Stupid Assassins, an elder scroll series fanfic

"Stupid assassins, thinking they can do these things when that can't! they just can't its not right and its not fair and they should be punished, they should be struck, and stabbed, and sliced, and… and… oh, mother, mother, why don't you tell Cicero what to do? Sweet Cicero, darling Cicero, he would do anything you say… but you never say! You never do, and here they are, breaking our rules and being… wrong. And Cicero has to do nothing, because there is nothing for Cicero to do."

The keepers ranting dwindled to a repetitive murmur as he shuffled through the instruments on the table before him, cleaning and polishing with the confidence of one who had performed the same tasks many times over. He had no worry of beiing over heard- certainly the others in this place could hear him speaking, but they thought him insane- him! Insane! – and didn't care to pay enough attention to know that he was considering killing them all.

This place was a disaster. It was supposed to be good! It was supposed to be the Mothers new home, where she could pick through the dwindling members of the dark brotherhood and finally, finally pick a worthy person to speak to. His mouth curved down in a violent gash of a frown. It wasn't him. No, not Cicero, loyal Cicero, who never faltered, never questioned, never failed. What the Mother was thinking, he would never know. Why? The question plagued him. Cicero was not good enough? not strong enough? not loyal enough? Cicero did not care enough for Mothers body?

"Nonsense. Cicero is best at what Cicero is best at. He should not question."

His eyes flickered over to the intimidating metal casket that rested upon the daise in his quarters, expression softening. Embalming equipment abandoned, he drifted over to his mother and contemplated her preserved form- eyeless sockets, gaping mouth, clutching fingers.

"Beautiful Mother, wonderous mother,"

He crooned lovingly, reaching out his bare hand to gently caress her sunken cheeks.

"You know best, you do. Cicero knows it. Mother made him keeper, and he will keep, keep, keep until he is dead, oh so dead, and then maybe then, when Cicero's body is rotting and smelling, you will speak to him, and he will serve. Always, Always…"

But there were still problems. So many problems. The Dark Brotherhood was being pissed on by that wretch Astrid, and the time was coming when the fakers would need to be separated from the followers. But when? When was the time? and there were a few, very few, here, who perhaps did not deserve a knife in the throat. Some who would listen, if the tenets were put back in place, where they belonged.

"Sometimes Cicero misses it, Mother. Misses the time before. Misses his mind… my- mind, where did it go? Floated away, like blood in a stream, stream… scream, scream, scream…"

As his words drifted away into nonsense, so did his worries and pains drift to the back of his mind. The Mother needed tending to. It would take hours to rub her body down with ointments, and in those hours his mind was wonderfully, blissfully empty.

END INTRODUCTION. BEGIN FIRST CHAPTER

Part one- Cicero's first week at the new sanctuary

One downside to living in a cave with a waterfall was the incessant dampness. It crept up the walls, dripped from the ceiling, and clung to every surface it came in contact with. All wood became heavy with the wet, and although the plant life that infested the main corridor of the Dark Brotherhood thrived, the air often carried a damp that could sometimes stick to the lungs and cause a cough in the colder seasons. But all members who had lived here for years had learned to deal with it- doors were kept closed; rooms had many fires lit to stave off the chill wet. Over time, the sound of the falling water became a comfort to the brotherhood- the sound of home, safety. And when the crazy Jester and his casket first arrived, it was decided by the brothers and sisters that the Mother aught to be 'unpacked' in the main room, where all could easily see her and pay respects if they so wished. Not one even once considered the consequences.

For the first few days, the brothers and sisters of the sanctuary tried their best to get used to their unusual new… addition. Shrill laughter bouncing off the walls at odd hours often caused one or two of them to jump out of their skin. They reminded themselves that this jester was a brother… and that all members of the family, no matter how eccentric, were accepted and loved. This goal, however, appeared to be unrealistic. Nazir wandered the sanctuary with a pinched expression on his face. ArnBjorn had to be sent out by his wife on quickly gathered together contracts constantly, to stop him from striking the vocal chords from the keepers throat. Babette seemed amused, thankfully, and offered no issue; Neither did the Argonian, Veezara, who kept his opinions to himself. Astrid was grateful for him. She, their erstwhile leader, couldn't help but feel like the tension in the sanctuary had become a violin string stretched to its limits. Soon, some catastrophic violinist would leap forth and strike a tune. When it happened, and she was sure in her heart of hearts that it iwould/i happen, and soon, there would be one of two outcomes: sing - or isnap/i. It was while she was considering this metaphor, leaning heavily over her map table, that Cicero began screaming.

It wasn't words, so much as gibberish, and he wasn't speaking, so much as screeching and frothing. Feeling her violin string stretched just a little bit tighter, Astrid wondered if someone had finally decided to murder their guest. A surprisingly welcome thought. Running her gloved hand across her forehead, she swore she could feel a vein poking out, even through the leather covering her fingers; swore that if things continued, her blonde hair would soon be grey. Reluctantly she slammed a dagger into the table and sighed dramatically, hoping it would make her feel better. It didn't. Damn. She toyed, for a moment, with the idea of simply walking up and out of the sanctuary and coming back later when all was quiet again. But no. She was leader here, and if she wanted silence, she had to be the one to do the shutting up. So. With that, Astrid slipped quietly (and if a bit slowly, no one would blame her) down the staircase into the main hall. Upon arrival, it became evident that Cicero was not being slowly tortured to death. Well, more specifically, the jester himself seemed to be attacking… the waterfall. With his dagger. Water flicked out across the floor pathetically, as if the fall itself was insulted by the attack, and the rest of the brotherhood slowly crept into the room to investigate their keepers madness. From, she noted, a safe distance, with most of them relatively close to an exit point. Smart crowd.

It took a good solid moment before Astrid figured it out. It was when the damp created by their ever present waterfall dared to cling to the preserved flesh of the iMother/i that her keeper became enraged. The first evidence of green fuzz on her rotted, ancient dress sent him into a hysterical fit that threatened to reveal the location of the sanctuary to the world- possibly by bringing down the ceiling on their heads. That, she decided, was not going to happen today. Besides, it was either that, or he'd really snapped and decided the water had said something particularly insulting about his hat. The fact that she even considered that possible said something about her stress levels. Still, this aught to be dealt with sooner rather than later.

"Cicero!" she called out, trying to sound severe. Honestly, she was shocked by the level of his fury. She had thought, as had the others, that he was the innocent sort of insane that came with nonsensical singing and a bizarre wardrobe. Apparently this was not quite the case.

Startled out of his fury, the Keeper whipped around and stormed over to Astrid, pointing at the open casket where the Mother hung pitifully in death, now smelling slightly more of decay than of ancient must. Damn the damp. Unable to articulate, he simply wheezed a little and flailed violently, eyes white with insanity. Splattered with castoff water from his gesturing, a very unimpressed Astrid threw up both hands to stop him and said,

"Yes! FINE," she gestured up the stairs. "Behind a door and a glass window. Alright? Stop screeching and disrupting imy/isanctuary RIGHT now. We'll fix it. The mother will be safe. Arnbjorn, Veezara. Come, help our guest transport our Dark Mother up the stairs before he has a stroke."

The Jesters eyes narrowed. How could Astrid be so calm? So uncaring? That damn waterfall had tried to murder his Mother! And she seemed annoyed… at him? Did she care nothing for the mother? If her body burned, there would be no one to deliver contracts! And an assassin without contracts from the black sacrament was no more than a common murderer. Well. At least the Mother would be safe now, even if it meant he needed to undress her and properly clean her linens. Poor Mother would be naked for a while. Best keep the casket closed for modesty's sake.

Hours later, with the Mother safely away from the water and that damned Jester far, far away- whining and crooning over her, no doubt, Astrid lay with her husband in bed and thought about how nice life had been before Cicero, before the Night Mother, before that new dragonborn brat had come to the sanctuary. Falling into a deep sleep, she dreamed of fire.

"Mother, ooohhh Mother, Cicero is so sorry, iso/i very sorry. But he will fix you he will, he promises. Loyal Cicero lives to serve, and he shall serve you well." The Jester sniffled a bit, mortified at having failed in his duties to keep the Mother safe. "Cicero just wanted them to see you, to fear you, to adore you as much as he does. He did not think to keep your bed closed away from the damp. A fool he is indeed."

A knock sounded at the door, and he glared at it, eyes red rimmed with tears and clothing hanging by the fire to dry. Not that he was naked, no, that would be rude, not something to wave around in the face of your own mother while you sewed her a new dress from rags as ancient as she was. But breeches and a wet, drooping jester hat were not exactly impressive apparel either.

"Cicero, are you well?" Babette called through the door.

"Cicero is moping, vampire, he does not wish to speak to you. He wishes to smack his face into a wall until the grey brainy bits come out. He wishes to dash himself through the window onto the ground. He does inot wish /i to do handstands for you, or tell you stories." Even though he knew she could not see him, he pouted dramatically and slouched down over his needlework.

"Alright, suit yourself, jester. But if it's suicide, do be kind enough to pay me a visit instead? It's nice when I don't have to hunt my meals." She muttered, albeit affectionately, and, presumably, left. Not that he could tell. He wasn't paying attention.

After a few moments, the Jester began to sing softly to himself, and Babette stopped listening. He'd be fine and back to himself soon enough, it would seem.

"A lovely idry/i dress for Mother, pretty Mother, how I love her. Stab the thread, with a needle, it wont bleed, beg or wheedle… hahaha, hee hee hooo…"