(FFN please stop eating my line breaks, please)
First, there is a hard stop, like the Void but louder. Then the Dragonborn takes a deep, gasping breath, great gulps of air, and she is awake.
There's a tightness in her fingers, and it's because they're clenched. Numbingly white-knuckled, white-hot. Wet. A leather grip through leather gloves. The familiar weight of a dagger, pressing up around the hilt, into gasping, gushing flesh.
She sees.
The woman around her blade gurgles and paws at the air, and something in the gauntness of her face reaches into Saffre's gut and twists, as though the assassination is happening the other way around. That's the wrong face, the wrong person and she is in the wrong place—
Grelod the Kind slumps, shudders, and dies. Just like the first time.
Saffre takes a second—only a second—of hesitation, before pulling the blade free and wiping it on the old lady's nightclothes. Then she takes more than a second to peer at the corpse's half-lidded eyes, sunken cheeks, blood-spattered chin. The resemblance isn't just a passing one; she definitely looks like the Night Mother.
The Night Mother, who… who is where? Against a backdrop of smoke… surrounded by explosions, pressed up close, hissing and praying and someone is whimpering in her ear…
But that existence isn't this one. It won't be.
In this one, The Dragonborn has just torn into the soft flesh under Grelod's ribs, lingered only long enough to watch the crone breathe her last, and now she slinks out of the orphanage in the dead of night without looking back.
In this existence, instead of returning to Windhelm for her reward, she is breaking into the stables and clambering atop the first horse she finds, setting out to the northwest and riding all night.
In this existence, she has only just begun the journey she's already finished once, but this time she's going to get it right.
This time, just like last time, Cicero awakes on the side of the road, nestled into the corner of his wagon and propped against the coffin like a failed sentinel. But this time, he is awaking from an absolutely awful nightmare.
He can't remember most of it, just flashes of explosions and shouting and screaming, breathing in too much smoke and leaking heat out of his left side. However, towards the end there was some hazy bit about resting his head on the warm stretch of neck under his Listener's ear, so. It can't have been all that bad.
Presently, he stretches and says good morning to the coffin, how do you do Mother, sleep well? Cicero certainly hopes so, because of the journey they have ahead of them today. Journey to where? To the sanctuary in Falkreath, the final stand of the Dark Brotherhood.
The same sanctuary where Astrid paid in blood and flesh for daring to defy the will of Sithis, which really doesn't make much sense, considering Cicero has yet to deliver their Maiden to the sanctuary and begin the whole chain of events in the first place. And also considering the sanctuary is nothing but a burnt-out husk.
"Now, Cicero understands your confusion, Mother," he babbles as he prepares the wagon for travel. "Why are we traveling to Falkreath, when we already have a home to the north? Why are we seeking a Listener for you, when you have already so wisely and graciously chosen the lovely Saffre? Why… why are we out here?"
She, naturally, doesn't answer.
"Yes, but, of course you know the answers to all these questions, dear, sweet Mother. And of course, it is not my place to hesitate, only but ONLY if I could… remember."
He contemplates for a long moment, gazing at the approximate resting location of his Mother's hollow face, working something over in his mind.
"No, yes… yes, you're right. Hm. Well, I'm not sure why we were heading THIS way, but… now we are headed to Dawnstar." Confident in this new choice, Cicero takes up the reins and begins to steer them due east. "Cicero so hopes you enjoyed the scenic route, Mother. I know how you like your flowers. You know, there are many flowers up in Dawnstar, especially the wee deadly nightshade—your favorite! You'll love it at our new home."
He whistles an uneasy tune as they set off down the road, not quite feeling up to a full song but needing to fill the silence (always, always needing to fill the silence). He's made it through three verses of the Swamp Spriggan's Lament when the sky splits open with a distinctive screech, a sound he associates with the smell of burning flesh. Out of pure reflex, he has already drawn himself into a crouch atop the wagon, dagger in hand, by the time he locates the dragon.
It's a dark smear in the southern sky, growing larger with every sweep of its massive wings. Its path is unmistakable. It's coming for him, and his wagon, and his horse and his Mother and, and… And Cicero mumbles a very, very mean word he's sure she'll forgive him for under these circumstances.
The dragon approaches, brakes, crests overhead, blots out the rising sun with the girth of its wings, seems to hang weightless in the air for one horrible, terrifying second,
Then it comes crashing down.
The shock of it very nearly topples the wagon like a child's toy, and between the horse screaming and the ground shaking Cicero is quite sure he'll never be able to hear again. He's knocked onto his back, then is back up and ready to fight even if he can't quite see straight yet. He thinks he chipped a tooth.
But then the dragon doesn't unleash hellish breath and fry him to a crisp, doesn't open its great mouth and gobble down the horse in one bite. Instead, it lowers its head and allows Saffre to slide down off its back, and then retreats several steps without looking up.
Saffre calls something that might be Cicero's name, and everything is momentarily okay even though it definitely isn't.
They embrace in the time it takes to regain their bearings. Frantic and clumsy and relieved, so so relieved. The dragon flies off and they hardly notice, the three of them, the Keeper, the Listener, and the corpse. They are the only ones who know, but they are together now.
Saffre explains to the best of her ability, to the best of her understanding. She hasn't slept, hasn't done anything but ride for the past 10 hours—first a horse, and then when the horse became lame a dragon (whom she paid with a horse). She is hungry and haggard and has bits of ice clung to her armor from flying over Hrothgar, but she is here and she somewhat knows what's going on.
Once upon a time.
Saffre stole a contract out from under the Dark Brotherhood and they hunted her, found her, revived her as part of their family. Once upon a time, she helped a miserable merryman with a broken wagon wheel find his way home, which happened to be hers too. Once upon this time, she got betrayed, forgave, assassinated an emperor and carved another name for herself. Once, everything went wrong.
She coaxes the memories out of him like coaxing flame from kindling: first, a little at a time, then catching all at once, hazy and cloying and altogether too hot. They relive his nightmare together. An ambush. Precisely planned, heavily funded. Then, the explosions—well-placed, expertly timed. Then running. Running through the labyrinth that was their home, the last ones to live and the only ones to escape. A fatal wound oozing life down Cicero's left side, probably spilling an organ or two, but he's not looking.
A plea, "Go on, I'll hold them off," and a command, "Come with me." Then, Saffre shutting the coffin doors around them, the three of them pressed together with no air, but it doesn't matter because there's no air anywhere, only smoke. Cicero, cold and clammy, held up by Saffre and the wall; The Night Mother, stiff and silent as explosions rock her resting place; Saffre, hissing something in his ear like "Pray, pray with me, damn it PRAY," and then just a bunch of sounds and colors and probably a lot of pain.
And now they are back here, where and when it began. Their home is an abandoned shell, their family large but unknowing. They have nothing but each other and the coffin, and they gather by its feet to plan.
"Astrid is coming for me, right now," Saffre tells him. "It's vital, absolutely vital, that we let her capture me."
Cicero hisses, eyes darting to the horizon as though he'll catch Astrid in broad-daylight approach.
"Yes, I know. But you tolerated her once, and you can do it again."
"But," he splutters, "AFTER you've infiltrated that—" his voice drops dangerously low and curiously even, "—that blaspheming poser's mockery of a family—then, we can slice her to ribbons before she betrays you! …Right?"
Saffre levels him with a despairing look, and he shrinks into himself as though trying to disappear, as though even here and now the shadows will welcome him. But the sun is climbing overhead, and the shadows belong to her as much as they do to him.
She isn't mad, not really, just tired.
They sit together on the side of the wagon, eating dried strips of horker meat and sharing a bottle of tepid ale under the Second Seed sun. "They're not our family, not yet," Saffre explains, "we must gain their trust. Remember, they think our ways died out long ago. If we tried to instate our Matron's control now—"
"Oh, but they would listen! They would only need to look upon her face, to hear from your mouth her wise, wise words, and surely any child of the Darkness would KNOW—"
"You are wrong, Cicero. We could not convince everyone."
"Even better! We may weed out the blasphemers, those disloyal and unworthy of serving her, and—!"
"This is not your decision to make, Cicero!" she snaps, and he knows he has stepped too far, too foolish, too comfortable by her side and he's forgotten himself.
He pushes off the seat of the wagon and, without stopping, falls directly into a bow. It's a familiar gesture, written into his bones and muscles and the precise tilt of his head, but it's also one he hasn't made recently, so he stumbles. Clumsy, clumsy, not deferential enough. Fit for flogging.
"Deepest apologies, Listener! Who, oh who, is humble Cicero to question? Please pay the ramblings of a madman no mind, only give out more orders—orders which I shall follow to the letter, because they are your will and therefore the will of the Night Mother, and if that will wishes I should be punished, please let it be done without holding back—"
"Stand, jester." Saffre says quietly. He would've missed it to his babbling, if listening to her wasn't his job (even if he fails where Listening is concerned). And so Cicero stands, quickly and silently, ready for the reprimand he, of course, rightly deserves for having doubted, for having questioned, foolish, stupid STUPID,
But Saffre is just sad. Deflated. Was it he who deepened the bags under her eyes, who drained the color from her face and hair? Was it his words that reached into her chest and pulled the life right out of her? Gods, that he should pay for this, that he could do anything at all to fix her!
Then the moment is over; she sits up straighter and sets her mouth in a hard line. "We must give our family time. It was not that long ago I, too, doubted—I doubted you, in our own home! It is not their fault; they are under another influence, but at their core they are still ours—"
"The influence of that Astrid," Cicero clarifies as innocently as possible. And he's sure he's done it now, at any moment the Listener will bury a knife deep in his ribs because he can't keep his mouth shut, and of course he'll have deserved it, for letting his hatred of that woman cloud his judgement, hatred of that horrible, crispy, crispy woman and her pet dog (Sithis help him Cicero can still feel the scar left over by that mangy mutt even if it hasn't actually happened yet) and it just sets his blood to a boil, the whole idea of having to serve her again.
But Cicero is two for two, because the Listener recoils as though physically struck, and if he makes her look this sad even one more time he swears he's going to bury the knife in his ribs his damn self, of course he'll dig his own grave first to save them the trouble, and possibly find someone else to replace him too, someone who knows Mother's favorite flowers and exactly the right amount of oil to use and precisely the way the Listener likes her hair brushed after a long day and, and… and how to keep their mouth shut when it comes to things they don't fully understand. Yes, that sounds like a sizeable improvement.
When Saffre speaks, it comes out in a whisper. "Don't hurt her." Then louder, "I command it," and it sounds more like a plea but either one is good enough for Cicero. He begins, again, to bow at the waist, before remembering she told him to stand, so he just nods.
"As you wish, Listener."
They sit and finish their meal, silent as the grave.
Astrid arrives that night.
While Cicero and Saffre have resolved to "allow" capture, it's hardly necessary. Astrid is good at what she does. Tracking her target was not easy, especially where a dragon was involved, but her sources were good as far as location is concerned. They had, however, mentioned something about a traveling companion, but the Dragonborn is alone in her room when Astrid arrives.
She did bring two sleeping poisons, though. Just in case.
Saffre finally manages to shake off Babette's potion sometime in the early morning. She thought she'd be prepared, thought that after all this time— but seeing Astrid pains her, almost physically, and she'd gladly slip right back into the potion's embrace if she didn't have a job to do.
She slits three throats, there in the abandoned shack. Saffre isn't sure how to feel about Astrid's praise, shouldn't enjoy it but also shouldn't suddenly feel sick to her stomach. They promise to meet on the outskirts of Falkreath, using a passphrase that is ready on Saffre's tongue like it's risen from deep within.
Astrid is about to leave, to pull the same disappearing act as last time, to be over the horizon before the sun is fully risen. But when she angles Shadowmere southward and kicks, the horse doesn't move. It just looks back, legs locked and ears at attention. It watches Saffre.
"Shadowmere, it's time to leave," Astrid commands. The horse swivels one ear toward her, but doesn't move otherwise. That is, until Saffre gives it just the faintest nod, the smallest token—go, listen to her.
With her permission, Shadowmere takes off.
Saffre takes a carriage south. Bogs and marshes give way to sprawling farmland, cows dotting the landscape like architecture and windmills dotting the horizon like cattle.
The next day, she's on schedule to make it to their rendezvous point by noon, but doesn't get that far before running into him.
He's hauled over to the side of the road, sitting on the lopsided wagon and looking rather sheepish.
"Your wheel broke," she says when she walks up.
Cicero worries his hat between his hands, not meeting her eyes. "It's an easy mistake to make! Twice."
Saffre laughs, he laughs with her, and they sit together for a while.
"After I persuade the farmer to help," she tells him, "I'm going to continue to the sanctuary. You can keep traveling the way you did before."
"You mean, Cicero has to get lost again?"
"Just take the same amount of time. It won't do for you to arrive before I've gained their trust. And this time, do try to be a bit more… civil."
"Cicero is sure he doesn't know what you mea—"
"Don't stab anyone."
Cicero tuts as though accepting a great burden, but nevertheless says, "As you wish, Listener," with a tone reserved for only the most onerous of tasks.
Satisfied for now, Saffre sets off to fetch help.