The laughing had stopped.
After weeks of it gradually growing quieter and quieter and quieter, it had finally fallen completely silent. At first, he had been consumed with dread and anger and had paced in front of Mother's coffin like a furious saber cat, fingers twisted in his hair as he snarled and spat curses like dragon fire. The new initiates wisely gave him a wide berth, opting to use the secondary exit to come and go from the Sanctuary. Even the little vampire had chosen to move her daily glass of wine to another table, further from the Night Mother's embrace.
His fury raged like a storm for days until he finally exhausted the last of his energy. Spent and livid, he had collapsed into a chair at his table, thrown his hat down, and realized—much to his surprise—that the silence hadn't done anything to him. No, it wasn't the all-consuming, maddening, void-like emptiness that had haunted him in years past. Instead he found his mind riddled with thoughts, coherent thoughts, internal dialogue that he had been missing for what seemed like forever.
At first, it was jarring. He spent a good week trying to make sense of making sense, even if he probably was the only one capable of understanding himself. He would start out attempting to invent little rhymes, only to have them interrupted by stray notions like "do I have enough nightshade to make the oil for Mother" or "wouldn't it have been weird if I was granted the gift of the baroness' handmaiden instead of the jester?" It was infuriating at times, but curious all the same, and he found it a touch insulting that nobody else wished to mull with him and his newly found trains of thought.
Then came the sadness. It was sudden and unwelcome and he found himself prostrate at the feet of his Mother countless times, begging her to please make his thoughts go away. He was okay with the laughter because he didn't remember the stories about Andronica being shredded like a wild goat in a troll's jaws. He didn't remember his friendship with Rasha turning sour, or Rasha dying at the end of Garnag's blade. He didn't remember that damnable orc abandoning him. Or did he die?
He had never considered that, and he didn't want to any more than he wanted to recall the eight years alone in that damnable, damnable silence in a fallen Sanctuary. So, he begged and he pleaded for the Night Mother to give it back, give it back, give the laughter back. It was so much easier to be Cicero the Fool than Cicero the Man, as the Man had been stuck in a time most trying and dire, a time he never wished to experience again.
It would have progressed into anger had he let it. He dreaded it, he anticipated it, and he watched quietly from a corner as his brothers and sisters came and went. His thoughts strayed to frightening places, whispering and giggling about how the new petite Nord woman wouldn't put up too much of a fight if he really decided to lose it. Nobody would miss that Imperial who came in, haughty and borderline insulting to anyone but the Listener.
It was like he failed to notice who Cicero was. Cicero was the Keeper. Cicero was the longest lived member of the current Black Hand, and he deserved a lot more respect than a snort of disgust tossed in his direction. It was just that he hadn't realized it until the laughter stopped.
"Do you think that's why the Night Mother took it away?"
A heavy sigh passed Cicero's lips, as uncharacteristic as it was. The Listener didn't even seem to acknowledge his shift in personality, although he trusted it was more out of politeness than her secretly mocking him. She had always been polite, she had. Deceptively radiant and uncommonly polite, she was not only the first to greet him warmly but also courteous enough to not kill him when an opportunity opened. She even held the door open for him when he came prancing back.
"Cice… I'm beginning to wonder if Mother even gave it to me at all," he answered, his voice cracking. A smile tugged at the edge of her coral lips, as though she was pleased to see him catch onto something she had secretly known all along. He opted not to acknowledge it.
"But, if she didn't," he continued, eyes darting around the Listener's quarters, "then why did the Fool leave so suddenly? I-it makes no sense. Madness doesn't just leave! It doesn't raise its little hand and wave, bye bye, see you later. Going to go bother some harlot in Hammerfell now!"
His final words came out like poison, as a feeling of betrayal arose deep in his heart. It hurt worse than a dagger, worse than the claws of Astrid's cur. He hesitated to admit it, but it felt worse than the pain of disappointing the Night Mother. The pain was so foreign and unfamiliar that he could hardly contain it, tears of rage threatening to well up in his eyes. He clenched his jaw to choke them down, so hard that he swore he felt a tooth crack.
Almost immediately, the Listener rose from the table she had been perched on. She hesitated for only a moment, glancing here and there for witnesses before ambling forward like a kid who intended to sneak a crème treat from their mother's platter. Tentatively, her hand reached out and touched his cheek, lifting his eyes to meet her own.
Such a gentle touch, like a sister he had been deprived of. Like Andronica, when he first went stumbling to Cheydinhal, the last of the Bruma Sanctuary assassins. She had been so kind, so understanding, and almost insultingly motherly. But, no, no, no, he couldn't bring himself to think about the ghosts of his past, or the anger would give way to something much worse.
"You're still mad," the Listener stated with a small smile. "Mind-bogglingly so, actually. And the Fool? Who said he went anywhere? You are always going to be Dawnstar's Fool of Hearts, and you will be until Nazir follows up on his threat of chucking you into a pit of rabid wolves."
Cicero threatened to smile but stopped short. His brows furrowed and in a weak, almost hurt voice he asked, "Do you really think I'm mind-bogglingly crazy?"
No response. He supposed he shouldn't pursue the topic.
"Even more important," he snapped with a shake of his head, "how can Cicero be the Fool if there is no laughter? The sad and the mad and the here and the now? It interferes! I cannot be me if I can't be me, you see?"
For a moment, the Listener considered the question, sweeping a strand of brunette hair behind her ears. She wouldn't look at him, instead turning her gaze to a dark corner as though there would be something there. An answer? He found himself looking as well, curious and eventually disappointed when she slowly began speaking again. If the resolution was over there, he hadn't been able to see it.
Perhaps the Listener was a Seer, too.
"The laughter came when you were alone and directionless. I don't know if you've noticed but, barring a few setbacks, you now have a family and we're on the right track. Maybe it left because it was holding you back. You said so yourself that you didn't even realize how high up the ladder you were until it went away."
It was a preposterous notion and, as such, he immediately decided it was plausible. Plausible, yes, but unlikely. Even so, as unlikely as it was, it was the only answer that made sense, aside from it being some form of punishment. The Listener had told him, though, that the Night Mother was very, very pleased with him. He was a good son.
So maybe the Listener was right? She was a smart cookie, after all.
"Do you really think that?" Cicero asked hopefully. She shrugged.
"I think it has something to do with you finding stability. Maybe even getting better? I mean, you're still damaged in the noggin but I'd say you made an improvement, regardless of what you think."
He half-smiled before turning his gaze to the ground.
"Will the sorrow go away? The memories and the loneliness and the mad and the sad? I want to be glad. I want it so bad!"
"Considering the fact you're still rhyming like a loon, I'd say you'll make a comeback," she snickered.
"You promise?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye."
"I'd be careful saying that to Cicero of all people," he answered with a surprising amount of clarity. The two fell into an awkward silence, staring at one another. The Listener looked completely aghast, whereas he could feel his face contorting into something along the lines of sadistic glee. In the distance, he could hear a cricket in the hallway, and within a few seconds the two of them burst into raucous laughter.
Pure, meaningful laughter. Laughter that actually felt good instead of numbing. It echoed through the halls, bouncing off the walls, and led to a confused Babette pausing momentarily in front of the threshold before shaking her head and walking away. The Listener fell on him, tears streaming from her eyes as she grabbed him in a hug that only a true friend would dare give to a murderous clown. The joke wasn't even that funny, but it was all so contagious.
"See?" she choked, finally lifting herself up and wiping off her cheeks. "Do you believe me now? You're perfectly fine, or as fine as you're capable of being. Just because you don't hear the laughter doesn't mean you can't experience it."
"And Cicero doesn't need the laughter if he is the laughter, and I can be the laughter even without the Fool," he comforted himself, flashing an earnest, childlike smile. The Listener clapped him on the shoulder and nodded.
"Damn right. Now, I think this calls for a celebration, don't you?"
He looked quizzical for a second, tilting his head.
"Is the Listener taking Cicero to kill?"
She nodded.
"I didn't know we had contracts. The Listener hasn't told Cicero that Mother…"
"She didn't," the Listener interrupted, raising her hand to cut him off, "but there is a weird little necrophile living in a cave east of here, picking up women from Dawnstar. I'd say I ought to act in self defense before he sets his sights on me, don't you?"
Cicero's smile broadened as he leaped from his seat with new vigor and promise. Almost involuntarily, he danced a little jig before plucking his dagger up from the table and slipping it into his belt. The Listener followed suit, seemingly drunk off of her own merriment, although he could only scoff at her attempts at mimicking his footwork.
"Cicero will have to teach you how to not be terrible at that, dear Listener," he chuckled, slicking his hair back and shaking his head.
"Oh, shut it," the Listener snapped with a tell-tale smile. "Now get your hat, you old fool. Let's get to that cave before the bastard dies of natural causes."
With that, she bolted from the room. He pouted and snatched his hat from a nail on the wall, slamming it on his head with the jingle of tiny bells.
"Who are you calling 'old?'" he demanded with feigned indignation. A muffled, incoherent, but playful reply answered him and he took off after her. Despite the silence in his head, a grin was plastered on his face.
Maybe, just maybe, being Cicero the Man would not be as bad as he feared.