Memoirs of a Madwoman, a novel... by Rebecca Watters Options

[Lady Syl]

Prologue
Undisclosed Location in
the Shivering Isles, the
Realm of Sheogorath
3E 433

Looking at my reflection in the mirror before me, clad in the robe of an Order Priest, I never thought that this was where I would end up. I have betrayed my Lord Sheogorath. I am now an enemy of the man I once worshipped as the Madgod. He had been everything to me, just as He is everything to all of His loyal subjects, Manic and Demented alike. But now He is a man I despise. Sheogorath went too far when He allowed that outsider to come into the Realm and usurp the throne of Mania. Now I want Him to pay for what He did to Thadon, and to me, and to all that I loved. He took from me every person, everything that ever brought me joy and love, replacing it instead with fear, pain, and sorrow. He couldn’t stand the fact that my heart might love another more than it loved Him, so He took from me anyone He saw as a threat to my devotion to Him. How I didn’t see it before is almost shameful. But then, He keeps the truth hidden from us beneath the heavy and binding layers of madness which He claims is a blessing. That is the truth of the Shivering Isles. All of us that live here have been “blessed” with madness.

But no longer am I bound by those chains. The blessing of Order has freed me from slavery to that prattling fool, and my mind is no longer bogged down with insanity. I have come to a place of clarity for the first time in my life. I can now see how my life might have been, if not for Sheogorath and His Realm of Madness. Had I been given the chance to steer my own course, I might have led a normal life of no consequence. I might even have been happy. Instead, I am filled with anguish, and I feel as if my heart has been torn into a million tiny pieces while it still beat in my chest. Death will come swiftly; I no longer fear it, and I will welcome it with open arms. Only in death can I hope to find peace for what I have done. But even then, I may find nothing more than punishment—who is to say?

Thadon believed that when we die, we would all go to a place of perfect bliss and live together for all of eternity, never to feel pain again. But then, Thadon lived much of his life in his own false sense of bliss, a world created in his own mind with the help of his precious drugs. What a fool he was. And yet, what a beautiful soul he had. Even with all of his faults, I loved him. I still do, I guess. Our people can’t understand how a relationship ever developed between us; if you look at it from the outside, it’s easy to be shocked and confused by such an unlikely pair as Thadon and I. But one has to look much deeper, and return to the very beginning to understand. There is more to the story than what has been told, and only my heart still holds the truth of our love. Our love, conflicted by our madness as it was, was beautiful and pure. No one can understand that without knowing how it all began, and there is only one other person alive now who knows how the story goes. I began recording my story before the truth of my insane state became clear to me, and I gave it to a trusted confidant because I believe she will keep my story safely hidden away until the time is right for it to be revealed. Perhaps it never will be. One can only hope.

There is more to my life than what is here and now. I’ve lived 37 years, all within this Realm, and for an elf, I’m still very young. But in 37 years, I’ve had enough misery to last me an entire elven lifetime, and I’m ready to move on—whether to punishment or eternal bliss—or, more frighteningly, to nothingness. Whatever awaits me, I will face it with courage. I have no choice. The time has come, and I must answer the call, even at the cost of life itself, if necessary. And I take with me the only remaining link to Thadon that I have. The rest I leave behind me, and I pray that my story will not be lost. There is so much to it that has yet to be told, and all of it is part of who I am and who I was before. The events in my life have shaped me, like formless clay is molded into a twisted and beautiful masterpiece by the hands of a Demented artist. Everything that has happened to me has brought me to where I stand now, and it was all beyond my control. But the things I have witnessed, and the suffering that I have endured will not go down in history. Those who survive will view me only as a traitor, and I will be reviled.

But perhaps the time will come when my story can be told, and maybe then I will not be so misunderstood by all who have heard the echo of my name, trembled at the sound of my voice, and looked upon my cold and hardened face. So many have feared me. So many have ridiculed and betrayed me. And so many have seen me only as an enemy without a heart. But that is not all that true; I am not so cold and heartless as I have appeared. Like with each person, man or mer, there is more to me than what is seen on the outside. There are layers of emotion, thought, and experience that compose the depths of who and what I am. There is a side to me that was broken, and hidden away for many years. To those who truly knew me, I was a loyal friend, a doting mother, and a passionate lover. However, most people do not see the world for what it is. They see everything around them with a narrow view, and do not look beyond what is plain to see. Though I am a woman with a broken soul and a beating heart, to most I am only the Lady of Darkness, or the Mistress of Death. To them I am simply Syl, Duchess of Dementia….

Syl in Order robes

This post has been edited by Lady Syl: Sep 2 2011, 03:58 AM

[Lady Syl]

Chapter 2.1--Unsolved Mysteries

The death of my mother hit me very hard, especially because it had occurred on my birthday and I had been the one to find her. The reason for her death was not explained to me, but the others apparently knew and they were all very quiet about it when I was around.

The day after her death, I was walking to my chamber when I overheard some servants gossiping about it. “Such a shame,” one of them was saying. “I would never have expected such a thing. And that poor little girl, left without a mother…. It’s tragic.”

The other servant huffed, and replied, “She wasn’t much of a mother or a wife, always hiding in her daughter’s chamber, as if she was safe nowhere else. And then, to do this--I’d say the Duke and his daughter are better off!”

Seeing me standing in the corridor as they walked by, the other servant shushed her, and they changed the subject quickly, after giving me a nod and acting like they had nothing to hide. It was always like that when I was around, and I wondered why everyone was being so secretive about my mother’s death. I was the one to find her, after all. What did they have to shelter me from?

They didn’t want me to know what happened, but I had my suspicions. My father assured me that Alanwen had nothing to do with my mother’s death, but I simply refused to believe it. Nothing would convince him otherwise, though I challenged him to tell me what they were hiding, if not Alanwen’s guilt.

Instead of answering my questions, he sent me away and refused to talk about it, saying, “Syl, if you knew the reason for your mother’s death, it would only hurt you even more. It is best, for now, if you do not know the details—it will do you no good to know more.”

I couldn’t understand why he wanted to protect a murderess, especially one who would likely try to murder me next, and it bothered me intensely. It was then that our relationship started to become strained, and it would be years before things truly improved.

Had the thought occurred to me that my father had conspired with Alanwen to kill my mother? Certainly. But I knew my father better than that. If he had wanted my mother dead, he would never have killed her on my birthday. He loved me too much to do something like that….

******

My mother was buried in New Sheoth Graveyard a couple days following her death, on a cold, wet, and windy Sundas afternoon. The wind blew raindrops from the trees when it had ceased raining, and the roads were thick with mud. It was a gloomy day for a burial, indeed, and I wondered if my inner turmoil had somehow affected it to be that way.

As the High Priest spoke a long sermon about the meaning and purpose of death, and the sorrows of life, my mind wandered. I felt numb inside, and I just stared at the black wooden coffin that was my mother’s final resting place, wondering to myself what it would be like to die.

Movement in a nearby tree caught my eye, and I noticed a raven perched on a branch and watching me closely. I imagined that the bird could sense my loss, and that it had come to the cemetery to lessen my pain. I even imagined hearing the bird’s voice in my head, saying, “Fear not, little child. Death is only the beginning.”

I shuddered and turned my attention back to the High Priest, catching only the end of his sermon, “And now, in our grief, we must bid farewell to this beloved wife and mother, Lady Adrial. May her soul go and not attach itself to this world, but move on to the everlasting void. In Sheogorath’s name, so be it.”

Death was a terrifying prospect to me, if all I had to look forward to was an eternity of darkness and misery, or the empty life of a soul bound to the world and unable to move on. Imagining my beloved mother in such a state brought fresh tears to my eyes, and I buried my face in Muurine’s skirts, while she pulled me close and sighed painfully.

I had noticed little emotion from my father that day, and Alanwen seemed more bored than anything. This only confirmed her guilt, as far as I was concerned, but I excused my father’s lack of emotion by convincing myself he was simply in shock.

The stone that marked my mother’s grave was plain and simple—not the usual for a Duke’s wife—with only her name and the date of her death carved into it. I left a single flower upon her grave, after she was buried; it was a white lily, which was her favorite. Then my father lifted me onto his horse while Alanwen followed riding mine, and we returned to the palace.

Muurine stayed with me constantly after that, doing whatever she could to comfort me. She sat in my chamber with me, holding me tight as I cried myself to sleep every night. It seemed like she was the only person in the whole Realm that could understand my pain, and while I felt like my life had stopped, everyone else moved on as if nothing were changed.

“How can they smile and laugh?” I asked Muurine one day, as I followed her into the city one afternoon. “How can they act as if everything is the same, when nothing can ever be the same anymore?”

“They do not understand what you are going through, child,” she responded, squeezing my hand reassuringly. “They do not know what it is to lose a mother so dear to them. But come along, we mustn’t dawdle.”

Muurine was a shameless gossip, and she spent many an afternoon conversing with friends in Crucible. After my mother’s death, she had no choice but to drag me along to her friend’s homes for tea and the daily gossip. Father allowed it, but we had to be followed by a pair of Seducer bodyguards whenever I left the palace. As I looked back over my shoulder at their towering figures, I wondered if they understood my pain. But their expressions were the same as always, and neither of them offered even a hint of sympathy when I glanced at them.

While Muurine and her friends gossiped over tea, I sat in a corner working on my penmanship and needlepoint—dull and boring work, but Muurine detested idleness, saying it was a sign of laziness and low-breeding. She always said, “Why waste time sitting around and doing nothing, when you could be doing something useful?” I failed to see how needlepoint and gossip were useful tasks, but who was I to argue?

Since the weather was pleasant, Muurine took me out to play on the palace grounds, but it was rather boring having no one my own age to play with. While Muurine talked with one of my father’s courtiers, I sat in the grass and daydreamed, gazing up at the sky with its glittery clouds, admiring the way they sparkled with magenta light among the white puffy mist that composed them. The clouds in the Shivering Isles are unlike any others, so I’ve been told….

My attentions were drawn away from the clouds when I noticed a frog jumping from one stone to another, in search of flies to make into his supper. Giggling, I climbed up and chased after it, hoping to catch it. But the frog managed to evade capture, disappearing into some thick brush and scaring a grasshopper out of hiding. As the grasshopper sprang toward me, I screamed with a rush of excitement and ran to Muurine, hiding myself in her skirts.

Before long, however, I was off again, exploring my small and sheltered world, gasping in amazement as I watched a butterfly come my way. When she perched on my finger to show off her colorful wings, I was left speechless, and I held my breath, not wishing to frighten her away. After the butterfly flitted away to find a flower, I turned to Muurine, and cried, “Muurine! Muurine! Did you see it? Did you see the butterfly?”

“Yes, dear, I saw it,” she said, forcing a smile before returning to her conversation. She could hardly care less.

Sighing and turning away, I caught a glimpse of a beautiful woman standing off by some trees on the Mania side; she watched me with a strange look on her face, which I could not explain. I had seen her there often, all of my life, but she never attempted to speak to me, and whenever I spotted her, she would move away and appear to have vanished. I could never see her face very clearly, but she reminded me a lot of my mother. I assumed I was only thinking that because of how badly I missed my mother, though, and I pushed it from my mind and continued playing for what little time I had, wondering if she was some sort of ethereal being who was sent to watch over me. I never imagined she could be anything else.

This post has been edited by Lady Syl: Apr 13 2011, 07:16 PM