So this past week and-a-half have been pretty demanding of me, both academically and personally. Still, I'm really sorry for how late this update is. I just want you all to know though, that there wasn't a day during this past week that I didn't think and worry about you all and this story.

Thanks to everybody for being so patient!

Now I wrote and proof read this chapter twice over the course of two days. I like to take a little longer on these things, so forgive me if it's not my most quality update.

"It makes no difference. A blade is far more silent than a jet of fire any day."

"Noise is irrelevant. Any practiced mage such as myself can create an explosion while keeping it as quiet as any old knife, boy."

"Ooh, Cicero remembers the days from before he was Keeper. He had many, many fun ways to kill secretly. So fun, so clever. Do any of Cicero's brothers want to hear one?"

Scales, softy, and the fussy wizard ignored Cicero. The jester went on nibbling his loaf of bread as he continued to watch them, eyes bright with interest, from where he sat on the dining area throne. Oh, how he loved a good talk about killing!

"Maybe a magic gout of fire can be made silent," softy said, "but I doubt it'll do much to quell the screams from its mark."

Greeny twitched his tail, "And then there is the case of the odor and heat. Those could alert someone as well."

"They're really goo-ood!" Cicero sang, throwing it out there and waiting again.

"Hmpf. This is exactly my point. If you fools ever took your gazes off your lack-luster razors and pointed sticks and expanded your horizons to the arcane, you would know that there are ways to keep your mark silent or even unconscious. Find me a sword that can do that!"

"Then you do more than what is needed, yes?"

"How typical for one your age! You young people are too afraid of a little extra work. Even if it's for acquiring more spectacular means to complete contracts! No, you're all too impressed with knife work. Where's the craft in that?"

Cicero sighed and unfolded his crossed legs so he could step down from the aged throne. He bit a peice off the loaf and chewed as he left the room, climbing the wooden ramp leading to the bunks.

"Cicero misses the days when he used to kill..." he muttered through a mouth of food.

He passed through the bunks, wanting the open space the next room- the one which led to the lobby- provided. He continued muttering as he went on, "... not so bad, really... still gets to kill sometimes... when fools try to-"

He gasped excitedly, feeling a new rhyme forming on his lips.

"Cicero can't join

The others to play

When his family

Is summoned to slay.

But he still gets to kill

and he still gets to parry

those who dare trifle with

his sweet Matron a-"

Cicero collided with the little monster just then, being as he had been paying more attention to his rhyme than where he went. He stepped back and waited for something to happen. But the un-child only smoothed out her skirt and went back to walking, her gaze fixed solidly on the opening leading to the lobby.

Cicero shrugged and seated himself at the nearby table which he placed his bread on. The loaf was awfully old, tasteless, and stale making it easy for him to crush it into a mess of crumbs with his fingers as he did now. This was the table he came to often for meal times and it already bore several large cratters dug into the wood by his dagger, one of his boredom habits.

The other Sanctuary members had taken to ignoring him religiously ever since he had shouted at Critare the day before for taking the all the flowers. Hmpf, with the way they acted you would have thought he had killed her. Not that he hadn't planned to- but it wasn't as if they had never treated him differently when did anything. It was always, "no, no, Cicero, no more taking the flour" and "no, Cicero, you can't pry holes in the table anymore" and "no more Cicero at the table for meals, it's too annoying and we just want some peace!"

Cicero clenched his fist crushing the remainder of the loaf into peices.

Cicero grumbled, "Peace, pfft... they have peace everyday... place is so quiet and dull... Don't know how they never get enough..."

But it was no matter, no matter at all. Not to Cicero, no. They were all too boring and plain for him anyways.

He relaxed his grip and used the fingers on that same hand to brush off the crumbs still sticking to his glove.

"Sword play is a deadly craft, old one," greeny said. "An ancient dance of life and death. An art of passionate fury and cool serenity. I would not expect you to understand... knowing you have never touched a weapon."

"You're back, already?" Cicero heard the little monster say somewhere in the lobby. Her voice was quieted from the distance and what probably was the sound of the dog hammering hides for a new set of armor he would ruin five days from now.

Cicero heard the big softy speak in the dining room then, "We're not saying there's anything wrong with magic, Festus. We just would appreciate some respect for the way we like to do things, because we are exceptionally good with them..."

The sound of the mutt grunting came from the lobby.

"Yeah. I'm back," he said. "And what's this 'already' shit? I had been out for almost seven hours, pip-squeak."

"... Gabriella likes her bow and poisons, mostly because she really enjoys that rush you get in being searched for and not found while picking off large groups..."

"No luck?" the un-child asked.

"I hate dumb questions."

There was a pause from the lobby as softy went on, "... Arnbjorn and Babette use their natural gifts because they prefer the thrill of the chase. Veezara and I use swords for the thrill of the fight. You like magic, it seems for the spectacle..."

"... So, it's a 'no', then?" the un-child asked, sounding confused.

The lap-dog groaned and the repetitive sound of hammer-smacking-leather ceased.

"Look, pig's feet. I got an intense migraine right n- get that the fuck out of my face- now."

"You always have a migraine whenever someone talks to you, so just shut up and drink it. Hammering stuff isn't good for a head-ache either, in case you didn't know."

"... Which is not so different from how Astrid used to be when she was still out in the field, when you think about it. She just loved seeing how that huge pool of blood spread over the floor with just one flick of a dagger."

Cicero slumped in his chair and threw his head back, groaning dramatically. Such boring, boring conversations!

"Can't you bug Astrid, right now?"

"What about me?" the Pretender's voice carried from the lobby.

"Arnbjorn didn't find Critare."

Cicero rolled his eyes. Oh, of course. No wonder they were making such a big deal about it; not when it was about the weeper.

"And yet you came back?" he heard the Pretender say with cool accusation.

"Are you two honestly going to try lecturing me? And on killing?" the wizard puffed.

"I have been out since early this morning, dear," the doggy bit back.

"And?"

The low sound of the dog growling- really growling- carried into Cicero's meal-room.

"Have you checked the Sanctuary for her, Babette?"

The un-child sighed, "Yes, Astrid, I checked. And I can check again as many times as you like. It's not going to change the fact that she's missing somewhere outside the Sanctuary."

Scales started to say something in the other room, but Cicero was no longer listening to that conversation.

That dreadful weeper was missing? Cicero beemed, making a short squeak of joy. He crept to the side of the door-like opening to the lobby, crouching down and listening keenly to the others as small, excited giggles escaped him. He prayed to Sithis, by all his power and wrath, that the slave was dead.

Dead and gone, dead and gone, his mind chanted

"She's not in here; I could have told you that." said the dog.

Cicero could envision it as Her Foolishness slowly turned her head to look at her pet.

She replied in a tone which was low and cold, "I don't know, Arnbjorn. Could you? It seems as if some things have been slipping past you lately, my sweet."

"Bitch. I told you I don't know how she got past me. What about you, Astrid? You're her mistress or whatever the hell. Isn't your decision whether or not to chain her up every night so she doesn't, say, run off?"

The blood-drinker cleared her throat loudly and said, "I think it's pretty clear that Critare had left early in the morning, when it was still dark out."

Astrid replied, "That doesn't change the fact that she left without telling or asking me or anyone else!"

"It must have been because she didn't want to bother anyone by waking them. You know how she is."

"You really don't think she didn't just make her great escape?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Well, since nobody's seen her or was told where she went, I say it's-"

"I didn't say that nobody knows where she is."

"You mean you haven't asked them." It wasn't a question.

"No, I haven't."

"Are you telling me that in the seven hours I had spent covering miles on foot- in the hot ass summer rain, you hadn't bothered asking one person if they had any idea where that tooth-pick went?!" the dog barked.

"Chill out, grey. It's not like it would have changed the fact you were still out there- during the day, thank you."

"Let's just see if they know anything," the Pretender sighed. She called in scales, softy, and the old coot who all apparently took the quicker route from the kitchen to the lobby, so Cicero did not have to move from his opening to stay hidden.

"What's this about, Astrid?" the wizard asked. "Arnbjorn hasn't attacked another villager again, has he?"

"I have, but this isn't about that."

"This is about Critare," the Pretender said.

There was a short silent pause.

"What about her?" said the softy.

"Do any of you happen to know where she is, or what she's doing?"

Another pause. They all mumbled "no's" lowly.

Deadandgonedeadandgonedeadandgonedeadandgone...

There was another, Cicero sensed, uncomfortable silence, until the softy said, "Why do you ask?"

"I ask because it would seem that Critare has gone missing and no one has the slightest hint as to where she is nor was Arnbjorn able to find her after searching for hours. Now I'm going to ask you all again: do any of you have any clue where she is or might have gone?"

Cicero rolled his eyes. How like the Pretender to use fear as her scepter of authority. It was so un-authentic, so unlike Mother and the real Listeners and Speakers. They stemmed all their power simply from the respect their leadership merited. This Not-Speaker was no real leader of the Brotherhood.

The wizard spoke, "Come now, Astrid. Don't be foolish; you know that if we knew where she was we would tell you."

"I can't be too sure of that anymore, Festus. You've all been getting awfully attached to her. I wouldn't be surprised if one of you had forgot that she is my property."

Cicero rolled his eyes once again and had to bite back a scoff. Stupid, stupid Pretender didn't want to admit that the Brotherhood never kept slaves. The family kept prisoners, oh, yes- but only as long as they were needed for extracting information! He couldn't count the amount of times he had argued with her over this.

The un-child spoke up, something on the edge of sarcasm in her voice, "Please, Astrid. I have her make me dresses and play house with me. If I were to just let her go, who would I have then to do all that stuff with- Flees-and-Ticks over here?"

"Not even if my dick was going to get chewed off by a bear otherwise, runt."

"Eww."

The sound of big-and-soft loudly clearing his throat resonated throughout the large room before he spoke.

"Look, if we are going to figure out where Critare is, we are going to need to pull together and figure it out. If escaping us is what she has done, then we need to find her before some guard or authority does- and is possibly told about where she has been kept the past few months. Now, how long has she been gone, exactly?"

"We can't really be all too sure," the little monster answered. "When I went to go wake her this morning, she wasn't there. And I did see her to bed last night, too. I swear I didn't hear or see or even smell anything whenever she had left."

"Did you sleep at all last night?" the Pretender questioned.

"No. Instead I was working on my own personal projects, so I was all over the Sanctuary last night, like usual."

"So why didn't you bother checking on her every so often?!" that not-Speaker bit cooly.

"Because, Astrid, I had done that the first few nights you started leaving her unchained. But after a while, I was convinced she was never going to try running off, so I stopped. My mistake, I'm sorry. Sue me! Just don't act as if Arnbjorn wasn't sleeping by his forge the whole stupid night! Or that she didn't have to pass your room to leave, either. Sheesh!"

Cicero snickered. No, doggy definitely wouldn't know it if the weeper was ever sneaking away at night. He was a very deep sleeper, Cicero knew. On the nights when he couldn't sleep, one of the jester's favorite ways to pass the time had been a little game he like to call "don't let the sleeping dog lie, when you see him and he's sleeping." He would usually tickle his face with feathers or barbed wires, depending on his mood, until the mutt started swatting at the air. When Cicero was feeling really adventurous- which was all the time- he'd do things like kicking the dog in the rump or braiding his hair or scraping his nails on rough slate or something like dancing and singing about the dog-eat-dog world atop his resting forge. He never woke, even on those occasions. The game was murderously fun but only worked provided the dog was sleeping by the forge after getting kicked out of his mistress' bed room as a result of one of their little fights.

"When she wasn't in bed," the un-child went on, "I had just assumed she had already gotten up and made an early start on her chores- which she has done in the past. I started looking for her to ask if she had time to dress my hair, but I couldn't find her. That's when I went to Astrid."

"Wait, couldn't that little nose of yours just have told you right away that she had left the Sanctuary?" asked the wizard.

"It's not as simple as that, Festus. There's a certain point when a trail gets old. And once it's goes old, you can't really tell if it's older or fresher than another "old" trail which was made a few hours before, for example. Old scents are fine and as good to follow as any new one when it's a simple, straight-forward trail that never or rarely over-laps itself, but sooner or later it'll get so tangled up, you can't make heads or tails of anything.

"And I don't know if you've noticed, but Critare has been all over this Sanctuary- I think that Liz's room is the only exception. Her scent is so ingrained in to it, that there is just not a trail to follow- as is the case with everyone else's here. I mean, come on! She does everyone's laundry and has to clean everybody's chamber pots! Small traces of her scent are on all of us now just as much as ours' are on her.

"That's why I think she must have left a number of hours before I discovered she was missing, at the very least. By now she has been outside of the Sanctuary somewhere around twelve hours."

"Well, why couldn't you start looking for her yourself when you saw she was gone?" the wizard asked.

The un-child sighed, "I know you can't do much on that bum leg of yours, but you could at least try getting out of the Sanctuary every now and then. It's summer, you old wind-bag. It means the days start earlier and last longer, and incase you weren't aware- me: sanguine vampiris! By the time I realized she was outside, the sun was out and singeing."

Someone must have been about to ask another question, because the Pretender suddenly hissed, "Enough! We're wasting time we need to find our little run-away."

"Hey, I never said she ran away."

"How can you be so sure of that, Babette? You've only known her for a few months."

"Maybe, but something like that would be really unlike her. She's too obedient, too unimaginative, too... afraid of us all."

"I agree with Babette," greeny said. "Trying to escape her bondage is not something she's likely to ever do."

There was a murmur of agreement from the old one and the softy.

The not-Speaker spoke, "So what do you think; she went for a stroll and got lost?"

"No," scales answered, "she know's this area too well. Think about it: has she ever taken too long to get back to us whenever she went to the market?"

The un-child, "Uhh..."

"What?!" the Pretender snapped.

"Well, there's a chance she might have this time- some how..."

"You think that because..."

"Because... Critare had taken her satchel and basket."

The lap-dog snorted, "And we're just supposed to believe she didn't make her great escape!"

"She didn't run-off!"

"Well, I'm having a hard time believing it, pip-sqeak! Unless she-"

The dog abruptly stopped for a moment.

"Unless," he said again, more quietly this time.

"No," the Pretender said, quietly as well. "You don't think, do you?"

Think? Think what? Ugh, Cicero hated it when he didn't know what was going on!

"I don't know," the doggy said. "But I wouldn't be surprised in the least if he did."

"Who did what?" the un-child asked. "What are you guys talking about?"

The Pretender ignored her question.

"Cicero!" she called tersely.

Oh! So that was why!

Giggling, the jester poked his head into the opening, where it would be visible to his 'brothers and sisters'.

"Yes?" he asked innocently before bursting into giggles again.

"Get in here!" she hissed.

"Why, whatever is going on?"

Another fit of giggles. He was in a very, very good mood. The weeper was missing. It was the best news since he had moved sweet Mother to this "Sanctuary".

"I'm not in the mood for games, Cicero."

"Games? But Cicero is a serious fellow. Serious as death," he chuckled.

"Knock it off, clown. I'm going to ask you only once, and you had best not lie to me: do you happen to know where Critare is?"

"Ah, the broken wood faery," Cicero feigned thoughtful consideration, tapping his chin. "Hmm... Let Cicero think for a moment... No, he does not know where she is. Sadly, he isn't her Keeper. Why do you ask? Is she missing?"

"You do know something, don't you."

Cicero gasped, "You accuse faithful Cicero!"

The un-child sighed, "Signs point to 'no', Astrid."

"What?" she turned to her.

"He doesn't look like he's lying... slimy jerk."

"For his sake, he'd better hope he's not.

"Alright everyone, whether or not Critare has ran away- or been removed," she threw a look at Cicero, "is irrelevant. What matters is that she will be brought back here where she belongs. We don't let our marks get away once we have accepted our contracts and we don't let what we own get stolen- or leave. Not without punishment.

"Festus. Babette. You two are going to stay here for now. Atleast until night if the rest of us have no luck, Babette. Arnbjorn- you're going to search south for her. Figure out if she tried to flee past the border- or is planning to. I'm going to take my horse and search west. Nazir- I want you to search north of here."

She turned to Cicero, "You- will go east and see if she's either still in, or just passed through, Falkreath. Ask around, see if anyone had noticed which direction she left the city or if she had spoken about any places- anywhere which interested her- while there. Did she take roads or leave the into the woods? Did she leave on foot or carriage? You get the idea, hopefully."

"Er, yes. About that. As much as Cicero would like to help a not-Speaker find her precious slave- he won't!"

"Oh, yes you will."

The Pretender smiled that smile that always made Cicero want to stab, stab, stab-

"You're going to help find her because you're going to need her if you are ever going to get that ridiculous blend of oil for your Mother. No one else here can get it for you. Unless you're suddenly confident you can obtain it yourself?"

Cicero grit his teeth tightly, his whole body tensing with anger. His good mood had officially been spoiled.

~[•|0|•]~

"Weeper. Oh, little weeper, where are you?" Cicero called in an indoor tone as he clapped his hands together, looking about the woods.

Oh, it was no use, he thought. She was never going to turn up!

Cicero crashed onto a rock, deciding he deserved it after one, two, three... Cicero couldn't tell how many hours now, but they had been many. And all he had done was search and search and search.

He laid himself comfortably on the rock, rolling over once to get himself over the shaded half. He pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat from his face. His hair was already soaked and his whole face ran with beads of it, some streaming into his eyes.

Summer in Skyrim was not considerably hot, no matter which hold you observed it in, and the case held true on this day. But the level of humidity in the air, which was so common to the hold, left Cicero feeling as though he could melt.

His attire did not help the matter at all. While it had been patched from wear in some areas, his beloved jester's clothing had been composed of layers of velvet and damask. While decent for colder temperatures, neither material was known for being light and breathable. Cicero was positively miserable right now.

He was hot, thirsty, and simply exhausted by the heat. And his feet ached so bad. He tried mumbling a few complaints to them, but was not even in the mood to make a joke. And to think that hours earlier he had been inventing scenarios in which the weeper could have died. Now, as much as he knew he needed the slave to be alive, he couldn't help himself. He had fantasized that she could have been picked aparted little by little by angry black birds, gotten herself sawed in-half at a mill when she laid down for a nap, tripped on a dagger, run over by a horse she fell off, or walked herself off a very tall cliff. Which ever it was, he had hoped he could see what was left for his own amusement. But by now, all he wished was that she could turn up alive and he could take her back so he could get his oil and be done with it.

Cicero had been wanting to avoid it, but after the first two hours of his searching he had finally decided that it had been time to pay a visit to the city.

As soon as he appeared, he could feel the guards eyeing him and the mothers calling their children closer as they always did. He had skipped from one guard to the next, asking if any had seen the weeper. It was the same answer from each of them, they didn't see her. But Cicero could tell they were lying to him. Cicero tried asking the little children of Falkreath- little children can never keep a secret- but all had ran away the moment they saw him coming to them. He had no idea why. All he had done was sing his song about his pet rat when one of them had shown him their little kitty the last time he had seen them. The girl had ran home crying for some reason. Cicero guessed that some people just didn't have a sense of humor.

What was important was that the weeper had passed through the city. But where she went was the question.

So Cicero had no choice but to keep searching. The dog had said that he had lost her trail at the river, so Cicero could only hope that she would be somewhere along it. It only took about a half hour after he had picked himself up from his resting place and continued searching that his inference proved correct.

He had just been trooping along the banks when he had heard the voice of a stranger beyond some thicket. Normally he wouldn't- couldn't- kill unless it was necessary to protect Mother, but he was bored and in the wilderness. Who was ever going to know if Cicero took a moment to have just a tiny peep fun?

He crept through the brush, taking care not to rattle any branch enough to call attention to himself. He was successful and surprised to see what lie ahead of him as he hid in he foliage.

About ten meters or so away, was the source of the voice he heard: a silly mage man about as old as jolly Cicero. He was yelling up at something in some tree... Cicero followed the line of the man's gaze. He- he was yelling at her- the weeper! The foolish creature was hugging the tree trunk from high up, trying to keep her misshapen feet from slipping off the narrow branch- one which hung over the river.

She weakly shook her head at something the mage-man said as she looked down at him.

"I'm giving you one last warning, whore! Give me your belongings and live or I'll be prying them from your cold, dead fingers!"

"Go away, please." she said quietly, even politely.

"Have it your way, then," the mage-or-bandit laughed before spraying her with a shower of frost.

Cicero sighed. He guessed he was going to have to do something about the situation now.

"Cicero hates doing everything himself," he muttered as he crept out of the brush.

An end of a branch caught his hat as Cicero went foward, snagging it off his head. He paid no mind to it now though. He could always retrieve it later. He swiftly closed the distance between himself and the man before slicing his throat.

"Bet that took you by surprise!" he chuckled to the corpse.

He only had taken a moment more to relish his kill before he heard a loud splash to the side of him.

Cicero groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Now is not the time for swimming, foolish weeper! Don't you understand that?!"

He waited a moment for a reply. But after long enough, without a head emerging out of the water, it finally dawned on Cicero that she might not be in any condition to swim after being sprayed by frost- if she knew how to swim at all.

"Why did she have to fall in the river?" he whined while quickly retriving his hat, wincing when he heard it rip off the branch. "Why not fall on to a sabercat or a bear? They're soft and won't kill you- if you run fast enough."

Cicero tucked his torn hat into his belt and ventured into the water, alarmed by the force of the current. How was he going to find the weeper now? He stuck his head under the water, search but seeing nothing more than fish.

He was running out of time.

He used the entirety of his legs to propel himself back to the surface of the water, not realizing the mistake he made until it was too late to do anything about it. He pushed himself up with such force that his feet lost contact with the bottom of the river. He was immediately swept up by the current now that he had noting to hold his place with.

"Damn it all!"

He began trying to swim to land, his arms soon hitting something branch-like for him to grab on to. No, not a branch, he realized. A leg!

He pulled up with one arm, reaching deep down with the other one to grasp onto what he assumed was a shoulder. Once he was sure he had good enough leverage, he pulled the arm holding the shoulder up while pushing the leg's arm down. His effort succeeded in bringing the weepers face over the surface of the water. Now he needed to get her out of the stupid water.

With a burning resolve, he drafted the awful girl back to land with all his might. He pulled her from the waters, as soon as his feet touched the bottoms of a bank.

Cicero was winded and exhausted after all the exertion of the day's struggles, but did not take a moment to rest once he and the girl were fully out of the water. Instead, he set to work reviving her until she finally coughed mouthfuls of water out on to the ground. Once done, she laid back down; alive, but shivering and very cold to the touch.

~[•|0|•]~

Towing the Night Mother's coffin leagues across Tamriel for as many years as he had, left Cicero well conditioned for carrying burdens over long distance. Still, it did not make him anymore happy about his situation.

At about dusk he had arrived in the lobby, still not entirely dry from his swim with his hat still in his belt, the un-conscious weeper swung over a shoulder, and her satchel clutched in his hands.

"There you are, just as I was about to start my search!" the un-child beemed.

"Where did you find her- wait, I don't want to know," she finished as she took in Cicero's vexed expression.

"Follow me then," she led him out of the room. Cicero was too angry and tired to argue at the moment, so he obliged wordlessly, making the un-child shiver.

"Let's just leave her on my bed for now while she recovers. Look at how cold she is- and her arms and feet! I guess that's poor circulation for you. She's lucky it's so humid out today. It's probably the only thing that saved her from hypothermia on the way here. She's not out of the woods yet though. I think I may have something for her. If not, hot water and blankets are just going to have to do. I'm guessing this was caused my a m-"

"By Sithis, woman! Do you ever shut up!" Cicero screamed as he dropped the weeper onto the little monsters bunk.

She was unphased by his out burst and sighed, "I could ask you the same thing any day of the week.

"I'm going to get supplies now. Thank you for your help!"

Cicero had been planning on leaving. He had actually just turned away from the weeper when-

"C-C-Cicer-ro," he heard a whispering voice say. "What ha-happen-ned?"

Cicero huffed haughtily, "Nothing, really. You just fell in the water, so Cicero had to go in after you and save your pathetic life."

"Y-you did?"

"Pfft! Yes. Yes, I did!"

"... Thank you. For s-saving me... I h-have something for-or you. The satch-chel. Sss' there."

Had this strange and not at all pleasant feeling growing in the pit of his stomach as he heard her words. He wished she would finally stop talking to him as he reached into the bag and began pulling things out. A coin purse, a sheathed knife for harvesting plants, a few flower buds, and small bottle full of a grey-brown liquid, sealed with wax and a cork.

"That- that's it," she said once he had the little bottle in his hands.

He turned the bottled over, reading the label on the other side.

"Mother's... oil... " he read as he felt that unpleasant feeling grow stronger.

"I kn-know it took long... S-sorry. Someone said-d he would try to ge-get recipie for us-s. Tried to get flowers f-for you, too-oo. But I dropped them whe-en I ra-ran away from that man. Sor-ry."

"It's... alright," Cicero said, trying to back out of the room.

"I-I know that no-b-body really likes your jokes-s, but I think th-that they're funny. And your-r songs... I th-think they're good, too."

"Oh... Well, Cicero thanks you..."

He had an unprecedented desire to leave, and now. He slowly made his way out of the room, watching the weeper.

"But he really-"

"Oh," the un-child piped. "You're awake now. That's a good sign!"

"He really has to leave now!"

And Cicero fled the room.

Nearly 6,000 words... O-O... I'm gonna' take a nap now.

Thanks for reading and please review!