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Dreams were connected to Vaermina; they were her domain.
Even so, Sheogorath couldn't resist the occasional urge to slip into a dream himself. As a daedra, it was rather difficult. Daedra did not tire and did not sleep. He had to rely on memories, the ever-fading memories of a time long past.
When Sheogorath wished to dream, he'd conjure up a memory, but regard it as a separate thing, a realm in which Sheogorath could see the things no longer found on Nirn. The faces of long dead allies and a building that had aged into a ruin. The sensation of a fire that had long ceased to burn and books that spoke of knowledge long forgotten, Sheogorath thought about them all and came as close as he could to dreaming.
Vaermina wouldn't mind his effort; either that, or she'd given up caring entirely.
In his mind, Sheogorath saw the interior of Cloud Ruler Temple's main hall, kept warm by the fire in the hearth. The hall was occupied daily by the Blades, agents of the Empire, and the Emperor. Emperor, Sheogorath thought longingly, was a title the man in question never wore, not without some hesitance and a sense that, if he had lived to rule, he'd make a poor choice.
Sheogorath himself never believed that, neither did the Blades, especially the one Redguard who stood vigilant near the Emperor at all times. Such a brave lad, Sheogorath thought, recalling all the times the Redguard had braved death and still had the strength to smile and carry on.
There was little that could be said for the other Blades, patrolling the halls and training in the front yard, and shamefully, not much else. Sheogorath couldn't recall the names of most of them and didn't care. He could live with that information being lost.
He couldn't, however, bear the thought of the memory of the Emperor being lost too.
At one of the desks, the one covered with books both old and relatively new, sat the Emperor-that-never-was. Sheogorath thought his name with reverence: Martin. Martin Septim.
On some nights, Sheogorath would sit near Martin. There were a variety of reasons why, such as wanting to make sure he was safe and admiring his tenacity to keep reading a book that had the potential to drive him insane -- or so he claimed.
Sheogorath could envision himself sitting on that same chair, next to Martin's desk, watching him. This time, there was no longer the armed and armored youth with blood, soot and dirt on their person, or a feeling of near-constant exhaustion from having to enter the Deadlands to shut down Gates and from entering haunted ruins for the needed components of a spell.
Much had to be endured during that time period, yet Sheogorath never regretted it. He'd do it all over again for the man he was envisioning himself, in full Prince regalia, watching.
No doubt Martin would not take kindly to anyone but the mortal youth sitting by his side. He'd been annoyed enough to know the youth had acquired a selection of daedric artifacts, among them the Wabbajack, and spoke derisively of the staff. He would probably have a heart-attack had he lived to see said youth become a Daedric Prince, the very owner of said staff.
Sheogorath smiled sadly at the thought. He'd neither wanted to lose Martin or become something most hated or feared. There was no doubt in Sheogorath's mind he'd give away his divinity for a chance to truly see Martin again, in the flesh and safe from harm.
Alas, Sheogorath was reduced to trying to conjure up those old memories of the Emperor, of his loyal Blades, and of the place which the Emperor had spent much of the Oblivion Crisis hiding, and hating himself for it.
As the Martin in his dream continued to read, eyes fixed on the pages yet fully aware of the Redguard behind him and the youth next to him, Sheogorath felt that urge to reach out again. He'd had it even back then, wanting to touch and confirm without a layer of doubt, that Martin was alive and well. Sheogorath wanted to do the same in the dream, touch what he knew was fake but didn't care all the same.
The Daedric Prince sat mournfully in that place, eyes focused on the Emperor - on Martin - as he fought the urge to reach out, fought with every fibre of his being because he knew it would break his own heart to try. Martin was gone, present only in the memories of the last person alive who knew him.
"Martin..."
Sheogorath uttered the name and bright blue eyes fixed themselves on him. For the briefest of moments, Sheogorath thought it was truly Martin staring back, but even a Madgod had a hold on reality - understood it - and quickly realized Martin could not see him. He saw the youth, who'd uttered his name countless times as well.
For no reason, Martin smiled. It was as if he enjoyed the youth's presence. His smile was beautiful. Sheogorath recalled beating down a stubborn lich and its small army of undead simply for the chance to see Martin smile again.
To see Martin alive was the greatest wish this Daedric Prince had.
"Yes, dear friend?"
Sheogorath withheld the urge to respond. He didn't think he could form words, not with the crushing sorrow threatening to leap out of his throat, either as a sob or a plea, a request to have the man back. Martin could never - would never - see the grief overtaking the Prince at that moment.
It was easier to blame Mehrunes Dagon and his Mythic Dawn cult for the loss, but there were times Sheogorath blamed himself.
"Why hadn't I done everything more quickly? We could have had time. Why did I take so long?"
Months spent gathering the components, shutting down Gates and gathering guardsmen to defend Bruma, all the while killing sleeper agents and trying desperately not to die. Sheogorath had often thought the youth hadn't tried hard enough still.
Had he heard those words, Martin would have certainly rejected the notion outright.
A single tear dropped onto the desk.
As Martin reached forward, his fingers brushed the reddened cheek of an embarrassed youth, too mindless to avoid uttering a man's name while he was busy. The Daedric Prince, on the other hand, was no longer there. He would return soon, when longing drew him back to the repeated scene of an Emperor-to-be studying and his Blades patrolling and guarding.
A hundred years, two hundred years, no time would be long enough to make the memory fade, to make it any less valuable.
"I love you."
The End