Archive of Our Own ^beta

“May we murder you?”

“No.”

“May we murder you?”

“No.”

“...May we grievously assail your person, please??”

“...No.”

The standoff between Glum the Grey Saint, and the skaafin and yellow skinned dremora that are all but begging her to let them murder her, might very well go on forever, since all parties are immortal, were it not for a large caterpillar rapidly approaching through the picturesque, razor sharp wheat field in which the daedra are loitering.

Scritch scritch scritch. 

No one pays attention to the worm.

Scritch scritch scritch. The worm rears up on its fat tail, and barks.

“LEAVE, WORTHLESS MINIONS!”

Alarmed by the roar of a Being far greater than themselves, the horned daedra, flashily dressed in Oblivion's version of tuxedos, scamper off, stiffly in the case of the hilariously stuck-up dremora. 

Scritch scritch scritch. 

Glum stares across the swaying fields of gold, stares off towards the distant and beautifully Imperial town of Caprice, and its notorious Lake of Doom. The sun shines, a bit too harshly, and the air is acrid, subtly so. The Fields of Regret are the best of Oblivion's realms, the most conventionally attractive, since they take the form of an idyllic world of pastoral delights and urban fancy, where any trouble one might get into is entirely one's own fault. But it is still a demonic realm, filled with tormented souls, including Glum, who, as often happens, has been tricked into visiting.

Scritch scritch scritch.

How was she tricked? Who knows. All it takes is one wrong word spoken to the Lord of this pocket world, one badly timed nod of the head or wave of the hand, for Clavicus Vile to decide you have accepted his bargain. 

“Woof.”

And Clavicus Vile has a small crush on her, or so Daddy says, and Glum acts a little stupid sometimes, unable to conceive of points in the future that may be affected because of actions in the present. 

“WOOF.”

It's about time to pay attention to the worm sitting on her feet. It's pretty heavy for a vile insect. Glum looks down, a lock of her shimmering silver hair breaking free of its confinement. Since there's not as much need for a disguise here, she's chilling out and wearing her humanoid form, which is that of a giant silver woman of indeterminate race. After some recent adventures in the Arena, she's taken to wearing a silver warhammer strapped across her back, but doesn’t unholster it now.

“What did you say?”

Scritch scritch scritch.

Instead of squishing the bug, Glum picks it up. It's about the size of two bricks put end to end, but round, chubby, horned, and jaundiced, like many things in the Fields. Vile likes gold, but can never quite pull off the lustre. Jyggalag often describes his fellow Prince as akin to a Breton used cart salesman, and Glum finds the comparison apt, the only difference being, that Vile is definitely sapient. Nevermind him though, he's yet to appear, yet to bother her with his demands for attention.

She picks up the bug, and hugs and kisses it, because it's been designed to be cute, and to appeal to her unique aesthetic sensibilities. It's fuzzy and soft, it has red googly eyes, it's purring. Well, with nothing better to do, Glum takes off towards Caprice in search of cobblestones to scrub of poisonous moss and arrange in perfect alignment. Citizens might die in the process, but since most of them are already dead and trapped here for all eternity, it hardly matters.

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 An ogrim wearing a pink dress and shopkeeping a bakery, attempts to sell Glum a strawberry tart for so many Vile Bucks, that if she weren't already mutilated in mind the way many Demi-Princes are, she would autobanish herself back to her own realm, or even that of her father's. The caterpillar growls, the ogrim relents, and gives her the tart for free. 

“I don't have any Vile Bucks anyway.” she says to herself, while sitting on the live fairy which serves as part of the bakery's seating arrangements. A herne serves her strawberry tea, and the worm, now curled up asleep on her lap, hums. A wan yellow chest appears on the marble floor, a replenishing chest from which spills enough Vile Bucks to buy whatever she might desire.

Naturally, Glum buys everything pretty or interesting she can find, along with anything that might be used for organisation. This includes an abnormally grey toned Vile Guardian, the protrusions jutting from its back will be used to suspend delicate silver ornaments. The worm she carries over her heart, huffs.

 The scope of Clavicus’ plane is infinite, but Glum fully intends to traverse all of it, or as much as she can. Her memories tell her that everytime she has been to the Fields before, it is Clavicus himself who proves responsible for sending her home, usually because he exceeds the bounds of propriety in some way, faux pas which immediately summons her father, Jyggalag, from his endless crusade against disorder in all its forms…Sometimes Glum wonders if Clavicus isn't sabotaging himself on purpose. He does tend to do that quite a lot - bad deals, bad swords, bad ideas. It's not like she wants some sort of romantic phrase whispered into her ear, no, she's not mortal, that sort of thing is for creatures who reproduce out of necessity. Glum doesn't reproduce out of necessity, she reproduces because someone spoke a word that demanded a mate, a word such as Hircine once spoke to her while she was wandering The Hunting Grounds, collecting unicorns. Clavicus speaks a lot, but never does he utter a compelling word. In the back of her mind, Glum blames his many mortal lovers for this enervation. He's too human.

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 And young! Clavicus is too young! He's the youngest of the Princes, too young for Glum. Yup, yup! And Daddy hates him, although Daddy hates everyone except for this one weird guy. Clavicus is also a Prince, way too high and mighty for Glum.

Once she approaches the outskirts of Foible, a nature reserve, walking through the decorative arches of inactive Oblivion gates, the worm in her bosom wiggles and meeps, crawling onto her shoulder, where the bitter smelling breeze tussles its fur. Everything in this realm is designed to gnaw away at one, either quickly and savagely, or slow and insidiously, to provoke a feeling of regret, and what might provoke regret in a nature reserve? Not overcharging ogrim. 

Instead we have wild ogrim, pus yellow and slickly smiling. Golden Saints with eyes wide open. Beige Aurorans, daedric horses, swarms of marble daedrats, flocks of air atronach, feathered clannfear, underwater daedroth, albino Wraith-of-Crows, a lone Ash Titan sleeping in a soul gem cave, and worst of all, children, both of mortal and daedric origin. They play and cavort amongst the idealised trees, trees with the hearts of cannibals.

Glimpsing these ethereal, often malicious creatures darting here and there, makes the bug broody. Crawling to the top of Glum's head, it lies there like a hat, and mopes while she hands over Vile Bucks to the skaafin guard at the gate to Foible. The car park is full, because today is a public holiday, one of the many in the Regretful Calendar which the entirety of Oblivion has adopted. Carriages of shadow, horses of ice, bugs of steel, and many other representations of the infinite variety of transport found in both Oblivion and Mundus, litter the area. A Dwarf steps off a centurion cycle, looking very cool in his brass leather and oiled neckbeard. A Maormer bites into a swirl of Mind Terror ice cream. Mehrunes Dagon trots along behind his wife and children, avoiding Nocturnal and her much younger hubby and their only child.

“It's Lord Vile's birthday.” says the bug.

“I know.”

“He appreciates presents.”

“I know. I think that is why I'm here.”

“He hates being the only single, childless Prince.”

“He should grow up and ask a lady daedroth out.”

“...” this has, apparently, never occurred to the worm, and it looks shocked.

Glum tightens the tie keeping her hair up, then continues. “He's rich, the richest, he takes all the Realms’ money, he can buy a ring.”

“BUY? MAKE! HAVE A WITCH-”

“That has gone poorly before.”

“It will work out, one day, with the right witch.”

“Now you sound like Bal.”

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A pumpkin spectre with a horned pumpkin for a head, is hired by the caterpillar to act as a tour guide. It immediately attempts to feed Glum to a lamiae. Since it didn't request permission of Glum before attempting this trick, the caterpillar completely loses the plot, throwing itself off Glum's head, and transforming, first into a gigantic, brutal hound, which tears the spectre to shreds, and then into a boyish skaafin in a richly trimmed tunic, a skaafin who gazes at her with far more honesty than usual. Since he's not taking Glum's preferred form, Glum pretends not to know that Clavicus Vile, as the worm form of Barbas, has been riding around with her for hours. 

Stung to the quick by this aloofness, Clavicus splits himself into two dogs, one of them catapulting itself away, the other, Barbas, staying to stare up at his master's crush with puppy dog eyes. Since Vile is feeling defensive, Barbas has taken one of his more frightening canine forms, and doesn't inspire the loving feelings that puppy dog eyes are supposed to evoke.

“Why are you so mean to my master? Why the cold shoulder for thousands of years?” he asks, his voice correspondingly harsh.

“He's a Prince. It's impossible to be mean to him. Some, especially him, would say he's the most powerful Prince there is, after Daddy, of course, not that he brags about it or anything. He's definitely the cleverest. If he feels people are mean to him, that's only because he's mean to himself first.”

‘You've been spending too much time in Mundus.”

“No, you.”

“....Woof!”

Being accused of being mean, makes Glum feel a little mean. With a silver twirl of her hand, she summons her and Hircine's son (or ‘emanation’, to be exact) the Demi-Prince, Grim the Grey Scholar. Much like his mother, his name doesn't entirely match his looks, because while he is coloured various shades of dark grey, he is dressed more like a hunter than a scholar, and his head has been replaced by the skull of a kudu, an antelope which sports elegant, twisted horns. Eyes as silvery white as his mother's, stare from the eye sockets. He also carries one of his father's dreadful spears, and is accompanied by a melanistic lion. He does love trivia, however. Mother and son stroll off to see if the local Ash Titan can be organised and catalogued.

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 It's his birthday, yet Clavicus Vile's capital Palace, the ugly, brutalist Bastion of Banality, is empty. Empty of anyone who isn't strictly a servant that is. No one ever wants to hang out. Hang around him? Yes. But not with him personally. If he desires a companion, he either has to make one, abduct one, or trick one :(

He sits alone on his throne, a fake smile plastered across a fake face, a bitter cup of red wine held loosely in one hand, garnet liquid dropping to the pale floor. It's not one of the good crystal chalices that are brought out for parties, because there is no big party for him, surprise or otherwise,  and why bother to use the good set when you're alone, eternally alone. Besides being carried around by Glum in the form of a hideous insect, he'd spent the day being summoned by mortals, who always ask for the most boring thing of all - power. Can he really be blamed for expressing his disgust in creative and or stupid ways? Stupid answers to stupid requests. Even daedra desire more out of life than this. 

The sounds and smells of merry making ascend from the port of Whimsy, from creatures celebrating their lord's birthday, a day where everyone receives extra helpings of intoxicating Vile Pastry. They'd still best follow the realm rules about politeness and gentlemanly behaviour though, or the Vile Guardians will be wanting a heavy handed ‘word’.

When Daedra Lords cry, it's a big deal, sometimes a realm shattering deal, sometimes it marks a point where they undergo the incredibly rare and nigh mythical ‘Change’. Artifacts and beings of great power are always created, often from the tear or tears shed. According to the belief system called the 'Old Ways', Daedric Princes are the spirits of once living men and women who have carved high places for themselves in hell, and in life, Clavicus was likely a very powerful, but very decadent, deceitful, and immature young ruler, perhaps a king, perhaps even an emperor, a passionate, yet deeply sad man, someone no one ever spoke the truth to, someone, who for all his power, never possessed for even an instant, what he truly desired. All the clever deals in the world couldn't secure it. 

According to the Old Ways, Glum is really and truly the daughter of Jyggalag, a great conqueror who warred against those he objected to on deeply moral grounds, and it could be that Clavicus, in the long ago days when he walked the face of Mundus as a mere man, had conceived some rather self-traitorous, self-destructive crush on the fair yet stern princess, although no Daedra Lord remembers all this, or at least says they don't. Maybe the only one who does, is Jyggalag himself. In which case, only he really feels the full burden of eternity.

Toxic water fills Clavicus' eyes as he peers around his empty throne room, peers at his attendant skaafin. Beside him on the dais, Barbas whines like a dog, despite being in a humanoid form. He stands as a guardian suit of animalistic armour decorated with canine motifs, ever-loyal eyes fixed on his master's. Should those tears burst their banks, something cataclysmic will happen, something they'll gossip about in endless contradictory books. Possibly the visiting Princes will be caught up in the disaster, and there will be a whole hullabaloo. There's still hope though, as Clavicus hasn't given utterance to his misery, which is when he, like most people, is likely to begin weeping. To forestall this, Barbas fades away, to reappear elsewhere.

 “Invitation to a small, private Tupperware party, Milady. A new, silver range has just been released and my lord has received the only articles of it to be found anywhere in Oblivion. Very exclusive.” desperate times call for desperate measures, and stating outright to Glum that Clavicus is sad and lonely, won't work, as she's not liable to becoming emotional over things like that. Plus, this thing with Clavicus only came about because he attempted to ensnare her into some horrible deal in the first place, which she deflected with a well timed bunny. Why should she be in any way well disposed towards him?

Barbas finds her and Grim, window shopping down the High Street of the town of Strange Fancy, the pair busy looking for gifts for The Grey Prince of Order. If one is ‘trapped’ in an expensive resort, one may as well make the most of it. 

While Glum turns the pearlescent invitation card back and forth, delighting in the pretty shininess, Barbas fights a battle with himself not to call her a cat (derogatory). According to him, attempting to mix cat and dog is the cause of all the world's problems, but his other half has always been contrary that way.

“Will Clavvy be there?”

“Naturally, he's hosting. What else would he be doing on his birthday.”

“Aa-”

“I also invited your father.”

“☺️🤍”

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 In one of the many lavishly decorated private rooms of Clavicus’ palace, Jyggalag perches on an ivory curule seat which is far too small for him. Since he refuses to drink anything originating from another realm, or drink from anything originating from another realm, he has brought his own refreshments, the chief being Brandy of Order, which he sips from a Glass of Order. Like any good VIP, he's brought bodyguards, Knights of Order, who he has had to turn off and pile in a corner, lest they disturb the party with their honking. Parties, he's never invited to parties, so when Barbas himself appeared before him whilst he was out crusading, invitation on a literal silver platter, he had to accept. Also, he was told his daughter had once again been abducted, by stealth, and subjected to an extended holiday. Strangely though, Clavicus Vile has not yet sloppily attempted any sort of amorous activity, which is what always summons Jyggalag forth, since when Vile puckers his lips anywhere in little Glum's general direction, her father is suddenly overtaken by a feeling of indescribable rage, and a greater than usual desire to purge all frauds, fakes, and disorderly layabouts from the infinite realms. Perhaps Vile has finally learnt his lesson, and read a book, or at least a Temple of Mara leaflet about courting etiquette. If not, well, Jyggalag has brought his sword. 

There was no scam, it's a Tupperware party, and Tupperware is arranged attractively on a brass and ivory table placed in the centre of a semicircle of fancy couches. Clavicus staggers in, eyes downcast, mien extraordinarily out of character. He grunts in the direction of Jyggalag, before flopping onto a couch, a lace edged fan held over his eyes. He clearly does not expect any love interest to appear, because, while he's in his ‘horned human man’ form, his tunic is stained, his hair is greasy, his bare knees are scraped, and no ornaments decorate his horns. He also smells of wet dog, which is a permanent thing, but usually he covers it with Atrocious Daedroth musk or other expensive perfume. 

“Clavicus Vile, Prince of Trickery and Bargains, Master of Insidious Wishes, Prince of Power, Grand Deceiver, Child-God of the Morningstar…are you here to sell me Tupperware?”

“That is, allegedly, why my hound invited you into my home. Never fear, Prince of Order, the proceeds are going towards a good cause.”

“Which is?”

“...”

“Which is?”

A bowl of grapes on an agate coffee table flings its contents into the air, where they hang suspended in a shape suggestive of a scamp’s ugly face. 

It slurs words. “He's building a shrine to your daughter. Because he loves h-”

“WHHHHA-”

Barbas speaks over the shrieking. “-so we need you to convince her to stop being so cruel. It's been at least four thousand years. Clavicus is dying here.”

Mollified by the thought of one of his enemies dying, Jyggalag points his sword at his fellow Prince. “This is all very mortal of you. Do your dremora know you're wasting away of love sickness?”

“They're too busy begging tourists for licenses to kill, to notice little old me.”

“...You're a sharp one.”

“I'm a politician. Now, will you set me up with your daughter, or would you like to browse my selection of plastic first?”

“For what conceivable reason would I let you foist yourself upon my precious offspring? You give daedra a bad name.”

Moving from louche position to louche position, Clavicus sits up a bit, and crosses a leg over a knee, lowering the fan so one yellow eye shows. “Listen, your options, from your point of view, are bad, I get it. There's me, a Prince, the best Prince. And then there's everything else. I'm fond of gold, she's fond of silver, we're perfect together. There's no more complimentary combination. And I've been obsessed with her for aeons. The entire time all that nonsense on Nirn has been going on. Who knows, it's bad enough about Hircine, but Glum might take a liking to Malacath…or Boethiah…or Bal…Or, on the other hand, on the theme of complementaries, she might choose a lesser daedra who likes gold. How disgraceful! Or, being who she is, she might bumble into Aetherius, and marry a member of their stuffed roster of humourless clowns. Mannimarco, perhaps. Or Tal-”

“Alright, alright!”

“And, my realm is ideal for raising children. There are fields. It's sunny. They'll learn maths. No one can enact violence without receiving permission first, but danger lurks behind every leaf and under every rock. All the other planes are dark, or gloomy, or too red, or too hot, or ash pits. I am literally the only fun daedra.”

“I'm resigned.”

“No child will ever be lonely, because each one will have its own puppy or kitten, forever. I'll loosely link Glum and I’s realms, so if one of my creations causes trouble for me, it won't affect her, and there'll be a place for the family to take refuge.”

“You'll gift her her own custom Grove of Hist.”

“Naturally.”

“And no more fornication.”

Clavicus' lazy eyelids, till now set at low mast, flip open, wide, a dark flush filling his cheeks, travelling up his forehead, and down his neck and chest. “Where did you learn such a nasty word!

“I know all words.”

“Don't use it!”

“I won't use it, if you don't do it. If you do do it, I will take assorted parts of your noxious body off for each offence. And tell everyone about it.”

“You're mad!”

“Well, that was partly your doing.”

“CHHEEEEEEESE!!!” Sheogorath steps out from behind Jyggalag, at the same time as he flings a concrete cheese wheel through the grapes, at Clavicus, who dodges with much greater agility than one would expect from someone so sedentary. “Hurt our little Glum, and bad things will happen to you, boy!” the Mad Lord growls, before disappearing amidst an explosion of butterflies.

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 Glum enters the room, to find it in disarray, with Tupperware and fruit flung everywhere. As soon as she caught sight of curly hair, she began to leave, but she can't now, because cleaning and organisation must occur. And Daddy is here. He's not doing anything except looking around without moving his head or eyes. Glum's used to that, but it's one of the reasons why he's not invited to parties. 

“Dearest daughter, this foul satyr lounging here like a drunken troll, possesses access to Tupperware.”

“I know, Daddy. He brags about it all the time.”

“Of all my hideous colleagues, he is perhaps the least hideous.”

“I know, Daddy. He's the cutest meanie.”

“Hircine does not wear a shirt.”

“I know, Daddy.”

“I wish you didn't know.”

Sensing that her father is driving at something, Glum begins setting things in order behind Clavicus’ couch, so that she doesn't have to feel the birthday boy's physical eyes on her. It's his realm though, so he's still watching her. 

“Daughter, I am going to take my purchases to the car. I will be back shortly.” 

Jyggalag stomps out, through a wall, destroying it in the process, his arms full of Tupperware, a floating mass of grapes trailing after him, leaving Clavicus and Glum alone.

Immediately, Clavicus looks over the back of his couch, and the bare arm he had cast along it.

“Psst, Glum.”

“💭🐇🐰”

“PSST!”

“💭🐇💨😆”

Man up, Clavicus, man up. “....Glum, did I ever tell you that I think you're beautiful? Much more beautiful than Nocturnal and Azura combined?”

“👀☺️”

“That first time you showed up at one of my parties, I thought ‘Hmm, maybe it's not so bad being a lawyer.’ and then you bamboozled me with nonsense, and I was hooked.”

“👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀”

“What I'm trying to say is, I'm rich, I'm powerful, I'm good looking in a skeevy way, and I l-love you. Hircine can go drown in a lake, marry me instead! I want you to confound me for all time! I want combined statues, family statues, new artifacts, more chaos, extra shininess! I want mortals to tremble when a cat arrives to bargain for their puny souls!”

By now Clavicus has given up attempting to look cool, and like many a man in love, has approached the object of his affections in a state of worm-like adoration, and instead of leaping to her feet and running away, as she has every other time it looks like he might attempt to apply the nasty mortal trick of romantically pressing his lips to some part of her face, Glum simply stays where she is, stray Tupperware gathered in a neat pile at her feet.

“I've lots of ideas for a Love Token, and I'll let your dad hammer out a contract, my dearest kitty. I won't even touch a quill, except to sign my name, I promise. He already demanded some things, on pain of dismemberment, and your uncle threw a block of concrete at my gorgeous head. I've suffered, sweetheart.” 

That gets Glum's attention. Her hands rise, taking Vile's head between them while she gently searches for damage. 

“He didn't actually hit me with his projectile, but he might've. He might've nicked a horn, and then what?!” 

“You would regenerate immediately.”

“It's about the principal, darling…Am I hurt?”

“No.”

“Will you kiss the boo-boo away anyway? I'll transform into a bunny, if it helps.”

The idea of such a thing, makes Glum smile and laugh, and also makes her kiss Clavicus on the nose, as if he really had turned into a bunny. “I love you the way you are. Botheration, stinky, greasy, and all.” she says.

Wide eyes happen again for Clavicus, but he doesn't say anything, in case he spooks her. You never know with Demi-Princes. If all other sapient daedra's minds travel clockwise, theirs travel anti-clockwise. It's why everyone is jealous of them. They're on the same track, they just go by a different way.

In a rare moment of deliberate kindness, Glum resumes speaking, after placing the last piece of errant Tupperware in the leaning tower of Tupperware Pisa. “I'll marry you, so you stop abducting me while I'm busy…” Glum looks at Clavicus, then at her pile of plastic, then back at Clavicus. A wry smile turns her lips up. Taking his right hand, she touches its index finger to two perfectly spaced points of her forehead, from whence two adorable, yet fatally sharp silver horns sprout. “There. Now you can tell everyone you've adopted a kitty.”

Clavicus literally disintegrates into a puddle of happy, yellow goo.