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]

SubRosa:Thank you, and yes--it was important that I not get into the cliche of portraying Syl's first time as this wonderful experience complete with fireworks and all of that, simply because I wanted to portray a realistic first-time experience. And also, I wanted to show what happens when someone who lives a sheltered life gets their first taste of freedom...

Also, your insights are always so good and inspiring. Your commentary is much valued, as is the commentary of all my readers!

Acadian:Thanks! I am glad you enjoyed her night as much as her!

And I agree that it's better she knew his name, and at least had something of a relationship with him. Not perhaps what there should have been, but that is sadly how it so often is.

Also, glad you enjoyed my description of the Demented nature of the parties. Yes, somehow I don't think the residents of Bliss would be too fond of the parties held in Crucible, that's for sure.

mALX:I am so glad you caught onto the detachment that really started with the onset of adolescence for her. It's like she sort of developed a way of distancing herself from her own life, as a means of protecting herself from all the pain and sorrow and darkness that life in Dementia really throws at you.

And not to worry - according to lore, elves aren't usually fertile until they reach full maturity. So, she should have another year or two before she has that to worry about...hopefully....



Chapter 5.1—Blood and Wine

While I did remain friends with Galvon, I wanted to forget about that night with him and to keep our relationship platonic. I knew that he didn’t like it, but I reminded him that I never promised him anything, and I continued to enjoy myself at Shavari’s parties while trying to behave myself. Of course, the mixture of alcohol and youth did not allow for constant success, but I was pretty good at controlling myself when faced with the advances of all the men at the parties who would have loved to sleep with the Duke’s daughter. I rarely gave into the raging lust, much to the dissatisfaction of many men.

Muurine didn’t like it when I began returning home a little tipsy. She expressed her concerns, warning me about the dangers getting drunk could pose. “Too many of the young people like to get drunk at parties nowadays,” she said to me, “leaving them vulnerable to be mugged in the streets or taken advantage of—or, Madgod forbid, even worse….”

I rolled my eyes, too foolish and young to listen to her advice, saying, “Oh, Madgod.... Muurine, you’re starting to sound like my father, always worried about me, and for no reason. I’m fine. None of my friends would ever take advantage of me—they don’t need to.” I stopped to chuckle a bit, then finished by saying, “I give of myself enough rather freely.”

I laughed at my joke, but Muurine didn’t even flinch. She was not amused. “Syl, I am serious. You are acting like a fool. You are going to get yourself killed if you keep all this up, and then I’ll be left to take the blame when your father decides to execute me for allowing you to act like this.”

“You’re not allowing me, remember? You’re not supposed to know.”

She sighed in frustration and threw up her hands, then climbed into bed and went to sleep without even saying goodnight. And so, I had won the argument—for now. The next morning, however, it was Muurine who felt she had won.

I slept late, missing breakfast—much to my father’s displeasure—and I woke up with a splitting headache. Muurine laughed a little, saying, “I remember those days….”

“Ohh…. Just tell me how to make it go away….” I laid in the bed, holding my forehead and feeling like I was on the brink of death. If I wasn’t going to die, right then I certainly wanted to. Nothing could have been as bad as how I felt at that moment, so I thought. Unfortunately, Muurine couldn’t give me any relief.

“Sorry, dear,” she said, sitting on the side of the bed and giving me a damp cloth to hold over my eyes. “There are no spells or potions to relieve hangovers.”

“Well, there should be!” I exclaimed. That was followed by a miserable, “Ohh….”

Muurine laughed again, shaking her head as she moved some hair away from my face. “I told you that you shouldn’t be getting drunk at those parties…. You missed breakfast. Your father was not pleased. You’re lucky I covered for you, though.”

“Thanks,” I said, with a touch of sarcasm.

“Now do you think you’ll stop drinking too much at the parties?”

“You think I got drunk on purpose? I wasn’t trying to drink too much, Muurine. It just happened.”

“You don’t have to get drunk, you know. It’s a matter of listening to your body. When you start to feel the alcohol affecting you, stop.”

“That’s easier said than done,” I replied, unwilling to listen to her words of wisdom. Again, young and foolish….

“Well,” she said, “if you go on doing this to yourself, then it serves you right. No one has ever been successful in finding a cure for hangovers, though many have tried. You just have to take some responsibility upon yourself, or you’re going to suffer.”

“You’re not helping,” I grumbled. When she started to respond, I launched my pillow at her, and said, “Stop talking! Just let me suffer in peace!”

She chuckled a bit and returned my pillow to me, then got up to walk toward the door, every clank of her high-heeled shoes on the stone floor making my head pound as if it were going to shatter to pieces.

“I’ll leave you to rest,” she said, before leaving. “Your father believes you are ill. He insisted on sending for a healer, but I assured him it was a minor ailment, which should be over by the end of the day on its own…. Perhaps you should think twice about going out again tonight. But, if I know you—which I do—you won’t.”

She was right. I went out again that very night, doing the same thing all over again. I could have prevented myself from getting drunk. I felt what Muurine had been talking about. But everyone else was doing it, and I didn’t want to be left out. So, I joined in and drank too much, regretting it again in the morning. Muurine refused to cover for me again, so I had to go about my day as if nothing were wrong, while she chuckled and smirked; and I hated her all the more because of it.

******

Apart from Shavari and Galvon, my usual group of friends included an Imperial from my father’s court named Una Armina, whose dream of one day running a museum of sorts would one day come true; and Shavari’s brother, K’Shar. K’Shar was the only Khajiit I was ever intimate with, but mostly we enjoyed each other’s sense of humor. Galvon was jealous that I spent more time joking around with K’Shar than I did doing anything with him, but he would get over it. After all, he was not the first and only person I was friends with. In fact, I had several friends, but the one I would get along with the most for awhile was a newcomer to the group, a Bosmer from Ashwood who came to New Sheoth as an apprentice to the master smith.

“They call me Cutter,” she said, when introduced to me one night at a party. “Evelin is my given name, but don’t ever call me that, or I’ll make sure you regret it.”

She spoke in a slow drawl when she said this, and the look in her eyes convinced me that she wasn’t joking. I shuddered as I shook her hand, and asked, “Why do they call you Cutter?”

“I like to cut things,” she answered with a dark smile. “There’s nothing more satisfying than the sound of a sharp blade piercing someone’s flesh, or the feel of it slicing through your own.”

I didn’t know what to say after that, but Cutter smiled and changed the subject. After talking for a little while, I found myself growing more comfortable with her, and we hit it off after that. We were exactly the same age, and we even had the same birthday, which bonded us together, in a way. Her eyes were hazel, and she always wore dark eye-shadow around them, and blood-red paint upon her lips. This style she got me to wear for awhile and the men seemed to like us all the more because of it. My father wasn’t fond of it, but he didn’t pay much attention to me at this point.

[Screenshot—Cutter]

Cutter was a very interesting person. She was much less shy than me, though I was certainly not a wall-flower, and she helped me to loosen up more around the rest of the bunch. She quickly became the life of the party, one could say, and we got along well because we had much of the same interests—most notably, playing with knives and fooling around with men.

Once a week, at her urging, we began going to the tavern at night, which was then simply called The Crucible Inn. The tavern was owned by a disgusting orc named Sharag gro-Ghoth, and his brother, Borzol. Sharag didn’t like us being in there much, because we never bought anything and we only came in to flirt with his customers. But we went anyway, and he couldn’t really kick us out, because as far as he knew, we weren’t doing anything illegal.

The first couple nights, we only flirted with the men and got them to pay for our drinks. But one night, Cutter came up with an idea. She wouldn’t tell me what it was at first; all she told me was that I needed to change into more conspicuous apparel.

“What could be more conspicuous than what I’m already wearing?” I asked, puzzled by her suggestion.

“You need to look appealing, but not wealthy. If the men at the tavern realize who you are, this will never work.” She threw some of her own clothing at me, and said, “Here, put this on.”

Cutter decided that we should seek out wealthy looking men with an interest in Wood Elves, and a willingness to participate in our little games. We would convince a man to take us up to his room, thinking he could have his way with us, and then we would get him to let us tie him to the bed. Once that was done, and his clothes all off, we would make off with his money while we left him tied up. The men never reported us because they were too ashamed and embarrassed, so we got away with it.

Of course, not all the men were into being tied up, so we had to come up with other ways of tricking them. With my growing knowledge of alchemy, I was able to create an elixir that one of us could slip into their drinks while the other distracted them by showing some skin and flirting. By the time they’d get us up to their room, they were in such a state of incompetence that we were easily able to make off with whatever money or valuables they had on them. One bonus my elixir added to our crimes was that it left the men with absolutely no memory of what had led to them being robbed. Once we realized this, we decided to use my elixir every time.

The whole thing was just for thrills, and for the money, as Cutter’s pay as an apprentice was meager, and I didn’t receive any sort of an allowance from my father. I would never have thought up this little scheme on my own, but Cutter had a way of getting people to do things that they might not normally do.

When we weren’t at Shavari’s parties, or picking up foolish lusty men at the tavern, Cutter and I would go to the smith shop, where she lived with the master smith of New Sheoth, who was training her to take over one day. The master smith, Morga gra-Shadborgob, was the most pleasant and agreeable orcish woman I had ever met, and she always welcomed me when Cutter brought me home with her. She left us alone most of the time, and she never told anyone that I was sneaking out of the palace, though she knew without question who I was.

Her six-year-old son, Ushnar, however was a different story. He would always pester us, until Morga sent her grown son, Dumag, to take him back to his bed and get him to sleep. Ushnar was an interesting child, friendly, just like his mother; but he had a terrible fear of cats which had been with him since he was very small. He had a childish crush on Cutter, which was why he always pestered us, but she had an eye for Dumag. I couldn’t understand her interest in an orc, but that’s where our tastes differed. I didn’t mind Dumag as a friend, but he wasn’t quite as friendly as his mother and little brother. He wasn’t disagreeable, but neither was he pleasant.

Once left alone, we would often lie on the bed in Cutter’s small chamber together, talking and laughing like young women often do, and we usually shared a bottle of red wine together, drinking straight from the bottle. Then, when we felt like it, we would take out one of our daggers and use it on ourselves, and on each other. Allowing ourselves to bleed for awhile before healing the cuts, we would lie there and stare at the ceiling, relishing the pain.

Sometimes Cutter would ask to taste my blood, and I would let her. When she asked me to taste hers, however, I was not so open to it. I have never liked the taste of blood, and contrary to popular belief, I do not drink the blood of my enemies.

There was but one time when I was willing to taste her blood, as part of some ritual she thought up. “I want us to be blood-sisters,” she explained to me.

I was hesitant, but she was adamant, and so I gave in. Then we pulled out my dagger—a unique dark blade resembling the swords of the Dark Seducers, made from obsidian—and she went first, cutting my wrist and holding it out to let the blood drip into a cup. Then she handed the dagger back to me and offered her wrist, saying, “Now it is your turn. Cut me and let my blood pour into the cup to mingle with yours, so that we may drink it. When this is complete, we will share a bond that can never be broken, but by death.”

The thought of drinking anyone’s blood almost made my stomach turn, but I swallowed my discomfort and took the dagger. She was eager with anticipation, holding her arm out for me and waiting almost impatiently. I had no qualms about cutting her, and I sliced the blade across her wrist with ease. Then I waited while her blood dripped into the cup with my own, and we healed our cuts with a potion I had made earlier that day.

Smiling wickedly, Cutter used her finger to stir the blood together, and then tasted it from her finger, gasping with delight. Then she lifted the cup into the air, and said, “Spirits of darkness, sisters in blood let us be—an unbreakable bond; in blood unity!”

After saying this strange chant, she lifted the cup to her lips and drank from it. Taking it in for a moment, she closed her eyes and savored the taste, while I watched with a mixture of disgust, apprehension, and curiosity. When she handed the cup to me, I looked down into it, seeing just enough of our blood left for me, and then I looked back up at her with uncertainty.

“Go on,” she said, almost feverishly, “drink it! Drink, and we shall be sisters for as long as our blood fills our veins!”

Swallowing hard and taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and brought the cup to my lips. The crimson liquid was still warm, and the strong iron taste made me nearly cringe. I had to fight not to gag, thinking too much about what it was I was drinking, and when I had finished what was left in the cup, I set it down and looked at Cutter. She was more than satisfied, and I had to force a smile so she would not grow offended.

“Now, we are blood-sisters,” she said in a deep, slow voice. Her lips were still red with blood, and some even ran down her chin. It was chilling. But at the same time, it was exciting.