He couldn't bear to spend another night in Imperial City. His knobby gelding had been chewing a mouthful of grain, when he pulled the horse from the stables, gave the stable hand a few Septims as a tip, and ventured back to Cheydinhal. On the way, he thought of Rasha. How dare he give him that contract? Who knows if he knew of the real nature, the suicidal, aching despair of the Jester? If he did know, did he purposely give Cicero the contract for the intent on leaving him with a lasting impression on why Cicero should abandon the assassin's life for that of a Keeper's? If he did not know, why, of all contracts, was that given to Cicero? Did Sithis intend on this being Cicero's final contract? If it had been any other assassin in Cicero's family, the same would most likely not have transpired. He would have been dead with any finality, any closure in his life.

That Rasha… Something seemed odd to Cicero about him (Cicero's mind was wandering, at this point, while the horse nickered uneasily below him). Rasha this, and Rasha that. The new, beloved Speaker. Though, Cicero knew that the catkin had been pining after the position of Listener, but he hadn't put forth any contracts. He claimed he was waiting for the word from the Night Mother's own lips. Furthermore, he claimed he was "waiting to catch up with the older ones". However, when a child prayed to the Mother, their prayers were conveyed immediately. And, as Speaker, Rasha was to discover this, and pass it on. But he wouldn't…

And who was he to offer the position of Keeper to Cicero? Sure, Cicero was devout to the Night Mother, but no more so than any other. Was it simply because he was so new? Was he threatened by Cicero's success as an assassin, and wished him to no longer take contracts? Perhaps… Perhaps he was threatened that Cicero would attract the position of Listener, so he gave him a different role. That conniving Khajiit.

"'Rasha has something he would like to offer you!'" Cicero mocked Rasha, speaking in third-person. "Well, what about Cicero? Why shouldn't Cicero be allowed to have a say in what he does and does not do? Poor Cicero! Forced to perform a contract which breaks his very soul! Poor, lonely Cicero! The Keeper of the Night Mother!"

Rather than experience the ache of having killed someone for whom his heart continued to beat, it was all turned into rage. Maddening rage. Agonizing, maddening rage. His mind felt as though it was on fire, and when he closed his eyes, he could still see the smiling face of the Jester, plastered upon the back of his eyelids. He could almost hear his voice deep within his ears, laughing, taunting him, driving him mad.

"Damn that cat," Cicero hissed, his gloved hands clenching tighter around the reins. "'Rasha will offer you the keeping tomes!' Meh, meh, meh! Here you go, Cicero! Take this contract, Rasha is offering! Cicero, the brave! Cicero, the loyal! Cicero, the killer! Cicero the fool!"

At that word, his eyes widened, and his mind stopped reeling. He slowly turned around, his eyes resting upon his pack, which was tied to the back of the saddle. He could see a point of the hat poking out. He had stuffed the soft thing into his bag. A souvenir? No. A memory. He reached back, his fingers gently touching, hands clasping, the velvet point of the Jester's cap. He freed it from the confines of his canvas bag, and slowly put it back onto his head. It was comfortable. As though it was meant to be there.

Almost as though the cap focused his mind, he remembered the aforementioned tomes. Excitement grew within him. If he was to plot against Rasha, he could do it in the tomes which even Rasha couldn't read. Anticipation brewed, and prompted him to kick his heels into the ribs of the horse. The steed whinnied lowly, before bolting back towards Cheydinhal, at a faster pace than he had performed since his years as a colt. Even the horse wouldn't dare cross Cicero, now. No one would cross him again.

Garnag had been waiting in the front hall when Cicero entered. At first, he held his arms out, but paused and lowered the limbs, when he saw the strange unfamiliarity of Cicero's expression, and that odd hat which he wore.

"Cicero," Garnag's deep, Orcish voice spoke, curiously. "How did the contract go?"

"Where is Rasha," he said, turning his head to Garnag.

The Orc was forced to take a step away, his dark, olive skin paling at the sight of Cicero. From this proximity, he saw much more than he had before. This Cicero was not the same short, lean, red-headed Imperial that left only days before. He looked… Wrong. His eyes… They were wide, small-pupiled, and, rather than being a deep, mellow amber, they were a violent gold, as though behind them, a fire raged, and molten gold churned.

"The Speaker is in his chamber," Garnag carefully replied.

"He is no Speaker," Cicero hissed, his eyes narrowing, face contorting into one of utter revulsion.

With that, he spun around, and marched away. A pack was held behind him, and a strange material sleeve hung from it. He felt inclined to follow and, being an expert with Magic, he could easily intercept a conversation.

Cicero burst through the door to the Leader's chamber. This action prompted the cunning cat to leap backwards, eyes wide. His claw rested upon the hilt of his slim, elven sword (an item he had stolen from a Thalmor caravan that passed through only days before). When he noticed who it was, he relaxed slightly, but was still rather on edge with the strangeness of Cicero. His eyes… He did not seem right. And he wore a strange hat – a Jester's cap. Clearly, the contract had been fulfilled. But what sort of damage had been done to the assassin?

"Cicero," Rasha said, standing, and approaching him. "Rasha greets you."

"Yes, yes," Cicero said, waving his hand, his eyes filled with a strange rage. "And Cicero demands the Keeping tome. I have carried out the contract. The Jester lies dead. And now, I am to be Keeper."

"Yes, yes, of course," Rasha replied, nodding slowly. "There will be a ceremony this evening. A grand feast, hosted by Rasha – the Speaker – himself. Then, you will be made Keeper, and will be given the tomes. This one promises that it will be a party for the ages."

"Oh," Cicero replied. "I'm sure it will."

The feast was great. The Dark Brotherhood, at this moment, was small, but this allowed for enough food to fill each member to the brimming. Garnag was as fantastic with cooking, as he was with Magic or Alchemy, and it was a treat whenever he was in the kitchen. Cicero took the liberty of indulging himself, despite the sickness which still welled within him. The pain of the killing, the softness of the Jester's flesh, the laughing. Oh, the laughing. These things felt like broken glass and nails within his mind, and his stomach. A wrenching and aching, every time he thought of his flesh, or his eyes, or his hair, or his voice.

Or his laugh.

He was chewing on a rather large, icing-covered bite of sweetroll, when Rasha tapped his fork to the side of his goblet, to silence the dull murmur of conversation. Cicero was prompted to stand, and approach him, where he stood beside Rasha, and a rather informal procedure occurred to signify his entrance into the Black Hand's ranks, as Keeper. After a few words and a moment of applause, Cicero was handed the Keeping Tomes.

His hands shook as his fingers wrapped around the thick volume. It was dusty, though there were telltale signs of use, due to many oily fingerprints and stains of wax or other things. Quickly, he dusted it off, and opened it, his eyes suddenly ravenous for the important piece of information. He knew he would take the time to read this thoroughly in the future, but there was one thing he must know – how to tell if a Listener is true.

After much searching, while the Jester laughed within his mind, while his bright, golden eyes hungrily read each word, his gloved fingers flitting through the pages, desperately, he stopped when he saw it.

"The Appointing of Listener", read the heading. Quickly, his eyes scanned down the page, as it spoke about the sort of people the Night Mother tended to target, the history of the position of Listener, the greatest Listeners, when they rested upon the words: "The Sacred Words".

Slowly, his menacing eyes lifted to Rasha, his body still hunched over the volume. He swallowed hard, chewing on his lips, before stranding straight, smirking slightly, a deep red eyebrow raised. He would remember these words. Burn them into his mind. And wait… Wait for the day the fake Listener would try to show himself to the world. And Cicero would be ready.

"Rasha implores you," said the cat. "Remove the hat."

"Cicero will not," the assassin grinned. The Jester's cap, so comfortable upon his crown. "But I best embark to the Night Mother, and begin a ritual. Her skin must already be tainted by the breath of dust and filth. Adieu," he added, before trotting off.

It didn't take long before Cicero was getting the hang of Keeping the Night Mother. There were special oils that required mixing, or administered at certain intervals, at certain times during the process. Specific ceremonial candles had to be lit, flowers laid at the base of the coffin – no weeds (just Nightshade, Deathbell, a sprig of Nirnroot). There were special words that had to be said, and Cicero spoke them, like a lullaby. He had to wash the body, keep her clean and safe, and very well preserved.

And happy.

As he worked, he tended to think back to the Jester. He could still hear the laughing. Such a thing was prominent in his mind. However, sometimes, as he was deep in thought while moisturising the Night Mother's dead skin, he could hear his moans. His cries, and pleas for more. He had to stop himself when these thoughts surfaced. Such unclean, impure cognitions were not to be had around the Night Mother's sacred body.

As his mind wandered he thought of a Listener. Who would the Night Mother choose? Surely not the Khajiit. No, she would choose someone better. Cicero, perhaps? Hardly. Cicero was a Keeper. And a damned good one.

Sometimes, Rasha would venture into her sanctuary, and sit a while with her. Cicero knew what the feline was thinking. He knew the cat wanted the esteemed position of Listener. He could see it in the cat's yellow eyes. It was clear as day. But Cicero knew she could find better. Much better. Much more suited. Cicero didn't even consider the cat as a Speaker, any longer. There were no more contracts spewing forth from the man they were to consider "Speaker".

It only became worse when Cheydinhal was attacked, like many other cities in Cyrodiil. The sanctuary held strong, but it was touch-and-go, as to how long. The supply of contracts seemed to be dwindling at an uncomfortably fast pace. Furthermore, the simple action of going out and killing was an extremely dangerous endeavour. The Thalmor had a plethora of "detect life" spells in their arsenal, and used them constantly, those damned mages. If an assassin managed to sneak away, and return, safely, he was considered lucky.

But, because of the dangers of staying in the sanctuary, many assassins had fled, in an attempt to find more sanctuaries, or simply to save themselves. Cicero was devoted, however, to the Night Mother. The ever-beckoning Night Mother. Still, and silent. Oh, so silent. The silence was… deafening. Maddening. She never spoke to him. No one did. No one dared. Slowly, Cicero wore more and more of the Jester's garb. One day, he dared put on the gloves. The next, the boots, until he was fully dressed in the motley. However, when it would come time to Keep the Night Mother, he would war the appropriate Dark Brotherhood robes. The Night Mother need not witness his descent into insanity, driven by silence.

But then it happened, as he expected it would. Rasha, most likely growing tired of not being selected as Listener, took it upon himself to declare that he was the new Listener. Cicero's blood had run cold in his veins and, frankly, he was excited for this moment. Retribution. In the middle of the dining area, which had been filled with food to celebrate the return of the Listener, Cicero approached Rasha, dressed in the Jester's garb, grinning wildly.

"Let me ask you, Cat," he said, strolling towards Rasha. "Is there something which Rasha believes Cicero should know?"

Rasha's dark tufts above his eyes, pulled together in confusion. His cunning smile dropped into a frown. Behind him, Black Hand members leaned forward in bewilderment.

"Rasha does not understand-"

"Words!" Cicero shouted, stopping him. "Any words which must be spoken? Words said from the lips of the Night Mother Herself? What are the sacred words, if you call yourself Listener!?"

Rasha said nothing for a long moment, his eyes wide. He swallowed hard, and laughed lightly, obviously rather confused and, Cicero being as perfect of an assassin as he was, afraid. Who would not be afraid, when a man, in a Jester's motley, is shouting at you in a cackling, malice-filled voice? Especially when that man was more successful with a knife than most were with the simple act of walking – and performed just as easily. He was an assassin. A Black Hand. A remorseless killer.

And he was slowly going insane.

"There are words," Cicero said, clutching the book to his chest, and leaning over it, holding it tightly. "Words which the Night Mother would say to the newly-appointed Listener, which should be, in turn, said to the Keeper." His bright eyes looked hopelessly up to Garnag. "Rasha did not speak these words!"

"Cicero, are you sure you read it properly?" Garnag asked, sitting on the edge of Cicero's bed, the room empty (mostly because anyone else was too afraid to confront him.

"It says right here!" the Imperial said, before thrusting the book, open to the correct page, towards Garnag's face. "Can you not read?!"

"Cicero, relax," Garnag said, pushing him away, but holding his arms to subdue him. Cicero was frantic, shaking in the Orc's large hands. He was so young, but he was slowly breaking. He had been so sturdy before, hadn't he? "I think you should tell me what happened on that mission. Was it the one with the Jester?"

"The Jester!" Cicero shouted, practically screaming. He dove off of the bed, and began pacing frantically. "The Jester… He was so broken. He was so sad. He hurt, terribly. And me… The Keeper… Cicero… I could help him. I could heal him. I had healed him… But he couldn't stay healed. And I had to kill him. I had to! It was my contract. And he wanted to die. And oh, the laughing. The laughing!"

"Cicero!" Garnag shouted, and placed his large dark-olive skinned hands onto his shoulders, stopping him in his pacing. He forced the Imperial to turn and face him. He was so pale… He looked so sick, as though he hadn't slept for days. He probably hadn't, considering the state in which his steed returned, the lack of time he spent out of the Night Mother's sanctuary, and the rather large bags under his eyes. They probably hadn't stopped, all the way from Imperial City, to Cheydinhal. And those eyes…

"Rasha is not the Listener," Cicero said, his lips merely fluttering as he spoke, not really fully annunciating. "The cat is an imposter. What do we do?"

"There is nothing we can do," Garnag replied. "For now, we must wait. But be patient, my brother. The day will come, I assure you. Sithis won't allow this charade to go on for very long."

Cicero's patience quickly wore thin. Every day, he would slip into Garnag's room, and perch onto his bed, watching him closely. When the Orc would awaken, he would be startled, not only by Cicero's mere presence, but as well as the fact that he was staring wildly at him. His lips would tremble, as though he was speaking, but no audible words would sound. Garnag would eventually ask him what the matter was, and Cicero would hiss, in a way which could chill the blood. He would say, "The Cat must die."

It didn't take long, before Garnag realised that this was a critical matter. Not only out of fear for Cicero, but the fact that the very balance of tradition was being questioned and placed in jeopardy, with an imposter Listener. During the time of the Khajiit's "rule", he had put forth three contracts, and they were hardly large – the death of a bandit, of a thief, and of an illegal immigrant from Morrowind. Everyone had been anticipating a huge contract, given to them from the Night Mother, which could bring back the Black Hand's prominence in Cyrodiil, and all of Tamriel. The death of a nobleman, or even the Emperor himself. However, nothing of that sort came. And the other members were growing suspicious. Something would have to be done.

One night, the Orc stole away into the Listener's chamber. For being an Orismer Mage, the Orc was rather successful at sneaking. He remained in the shadows, just out of the reach of the candle's light in the chamber. Once the Khajiit slipped into a deep sleep, after blowing the candle out, Garnag crept towards him, disguised by shadow. Something in the doorway twitched, and he quickly looked to it, but nothing was there. Merely darkness.

The Orc slowly drew his blade, an Orcish dagger he kept hidden within his robes, and placed it over the furry figure of the man he had learned to be a friend. And as he brought the blade down, he was sure he saw a pair of bright, amber eyes flicker, and a devilish, insane laughter was just perceptible in the darkness.

The sanctuary fell. After the death of Rasha, all hell broke loose. Eventually, there had only been three remaining members: Garnag, Cicero, and another Imperial named Pontius. Pontius, not long after the sanctuary was in great peril, had fled for a contract. Or to gather supplies. Cicero could not remember. Anyway, he was killed by a couple of bandits. Common cutthroats! Slayed a skilled assassin. That was an indication that the Black Hand, Cyrodiil branch, was at its wit's end.

Cicero slept, ate, walked, thought, and existed for the Night Mother. And what was the Night Mother's gift to him? A bittersweet gift. A sound to permeate the silence which was beginning to overwhelm him. No one spoke to him. Everyone thought him crazy. But there was the gift. The sound.

Laughter.

At first, it was deep within the depths of his mind. But as the sanctuary became increasingly endangered, it became louder, and louder, until it escaped his lips. It startled himself, at times. He would laugh, and not know why. He knew, however, that the laughter within his mind, the laughter boiling within the depths of himself, creeping, like black vines up his throat, and bursting forth from his lips, was a gift from the Night Mother. A sound through the silence. It was the Jester, for Cicero to keep always.

Cicero quickly decided that it would be in his best interest to stay within the sanctuary. Leaving, was certain death. This became increasingly evident, after Garnag left, and never returned.

Cicero was alone.

With the Night mother.

The Silence.

And, above all, the Laughter.

Cicero was an assassin, no more. He was sane, no more. He was no longer Cicero. Cicero died. But, Cicero was born. He and the Jester and the Night Mother. Alone, together. For eight years.

Eight years had passed. Eight years, while the war loomed over his head. Eight years while the Night Mother said nothing to him. Eight years, while he spoke to the Night Mother, cleaned her, oiled her, kept her happy. Eight years the Jester laughed at him. With him. Through him. Eight years. He killed nothing but skeevers. He spoke to no one but Her.

Cicero knew the sanctuary was crumbling. They couldn't get through the door, but they were going to find a way in, and Cicero was vulnerable. There was no Listener in Cyrodiil. No Listener in him. He had to leave. And where could he go?

The Skyrim Sanctuary, in Falkreath. He had heard of it. He had received a letter. The Speaker there. Astrid. How could they continue their existence without the Night Mother? He would have to remind them of the old ways. They must bask beneath the glory of the Night Mother. Remember who they are, as members of the Dark Brotherhood. And, perhaps, she will speak. She will find a Listener, there.

He turned his back on Cyrodiil. The Night Mother tucked away nicely in a box, a fresh, new steed (the other had given its fleshy, juicy, lean life for his continued existence), to bring them to the new sanctuary. Their new home. Skyrim-bound. He and Mother.

And Silence.

And as Cicero and the Jester looked on to the winter province, he could still feel the laughter brewing within him. Stretching out through his body. Filling his veins and arteries, sating his hunger, satisfying his urges. The laughter was all. The Laughter was All.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA