Lone hallways, dark corridors, empty rooms; nothing there. Nothing. Nothing. Perfectly silent. He remembers when there was a steady drip, drip, drip of water coming from an unknown source, but there's nothing now. Doors used to creak open, but they too, have become quiet. His own footfalls were softened long ago and remain so out of habit, almost as if they are not there. Almost as if they have no owner. Was he really here? Cicero has forgotten. He can't remember what it's like to feel alive anymore, so he doesn't know he feels dead. Dead to the world. Dead to himself.
What day is it? He doesn't know. Time means little now. Except to oil Mother. Yes, he'd have to do that soon. Until then... he wasn't sure what he did until then. He didn't sleep, no, Cicero never slept. He didn't like that feeling of disorientation, that moment of not knowing where you are. He didn't much like his subconsciousness, either. Thoughts and feelings that deep down he knew must be himself, but he wasn't sure anymore, not sure he ever did.
So what did he do? Did he absently walk the winding stone tunnels as he did now? Was that even what he was doing? He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead. His mind didn't feel present, as if his body was moving and doing on its own accord. Was it his body? It almost felt as if he was watching through someone else's eyes. He felt so lost, yet there was really no feeling of wanting to know where he was. As if he simply existed, for no reason, except to tend to Mother.
There was nothing to keep him in touch with reality anymore, if this was reality, or maybe it was something different. Whatever this was, there was nothing to hold on to. No sound, it was all silent. No change, it was all routine, take care of Mother. No thought, did he ever think? He couldn't remember. Was there something to remember? He felt as if he and his surroundings were void of anything. Void. Did Cicero die and this is the Void? He didn't know, but he didn't think so. Surely one would feel the Dread Lord's lack of substance? Feel that something is there but isn't? But he felt nothing. There was nothing. Noth-
"Ah hah hah hah hah ah!"
Was that... laughter? He wasn't sure what that was anymore. Where did it come from? From his mind? That has been but silent all this time. Somewhere within the corridors? Or were these winding corridors the endless figmentations of his mind? The laughter - yes, yes, it was laughter - seemed to be coming from a room down the hall. Following his senses - of which he had not used for so long of a time - he silently walked down the hallway. Or at least, he thought he did. One moment Cicero was a great distance from the door and yet now he stood in front of it. With a gloved hand that he never before realized was covered, he gently pushed the door open.
There inside was sitting... himself? There, on the stone bench across from the door he just entered. But, was it indeed himself? He wasn't sure what he looked like anymore. But there was a sickening familiarity in that face, as if it could not belong to anyone but him, and yet it did. The thing that sat across from him looked... different, though. It wore what looked like a jester's motley, with its bright reds and darkest black with a gold trim, and the strangest little hat upon its head. Differing muchly, from the robes he wore. He did wear robes? He never payed much attention before... But there was something else that was different.
It's... face. Cicero felt it was his yet it seemed so foreign. He didn't know what it was until he saw that... smile. Yes, the smile. He can't remember ever having smiled before, much less that intensely. There was also a glint of something in its eye but he couldn't determine what it was. But perhaps the largest of differences, was its voice.
"You found me! At long last, you have finally found me! It took you quite a long time, it did. But, I can't complain, now can I? It can just get so boring being alone down here."
Its voice, indeed. It was high pitched, more like a squeak or a whine. And it spoke so fast and so dramatically that it gave him a fright at first.
"Aww, did I scare poor Cicero?" It asked. Not in a mocking way, but it didn't sound sorry, either. "I thought Cicero would be happy! No more being alone, and with someone to talk to now!"
"Who are you? How do you know me?" So he did talk. He had forgotten what talking was. He wasn't sure how he remembered, was it the jester? Speaking of it, his own voice was far different from the jester's. His voice was deep and quiet. He talked slow and contemplated his words, so much unlike the other.
"Who am I? I'm you, silly!" It cried. "How do I know you? I am you! I should think I would know myself pretty, pretty well." It gave the other a large grin.
Cicero decided he did not like that grin very much. There was something maniacal behind it. Managing to take his eyes off that smile and to the other's eyes, he said softly, "You can't be me."
"But I am! I am!" The jester bounced up and twirled around a bit. "I am you - and you are me! Tee hee hee! What a pair we are! A pair of one! Like scissors! One blade cannot function without the other!"
The Keeper watched the jester dance swathed in its own world before replying, "If you are me, where have you been?"
"Locked away!" The other stopped mid-dance and turned to look at itself. "Locked away in the depths of Cicero's mind! Not needed. Not wanted. Noooo! Not me! But here I am now!" The doppleganger spread its arms wide and smiled as if presenting itself.
Cicero blinked, "What made you come now?"
"Poor Cicero is dying!" The thing pouted a bit then turned a bit more solemn when the other gave it a bewildered look. "That's right! Dying! Poor Cicero's rotting from the inside out! Writhing about in his own entrails! Splattered here and there and yonder! Hehe!"
If anything, Cicero's bewildered look intensified tenfold. He shook his head, "But... I'm fine. I'm not dying."
"On the outside!" The jester strode up to him and poked him in the chest. "On the outside Cicero is alive! No, no, it's the inside where Cicero's dying! Right" - here the jester raised a gloved hand and placed its finger in the center of the other's forehead - "there." The jester stared into its counterpart's eyes, then withdrew its hand from the other, putting space between them again.
The Keeper placed a hand gently on his forehead. Looking at the other, he asked, "My mind?"
"YEEEESSS! Yes, Cicero's dying in his mind! There's nothing, nothing anywhere, anymore. Cicero's by himself. Cicero is stuck with himself, seeing himself with new eyes. Cicero wants to see - to hear - something else, but can not, does not! Cicero's collapsing on himself! Becoming a whirlpool of himself! Imploding on himself! For there is nothing there! Nothing but poor, poor Cicero himself..."
The man could not even think to respond before his copy continued, "But Cicero, too, is dying! Disappearing! Soon he will be nothing! Succumbing to himself! To the emptiness! Becoming just that!" The other finally stopped, and grinned its grin before going on. "That is why I am here. To help poor Cicero, to end the silence. That is what Cicero wants, is it not? To hear something, anything. Anything but nothing..."
Cicero could not bear this any longer. The other has broken a long silence. Brought back pain, made him realize what pain he's been in all along, yet has been so numb not to notice it. He retreated, going out the door and into the hallway, leaving behind an empty room with a puddle, disturbed by the occasional drip, drip, drip of water.