Cicero's Story Chapter 1, an elder scroll series fanfic

i The author sighed heavily, idly stretching out their shoulders before dipping the pen back into the inkwell, and drawing the candle a little closer to the parchment upon which what was to become a rather unusual story was being written. Beside the figure, organized neatly one upon the other, were four journals. Scattered around them, scraps of notes, notations, and precious information gleaned from the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood in Skyrim, who had been fairly accommodating in providing it. Stacked on the floor, journals and unholy books saved from the ruins of the destroyed sanctuaries across Tamriel. And the author, determined to get down once and for all the complete history of the Fool of Hearts, bent back over the parchment, and began to write./i

There only ever was one way of being recruited into the Dark Brotherhood. It was relatively simple, of course to gain recruits in such a manner- for as long as two beings existed side by side, someone wanted someone else dead. There was more to it, though- a crime of passion did not an assassin make; nor did accidental deaths, or murders for political gain, or other such trivial, ridiculous motivations like truth, and justice, anger and desire. It could start out that way, of course. One never really knew who was capable of killing for a living until after their first time. Some shy away from the death, wallowing in guilt. Others feel nothing about it, for it was just a means to their selfish ends. The perfect recruit is none of those things. The ever watching eye of the brotherhood only ever settled upon those who killed- and liked it. Not because the death improved their standing in society, not because it rid the world of an evil, but simply because it was as natural a reaction to them as breathing. They may not know it, of course. Their minds may have created many reasons as to why they killed, and why it was all right for them to do so. But Sithis and his lover could see through them, in to their souls… the souls of faithful servants, who do not yet know who it is they are serving.

Children are precious to Sithis and the Night Mother. They were so pure, so untainted when they enter the world… and so easily molded. With minds that are empty, unfilled with the knowledge of the world and unruined by the structures of society. You see, crushing an adults dreams causes disappointment and despair. Crushing the dreams and realities of a child, however, wounded them down to the soul- scarring up their purity and creating fractures in their minds and moralities. No creature in all of Tamriel could be more cruel or more kind than a child. All members of the Dark Brotherhood have that special something, deep within them. That hurt, that scar, the wound that dug too deep and bled too long. In their search to heal it, they find the only thing that can: family. And a family of murderers, despite what one may think, is a strongly bonded family indeed.

But that is not to say there are not tests- checks and balances to make sure the newest recruit would fit into the family. One may fit the profile perfectly- and still fail. Mistakes had been made in the past, leading to the unfortunate need to kill off potential members. They may have killed, they may have liked it, they may have a darkness deep in their souls that marks them as a killer for the rest of their lives… and they may reject the Brotherhood outright. There are simply some that Sithis can not reach. That, is why after the first kill, there is always a test. Can they follow orders? Are they loyal, unquestioning servants of darkness? Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. But all must be questioned before they are welcomed, and it is the job of the Speaker to make that decision.

Within the brotherhood there is a very specific chain of command. Sithis looks favorably upon someone, and the Night Mother, in some form or another, must speak to the Listener, who will then convey the information to the Speaker, who does Sithis' work out in the world. When a potential recruit is found, then, there is much excitement. It is rare that any mistakes are made, unless there has been no contact between the Night Mother and the Listener. There are times when tragedy befalls the brotherhood, and their numbers are drastically reduced. In these times the Speaker is forced to recruit blindly from the masses, and it is in these times that problems can arise.

Now for some unknown reason, no matter how well a secret is kept, it always manages to get out into the world in some form or another. There really isn't any way of properly explaining it, except that all races of the world are terrible gossips and that at any cost, they will elaborate, alter, and spread any and all information they come in contact with. Such is the case with the black sacrament, for example. It's not going to be advertised across all of Tamriel that if you're pissed off at someone, all you have to do is perform an evil ritual and throw some cash around and all your problems will be solved. Somehow, however, everyone who needs to know about it somehow does. An even better kept secret is the recruitment of the Dark Brotherhood. Each sect across Tamriel had developed, over the ages, different methods of recruiting potential members. Tests and trials to ensure eternal love and loyalty. Still, though all who pass never speak of it, and all who fail never live to tell the tale, rumor manages to make its way around.

Two hundred years after the Oblivion crises and Bruma was doing well for itself. Though there were whispers of civil unrest in Skyrim, trade still flowed, and being the largest town nearest to the border, Bruma sought to find a profit from every tradesperson and migrating adventurer drawn to its safe walls and the warmth of the Jerall view inn, which had been rebuilt along with many of the other buildings after an unfortunate fire had plagued it over eighty years ago, decimating the population and destroying much of the wooden architecture. It wasn't until that point that anyone had thought building houses out of wood and surrounding them with a giant cobblestone wall probably wasn't a very good idea. With tragedy, though, comes opportunity; and if Nords are anything, they are hardy and stubborn people. Hardly anything can make them move once they decide to settle somewhere, and not a one of them would be lazy enough to do anything but rebuild better than they had originally settled.

It was around the time that Imperial tradesmen, prospectors and soldiers began wheedling their way into the small town to replace the population and hopefully profit from a northern trading outpost. Around the same time, whisperings began- whisperings of shadows, darkness, and death. Opportunists come in all shapes and sizes, and the Dark Brotherhood was not the type to miss the chance to settle a new sanctuary and… expand their horizons, so to speak. Eventually, half of the towns' wooden buildings were replaced with cobblestone, much less likely to catch fire or rot in the heavy rains that often fell in the Northern parts of Cyrodiil. Strangely, the rebuilt town ended up with an odd addition that no one living there could quite account for. In the Northmost part of town, near the gates that lead out to the Jerall mountains and immediately adjacent to the Great Chapel of Talos, which had gracefully sidestepped the blazing inferno, was built what appeared to be a replica of the entrance to a Mausoleum, with a small shrine in the front for offerings to the dead. On a plaque above it was a sign, etched into the stone, stating 'All that live must die, passing through to oblivion and eternity'. It was lovely, really, and since the fire had killed so many people, the remaining townsfolk assumed it was built by some patron with respect for those who had passed. Those who were new to the town assumed it had been there forever, and in the end it was mostly forgotten, save the few offerings of candles and wildflowers that people would place at the shrine upon occasion. The Dark Brotherhood had made their way in, and spent the next seventy years or so settling in quite comfortably.

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"Come now, child. You'll never learn anything if you spend all your time staring at the sky." The elderly teacher groused, tapping the book of history that he held in his hands and gazing at his pupil in an irritated manner. The child, no older than twelve and lean like a whip, lounged against the bench of the open-roofed carriage they were riding in and scrunched his eyebrows together balefully.

"I'm not listening because I already know what's in that book, and it's boring." He replied snidely, pointedly not straightening his posture or making any effort to even make eye contact with the man who was supposed to be providing him with his lessons while they travelled the two day journey to the town of Bruma. "That man only hired you because he think's Im an idiot, and he only thinks Im that way because that's how I iwant/i him to think. So you can feel free to do whatever you want, and I'll do what I want, and we'll get along just fine." The elderly man sighed at the boys petulant tone and rubbed his eyes roughly with the fingers of one hand. Suddenly, a woman with long strawberry hair and a pleasant face trotted up alongside the carriage and swatted the boy on his head gently.

"Now chickpea, you be nice to your teacher, and don't talk so cruelly about your father. He's just trying to do his best for you." She chastised. The boy grumbled but consented, idly rubbing the top of his own carroty colored head.

"My apologies, teacher."

"That's better, son. And I'm sorry, mister Hogarth, for my boy. He's very smart, but his mouth sometimes runs away all on its own. You know, chickpea," she said, "if you ever want to be an actor in a travelling troupe one day like you're always saying, you're going to have to learn to be a bit more charming to those who wish you well." She smiled, crinkling her nose a bit and blowing a kiss at her child before urging the horse forward to the front of their small caravan group, to join with her husband. The child's expression softened for her, but hardened once again when she was gone up ahead.

Hogarth was closing up the book as the boy suddenly made eye contact and spat, "He's not my father you know. He's just some pompous bastard mum married." The teacher frowned, glancing behind him and between the two horses heads to look at the man in question. A stern, military type often with ale on his breath and always with money in his pocket.

"You should be more considerate, boy. Have you ever considered your mother might have married such a man for the sole purpose of giving you a better life? His money will help you out a lot. Keep you off the streets. Hell, he keeps me off the streets just by paying me to tell you things you obviously already know. So. Perhaps it's a better lesson to be working on that charm, like your mother said, eh?" he chuckled, reaching out his right foot to lightly kick the prideful child.

"Whatever."