Disclaimer: ~I'm sorry, so sorry; Please accept my apology~ *ahem* sorry, song stuck in my head. Nothing is owned by me (except the game of the year edition).

Been dying to write something for Oblivion for AGES! So glad I finally got something spat out lol. As always, it's short and unbeta-ed, and literally finished moments ago. I am sooooo tired, so sorry if I missed any mistakes. That being said, Haskill makes me giggle like crazy :D Maybe he's not the best looking, but he's so funny, I thought he deserved a piece. And then, somehow, while writing the guy, he developed insane amounts of character depth that tried to claw it's way in. That'll teach me to write oneshots at midnight! Normally, I hate stories like this (hah hah!), so it's weird to write and post one, but I like it, so here it is.

He's at her side, just as he's always been at his master's. She sits on the throne, learning the responsibilities of her new position, working ceaselessly, pouring herself into her new position. And he's there, at her side, sometimes the teacher, the informer, the taskmaster, sometimes the errand boy, the butt of a joke, the shoulder she leans on when it's all too much. Sometimes he just watches.

He's watching now.

She hasn't slept in days, and it's starting to show. She's curled up on the throne, her throne, head between her knees and fingers digging into the skin of her scalp. She's wearing the dress her predecessor left for her, but she has no shoes and her hair is a mess.

She was a Dunmer once, tall and dark, elegant and deadly. Her complexion is pasty now, her vibrant red hair fading into streaks of orange which are fading to white. Her eyes, redder than her hair, the entrance to her soul, are now flecked with copper, as though being overrun, overpowered.

He saw his former master change like this before. But with the Madgod, things usually went faster, and were deliberate. He supposed this was still deliberate, but on the Prince's part, not on her's. Soon, there would be no difference between the two.

Sheogorath was doing to Melina what had been done to him. Sheogorath was gone, overtaken, erased, with no ability to fight, no choice and no salvation. Now Melina was the same. Now the Dunmer warrior was disappearing, his old master taking her place.

Was it his old master? He didn't know, couldn't tell. He'd probably never know if Melina-Sheogorath was the same as Jyggalag-Sheogorath, just like he'd never know if his master was still inside that beast who ruled order, trapped and defeated. Would this knew Sheogorath trap Melina inside, or would he still be Melina?

He watched passively as she shivered, twitched, writhed. She was changing, but it wouldn't happen tonight. It would be slow, long, painful; maddening. She would loose herself. Who would be left when it was over?

He's grown fond of her, he admits. To see her go would be...he's not sure what it would be, what he would feel. He doesn't feel much other than mild annoyance most of the time, and he doesn't much like it when he does feel anything else.

Like when his master had been preparing to go. When he'd gone.

He'd been aggravating, deliberately so. A constant pest, an eternal annoyance. Immortal he was, and immortal he'd made his chamberlain, and Haskill had lived centuries in the service of his Daedric lord. The loss had been...it had been like an ache. It still was. He lived in mourning, a silent grief overshadowing.

Knowing his master's plan had been no comfort. Knowing that this woman who had answered the call, who would defend them and lead them, would be sacrificed to bring his master back again...it intensified the ache. He would miss her.

He missed his master, no matter what a pest he was. Sheogorath was his world, his family, his charge.

She's groaning, moaning, crying, and he can't reconcile this with the hope of having his master returned to him. He wants Sheogorath back. He doesn't want her to go.

She's got a smile for him when he's deadpan, which is always, and a laugh for his unfeeling sarcasm. She's a tease and a thinker, a warrior who philosophizes, who sharpens her mind while she sharpens her blade. She takes pleasure in his company, even though he's plain and boring, and finds him funny even when she's in the darkest of moods.

"Haskill..." Her call is a whimper, a plea. He's still standing beside her throne, watching, because those were his orders. He can't help bring his master back, he can't prevent her departure even if he wanted to. He's locked in the ache that has hold of him, that divides him as the land is divided. He loves like family Sheogorath, his childish master. He loves like a man Melina, his dying friend. He can't choose. He can't die. He can only watch.

He's watching her fall apart.