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Sheogorath hasn’t been acting like himself lately.
It isn’t in any big or supremely obvious way, which in itself is unlike him– Sheogorath never does anything by halves. It is, in fact, most likely completely missable to most in the Shivering Isles. But Haskill notices, because he is perhaps the one individual who truly knows Sheogorath (which is to say, as much as anyone can truly know a Daedric Prince). He notices the way Sheogorath makes sense when he talks now, and he no longer makes ridiculous comparisons and jokes that double as threats. Even the entertainment that used to be so amusing to him no longer has quite the same effect, and there’s an air of preoccupation around him that never dissipates. In short, he’s not quite as mad as the Mad God should truly be.
Haskill notices all of this, and naturally he knows what it means. He’s been with Sheogorath since the beginning, and the Greymarch always comes about in the exact same way. It’s predictable and orderly, which is like Jyggalag, but it isn’t very much like Sheogorath. The Realm will be destroyed by its own creator and then rebuilt, and centuries will pass and then it will be repeated again, and this process always stays the same. Haskill doesn’t know how many times the Greymarch has occurred; it seems to be too many times to count by now, although that may be hyperbole.
It’s nothing for him to be worried about, because Sheogorath always brings him back. Haskill is immortal, yes, but he doesn’t have to serve as the Mad God’s Chamberlain– Sheogorath could easily leave him to wander the other plains of Oblivion if that was his whim. But it isn’t, although Haskill occasionally wonders what sort of satisfaction his Master gains from keeping him here. Any number of the various denizens of Oblivion could certainly perform the tasks of a Chamberlain as well as he does, and there must be plenty with personalities and dispositions better suited to serving in the Court of Madness. Sheogorath’s insistence on retaining his services is somewhat puzzling, although it’s characteristic of his anti-logic.
But the minds of the Daedra are difficult to fathom, and their hearts are even more so.
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“Tell me, Haskill,” Sheogorath says one day, “don’t you think I look sort of… strung out? Like butter spread too thin on a particularly burnt piece of toast, or a corpse that’s been picked over by scavengers?”
“If I may be honest, my Lord,” Haskill replies delicately, “you have seemed slightly changed as of late.” It’s pointless to lie to Sheogorath to appeal to his ego; the Daedra are far too perceptive for that.
“Ha! I thought so.” Sheogorath seems amused by the confirmation of his presumption, but he still folds his hands on top of his staff and hunches over it, resting his chin on his knuckles thoughtfully. “What a shame for me, isn’t it, dear Haskill? To think that we’ll all fall apart again! You know, I’m always mad enough to think that the Greymarch might not happen this time around.” That’s true– he always holds on to the possibility that Jyggalag will somehow vanish from existence, and although it’s illogical Haskill suspects that he continues to believe it precisely because of its impossibility.
“I suppose that I will be tasked with rebuilding your realm again, then?” Haskill asks, already knowing the answer. What a thrilling proposition with all that it entails: shepherding mortals into the Shivering Isles, rebuilding the Gatekeeper, creating New Sheoth according to his Master’s ever-changing and ever-fickle specifications. There can hardly be a better position in Oblivion.
“Of course! What else are Chamberlains good for? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of quitting on me now.”
“Certainly not, my Lord, although I must confess that I do sometimes wonder why you insist on retaining my service in the wake of every Greymarch,” Haskill answers dryly. “I naturally do not object to my constant employment, but there must be other options for you.”
“What?” Sheogorath turns to him, a comically shocked expression on his face that could be genuine or fake or both at the same time. “Don’t be ridiculous, Haskill– that’s my job. Do you really need to ask why I keep bringing you back here again and again? Ruling my Realm without you would be like slicing off my own hand or plucking out my own eyes, and I’m only fond of doing that kind of thing to others.”
“But certainly, my Lord, there is another–”
“Besides,” Sheogorath interrupts, “you’ve been with me for so long that it just wouldn’t feel right here without you. I mean, you’re sort of like a cold and wet blanket, but a blanket is still a blanket no matter how cold it is, don’t you think? If I didn’t have you, well– I don’t think I’d get half as much enjoyment out of ruling over an assortment of lunatics if you weren’t here, my darling Haskill.”
The Greymarch must truly be imminent, because only a strong exertion of Jyggalag’s influence on Sheogorath could possibly make the Mad God be so direct about this sort of thing. He always circumvents the actual issue, instead talking in metaphors and vague references that don’t deal at all with the actual topic at hand, and Haskill doesn’t know why he puts up with it. Even though it’s certainly just a sign of the closeness of Sheogorath’s transformation, it’s still somehow a welcome change.
“Is that so? I can rest easier knowing that my Lord holds me in such high esteem,” Haskill says, and although his voice is as monotone as ever, what he says isn’t really a lie. As maddening as Sheogorath can be, as annoying and inconsistent as he is, Haskill can accept being the one constant in the cycle of destruction and creation that the Mad God exists in. That is, of course, what any good Chamberlain is: someone to rely and depend on regardless of the circumstances, and in spite of his complaints about his position, Haskill has never intended to be anything but a good Chamberlain.
But still, it’s a shame, Haskill thinks, that the Greymarch always seems to occur just when he’s growing fond of his Lord.