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]

mALX: Hehe, leaving you guessing and in suspense...that is precisely what I am up to... but the answers will not become clear for quite some time.... Glad you are enjoying it.

SubRosa: Yes, you can see the rather unusual mentality of the Demented at work here, and also Syl's ability to see her father's capability for murder, yet at the same time, her love and trust in him distorts her ability to see it fully. But, is it what it seems, or is there more to it than meets the eye...?

Thomas: Thank you. Yes, I have always had a fondness for psychology, and a sort of ease with being able to empathize with the villains, and to see their side of the story. I have always been drawn to the darker side of life, though not to the point of completely succumbing to it; and I can sort of understand what it is to be on the brink of insanity, struggling to hold onto self-control. I grew up with a mother who has bi-polar, and a father in denial about his depression, so I guess I've witnessed some of the varying degrees of madness first hand....

Acadian: Thank you. It is my hope to present a picture of Syl that shows her depth--both the good and the bad that exists within all of us. I want to promote understanding and sympathy for the one perceived as the villain, and give her the chance to show us what the madness of the Shivering Isles did to her truly innocent and good soul. The best of men can be corrupted, and good people can do some terrible things if pushed too far to stop themselves...
And of course, I must have some humor spread throughout, to keep it from getting too dark and miserable.


Chapter 2.2--The Errand Boy

On Sundas mornings, when the Madgod favored Dementia, we went to the Sacellum Arden-Sul to hear the High Priest sermonize the teachings of the Demented. I tried to listen carefully, but I could never get myself to enjoy sermons, and very often my mind wandered. I couldn’t help but wonder what the High Priest of Mania was thinking as he sat in his own pulpit, praying quietly to himself while trying to ignore the words that the High Priest of Dementia spoke. I often wondered, though never aloud, what was it that made the Manics so terrible? Why did they disagree so strongly with our teachings?

The one time I did ask this question aloud, Muurine answered sharply, “The Manics are blinded by their inability to see beyond the tips of their noses. They do not really care about what is true and what is not, because they would rather eat and drink and act like fools. The only thing they care about is themselves, and nothing more. Just stay away from the Manics, Syl. They are no good, and they cannot be trusted.”

That was easy enough to obey, though I didn’t feel any more assured of the evils of Mania than I had before I’d asked my question of her. I’d never even met a Manic, up to that point in my life, having only seen them from afar. They didn’t look all that frightening to me—if anything, they were just a bit odd, with their bright colored clothing and over-the-top mannerisms. I only stayed away from them because I was told to do so, and because I was chaperoned whenever I left the palace.

Soon after my mother’s death, I began sneaking out of the palace, because I hated always being followed by Muurine and my father’s Seducers. It felt refreshing to wander the grounds, believing that I had finally found the freedom I was so badly beginning to crave. The Seducers that patrolled the grounds, of course, knew who I was and reported to my father what I was up to. He let me continue to think I was escaping, though, because the Seducers would still be able to keep an eye on me, as long as I never left the palace grounds. Of course, being only a child, I never imagined venturing any further. But that would soon change, when one particular escape brought a meeting that would forever change my life, in ways I could never have imagined.

It was grey and wet that morning, but the afternoon sun began to peek through the clouds when I snuck out that day. I wandered down to my favorite thinking place, by one of the giant roots that grew up from the ground, twisting up toward the ramparts and holding tightly to one of the columns. When I sat down, I rested my head in my arms upon a dampened rock, quietly thinking and trying not to cry. It had been months now since my mother’s death, but I still thought of her all the time, unable to chase the painful memories from my mind. I missed her so terribly, and a part of me felt empty; something vital was missing and could never be replaced.

I let out a sigh and closed my eyes as a tear slipped gently down my cheek. That’s when I heard a small voice nearby, asking, “What’s the matter with you?”

My eyes shot open, and I was surprised when I turned my head to see a small boy standing only a few feet away. He had soft brown hair and green eyes the shade of a perfectly polished emerald. He was mer, like me, and given his petit size, I assumed he was also Bosmer. Other than size, he appeared to be around my age. But he was not Demented. This I knew right away, as his clothing was most certainly Manic in style, simple as they were; he was likely a servant of the House of Mania.

“Nothing’s the matter with me,” I said defensively, turning away again and trying to ignore him, as was expected of me. But then he came closer.

“If nothing’s the matter, then why are you crying?” he persisted. “Did somebody hurt you?”

“I’m not crying,” I protested; but then I had to wipe some tears from my cheeks and use my sleeve to dry my eyes. When I looked back up at him, he was still watching me curiously, and I finally grew tired of his gawking. “Why are you talking to me? Don’t you know that I’m Demented?”

“Yeah, so…?”

“So…it means we can’t talk to each other,” I replied. Then I added, with an air, “Besides, I’m a faerie princess. You’re just a pauper.”

The boy laughed. “You’re not a faerie, or a princess! Faeries have wings, and there’s no such thing as a princess in the Shivering Isles.”

“There is too!” I cried, upset that he would laugh at me. “My father says so, and he is always right.”

“I’ve never known anyone who was always right. Only Sheogorath….”

“My father is the Duke of Dementia,” I said haughtily, rising to my feet. I was pleased to find that I was, in fact, taller than he by just a tiny bit. “You’re just a little peasant—what do you know?”

“I’m not a peasant!” he cried, his cheeks reddening a bit. “Peasants are those birds they sometimes have on the supper table, and I’m not a bird—I’m an errand boy.”

Now I laughed. “You’re stupid. Peasants are poor people; pheasants are the birds of which you speak.”

He simply shrugged, unbothered by my insults. “Well, at any rate, I’m still not a peasant. I’m not poor.”

“You look poor,” I replied. “Your clothes are dull, your hair is dirty, and you smell like a barn.”

“I don’t care,” he said with a shrug. He then added, “You probably don’t even know what a barn smells like, so you’re not a very good critic.”

“What are you, an imbecile or something? Why are you even talking to me? Don’t you have work to do, errand boy?”

“Not now,” he answered, still not letting my attempts at insulting him work to bring him down. “The Duke said I could go out and play.”

“The Duke? You mean the Duke of Mania?”

“Mmhm. He’s my master, and my cousin’s uncle.”

“Wouldn’t that make him your uncle, as well?”

“Why would it? He’s not related to me; only to my cousin.”

I’ll admit I was a bit confused. But I didn’t want to look bad in front of a commoner, so I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Whatever. Why would I care who is and isn’t related to you?”

“You wouldn’t, I suppose,” he replied. Then he suddenly thrust his hand toward me, and said, “I’m Thadon, by the way. What is your name?”

I looked at his outstretched hand with hesitation. I knew I shouldn’t be speaking to him; my father’s hatred of the Manics was far from secret. But Thadon didn’t seem like someone not to trust, so I asked myself, what would be the harm in shaking his hand?

“I’m Syl,” I said finally, taking his hand and offering a meager smile. He became elated, and a smile spread across his face that was so filled with warmth and honesty, that I couldn’t help being drawn in by it from the start. My smile then grew, and it was the first time I had really smiled since the day my mother died.

“Syl is a pretty name,” he said thoughtfully. “What is its meaning?”

“It means faerie,” I replied, to which he smiled.

“So, you really are a faerie, after all!”

“I told you I was, didn’t I?”

His smile became more serious then, and he looked downward for a moment, almost shyly. When he looked up again, his eyes met mine, and he said, “You’re pretty, too. I like your eyes. They are like the sky, only prettier.”

I blushed. I had never really received compliments about my appearance before, so I wasn’t sure what to think about it. But I said, in a timid manner, “Thanks. I like your eyes, too.”

“Thank you!” he exclaimed, seeming overjoyed by my compliment. His emerald green eyes continued to examine my face, while I continued looking down shyly.

He laughed suddenly, causing me to look up and ask, “What?”

“Oh, nothing…. I’m just happy, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Why not? I’ve made a new friend!”

“I never said I was your friend.”

“Aren’t you?” he asked. “I thought you were…. But perhaps I was wrong.”

“Thadon, we can’t be friends. It’s against the rules.”

“What rules?”

“Well…my father’s, for one; he would never allow me to befriend a Manic.”

He glanced around almost impishly, and then said, “It’s not a crime if no one knows about it.”

“That’s foolish,” I stated bluntly. “We could get in a lot of trouble.”

“I know,” he replied with a shrug. “But I like you. You’re nothing like what they’ve said.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re Demented,” he answered. “But you’re also very nice. And you haven’t bitten me yet, so I’d assume you’re not going to.”

“Who says we bite people?”

He shrugged. “My cousin and all my other friends….”

“That’s absurd. We’re not vampires. We don’t bite anybody…. But I fail to see why you would call me ‘nice’; I’ve been anything but kind to you.”

“That’s not true,” he argued. “You shook my hand, and you gave me a compliment. That’s called being nice.”

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest. “Whatever.”

“Say,” he said suddenly, “would you like to run errands with me in the afternoons? Some of the people give me candy as a tip, and there’s even some people who give me gold!”

“Why would I want to do that? I’m not a servant. I’m a lady of esteem.”

Again, he shrugged. “I thought you might like to share some of it with me, that’s all.”

I looked at him curiously. Sharing wasn’t selfish; but everyone said that the Manics only ever thought of themselves. What did he want out of me? Was he really only seeking friendship? It seemed hard to believe. Before I came up with an answer, though, I heard Muurine calling my name, and I gasped aloud. “I have to go!” I cried, turning to leave.

“But wait!” Thadon called. “Will you come with me tomorrow? I go out at 2 every afternoon….”

“I’ll try!” I shouted, running up the steps as fast as I could in my heavy brocade skirts, afraid of what might happen if Muurine saw me talking to a Manic child.

I met her as she was walking away from the doorway to the House of Dementia, and she asked, suspiciously, looking toward the staircase, “Who were you talking to?”

“No one,” I said, without a hint of dishonesty in my voice. “Just one of the Mazken….”

She was unsure of my answer, but she seemed to decide I was telling the truth, and she turned to lead me back inside, saying, “Well, hurry up! You’re late for your dancing lesson. The Duke will not be pleased.”

As I followed, I looked over my shoulder to see Thadon coming up the steps. He watched me disappear inside, and then returned to the House of Mania, presumably back to his duties.

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