[A/N] This is the penultimate gift fic of all of those Tumblr gift fics I've been posting for the past two months or so. This particular one is for saturday-liesmith over on Tumblr, who requested a meeting between Cicero and Sheogorath: definitely a challenge, considering that I've never written either of them in great detail (and am generally not great at writing insane-ish characters). But I'd like to think I rose to the occasion. :)
[DISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or anything/one related to it (like Cicero and Sheogorath); that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). I also do not own the Listener, because in this fic, (s)he's not meant to be a specific Listener - so really, it could be anyone.
MADNESS NEAR THE END
He was dying.
Or at least, Cicero thought he was. Arnbjorn had – surprisingly – caught up to him just outside of Dawnstar and nearly mauled him to death – but not as badly as the jester had cut him up. But that didn't change the fact that that hulking, stupid sheepdog had managed to open a gash dangerously close to his stomach, one that threatened to be fatal.
Funny that a killer such as Cicero should meet his end at the blade of an assassin! Cicero wanted to giggle at the thought. How – what's the word for it? Metaphorical? Allegorical? No, no, stupid Cicero; none of those are right... ironic! That's the one!
This time, the gleefully amused laughter bubbled up for real, but it quickly turned into a gale of coughs that wracked his sides painfully. He stopped laughing, tightening his fingers over the gash again. Noisy Cicero must be very quiet – quiet as a temple mouse, as the Void, yes, indeed. Silent Cicero must not let anyone know he's still alive...
Somewhere up above him, he heard the door to the Sanctuary close with a hollow bang and he froze in place. Who could that be, Mother? The wolf, back to finish the job?
"Cicero?" A familiar voice, dimly echoing on old stones.
The jester could not stop himself. "Listener! Is that you?" There was no answer, but he continued anyway. "Oh, I knew you'd come. Send the best to defeat the best." He giggled to himself, but without the same merry ring it had held before. "Astrid knew her stupid wolf couldn't slay sly Cicero." Curse that harlot!
What to do, what to do? Mentally, he raced through the Dawnstar Sanctuary, pouring over the path that the Listener was sure to take. There were traps, of course, that he'd re-rigged himself. And there were the ice caves and the Udefrykte. The jester smiled to himself; if nothing else would stop the Listener, that surely would.
Clever Cicero is safe... for now. He shifted his position, making sure to keep pressure on his wound. But injured Cicero may not live to enjoy his victory...
"May, may not, may again! Such nebulous terms, don't you think? Like netch jelly!"
Cicero's drooping eyelids flew open, his eyes darting nervously around the darkened chamber for the source of the voice, but the room was empty. Cicero remembers that voice. Cheydinhal – the Sanctuary – Mother – silence – not silence –
"We-ell, I would hope so, Cassius, m'boy!" There it was again, just as he remembered it: the eerie Breton accent that seemed to ebb and surge in thickness and pitch with every word. "If you didn't, I'd be very, very angry! And everybody likes me when I'm angry!"
"Cicero," the jester managed, feeling himself shrinking against the steps. "Confused Cicero's name is... Cicero." The Fool of Hearts and laughter incarnate...
But how can that be if poor Cicero is hearing the Laughter again?
"I love to be the one to break it to you, Cinna, m'boy, but you're dying. In the process of becoming dead. Before the day is done, you'll be as dead as a coffin-nail!" The Laughter sounded almost... happy about that. "Maybe not quite as flat and rusty and horrible at parties, but there's always room for improvement! Whole palaces, even!"
It dawned on Cicero slowly. "Then... if wounded Cicero is dying... then is pitiful, bleeding Cicero no longer the Laughter?" he asked hopelessly.
"Oh, there's no ifs, ands, or buts about it. You're going to die and you're going to be happy about it!" A pause. "Icarus, m'boy, can you at least manage a little smile, maybe a jig? If you're going to shuffle off your mortal coil, you might as well kick up your heels!" A deep sigh. "Young people these centuries really don't know how to die properly – all the wailing and moaning and gnashing of teeth. Music to my ears!"
"But wretched Cicero doesn't want to die." The jester's voice sounded small, even to him. "Loyal Cicero wants to live and protect Mother, even though she speaks to another. Humble Cicero wants to be the Laughter."
"Well, it's my turn to be the Laughter now. I've been stuck with being boring and responsible for ages, and I think I deserve a little giggle every decade or so." A mad chuckle. "It's all Haskill's fault. Make sure to tell him that the first time you see him, Citrus, m'boy."
This time, Cicero didn't even dwell on the fact that the Laughter was constantly getting his name wrong. "Please," he begged, "scared Cicero doesn't want to hear the silence again. The silence of the Void is... deafening."
"Funny how that happens, hmm? Makes you want to rip your ears off and feed them to a grapefruit! Mmm, grapefruit." A loud smacking of lips. "But I egress. Or is it 'digress'? Wait – I just realized that I DON'T CARE!"
The jester winced at the sudden increase in volume, curling further into himself.
"But that's not my point," the Laughter continued, its voice almost conversational. "The point is, Caecilius, m'boy, that we all die. You, me, the weeds, the delicious frozen troll back there – well, maybe not me, and let's just accept that those weeds are dead already, but you and the troll are goners within the next few minutes."
Cicero frowned, trying to ignore the blood encrusting on his hands and the scent of it filling his nostrils. "The Laughter... does not die?"
"Correct! I'd give you a nice, shiny star, Corvo, m'boy, but I'm all out of cheese. And if I had any, I wouldn't be sharing it with me, and I'd stake my wonderful beard on that fact."
"But where will the Laughter go when poor Cicero dies?"
There was silence for a moment. Somewhere off in the depths of the Dawnstar Sanctuary, the jester could have sworn he'd heard footsteps against the stones, and the nearly imperceptible twang of a bowstring as an arrow was released. The Listener is still alive – and more crafty than defeated Cicero could have guessed...
"To be completely dishonest with you, I thought I'd take a vacation," the Laughter replied cheerfully. "A few hundred years of rest and relaxation will do me all the good this side of the Shivering Isles. I hear that Pelagius the Mad's mind is lovely this time of year. Beautifully irritating fog, banquets of tea and crumpets the whole day long, a rabbit or two – oh, it's divine. Or Daedric. Whatever sinks your boat." Another pause. "I mustn't invite Malacath, though. Now he's a party pooper if there ever was one."
"It – it sounds nice," Cicero agreed weakly, forcing his hands down over his wound with renewed force. "Why hasn't the Laughter gone there sooner?"
"Oh, enough with 'the Laughter' this and 'the Laughter' that. If we're going to be friends, Clavicus, m'boy, I must insist that you call me Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness. 'Sheogorath' for short, if you don't feel like getting your entrails ripped through your eyeballs."
The jester paled despite himself. Cavorting with Daedra? The Dread Father is not going to be happy with unfaithful Cicero...
"And if you really must know," Sheogorath prattled on, "I was there a few months ago before I was unexpectedly and rudely yanked back to the Shivering Isles and the humdrum of eternal life. I swear, I need to think about replacing Haskill. The old fellow can't even run a marathon without coming to me for help with some world-ending crisis or whatever." An obnoxious snort. "Just like with this whole dragon business. I'll bet my cane that it'll sort itself out in a month or three, but nooo, Haskill has to fret about things immediately! It's becoming too bloody inconvenient to even ponder about taking a vacation, what with him around."
"Then..." Cicero hesitated, trying to remember if the Daedric Prince of madness was prone to violent outbursts, but then realized it really didn't matter if he was dying anyway. "Why doesn't Sheogorath just leave weak, dying Cicero as the Laughter? Why doesn't kind Sheogorath help end poor Cicero's suffering?" Fretful Cicero can't stand the silence. Not now. Not ever.
"Well now," Sheogorath said after a moment, "there's an idea if there ever was one! And of course, there's been plenty of ideas, let alone just one. But this one – maybe it merits some consideration. Or maybe I should just laugh in your face. Or eat it. So many options!"
A bestial howl echoed through the Sanctuary before it ended abruptly in a gurgle. The jester realized with no small amount of dread that the Listener had gotten much closer in a very short space of time.
"That would have been the troll-thing," the Daedric Prince commented, almost matter-of-factly. "I did tell you it would be dead in a few minutes, and I'm always wrong. I'll tell you what, Claudius, m'boy," he continued, "how about we pick up this conversation a little bit later, hmm? You might have a chance of surviving, depending on whether or not you succeed in your persuasion of this Listener person. Might." A pause. "That's got a nice, strong ring to it. I like your chances, but chances are that I liked them anyway."
"Cicero – Cicero won't die?" For the first time since taking refuge in the Sanctuary, Cicero felt strangely... hopeful. "Cicero will live on as the Laughter?"
"Oh, I wouldn't go that far. You'll kick the bucket, push up deathbells, join the choir Aetherial, all that – but you won't die. Perhaps." A disgusted sound. "Now that just sounds snooty. Leave it to Dagon to think of a word like 'perhaps.' Fetcher. I'll stick with 'may,' thank you very much! Lovely, squishy, malleable 'may.'"
"But how will befuddled Cicero live?" the jester cried out, frustrated.
"You'll think of something, Cicero, m'boy – that was your name, was it? You should change it; makes you sound bald and senile. In any case," Sheogorath went on, "if I were to get all melodramatic about it – and I will – your fate lies with the Listener. Me, I'd start thinking of a bunch of reasons why he – she – it – whoever shouldn't kill you. Works nine times out of nine thousand. Marvelous success rate. Pity they don't advertise it more often."
Reasons, reasons... Cicero has no need for them. Obedient Cicero follows the Laughter and the Old Ways and the will of the Night Mother – a grin started to spread across his face as the thought came to him – and the Listener needs to understand that duty.
"See, that wasn't difficult at all! Easy as taking the head off a chicken!" the Daedric Prince said brightly. "Now you'll just need to see if it works or not. My money's on 'not,' in case you were wondering. I always bet against myself. Quite frustrating."
Cicero blinked. "But Cicero thought you said –"
"I say a lot of things, Camilla, m'boy, and it's mostly lies and conjecture, leavened with rumors and spleen powder. I do hope we'll meet again – and if not, I'll split a strawberry torte with you when you make it to New Sheoth. My treat, but do mind the seeds. Ta-ta!"
The chamber fell silent once again – and outside the door, the footsteps stopped.
Mother... stay with me. Closing his eyes tightly, the jester steeled himself for what was to come. Cicero knows you do not speak to him, but... help him, if the Laughter will not. Help him make the Listener see.
On the far side of the room, the door opened, and the silence was broken.
The End
[A/N] Thanks for reading, and please leave a review!
BrunetteAuthorette99