Chapter Text
The sky is wrong.
Stars streak in dizzy, incoherent patterns across something vivid and violet, half-obscured by what she'd almost call clouds if not for the way they move, writhing across the sky like bored insects. All around her, gold and green grasses dotted with colorful and strange-looking flowers spread across a rolling hill; trees and massive glowing mushrooms stretch up into the wrong sky. Sorona takes a step forward, and the world warps - there's a door made from roots in front of her and it parts to let her through. Down, down, down, down into the deep, and she's standing in a dark cavern lit only by an obelisk glowing green with daedric lettering.
Water laps up against the edges of it, and against the tree grown through the cavern, moving in time with her breath, as if by breathing she becomes the wind. Something pulls her forward until she's kneeling at the edge of the pond, and she leans forward and looks down at its surface. It should be too dark to see anything, but the green-glow brightens until it runs through the water like blood.
Reflected in the surface is her own face, but wrong. The reflection's hair is down, tangled around her face, the dragon hairstick from Martin wrapped in the loose hair on the left side of her face, its ruby eyes lit with a faint flicker of gold. Her eyes are slit-pupiled and too-bright, she's wearing a deep-necked royal purple and gold gown, and there are butterflies in her hair like a lopsided crown. The smile on her face is unnerving in its sharpness and the way it doesn't reach her eyes.
"Just look at you," she purrs. "You don't know anything, do you?" She shakes her head like she's trying to clear it, and one of the butterflies in her crown flutters its blue wings weakly, as if trying to escape. It doesn't move - can't move, maybe. "Useless, useless, useless little thing, aren't you forgetting something?"
"What are you?" Sorona demands, bracing her hands against her knees and leaning closer to the water, as if she could see more clearly that way. "Why are you wearing my face?"
She's been here before. She's dreamed of these lands before. But never anything like this, and never a dream where she could speak back.
Her reflection smiles wider, though her eyes stay cold as stones. "Now now. It's My face - you're just borrowing it. I'm letting you borrow it, which is really very magnanimous of Me, and if you keep questioning Me, I might change My mind. And your face." The water ripples and something breaks the surface of it, curling cold and too-tight around Sorona's chin. How close has she leaned down? She was just- "As for what I am…you were already warned, weren't you?"
That cold something yanks and Sorona loses her grip on her knees, collapses forward face-first into the water, only there's a face against hers and hands cradling her as gently as Martin's once had, slightly-too-long fingers running through her bangs. Her reflection presses a kiss to her lips, chaste and then decidedly not, mouth moving against hers until she parts her lips despite herself - and then bites down, hard, on her bottom lip with sharp teeth. Blood flows into Sorona's mouth - her own blood, and something else too, magicka that dances down her throat and tastes like the wind and the stars and ecstasy and emptiness, like she's swallowed a bolt of lightning.
There's water in her lungs. She can't breathe, and she's dizzy with it. Her reflection licks the blood up with a flash of heat and all Sorona can do is whimper - in desperate desire or forceful rejection, she doesn't know, can't say. Something flutters in her throat, trapped inside her mouth, jeweled wings thrashing against her cheeks like an attempt at metamorphosis; her heart thrashes with them and it's as if her entire body is a poorly-fitting cocoon for something she can't understand. She wants something- needs something- green-gold flows through her veins alongside her blood-
Her reflection breaks the kiss and tugs her further forward still, brushing blood-hot lips against her ear, and whispers, "Be wary of Madness."
And then the water takes her, and she drowns, and she drowns, and she drowns.
When Sorona opens her eyes, it's morning. Dawn light bleeds through her bedroom window, a weak, pale grey against the gauzy white curtains; she turns her head sideways to look out at the estate's grounds, blinking against it, and sighs. Her chest is sore, her throat aching like she's been coughing, and when she tugs one hand out from under the blankets to brush over her lower lip, she feels tiny scabs left behind, as if her dream, strange as it was, had actually been- something real, or at least something physical.
Truth be told, since the second or third time she dreamt of that odd place, with its sky that doesn't belong on Mundus, she's wondered if they weren't really dreams at all - or dreams, yes, but reflecting reality. That sky, those plants, and the gate in the mouth of a statue that she keeps thinking she should recognize, they've all been too regular to be anything but. (Especially since she refuses to make the same mistake twice - to dismiss her dreams as meaningless when maybe if she'd paid more attention to the warning the Amulet gave her, Martin would still be alive.)
And that woman, the one wearing Sorona's face, had had a dremora's eyes.
A plane of Oblivion, then? It must be, not that she knows enough to recognize which one. Ocato doesn't have a significant amount of literature on Daedric Princes, and her studies, the past few months, have been focused elsewhere. The nature of the Divine - as best as anyone can comprehend it, at least - the rules, and lack of, that govern Time, and an attempt to bring her understanding of metaphysics and the foundations of magic and the universe up to a University professor's level have taken up most of her time, especially the latter. It's been a challenge, trying to figure out what she needs to learn, because she doesn't entirely know what she's looking for, even now.
A basic understanding of, well, everything isn't enough to let her invent a spell to rewind time, but she'd known from the beginning she would never be able to. She'll never be as clever and gifted a mage as Martin was, and she doesn't intend to try; she doesn't have the kind of time to develop his level of experience. No, what she's been looking for is power - power and leverage, enough of it to force Akatosh to work with her. She can't recreate the rituals that shattered the Dragon, but why would she try? She doesn't need Him to break, just to give her what she wants - either Martin back, alive and mortal and hers again, or history undone and redone in her favor.
Maybe she should have been studying Oblivion. The Aedra, as a whole, are either too distant or too Divine to be what she needs, except perhaps Talos, but she's no Septim, to be able to call on the founder of the dynasty at will, and it may be for Martin's sake but that still gives her no right, no connection other than her love for him and her daughter's existence. And Martin had said it himself, back when they were working on the ritual encoded in the Mysterium Xarxes - Aedra and Daedra, opposing forces, equal in station.
Could she find what she needs in Oblivion, from the same forces that took Martin away from her to begin with? Well, alright, she knows better than to lump the Mythic Dawn and Dagon in with every other Prince - some are beneficial, some not, but most importantly, none of the other Princes were actually behind the Oblivion Crisis - but there's a part of her that wants to hold a grudge against them all anyway. Oblivion took everything from her, in some way, shape, or form - her love, her life, her peace of mind. And yet-
If she's dreaming of Oblivion, it must be for a reason. There's no reason not to at least try to figure out what realm she's dreaming of, if she can.
Sorona stretches and sits up, yawning, and slips out of bed, going through the motions of a morning routine. In the four months since she realized there was something she could do to change this, change everything, she's found a new energy for reading and studying and practicing her magic - when she's studied so much she has a headache and her vision's blurring she's taken to casting Alteration and Illusion spells, and a little bit of Mysticism, because she'd needed more magical skill than she had during the crisis and she won't make that mistake twice. (Though even an attempt to save Martin isn't enough to get her studying Conjuration. He'd probably tease her for that, she thinks, though only if he could get over his horror at what she's become in his absence. But it's fine - she'll save him, and then it won't matter, won't it?)
At first, that - enthusiasm is the wrong word, but she hesitates to call it obsession when it's the logical thing to do, and will make things better for everyone, not just her - had made Baurus and Jauffre and the others hopeful, she knows. They were relieved she'd had a reason to drag herself out of bed of her own volition, that she was showing interest in something again, even if it was esoteric research she refused to speak of. But then it got harder and harder to pull herself away from her research to do anything else, even spend time with Lucia, and…and it bothers them. It bothers them that she doesn't love her daughter the way she should, that she can only rouse herself for this, that her new research didn't fix the way nothing really feels like it matters anymore, only gave her one single desperate solution to cling to.
Maybe they'd understand more if she tried to explain, but she can't bring herself to. The last thing she wants or needs is to be subjected to more lectures about grieving and letting go and moving on, because she frankly doesn't give a damn about it. She doesn't want to let go of her grief for Martin, because without it, what proof is there that she loved him? What else does she have except the pain and this desire to fix everything and bring him back? Besides, she thinks the Blades might take the implications of her research as a potential threat to herself, and she doesn't know if they'd let her keep studying it then. They still take her health seriously, even though her dreams of being Martin's Empress died with him.
Admittedly, there's a part of her that understands the worry, when she'd had to be pulled away from her work to celebrate Lucia's first birthday (not that she'd felt much like celebrating anything). But that's part of why she has to do this, isn't it? She's no mother, not like this. She has to fix this. Before Lucia is old enough to understand.
The library is, as usual, empty, when she leaves her bedroom behind and seeks it out. The sun has fully risen (for which she's grateful; sometimes, when she's awake at the dawn, all she can think of at the sight of all that pink and coral is Paradise), and light streams warmly through the tall windows on the east side of the room, motes of dust catching in the sunbeams that trail across her workstation. The heavy wooden desk she's taken over reminds her often of Martin's table back in Cloud Ruler, though hers is much neater, her notes contained in a set of leather-bound journals she keeps on a separate side of the table from her research books, and shelves and stools and other smaller baskets brought in to contain her spellbooks and scrolls and whatever else.
She'd put privacy wards up around the area as soon as she started studying more esoteric theories, and despite the questions she's been dodging for months now, Ocato has been polite enough not to break them. Some bitter, uncharitable part of her wonders if that's just because Jauffre hasn't yet asked. It isn't fair to either of them, she knows - Ocato does care about her, for some reason, and neither of them would betray her trust like that (at least not without good reason) - but she can't help herself. The darker emotions are the easiest ones to feel, in this state she's in.
Set on her work with the same single-minded efficiency and focus that allowed Martin to translate the Xarxes with unprecedented speed, the daylight hours pass quickly. (For which she's grateful. Chance to save Martin aside, every hour she's immersed in a book is another hour she doesn't have to live with the loss. Or truly live at all.) She's supposed to take a break over the noon meal to spend time with Lucia, but she forgets more often than she remembers, and it gets harder to regret that the more she learns, the closer she gets to something she can use. The more time she spends reading, the quicker this can finally end, the sooner she can see Martin again and fix everything: the state of the Empire, the state of herself, her relationship with Lucia.
So what does it matter if she goes another day leaving Lucia to the estate staff's care? She'll make up for it eventually.
Sorona is taking notes by the light of a magical lamp on the nature of White-Gold Tower when Baurus interrupts her, clearing his throat to get her attention. "Dinner's ready," he tells her, and she quickly finishes the word she's writing and sets her pen aside, looking up at him. "You should join us - you misssed lunch, and Ocato's back from the Imperial City."
That is actually notable - Ocato's been away all week handling some crisis with Morrowind, which has been growing ever-tenser under Imperial occupation since the death of the Emperor. He'd attempted to explain the situation to her a couple weeks ago during one of the rare times she's managed to pull herself away from her studies to listen to him tell her about Imperial politics. Two of the three of the Dunmer's living gods had vanished some seven years ago during a messy, rumor-shrouded series of events that let to the fulfillment of a set of prophecies detailing the return of one of Morrowind's ancient folk heroes and warrior-kings. Even the Blades had only been able to give sparse reports on what actually happened, and the folk hero had disappeared himself, away from the eyes of every single one of the Empire's spies.
It had been the Oblivion Crisis that drew him back out of hiding, and now it seems he's taken up a prominent role in the governance of Morrowind alongside the last of the Tribunal - a change that has brought with it its own set of difficulties. Lord Nerevar holds a strong grudge against the seat of Imperial government and the Septim family itself, Ocato had told her, a frustrated look on his face. The bitter irony of the matter is that I suspect he would be more willing to work with me should I be speaking in my own name as Potentate, rather than as Regent for the infant Empress. I suspect Morrowind will begin making a serious push for true independence within the next two years.
If Ocato has returned to the estate, that means whatever this most recent problem is, it has either been solved, mutually tabled, or he has enough confidence in the way negotiations have been proceeding to leave it in the hands of the Elder Council for at least a short break. And it isn't anything relevant to her research but she is hungry, and there's some small part of her that's curious, so she nods and ducks her head again to blow the ink on the page dry before she shuts the journal.
(Sometimes, when she looks at its simple cover, she's reminded of the other journal tucked away in her room. The one that holds the record of her journeys, her dreams, her letters to Martin, how much she loved him and missed him and wanted him. She can't look at it anymore, knowing the echoes of their lost future live between its pages; even its memory is sometimes too much. On occasion she finds herself thinking about throwing it out, or burning it, but she can't bring herself to, not quite, no matter how much it hurts. With how few physical reminders of Martin she has left - his gift to her, his robe, her letters, the book she gave him that he never had the chance to finish reading through - discarding even a single one of them feels like losing something monumental.
That doesn't mean she keeps the journal where she can see it, though.)
Dinner is a warm affair. With Ocato's return, the kitchen staff have put extra effort into the meal, serving multiple courses (which has been something of a rarity as Cyrodiil struggles to recover from the destruction of so much of its farmland). Sorona has recovered enough of herself to be able to enjoy the food, at least, in that it no longer tastes like ashes when she eats most days, but the act itself often still feels mechanical. She wouldn't do it if she didn't have to. (Which, of course, makes her think of reminding Martin to take care of himself, and while the sharp, bleeding pain of those memories has dulled into a deeper, piercing wound, the ache is just as strong.)
Ocato asks questions from the estate's steward, from Jauffre and Baurus, and directs a few towards Sorona herself, about her research and about Lucia, making an effort to catch up with what's happened in the past week. Only once he's satisfied with their answers does he consider Jauffre's request for news from the Imperial City (as if the Blades don't still report directly to him).
"For now, the matter with Morrowind has reached a conclusion…acceptable to both parties, if not ideal." He sighs and sips on his wine, shaking his head. "The aid programs will remain in place for another six months, after which the Empire will start extracting troops from Vvardenfell. We've yet to agree on if the province will receive full independence, but I expect the debate will begin again in earnest when the six months are up."
"Typical," Jauffre mutters. "Morrowind has always been resentful of the Empire, since the initial treaties made with the Tribunal. Uriel had hoped the Nerevarine being an Imperial citizen would strengthen ties with the Empire if they succeeded in uniting and protecting the province, but that did not come to pass."
Sorona wonders briefly exactly how Emperor Uriel had known enough about the Nerevarine for all of this, then dismisses the question. The Blades have spies in Morrowind, even if they weren't able to find out all the details, and it's the Emperor's business to know what happens in his Empire. It isn't that odd that they'd reported to him on the whole thing, and he'd sought to use it however he could.
Ocato shakes his head again, a bitter look on his face. "It seems it never does. Ah, but I would rather forget Morrowind for the moment; surely there are more pleasant things to discuss…ah, yes." His face clears into something thoughtful and a little amused. "When I left the palace, the Elder Council was discussing an odd rumor. It seemed more like an oddity than a concern, but with the Crisis so recent everyone has been on edge."
Baurus frowns, tapping his fork against his plate. "That rumor up from Bravil? A couple of the estate guards were talking about it yesterday morning. I didn't know what to make of it myself, but then again, most all my understanding of esoterica comes from listening to Martin translate the Xarxes."
Sorona doesn't flinch at the mention of Martin, though a part of her wants to. Instead, she tilts her head to one side and swallows a spoonful of the soup she's been nibbling at for the past several minutes. "What rumors?" she asks. Shutting herself away in the library all the time does mean she misses most of the household gossip.
Ocato looks somewhat surprised by her question, but he doesn't acknowledge it, answering her as if he expected her to join the conversation. "Some strange gateway reminiscent of an Oblivion Gate has opened in the Niben Bay," he says. "According to rumor, overnight, the door - and the island it sits on - simply appeared, and within days a few of the townsfolk had disappeared into it after claiming it was calling to them in their dreams."
A bolt of fear, sharp and biting, curls through her, and she straightens in her seat, spoon clattering against the side of her bowl. "The barriers between Mundus and Oblivion were sealed," she says too-quickly. Martin sacrificed his life to ensure that was true, that it would stay true even without an Emperor and the Amulet of Kings, and she may be intending to find a way to undo all of that but the idea that somehow, even his sacrifice has ceased to matter leaves her trembling with some emotion that isn't quite terror but that she doesn't know how to define.
"And sealed they remain," Ocato reassures her, as if he can see the way the thoughts are spinning inside her head. "Whatever this gateway is, it is decidedly different from the Gates the Mythic Dawn opened across the realm. For one, the rumors describe it as a dizzying portal anchored in the mouth of a stone head, with no destination visible on the far side."
And that grabs her attention for an entirely different reason.
In one of her dreams a few nights ago, she'd seen an island in the middle of the Niben, though she hadn't been able to recognize where. The island had been small and steep with a pair of winding paths shrouded in strange flora leading up to its apex; they'd come together in front of a tall statue made from grey stone: a head with a yawning mouth, the proportions unsettling, somehow. She'd stood in front of that open mouth and stared up at the statue's solid eyes and had been certain, somehow, that it was looking at her. That it knew she was there.
Magic had flared to life in the statue's mouth, a vivid violet and blue, and then there had been a voice, but she only remembers one word. Champion. But she'd known, even then, that on the far side of that portal was the world she kept dreaming of, and she'd known that it was calling to her.
If the portal is actually real-
"Outside Bravil, you said?" she hears herself asking. Her voice sounds like it's coming from far away; she doesn't know how it sounds natural at all. "Are you sure it isn't just a strain of tainted skooma?"
Baurus tips his head back and laughs, a little louder than the joke warrants, she thinks - but at the same time she understands. She hasn't been much for humor since Martin died. She has to wonder if it reassures him, to hear a dry comment she might've said before everything went wrong. "The Legion corroborates the disappearances, or I'd consider it," he says, still snorting to himself. "I asked Jauffre as soon as I heard."
"As do our agents in Bravil," Jauffre adds, an irritated line between his brows. "This reeks of daedric mischief. While I agree it is a mere oddity at the moment, should the vanished civilians not return, or return harmed…"
"That is an unfortunate possibility." Ocato taps his fingers against his lips in consideration. "I had yet to hear reports from the Legion on the matter. With that in mind, I expect the Elder Council will request the Arcane University send magisters to investigate. With any luck, it will either be a simple matter or a harmless one."
The Arcane University. Sorona ignores the rest of the conversation, turning her focus to her meal instead. That gate- it's been calling to her, she's sure, or the thing on the other side is calling to her through it. It must lead to the plane of Oblivion she's been dreaming about for weeks now, and maybe it's foolish of her, but there's some part of her that's desperate enough to see it as an opportunity. She hasn't found anything else to do but read and read and read, and practice her magic in the meantime, and how much time to waste does she actually have? All of it, maybe, but in practice none of it.
But to investigate the portal, she would have to leave City Isle - and do it quietly, because neither Baurus nor Jauffre would let her go alone, if they even let her leave the Isle at all. It would mean not only leaving behind her research, dedicating herself to pursuing this as far as she possibly can, but leaving behind Lucia, and- and she knows she's a terrible mother. She knows she is. But she promised her mother that she was trying, and if she walks away, she can't even claim that much, can she?
…even just this morning, she acknowledged she must be dreaming of Oblivion for a reason. That it could hold what she needs. Daedric artifacts have power; the Sanguine Rose and the Mysterium Xarxes had taught her that. If she could find something even stronger than them, then perhaps that could be exactly what she's looking for. She just needs enough power to convince Akatosh to listen, after all.
And who knows what will happen once the Arcane University sends magisters to study the portal? They might deem it a danger to Cyrodiil and find a way to close it. At the very least, they'll block it off to keep anyone else from disappearing through it (presuming that's where the vanished citizens have gone), and she won't be able to get close enough to even make sure it matches her dream, much less try to do anything about it.
No, if she's going to act on this, she has to act, not sit around and mull it over until the opportunity's passed and she's once again too slow to change anything, to mean anything. She can't make that mistake again. She won't. Everything that happened to Cyrodiil, to Tamriel as a whole, to Martin himself happened because of her failures, and fuck that. She won't fail to get Martin back because she hesitated.
It still doesn't quite sit right, as she finishes dinner and makes a bit of idle conversation with the others, if only to keep them from asking her if she's alright. There are a multitude of reasons to be cautious besides leaving Lucia behind, admittedly. She doesn't have a plan, and there's no guarantee she'll learn anything from this doorway - she'll only be able to slip away from the estate like this once, and if this fails and she has to drag herself back here, she knows the consequences will be severe. She needs to make absolutely certain that this is the right choice forward before she does it, and really, she should sit down and plan out the logistics first.
But as she returns to her room after dinner, with a brief detour to help put Lucia down for bed, she can't stop thinking about her former peers and professors at the University, given the chance to study the portal and asked to find a solution to it. They'll be traveling down to Bravil themselves, setting out within a matter of days, she's sure. If she's going to beat them to it she has to leave now - tonight. As soon as possible. There's no real time to think it through.
And the only thing she's wanted for over a year now is to see Martin again. If this gets her closer to that goal…
In the end, it isn't much of a decision at all, is it?
She waits for the estate to fall asleep that night with baited breath, and makes plans from the quiet of her room. Loath to steal Ocato's money as she is, he has plenty of gold, and she knows where he leaves his money pouch when he's back from the Imperial City; she can take it before she slips off. She still has her pack from when she spent all her time trekking across Cyrodiil, and since she's not traveling on foot she won't need to pack food - she can supply in Bravil before she goes through the door. Instead she packs the few travel-appropriate clothes she has in her wardrobe and her alchemy kit, which she hasn't touched in months. Her weapon and armor maintenance kit she takes as well, and a couple spellbooks she's still studying, and after a long moment of deliberation she packs her old journal as well. It has enough space in it for one more trip, she thinks, and then hopefully, if all goes well, she won't need it anymore.
And then she waits. When the estate begins to settle enough she knows no one will be paying any late-evening visits to her room to try to engage her in conversation, she digs out her Imperial Dragon armor from her closet and trades her house gown for it, somewhat awkwardly. She hasn't worn her armor since Lucia was born, and she's out of shape besides - it doesn't quite fit properly around a body that's softened and grown more curves. But the fit isn't so poor it's unwearable either, so she makes do, tugging a travel cloak on over top it and buckling her katana onto her belt.
It feels…strange, stepping back into this ill-fitting skin. The Hero of Kvatch died when Martin did, and she's never truly felt a connection to the title Champion of Cyrodiil, for all that everyone around her still believes she deserves it. But it would be even more wrong to try to claim the mantle of the Blade when her Emperor is dead, and practically speaking, that armor wouldn't fit her properly either.
She probably should have spent more time stretching and keeping her muscle tone, she has to admit, as she swings her pack up onto her shoulders and tests its weight. Despite being less full than when she hauled it around Cyrodiil the better part of two years ago, it feels much heavier; for a moment, she considers again the wisdom of leaving right now. Her improved casting skills may not be enough to offset how rusty her swordsmanship is likely to be, and she has no idea what she'll find on the far side of the gate. Her skills as a soldier were the only things that kept her alive through the Gates and in Sancre Tor and Paradise, and as apathetic as she's been about living since Martin's death, dying won't get her what she wants. She needs to survive. And relying on her magic too much might not be a good idea.
But that urgency, that certainty, flares once more almost as soon as she hesitates, and she knows she needs to listen to that instinct. Every time she has, it's led her where she needed to go - into an Oblivion Gate, through Sancre Tor, safely through Paradise - and surely this is no different. She has to believe that this will take her back to Martin, somehow, some way. If she hesitates, she'll lose the best opportunity she's had.
A strong chameleon spell is one of the ones she's been practicing lately. Casting it is easy now; it settles over her shoulders like a shroud, and then she's slipping through the door and making her quiet way down the estate's long halls. She considers, for a moment, going to see Lucia one more time, but she doesn't quite feel a need to say goodbye - it won't matter, will it? She hardly even counts as the child's mother. Another part of her considers taking the time to write a note for Ocato, Jauffre, and Baurus, but she doesn't know how she'd explain herself, even in writing. It would sound ridiculous, wouldn't it, to tell them she's going to find a way to fix Martin's death and that she's going to Oblivion to do it. They'd try to catch up with her and stop her as soon as they found the note, and then they'd lecture her more about letting go and moving on, as if this is something she'll just change her mind about.
So she doesn't leave a note. She steals the gold, and she slips out of the estate as silently as a ghost, and she doesn't look back.
She should be tired, she's sure. But it's only a few peaceful hours on foot to the East Gate, which is open for travelers as it always is. From there she crosses the city, taking the familiar old patrol routes until she reaches the Waterfront, and by then it's early rather than late and the smell of the lake and the brightness of the stars keeps her awake as she seeks out a passenger liner, one with crew on board and preparing to sail. She doesn't have the time to wait, or to waste.
The ship she eventually finds to take south is primarily a trading vessel, preparing to head down to Leyawiin with a hold full of goods from Northern Cyrodiil and Skyrim. They're willing to give her a berth and some space on the deck during the day in exchange for the large payment she offers, and agree to make a quick stop in Bravil to let her off, promising all the while not to ask any undue questions. Their ship is called the Lady's Fortune. It feels like a good omen.
She's paying them enough not to ask any questions, and that holds true even after she heads below deck to finally get some sleep and wakes up to find they've cast off, already several hours into the journey. She'd almost, almost think they don't recognize her - she's been out of the public eye long enough it's possible her description has stopped circulating - if not for the fact that when she climbs back on deck to borrow a corner and run through sword drills, she can see the way the sailors glance at her armor and her hair, the dragon insignia prominent on both. They don't mention it, of course, because that would constitute asking questions, but it's obvious they notice. And one of them calls her Champion when trying to catch her attention.
She doesn't bother to deny it, when the title comes up - there's no point to that, no one would believe her. But she doesn't encourage it either, and beyond the few times the sailors make conversation with her, they don't use it. At least, not where she can hear.
Four days later, they make anchor in the small harbor at Bravil long enough for the sailors to unload a crate of wares and her to disembark. They'd left early and made good time; it's only midafternoon when she makes her way through the city's gates in search of more supplies. It's cool, the region still gripped by winter, but the temperature is far more mild than the winter she'd spent in the Jerall Mountains, and while the sun is dipping down towards the horizon it still gives more than enough light to see by. She purchases food from the stalls in the marketplace, then hunts down the alchemist she remembers from when she was working for Sanguine. It's easy enough to pick up an assortment of potions and ingredients to replenish her stores, and she has more than enough gold to cover the cost. Who knows if she'll actually need potions on the far side of that gateway, but she remembers what Paradise was like, the danger lurking there even when Camoran wanted her to come to him. Better to be safe.
That same caution leads her to purchase a room at one of the local inns instead of heading directly out into the bay that evening, as much as she doesn't want to. Better to be rested than not when she steps into Oblivion, especially given she doesn't know what's waiting for her on the other side, which realm it even leads to, and she knows that, but the same urgency still shivers in her veins and she hates being so close and yet waiting instead.
The inn's common room is abuzz with rumors about the gateway, at least, which she listens to from a shadowed corner as she picks at her dinner. No one quite knows what it is, though she hears several people agreeing it seems just like daedric shit - come out of nowhere, fuck up your whole life, and s'long as it don't touch the actual world, it don't matter, right? The speaker of that particular frustration, according to the gossip, had lost a family member to the strange dreams and disappearances.
She understands what it's like - the pain and the frustration of being the one left behind. But it's been a long time since she could connect to another person properly, and she doesn't want to insert herself into any conversations anyway. The sympathy fades as quickly as it welled up, and she finishes her drink and leaves a few drakes for the innkeeper and heads up the stairs to her rented room, doing her best to avoid the brighter parts of the room. She doesn't need the rumors to turn to being about her instead.
And that night, curled up in a bed that still feels cold and empty even now, she dreams, strange and bewildering images that slip through her thoughts too quickly to grasp. A voice that should be familiar but isn't quite calls her name with increasing urgency. An image of that plane of Oblivion ripples and fragments like the surface of a pond disturbed by a stone, shrivels momentarily under sparks of gold fire. Not there, the voice pleads with her, too-loud and echoing, and she feels the sun hot on her back - too hot, hot enough to burn. Sorona, please.
But this is her only chance. And so it is her only choice, too.
She tastes magicka and blood on her lips again as she dives into the pond, bright and bursting, and the moment she breaks the surface her eyes snap open again to the early morning light spilling through her inn room window. When she sits up, the skin on her back tightens uncomfortably; a glance in the room's mirror shows it red and tender. Sunburnt.
She takes a few sips of a healing potion and puts the whole thing out of her mind. It doesn't matter. Today is the day. Finally, finally, after months at a standstill doing nothing but research, she can make real progress on changing things and getting Martin back. She doesn't know yet what she's going to do once she gets through the gateway, but she can figure that out as she goes; it's hard to make concrete plans when she doesn't know what's on the other side, beyond her vague dreams.
She won't ignore the dreams. She won't make that mistake again. But they don't give her enough to actually determine what she's working with, not without research she hasn't had the time to do.
Back in the harbor, she pays a fisherman preparing to head out into the bay to take her to the island. She could water-walk out to it easily enough, but the boat is quicker and draws less attention, even if the fisherman keeps giving her strange looks from beneath the brim of his wide hat. "You sure you want me to drop you there?" he finally asks, as its stone spires and tall flora come into clear view. "Been no shortage of explorers gone out to it since it appeared, and none of 'em but the Legion've come back."
"I'm sure," she says, nodding, and rests one hand on the hilt of her katana. "I can handle whatever might be on the other side, and there's something I need to learn."
"Well, far be it from me to say you can't fight," he says. "I s'pose that fancy armor can't be just for show. But be careful, you hear? Something's not right about that island, and everything knows it. The animals won't get near it."
She has no intention of dying before she gets what she wants. "I will." He turns the boat sideways a few feet from where the water laps up against the island, bracing his oar against the shallow seafloor, and she stands carefully and casts her water-walking spell, stepping out onto the surface of the bay. "Thank you for your concern."
"Damned University types," she hears him muttering as he shoves off and starts rowing towards the bay's wider spread. "Always thinking that just because they've got magic they should know the secrets of the universe." He's still talking to himself when his boat slides out of earshot, and then she has to turn and hurry to dry ground before her spell wears off and she sinks up to her waist in cold water.
There's a small boat tied up on the shore, painted in Legion colors. It makes sense, she supposes - they must be keeping a watch on the gate, probably trying to keep people from going through it. She'll have to argue, she's sure, but it's not like there's much the Legion can do to stop her, and if worst comes to worst, she knows a sleep spell. She wouldn't have to knock a guard out for very long to get through.
The island is strange though, even moreso than she remembered from her dream. Other than simple grass and trees, not a single one of the plants she sees looks like it belongs in Cyrodiil; the mushrooms remind her more of the paintings she's seen of Morrowind than anything else, and the mosses and flowers glow brightly and their colors shift slightly as she walks past them, as if reflecting a light other than the sun. She's seen them in her dreams, of course, but seeing them here in the waking world leaves her feeling- strange and a little dizzy. Like it's hard to tell if she really is awake or if this is just a dream so detailed she can't tell the difference.
Well. If this truly was a dream, Martin would still be alive. And with that cold thought to carry her, she climbs the path up and around, past an orange-glowing mushroom and towards the statue.
It looks a little different than she remembers from her dream and from Ocato's description - three faces joined together at the corners, one smiling and one frowning and one screaming, rather than the single head she remembers. But that swirling violet magic is the same, and she feels the pull of it all the way in her bones, as strong as gravity, as strong as the spindle of Fate the Amulet of Kings had once wound her around. It's enough she almost misses the small camp on the other side of the island, a fire and a few half-open tents staked over bedrolls, a mess of supplies stacked next to them. There's a legionnaire patrolling back and forth near the gateway, and clustered around his small camp are a couple- she thinks they're civilians, but they don't quite look right. One is talking to herself, and the other is simply staring into space, occasionally twitching and muttering.
"Stay back!" the legionnaire calls, and she turns to look at him, frowning slightly. He looks young, anxious, overworked, dark circles under his eyes. "It isn't safe here, ma'am. I don't know what brought someone as well-armored as you here, but nothing that goes in that door comes out right, and even just staying too close to it can addle you. You'd best head back to the mainland."
Sorona frowns. "I heard about the disappearances," she says, glancing back at the two civilians. "Are these two of them?"
"Aye, they are." He slumps, running a hand across the back of his neck. "Came out like that yesterday, but at least they're not violent. There's been others…well, this is only my third day on the post. They'll rotate me out in two more. But I've had to, ah, clean up a couple messes already. We're supposed to keep it quiet so it doesn't alarm the people, but I don't know how much longer we can."
She's very certain he isn't supposed to tell her that, and equally sure he's just desperate for someone sane to talk to. She's surprised his superiors left him alone on this posting, but if the gate really does radiate some- maddening aura, limiting exposure makes sense. Still- it's a little concerning that the rumors Ocato had heard had made no mention of this. Or maybe the Elder Council just hadn't heard, or maybe the vanished civilians hadn't started coming back out yet - this is, after all, the fifth day after he'd heard the news, and she doubts the gateway could have been here that long before that. A few days - a week at most.
And time, she remembers Martin telling her, moves differently in Oblivion. This portal isn't like the Gates she closed, the ones that could so easily find the weak points in barriers frayed to near-nothingness, which walking into felt like passing through a cloud of mist or the surface of the sea. There's a depth here, a distance between Mundus and whatever plane the portal is anchored to - and she's not quite sure just how she knows that, when she isn't the sort of scholar Martin was. He would've known. She suspects he could've identified the realm in her dreams without much research, if he'd needed any at all. And truthfully, she can guess what he'd be saying, if he could see her now - daedra are not to be trifled with lightly, my love. This is not like Paradise; you have the time to wait and learn before setting forth. Please be careful. Or something along those lines.
But he would be wrong - there's no time, not really. Not if she wants to do something, change something, before Lucia is old enough to notice and before Jauffre takes her research away from her and before she loses even more of herself to the emptiness that is life without Martin. And if he was here, properly, she wouldn't need to do this to begin with.
"I heard a rumor the Arcane University was sending a group of researchers to study the door," she says, and there's a flash of surprise on his face as he looks at her more closely. "I'm a student there-" maybe not for some time but it isn't technically a lie- "and I wanted to lend my aid. I have some familiarity with these types of gates." Could she find a way to close it? Probably. That isn't what her focus is, though.
Relief flickers across his face and his shoulders slump briefly before he pulls himself back into proper posture. "You do? I'm not supposed to let anyone near, if I can stop them, but…" His gaze lands on the Imperial dragon, then flicks back up to her face, and a frown pulls at his mouth. "What'd you say your name was?"
She didn't. And she doesn't particularly want to give her name at all, not least because she still hasn't actually made any contact with the Arcane University since she was first arrested, and she doesn't really want to start now - but she doesn't quite know how to avoid the question. She could storm past him easily enough, but she doesn't want to; she needs to be able to come back through without him trying to kill her. And so she hesitates, longer than she should if she's going to lie properly, and his brow furrows further-
"There you are! Ungrateful thing, making Me wait as long as you have," a voice calls, and both she and the guard jump. It's hard to tell where it's coming from, echoing as it does, but some deep part of her is certain whoever is speaking is doing so from the other side of the door. "We have a schedule to keep, don't you know - foes to rend! Entrails to entangle! Ooh, entangled entrails, now that would make a nice soup. Ahem."
Sorona blinks. The guard, standing next to her, blinks too, then frowns deeply enough his face twists. "Voices from nowhere? That hasn't happened before," he mutters. "I don't get paid enough for this. You- you said you can deal with this?"
Sorona opens her mouth to answer, only to be interrupted by the voice again. "I've been waiting for you, mortal. I need a champion, and you are going to prove yourself worthy! Or die. Really would be a shame if you died, but these things happen. So don't die, or I will be very disappointed." There's a pause, long enough for her to let out a breath. "Well, what are you waiting for? Come in! It's lovely in the Isles right now - perfect time for a visit. I'll be waiting for you."
Of course there was a reason she was dreaming of Oblivion, she thinks a little distantly, staring at that purple swirl of magicka - familiar magicka. It was an invitation. She doesn't recognize the voice, doesn't quite know where she's being invited to, and maybe the fact that someone's aware of her presence and actively wants her to come through the door should change her mind, but this is still her only chance, isn't it? That's even more true if whoever it is actually wants her to come through: if she already has the favor of - she probably shouldn't hope this is a Prince, Martin would be terrified for her, but she can't help it - then getting the power she needs will be easier than trying to maneuver their whims. Well- if this is a Prince, she'll have to maneuver their whims anyway, but it'll be easier if they already like her. Or already want her in their realm.
A small, distant part of her whispers that this is a terrible idea. The little deal she'd made with Sanguine to get the Rose for Martin had gone about as well as she could hope any dealing with daedra, especially Daedric Princes, to - she'd been lucky, and had gotten out of it with just a scrape to her dignity. Oblivion is dangerous; walking herself into a Prince's realm is giving away what little leverage and power she has by being on Mundus. But she isn't going to find what she needs by staying put, and she's going to need proper leverage to bargain with a Prince, leverage she can't have here where she's distant from their power and their whim.
"I can," she says, and it's true. In one way or another. "Good luck, soldier."
She doesn't wait for him to answer. It feels, a little, like some ridiculous echo of Kvatch, only this time she isn't trying to save a city - but she's still trying to save Martin, and she's still walking straight into Oblivion without hesitation to do it. It's a bit funny, how different she feels, and how much that core part of her has stayed the same despite it. Well, fuck it - the Nine don't deserve her devotion after they took Martin from her, and the Princes, at least, can give her a path back to him. Why shouldn't she walk straight into Oblivion?
She steps through the door. That familiar magicka curls against her skin, something almost possessive and clinging; for a moment, suspended between the worlds, she feels weightless, breathless, unbound by the heavy burden of Fate and its consequences. Eternity stretches out before her, and then something wrenches sideways and her feet settle onto solid ground, firm like flagstones beneath her boots.
The first thing she registers is the sound. Tick, tick, tick. It's a metronome, not something clockwork, parsing off a heartbeat with a steady, methodical precision; she feels herself settling into the rhythm comfortably as she takes in a few careful breaths, her hands flexing at her sides. It's hard to see - as her eyes adjust she realizes she's in a small stone room, lit only by the portal behind her and a single candle resting on the only furniture in the room, a stone table with a chair set on either side of it. The metronome sits on the table next to the candle, and next to it is a leather-bound book, a title stamped in gilt ink across the cover. The Madness of Pelagius. Ominous. There's a thick embroidered rug covering much of the floor, and on the far side of the room from her a door leads out into, presumably, the rest of this plane.
And there's a man, sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the table from her. She should have, in retrospect, noticed him first. He's a balding man wearing a suit that looks like a parody of what one might find in the Imperial Court, and the deadpan, unimpressed look he directs her manages to convey an aura of put-upon impatience. "Do sit down," he says, unfolding his fingers and gesturing at the empty chair. His voice is dry, which she supposes she should've expected given his general manner.
He isn't the man who spoke through the door - the one who extended the invitation to her to begin with. That still, she thinks, doesn't mean she should be rude to him - not when she doesn't know where she is. No matter that she bristles a little at being expected to sit like a dog taught a trick.
She sits. The chair is cool beneath her, and when she scoots it forward so she can lean her forearms on the edge of the table, it all feels solid - not a dream, no matter what she'd worried about. "Who are you?" she asks, because it seems the most pressing question, and he looks her over dispassionately.
"Amazing," he says. "You seem to be possessed of a slight fragment more intelligence than the last mortal to come through the door. I am Haskill, Chamberlain to the Lord Sheogorath, and you approach the Shivering Isles."
Lord Sheogorath. Sorona sucks in a short, sharp breath, her hands tightening around each other despite herself. Daedric Prince of Madness, known also for his cunning - the most whimsical and unpredictable of all the Princes. In some ways, the least dangerous.
In some ways, the most.
And she's stumbled into the Shivering Isles - of course she has, she should've expected that, shouldn't she? The guard at the door had spoken of madness, and in her dreams…be wary of Madness. She remembers that warning still, despite the fact that it had never quite made sense. She should, she thinks, get up and leave. Haskill seems as though he may be waiting for her to, a single eyebrow arched, and if she was smarter…if she was less desperate, perhaps. But she's known from the beginning that this plan of hers is a dangerous one, and yet here she is, because she doesn't have anything else but this. She has to. She has to.
"Then I assume it was the Lord Sheogorath who was asking me to come be his champion," she says, gesturing in the direction of the portal behind her. "Why did he summon me?"
"You were not summoned; your will is your own," Haskill corrects, his already-wrinkled forehead creasing slightly more. "You are here because you chose to enter, and every choice you make within the Realm will be made because you willed it. The Isles are no different than Mundus in that regard. As for my Lord…to attempt to fathom His intent is a pointless endeavor. He wishes a Champion, and thus His reality follows suit. And I am left here, to sift through the detritus of foolish mortals whose minds cannot handle the strain."
So. Sheogorath wants something - from her, perhaps - possibly even needs something, though she won't, it seems, be able to find out what or why from Haskill. And a Prince who needs something from her might be more amenable to giving her something in return - that's how their bargains usually work, isn't it? Deals with daedra are terrible ideas, she knows, she knows, but only when you have something to lose. And everything she could lose has already been taken from her; the rest doesn't matter. If she can save Martin, fix what went wrong…what wouldn't she give? What wouldn't she do?
"Lord Sheogorath isn't the only one that wishes something," she says, and Haskill's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "I don't know what you expected, but it wasn't curiosity that led me here - just determination. So I'm not going to argue with you; I'll become his champion if it gets me what I need. Just tell me what I need to do."
This time, when Haskill studies her, there's actual consideration in his gaze; he looks at her like she's actually made herself worth his time, or his interest. "Amazing," he repeats, but there's less sharp sarcasm in it this time. "You may yet be of use to my Lord. Very well. To speak with Lord Sheogorath, you must pass through the Gates of Madness and enter the Realm itself. I'm sure a vaunted mortal champion such as yourself will have no difficulty with it." And there's the sarcasm, back again.
Sheogorath must find him amusing, to tolerate it. He stands, and she follows suit, then frowns. "Wait," she says, and he does, raising an eyebrow again. "If I'm not in the realm proper, there's a reason for that. It can't be as simple as passing through a set of gates."
"But of course it can be. All you need is the key." For the first time, Haskill smiles, and there's something just-slightly-wrong about it - something sharp. "Ah, but do mind the Gatekeeper. He dislikes strangers to the Realm. If there's nothing else, I've other duties to attend to, and you have your task." He brushes invisible dust off his suit and this time, when he turns to the door, she doesn't try to stop him. Beware the Gatekeeper. Of course this has to be a test, it's the only thing that makes sense. "Do enjoy your stay."
He takes several steps away from the table and then simply- fades into nothingness, though she hadn't sensed a teleportation spell being cast. And as if it was his presence alone that held the room stable around them, the walls, floor, and rug glimmer with bright light, then split away from each other, shattering apart into a cloud of a thousand brightly-colored glowing butterflies that swirl in a circle around her. One lands on her hand, deep purple-and-gold wings fluttering against her glove, and she blinks down at it, unaccountably fascinated by the lacy patterns she can see on its wings. It's odd, she thinks, that something so beautiful and delicate would be here in the Realm of Madness, but maybe not. The tales all say that Sheogorath loves butterflies, if only because he likes to torture them.
And there's something rather poignant about a butterfly as a symbol of madness, is there not? How easily its lovely, fragile wings would tear apart - just as easily as her world did the day Martin died. Maybe that's why the dreams came to her, broken and grieving and empty as she is, because the loss left her a hollowed-out shell of herself and that's not so different from those two people she'd seen on the other side of the door, is it?
The butterfly takes flight again and soars off into a golden sky, and she follows its path with her eyes until she can't see it anymore. And then…and then she's standing in the land from her dreams, with its massive mushrooms like trees stretching up into the sky and its strange mosses and flowering plants she doesn't recognize. Some distant part of her thinks her mother would probably love to catalogue them and their effects.
She's alone. Alone in a strange land whose rules are far different from any she's familiar with, with no guidance but a vague trial, with only the loosest of promises that she can speak with Sheogorath should she succeed. Every single person and organization she'd relied upon when she was acting as a Hero in Cyrodiil is gone; they can't help her here. They wouldn't be willing to even if they could, because she's sure that as soon as she steps back outside the door, none of them will want to listen to her - she ran away from Ocato's estate, she left her daughter and her guards (and friends, but they are her guards before they are her friends these days) behind, she's sure they'll consider her a danger to herself. They won't understand that this could be what they need. What she needs, to save Martin and remember how to exist again.
So what does it matter if she's alone, in the end? What does it matter if this test seems designed to push her to fail? She's survived far worse. And she will not fail again.
This time, it doesn't matter what she has to do, what she has to give, to ensure that.