs. “I explained to my sister, and the guard, and several very annoyed mages, I did not order him to take the Staff of Magnus nor did I say anything that might imply that I would like it done. This was as much of a shock to me as anyone else.”

I watch him, gauging his tone and body movements. He’s tired and frustrated, that much is clear, but guilty? I don’t see it.

“Naemon,” I say. “I don’t like you. I meant every single one of those taunts I made in your general direction when you were turned ugly to keep you away from the mage who was making you pretty again. Come on. Let’s go get a drink.”

His indignant look gets replaced by one of pure puzzlement at that last. “What?”

“Do you not drink? I have moon sugar, too. And Hist sap, if you’re feeling especially daring.”

“How did you… never mind,” Naemon says. “Why do you want to go drinking with me?”

“Because you’re sitting up here holed up in the attic of your sister’s summer home, you’re questioning your life choices, the only man you really seemed to trust betrayed everyone, and you can’t even tell me who your best friend is that you want to go drinking with.”

“Royalty can’t afford to have ‘best friends’,” Naemon grumbles.

“No?” I say. “Dunno what you’d call Ayrenn and Raz, then.”

“That’s different,” Naemon says. “He’s her spymaster. And they adventured together, out when she was gallivanting about having adventures when I was memorizing the court rituals she couldn’t be bothered with… ah, I say too much.”

“Normally people don’t grumble quite that far until they’ve had at least one drink, but it’s good to get it started,” I say.

“I don’t know what she sees in you, either,” Naemon says. “You’re a nobody, a commoner, and probably not even a full-blooded Altmer.”

“I’m not an Altmer,” I say. “Ayrenn didn’t tell you anything?” I chuckle. “Just as well. You might have slipped something to Pelidil, who has definitely proven his trustworthiness at this point.”

“What’s to tell?” Naemon wonders.

“I’ll tell you everything if you have a drink with me,” I say, winking, a bottle of wine appearing from my bag. “This stuff looked pretty fancy! Russafeld, wonder where that is?”

“Summerset,” Naemon says, picking it up to look at it. “Did you just pick that up because it looked fancy?”

“I don’t even remember where I got half the things in this pack, honestly,” I say. “Anyway, I’ve been doing mental health checks today after taking a jaunt to the Shivering Isles to pretend to kill everyone, and I think you need one. Oh! Yeah, I think that’s where I got that. It was from the Aldmeri Dominion section where Ayrenn tried to electrocute me. I grabbed everything that looked interesting while I was there.”

Naemon quickly puts down the bottle of questionable origins.

“Anyway,” I say. “One drink, and I’ll tell you how to be a king, have a bunch of friends, and then get murdered by them. Maybe you can manage to avoid that last, but I don’t regret having friends for even a moment.”

“Why would you come here looking after my mental health?” Naemon asks.

“Because apparently I’m the only therapist in Marbruk and I’m not a therapist,” I say. “What do you want to hear? That I’m just trying to get you drunk so you’d spill anything you know about Pelidil? That I pity you and your lack of friends? That I like your sister and think she’d be happier if you weren’t moping in her attic?”

“You don’t really think you have a chance with her, do you?” Naemon asks.

“Does it matter? I’m already dead. Albeit a very lively sort of dead.”

Naemon blinks. “Who are you?”

I gesture toward the wine bottle.

“I’ll have a drink of something you didn’t acquire in the Shivering Isles,” Naemon says, standing up to go find his (or his sister’s) own stash instead. A much safer option.

Downstairs, Ayrenn has found some ubiquitous paperwork to work on. I take a swig from the bottle as I follow him downstairs. It doesn’t taste like anything out of the ordinary, so for all I know Sheogorath just swiped some wine from Russafeld at some point. I haven’t started hallucinating yet, either.

“Dear sister, your pet lunatic is drinking alcoholic beverages acquired in Oblivion and wishes me to partake in some sort of primitive drinking ritual before he will share with me the secrets of how to win friends and influence people.”

“You’re going to need at least two drinks for that one,” I say.

Ayrenn looks to be struggling to avoid laughing.

“I just offered to tell you my name,” I say. “Take a drink of something, anything, and I will tell you my name. I don’t even care if it’s milk, if you’re a milk-drinker.”

“I believe there are some bottles in the kitchen,” Ayrenn says.

“Is this worth it?” Naemon asks her.

“Oh, absolutely,” Ayrenn assures him. “I’m surprised he’s willing to tell you at all.” She disappears into the next room.

“I have faith that you can become a better person,” I say. “The future isn’t set in stone, no matter what Prophets and Daedra might try to tell you, and whatever some dead Ayleids think your inner self was, no one is as simple as simply being a monster.”

Ayrenn returns to offer a glass of red wine to her brother.

“He’s not just a lunatic, is he,” Naemon says with a frown, taking the wine and taking a sip.

“My name is Indoril Nerevar Mora.”

Naemon violently spews red wine out of his mouth, coughs and sputters, and finally manages, “You couldn’t have waited until I’d swallowed to say that!?”

The audible sound of bells from nowhere is accompanied by a madman’s (or Madgod’s) laughter in my head and a congratulation. And Naemon should just be glad I didn’t say “I’m fucking your sister.”