Blackwater Islands was hypnotized by a strange delight

Māzigon, Jaes, māzigon.

"Not going to happen."

Māzigon, Jaes, māzigon.

"Forget about it, Maegi."

Māzigon, Jaes, māzigon; māzigon, Jae—

"Jaes isn't coming, Maegi—"

Māzigon, Jaes, māzigon; māzigon, Jaes, māzigon; māzigon, Jaes, māzigon; māzigon, Jaes, māzigon; māzigon, Jaes, māzigon; māzigon, Jaes, māzigon; māzigon, Jaes, māzigon; māzigon, Jaes, māzigon. . .

---

And on it went, the push-pull of madness and sanity; of anarchy and faith; of what once was and what now remained.

Maegi's lips never stopped, chanting that mantra that had brought her so much solace, trying desperately to block out Sheogorath.

Shouting did not work; he would only shout back.

Whispering was better, but his voice still cut above the gentle susurrus.

Her voice had grown so hoarse that the words barely registered above a monotonous croak, but her lips still formed the sounds; Jaes would hear her. He would hear her. . .

And on it went, for a day, and a night.

A day, and a night.

And what was day? And what was night?

She dreamed of drowning, and welcomed the water into her lungs.