Adomania: n. the sense that the future is arriving ahead of schedule.
It was an unusually warm night in the Imperial City. The air hung thick and heavy. Mosquitoes flew by lazily, their gossamer wings weighed down by the oppressive humidity. Amid the sweltering heat, there was an odd, electric charge to the air or perhaps that was just him. His leather armor felt uncomfortable and hot against his sweaty skin. The sweat was a combination of the summer air and of his own anticipation of what the night would bring— of what the coming days would bring.
He was on a hunt. The last hunt of his career. While Cicero was flattered to be chosen as the Keeper of the Night Mother, he would mourn the loss of his contracts. He thought of his victims fondly, as if they were old friends. They were... in a way. He had gotten to know them all so very well. He knew their dreams, their desires, and their fears. He loved to take his time with them, but it was different now. The Listener was dead and rather than have Cicero do what he did best, the Brotherhood urged him to retire.
Gone were the days of sneaking and stabbing. Gone were the days of conning and cajoling his way into someone's good graces, befriending them if he could, and seducing them if he must. His wit was sharper than any blade and he wielded it against friend and foe. Most people were easy to manipulate because most people were stupid. They were so willing to believe the honeyed words he whispered in their ears. They were so eager to believe his lies. So easy to break down.
He would never forget the betrayal etched upon their faces or the tears in their eyes when their sweet Cicero finally drew his blade. It was a thing to be savored. It was a thing of beauty.
If he had to retire, he had his memories, he had his journals, and most importantly, he had trophies. He had a tuft of hair from the Grand Champion, a scrap of cloth from the baroness, and a tooth plucked from her handmaiden— she had such a nice smile and Cicero wanted to remember it.
A bead of sweat ran down the length of his sharp nose, but the assassin ignored it. He didn't want to move. Yes, it was dark and no one was likely to see him, but he couldn't risk it. The roof he was perched on was more exposed than he would prefer, but it gave him a perfect view of the jester. Cicero had been watching him for days. He had learned his habits, who his friends were, and where he lived. He knew his favorite food, his favorite wine, and his favorite brothel.
It was unfortunate that he did not have days to spend with the jester, keeping him on the knife's edge between life and death until he begged for mercy. Even so, it was exciting to think of all they would experience together in such a short amount of time. He had experienced so much since the Dark Brotherhood welcomed him into their fold. Until they found him, he was so utterly lost. He was nothing more than a reckless thrill-killer destined for the chopping block.
As a young child, Cicero had a propensity toward violence. The other boys didn't like him. He was the boy who spoke too softly, but played too rough. He could turn a simple game of tag into a wrestling match and he could get out of trouble just as easily when the adults came running. No one could imagine a sweet boy like Cicero was the cause of such chaos. No one thought his delicate, bard-like hands were capable of bloodying noses and breaking teeth.
The girls were different, though. The girls always seemed to like him. They liked how he spoke softly and sweetly to them, treating them as if they were as delicate as crystal and twice as valuable. He wasn't like the other boys who would chase them just to pull their hair, nor would he push them away when they got too close. He was the boy who told them they were beautiful after a long day's work in the fields.
As he grew older, he perfected the art of manipulation. He learned to gained the trust of those around him with his beguiling words and innocent smile. For a while it was fun, but eventually even that began to feel hollow. He was forever seeking the next moment that would make his life seem less mundane.
Cicero took to climbing the paths near the sea. He loved spending his time on the rocky cliffs; standing at the edge and letting the wind push against his body. A strong enough gust could knock him off balance and send him plummeting into the chilly depths. The thought made his heart race.
Murder too, could make his heart race.
His siblings would tell him he was too serious, to lighten up. He frightened the younger ones with his cold voice and distant eyes. The elders were content to leave him to his own devices. They seemed to understand him. Emotion had no place in murder and he would not bring his own, admittedly limited, feelings to his work.
Pleasure on the other hand… Murder had everything to do with pleasure.
There was no greater reward than watching the light go out of someone's eyes. In those rare moments, all lies dissipate and all of the masks society dicates one wear are cast away. It was beautiful seeing another person so open and vulnerable. The scent of freshly spilled blood was finer than the most expensive wines he had sampled. Nothing made Cicero happier than returning home with a contract fulfilled, his pockets full of gold, and his nails caked with blood.
Yet, like all good things, his time as an assassin was coming to an end.
Although he knew it was an honor, disappointment needled him at every turn. He was meant for the hunt and the kill. He was meant for a life of thrills, hedonism, and debauchery. He was not meant to be locked away, caring for an old relic and wasting away while the Night Mother waited to name a new Listener. If he was lucky she would call upon another sibling quickly. Or— dare he even think it? Maybe she would call upon Cicero to hear her words and to carry out her will.
Cicero waved the distracting thoughts away. What the Night Mother chose to do was not his concern. The night of a hunt was no time to daydream about personal advancement. He had a contract to carry out, a soul to send to the Void, and his prey was on the move.
As the jester drunkenly made his way through the streets of the city, his destiny was little more than a shadow flitting from rooftop to rooftop. The promise of death kept the assassin's feet steady and his mind clear. Soon they would be alone, and while Cicero didn't have the luxury of time, he could still take a few hours to enjoy his new friend's company. It would be a sin to kill such an interesting mark too quickly.
Soon the jester would be dead, and Cicero's life forever changed.
Notes: Written for the bard's college summer contest. The theme is change with a backdrop of spring or summer.
This is the first time I have ever submitted my writing to a contest. _ I am not terribly confident in my writing because I feel like all I do is open a word doc and babble endlessly. XD But the theme of this contest really inspired me so I thought I'd give it a try!
I have always wanted to write something in regards to what Cicero was like before we meet him in Skyrim. I have so many ideas! But unfortunately I never found a place for such flashbacks in Causa Mortis seeing as it is mostly Lumen's story and flashbacks from various characters would probably have been confusing. (And it would be longer than it is now.)
Anyway~ I hope you all enjoy this little glimpse into Cicero's past. :)