Left, right, left, right, left, right. Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. Bored of thinking and chasing myself in circles. Bored of watching my own two feet clomp across the terrain with increasing indiscretion. Am I not supposed to be a sneaky, smart, sly assassin? I definitely am not one today. Loud footfalls, no shadows, no concentration.
Markarth to Windhelm, Windhelm to Markarth. An exhausting 2 weeks and I am very pleased to be heading home. But then again- am I really pleased? I follow the main road towards Falkreath, my proud Nightingale armor clinging to my body in uncomfortable places. I'm covered in rashes and scrapes, I have chaffed thighs and a busted lip and I can't be bothered fixing any of it.
I didn't say goodbye to my little fool and the acid burning in my stomach tells me I feel guilt... No, no. Thieves, assassins, Dovahs. We feel no guilt. But if we feel no guilt, why do I shake if I close my eyes and see his face? Why do I want to run home to my Cistern and pick a fist fight with Vex just to feel something definable?
My left foot collides with the heel of my right and I repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
My lip is swollen and I prod at it with a gloved finger. It's much smaller now but I can't help but pity those without the skill to perform a healing spell. If this is how long the average wound takes to repair itself I wouldn't leave my house for fear of injury. But honestly, even through the annoying sting of my thighs and throbbing pulse in my lip, I'm enjoying the punishment.
I left without saying anything and I had so many things to say. But what things? For why? For a tired jester who can't even take himself- or me- seriously? I left him alone with strangers who would claim to be his family simply out of obligation. I left him alone with a horde of people that collectively have a profound dislike for him and his commitment to the Old Ways.
He doesn't take their dislike seriously. He doesn't take me seriously. He doesn't take anything seriously but that damned Night Mother.
I stop walking and consider my thoughts a moment. Why should he take me seriously? He doesn't know me and I definitely don't know a thing about him. We have absolutely nothing to build a foundation of trust on. So far I've tried to kill him, and he knows I killed two innocent farmers and then he watched me tease, hunt and execute a young man. Why would he take any of that seriously? Why should he trust any of that? Why does it hurt to think he doesn't trust me?
I laugh suddenly, pushing through the ache in my chest and begin my tightrope act again.
"Calm down, oh Sachi, gods damn it..." Inaudible mumblings but still words of assurance. Who cares? I don't. I don't care that he doesn't trust me- I definitely don't trust him. He knows too much without being told and he always seems one metaphorical step ahead of me. Or maybe even literally as well.
But who cares? I don't.
xxx xxx
"Is that the best you've got?" he hisses, the clank of metal ringing viciously through the brisk night air. A side step, a back slash, a stab, a cut, a gasp. Blood litters the ground in heavy droplets as they dance.
"No," she spits, lifting her left hand as a smirk spreads across her face. He knows what that means. Play time is over and things are becoming heated. Scratches and cuts are childsplay no matter how many. Daggers won't do much in an open battle. Knives are for cutting, for severing, for quick and clean precision. Her hand begins to quake and the familiar sparks of white lightening revolve around her curling fingers. They come to a stand still; his weakness, his flaw. His eyes grow wide and the blood begins to seep more quickly from his open gashes. His hands clench and Sachi knows that look. She's been there before. She has those vices.
"Walk away now, Cicero," Sachi's voice is calm, even. Her heart is pounding and her ears are hammering; there is no joy in her smile but it's an effective mask to hide her bitterness. She watches him closely, poised for action as the lightening grows stronger. He's paralyzed and can't move, can't speak. His leather gloves whine in protest as he grips more tightly to the dagger- struck by fear.
This is no fun. This will not be the show they know the Brotherhood is expecting. She ceases the lightening spell and replaces it with flame. She can almost instantly see the recovery in Cicero, his eyes now focusing on her again. She knows she plays too kindly with him. She knows she could end this at any moment. She knows she's better than him. She knows that doesn't matter.
Nothing matters but this boy. This stupid boy and his safety.
He lunges forward with a wild stab and she notes his poor technique. He may be capable with stealth but his open battle skills are reckless and predictable. If Sachi were any other opponent he wouldn't be breathing.
She ducks and dives, barely attempting to land any hits- the ones she already made beginning to cause him some obvious distress. He's lost a fair bit of blood, the colour steadily draining from his face.
'They're watching', she thinks, her eyes flicking from him to the shadows where she can feel the hostile glare of another Brotherhood member, no doubt here assessing Cicero's behaviour. He follows the direction of her darting glances and he knows just as well as she does. This battle is not going to reflect well on him at all. But between the blood loss and anxiety, he appears to be spent.
He falls to his knees, submissive and no doubt expecting a knife to his throat. Sachi does not disappoint.
She extinguishes her flame spell and her gloved hand takes a fistful of his hair, pulling it roughly and forcing his head backwards. He looks up at her, his expression showing distinctive signs of ambivalence. Defiant, but begging. Her anger swells at his pathetic display and the metal blade presses harshly against his throat.
"Just do it," he says, breathing heavily as he drops his own knife and raises his hands to his largest wound across his ribs. "Just fucking kill me, Sachi." This time she can hear the begging. A twinge in her heart, his breathing growing more difficult. There is nothing she can do to help him here, not while being watched. She knows how this game is played, and she knows that she cannot win. No matter what she does this kid will end up suffering because of her. She looks at him, her despair continuing to take form in anger. Her fist grows tighter and she shakes him, the other hand pressing so hard it draws a slight amount of blood. He inhales sharply but does not object. He really means it this time. She almost wants to. To just flick her wrist back and watch him die. Every problem she's ever had would evaporate. But there's no way she could do it. No way she could live knowing she would be entirely alone. And deep down she knows that after Cicero is gone another assassin would be dispatched after her. And then another, and another. And she knows eventually, she wouldn't even want to fight back at all.
There's a rustling in the trees and their moment has expired. She withdraws her knife and puts a boot to his chest and pushes harshly, sending him crashing into the dirt. He lays there, looking at her with accusing eyes. She knows why. She knows exactly why he is silently cursing her.
"I hate you," he says, blood still oozing through his straining fingers.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers, her agony finally replacing her rage. She wishes more than anything to give him peace, but death is something she cannot bear to afford him. Perhaps she's being selfish.
She backs away slowly, praying for him to stand, to run, to join her at long last. But he lays there, defeated and filthy and she curses every second she knows shes about to spend alone again. Alone because of him.
Leaves and branches whip her face, grass stains smearing, seeping into cloth as she sprints without pause through the trees. A familiar, hot feeling is beginning to irritate her eyes and there's no hope of ignoring it. She left him back there, disgraced and defeated by a girl 5 years his junior. He's going to be punished without mercy and she knows it's all her fault. Everything he's been through is all her fault. Each and every single scar, memory, bruise and blister is her doing. Sachi can feel the guilt tearing her apart from the inside out and she suddenly can't breathe, can't see. Her lungs are collapsing and the world is black. She falls and begins to shake, her body refusing to move, feel, obey. Her hands are reaching, grabbing for things that aren't there, her chest is caving and her bones are screaming. The feeling of acid fills every part of her, burning white hot, melting as she lay gasping and screaming silently. Screaming until it is no longer silent but deafening. Her head is exploding and her hands are clutching at her own ribs, scratching, clawing, digging.
Her face turns into the ground, her lungs heaving in dry breaths of dirt and empty air. She's choking and still howling, the pressure beyond compare as her nose begins to bleed.
She cannot cry, the tears won't come and all she can do is wait. Wait for every muscle and joint to wear itself out. All she can do is wait for the release.
~O~
"You've really fucked up this time, Initiate." A harsh voice, a harsh kick in the ribs and Cicero curls into himself, heaving. The world is spinning but the hammering of his heart begins to subside. He can see the cloaked face of his supervisor as he grabs him roughly by the collar in disgust. Cicero is dragged from the clearing, in the opposite direction Sachi had just run.
Sachi.
Bitterness is the single thing his fading consciousness retains, but not for her. As much as he needed her to die, for her to know his suffering, he needed her more. He could never blame her truly for what happens to him when his brothers and sisters retired for the day. For what will happen to him tonight. And every night he fails. The feeling of astringency intensifies at the realization of his own weakness. He could end everything so easily, in so many different ways but there is a hunger so strong for Sachi that goes beyond the need to ruin her.
Cicero can feel the dull, pleasant sensation of a healing spell and as it grows stronger, as do his feelings of dejection. He really could just run with her. He could just leave everything behind.
Another kick in the ribs when the healing spell is over and Cicero has not yet moved.
"Get up!" And another. "Latrell is expecting good news. Not that I understand why with a louse of an assassin like you fucking up every mission he sends you on," he snickers and turns to leave the clearing. Cicero still does not move but rather lets the thousands of thoughts run through his mind, over and over and over. He could. But he mustn't. Why not?
Latrell.
The fire builds and then is doused in water at the thought of his name. He cannot escape that name. He cannot let go of the humiliation and the torture. The endless hours of abhorrent beatings, the agony. Sachi's death is the only thing that could ever bring him peace. Nothing will pain him more than seeing her dead. Nothing else but seeing her live.
The screaming starts and he can hear her. The supervising assassin is no longer present but he knows she will be safe from him. No one but himself is allowed to harm her. That is his curse alone.
He stands up, looking in the direction of the sound. It is pained. Wild.
The world vanishes and all he can hear is her. Without being aware of it his legs have begun to move and he's running. Sprinting with everything he has to reach her- to know she's okay.
xxx xxx
"Done." I mutter as I walk past Astrid in the war room, my heart set fiercely on enjoying an immediate and blissful respite. The last thing I need is to listen to one of her long winded speeches.
"Back so soon? You look awful," her voice is as sultry as ever and I can't help but laugh out loud. I do look awful. "Sister- do you have a moment?" Her sarcasm has dropped and I know she's about to ask me for something. I stop walking and turn on my heel, arms behind my back as I feign interest.
"Yes, Astrid?" She gestures for me to come closer and I obey, already beginning to feel a very distinct sense of dread. This can't be good.
"It's Cicero. Ever since he arrived, his behavior's been... Well, erratic would be an understatement. I do believe he is truly mad. But it's worse than that. He's taken to locking himself in the Night Mother's chamber, and talking- to someone. In hushed, but frantic tones. Who is he speaking with? What are they planning? I fear treachery." I bite my tongue to keep from groaning loudly. Again with this superstition.
"You know, I think if you would just talk to him instead of making assumptions you-"
"There is no talking to the insane! The man won't see sense!" I huff at the indignity of being cut off, but still refuse to unleash my true feelings about the situation.
"You're being paranoid, Astrid."
"I disagree, sister." There's an almost earnest honesty to her words but I can't help but feel slight disgust at her insecurity. One man against her family would stand no chance. Be it through loyalty or physical combat, no one would dare consider crossing her. "As the Night Mother's Keeper, he believes he's entitled to the rule of this Sanctuary. Cicero will cite our independence as the need to revert to the Old Ways. He'll claim we're undisciplined, unruly. Heretical, even... Ironically, the Night Mother could prove to be just as much a victim. The queen in a fool's twisted game of chess." The look on my face reads clear indifference, perhaps even boredom. I have no interest in discrediting a fellow member simply because he's... quirky. And even so, how could the Night Mother possibly be a victim- she's dead! Deceased. No more. Fables and fairy tales and a load of old rubbish.
"Well what do you want me to do about it?" my question is rhetorical but of course Astrid ignorantly shoots past my sarcasm. Her voice becomes sickly sweet and I know she's going to ask something entirely abhorrent of me.
"Dear sister, I need you to steal into that chamber, and eavesdrop on their meeting. It'll be no use clinging to the shadows. They'll see you for sure. No, you need a hiding place. Somewhere they'd never think to look..." She pauses a moment, beginning to pace as a hand runs anxiously through her hair. "... Like inside the Night Mother's coffin." Oh you have got to be kidding me.
"But- He keeps it locked?"
"Pick it."
"Who said I know how to pick locks?" Astrid scoffs, and rightly so. She knows I'm Master of the Thieves Guild. "Okay, okay, fine, you got me, I can pick a lock. But, can you tell me anything else? I mean... he could just be talking to himself? Who would even want to revolt against you?" Other than myself at this point, of course.
"That's the real question, isn't it? The jester enters, seals the door, and the conversation begins. So someone must be waiting for him inside. Any one of us could enter that chamber silently. Unnoticed. But who among us would dare conspire against the Sanctuary? The very thought breaks my heart." Breaks your illusion of control, more like it. Is she really this paranoid? Is her hold on this Sanctuary really so fragile she must resort to such extremes? What a joke.
"I'm sure it does. So. Okay. Let me get all this straight. You want me- that fool's only friend here- to sneak into the chapel, break into and then hide inside the Night Mother's coffin to eavesdrop on him while he talks to possibly no one...?" I tick each point off on my hand with a look seomwhere between disgust and apathy worn blatantly across my face. I am exhausted and now I am damn near insulted that she would choose me to do this. Why not her loathsome husband? Is her paranoia really running so deep she can't trust her own pet dog? She's choosing me over him simply because I've been gone since Cicero's new behavior started?
"That's about the size of it, yes." Again she ignores my disdain.
"Fine. I'll let you know if anything- or anyone- comes up." It'll probably be me who 'comes up', dead after that jester finds me skulking around inside his precious corpse's tomb. This cannot possibly end well.
~O~
I am furious. I should be concerned or perhaps even nervous but right now I'm honestly so angry. I don't believe a word of Astrid's moaning. I mightn't believe in Cicero either but I know he's not after a power struggle. I do think the Old Ways matter to him though, but again, only because he cares about the Night Mother. He doesn't really seem to care for much else, does he?
I'm in no mood to sleep now and I continue to let the pulsating ache in my busted lip persist. It's late once again and the Sanctuary is silent, save for the steady sounds of moving, falling, crashing water echoing around the cavernous main room.
"This is a mess." I groan into my bare hands, my knees curled up below my chin while I sit next to the pond.
"Then clean it up!" I don't even blink at the sudden noise, determined to ignore him as he stands on his fucking hands just behind and to the left of me.
"I can't."
"Why not?" He topples over before crawling to sit next to me with his trademark shit-eating grin spread haplessly across his face.
"It's too much to clean." He leans forward with his legs outstretched, his gloved hands gripping the tips of his ridiculous boots.
"Nonsense!"
"You're nonsense." He laughs but it doesn't seem to help with easing my conflicted emotions. Astoundingly, I am genuinely fond of my little fool and that alone is nonsense in more ways than one. Yet, on top of that I am being asked to betray his trust- well, that is if he even has any in me at all to betray... I have to break into the coffin of whom he holds most dear and eavesdrop on him based on the whim of a woman I don't even like all that much. What a mess indeed.
"Does Sachi want to talk about it? I think she should, oh yes she should." He nods with a suddenly serious expression and I can't help but think it doesn't suit him at all.
"I want to leave." I say, barren of emotion. I would give anything to have my usual zeal back.
"But for why? Sachi's home is right here with Mother!"
"She's not my Mother! She's a dusty old Dunmer who hasn't talked to anyone in nearly a decade!" As soon as the words are out of my mouth I regret them, but my mind refuses to quell its rage. I stand up, suddenly restless and he follows, hands behind his back as his stupid smile falters just slightly.
"Sachi shouldn't say such foolish things." I've heard him angry, I've heard him furious, and I expected to hear him livid. I did not expect to hear disappointment.
"And you'd know all about being foolish, wouldn't you?"
"Ohhhh touche', touche'! The Fool of Hearts could certainly teach sweet Sachi a thing or two about being foolish!" There's something underhanded about the way he says 'sweet'. I squint my eyes slightly, watching the minute twinges in his face as his emotions run through a myriad of changes. "But that reckless behavior suggests you could teach me as well." The humor drops from his voice while his smile remains, somehow empty.
"Is that a threat, Keeper?" He out ranks me but I don't care. I don't care. I don't care in the slightest. I don't care about this pathetic excuse of a Brotherhood. I don't care about these direction-less thugs and I don't care about this impudent jester's games, jokes or pranks.
"That depends on you, sister." I wish he'd stop calling me that. He turns to leave and I let him. I have nothing more to say to that fool.
xxx xxx
"You know, you should stop running away like that. They're going to realize you're doing it for a reason." Cicero scowls at her when she finally falls silent. His ears are ringing from her screams, from running so fast and Sachi is filthy, scraped and bloodied. Her cheeks are flushed a violent shade of red as she sits up, revealing her face for the first time since he doubled back to find her wailing in the dirt.
She responds slowly, her arms wrapped around her legs, shaking and weak.
"Why? So I can get your worthless hide into even more trouble?" She's breathless and he offers her his hand.
"I can handle my own business thank you very much," he quips, grinning. She notices how humourless he is even through his practiced facade. He notices how exhausted she is when she finally takes his hand and gets up. "What happened here?"
"I don't want to talk about it." Blunt. Emotionless, but entirely giving herself away. Cicero's false smile falters as she takes her hand from his to brush herself off.
"Why not? What happened, Sachi?" His voice is stern, slightly concerned; he's never seen the wind knocked out of her like this.
"Drop it, Cicero," her tone is a warning but he ignores it. Something tells him this is extremely important.
"You cut me up, leave me to bleed out and then have a screaming fit in the woods. Then, when I come to collect your defective pieces, you shut me out? You owe me an explanation," his words are heated and he grabs her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him directly.
"I didn't leave you to bleed out! I had no choice! No matter what I do it's always my fault you get hurt and there's never anything I can do for you but watch and-" she stops.
"... And?" he asks, quietly. Calmly. He needs to know.
"And... And I'd give anything to change that. To make it all go away for you." Before she knows whats happening his arms are around her, pulling her in close. Her instincts tell her to push him away, to yell profanities but instead she reaches around and clutches onto his clothes, burying her face in his chest, still shaking.
"Why were you screaming." His question is more an order than an inquiry.
"I don't want to lose you." Finally after seemingly endless minutes of screaming into the ground she manages to cry. Sachi's body begins to quake in heaving sobs as she claws to get closer to him. The words hit Cicero like an arrow in the chest when he finally hears that she feels the same way. All their fighting, their arguments. Every aspect was so important yet neither of them wanted anything more than to be like this forever. Simply together, hoping to the gods that everything will always turn out okay. But this is not their reality. Their reality is cold and cruel and they know they cannot stay here.
They fall together to their knees in the dirt, Sachi beginning to hyperventilate again.
"There's nothing we can do," he ushers, resting his forehead against hers. She stops crying long enough to scream at him.
"There's everything you can do, you absolute fuckwit! This is all. Your. Fault!" she hits him in the chest with what little energy remains and he accepts it with no objection.
"Don't you think I already know that?!" Hot, angry tears begin to well in his own eyes and he's suddenly disgusted with himself.
Only he can end this, one way or another and both are entirely unappealing for radically different reasons, but nothing will change the ultimate fact that there was no escaping Latrell's shadow. Not now, not ever. But there was also the undeniable truth that he'd completely and totally fallen for the sad Bosmer girl he's spent his entire Brotherhood career pursuing. Fallen for the way she smiles nervously, the way he's always known she's cared for him no matter how real his blood lust became. Fallen for the one person who could ever truly return his feelings of ambivalence.
He'd fallen for Sachi.
xxx xxx
It's quiet and my stomach feels like it's an ocean of acid, melting through muscle and burning against my skin. It hurts in a peculiar way but now is not the time to consider my regrets. Now is not the time to think.
It's late, it's dark, it's quiet. I sneak silently into the chapel and seal the door behind me. The haze greets me as strongly as ever and I welcome the dulling effect it has on my uneasy mind. I find the lock on the Night Mother's tomb to be as pathetic as I'd originally suspected weeks ago. Something tells me he really does want someone to break into it. I wouldn't put it past that idiot to try and stir some trouble, even if only with Astrid. He's not after power, but he's definitely after change.
I open the coffin doors and my breath is stolen by the sight of our unholy matron. I expected a skeleton. A mess. A pile of dust. I didn't expect expertly preserved remains. I didn't expect skin, teeth and hair. I'm immobilised for only a moment before I clamber inside the tomb, careful not to harm her.
In the deafening silence I can almost hear breathing- almost feel the breath on the back of my neck as I press up against the Night Mother. I shake away my thoughts and focus, trying to fight against the haze I usually accepted so easily. Perhaps this smoke, this smell, this ambience is poisonous in ways no one could have noticed. It would explain a lot about Cicero's behavior... I stifle a sarcastic laugh when I hear the tumblers of the chapel doors snap into place.
"Are we alone? Yes... yes... alone. Sweet solitude. No one will hear us, disturb us! Everything is going according to plan. The others-... I've spoken to them. And they're coming around, I know it. The wizard, Festus Krex... perhaps even the Argonian, and the un-child... What about you? Have you... have you spoken to anyone?" He pauses and I suddenly notice I haven't been breathing. I suck in a quiet breath but find it isn't much better than not breathing at all. It's suffocating in here with all these oils.
"No... No, of course not. I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing and saying! And what do you do? Hmmm? Nothing! Not-... not that I'm angry! No, never! Cicero understands. Hehhh... Cicero always understands... And obeys! You will talk when you're ready, won't you? Won't you?... sweet Night Mother." I shudder. I've killed people, I've bunked with vampire clans and I've frolicked with actual demon gods but nothing felt so thoroughly creepy as Cicero in this moment.
And then I shudder again when the pleasant, clawing tendrils of warmth slighter across my skin in powerful waves. My mind screeches to a halt, all thoughts ceasing as a voice so harsh yet so entirely gentle begins to whisper to me.
"Poor Cicero. Dear Cicero. Such a humble servant. But he will never hear my voice. For he is not the Listener." My breath hitches and suddenly I'm holding it again. The sensation of breathing on my neck is no illusion brought on by the haze. Through confusion and fear, the intruding voice inside my head continues to echo after it stops speaking. But despite the hissing voice still enveloping my brain I manage to hear Cicero continue his woes.
"Oh, but how can I defend you? How can I exert your will? If you will not speak? To anyone!" I've never heard his voice climb so high and it grates against my bones, yet I can still feel the possessive, ethereal claws moving deftly across my body. My adrenaline is rising despite the tug of serenity brought on by those creeping tendrils.
"Oh, but I will speak. I will speak to you. For you are the one. Yes, you. You, who shares my iron tomb, who warms my ancient bones. I give you this task - journey to Volunruud. Speak with Amaund Motierre." Pure terror engulfs me as realization hits me hard in the chest. Me? 'My tomb'? Then... No! No- not me, don't let it be me- I barely handled being Dragonborn, don't make me be another 'chosen one', oh gods-
"Poor Cicero has failed you. Poor Cicero is sorry, sweet mother. I've tried, so very hard. But I just can't find the Listener."
"Tell Cicero the time has come. Tell him the words he has been waiting for, all these years: 'Darkness rises when silence dies.'" The slithering fingers are suddenly gone and I gasp as the slight feelings of calm disappear with them, leaving me with only my terror.
Seeming as if only to spite me, the tomb doors fly wide and Cicero is glaring at me. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. I'm going to throw up, I'm going to scream, I'm going to fall over-
"What? What treachery! Defiler! Debaser and defiler! You have violated the sanctity of the Night Mother's tomb! Explain yourself!" Well, now I've finally heard him livid. I can say with complete honesty, I don't like it.
I try to speak but he doesn't give me time. He takes a handful of the front of my shirt and swings me around and away from the coffin. He slams me hard into the clay wall and I know a large bruise will begin to fester where his fist hit my breast plate. That's if I live long enough, anyway. That exquisite ebony dagger is brought sharply against my throat and I utter a frantic giggle- from panic or excitement I cannot tell. I've longed to see that blade drawn and poised again for many weeks. I just didn't think it'd be under these circumstances.
My reflexes urge my hands to reach for my own blade but I had foolishly decided to remain unarmed.
"Speak speak speak speak speak!" He's screaming in my face and his body presses against me so forcefully I can't find the space to draw in even a shallow breath.
"Fool-!" I choke on his pet name through another bout of nervous laughter which only makes him angrier. The knife digs in further and I can feel the warmth of my own blood beginning to trickle down my skin. "Get -off me- I'm the damned Listener, you idiot-!" My hands awkwardly lift to try and force his face away but his dagger only juts in harder. I scream out in surprise, the blood flow becoming a steady one.
My eyes begin to roll back as consciousness fades and still I claw at his face in protest. "She told m-me- ah! To talk to you-" Suddenly the knife withdraws and he reels back away from me as if I had (effectively) shocked him.
"She... spoke to you? More treachery! More trickery and deceit! You lie!" He throws his dagger across the room and then stares down at his own shaking hands. I heave in shuddering breaths and strain my ears to hear his cries. "The Night Mother speaks only to the Listener!" He looks up at me and moves forward to take me by the front of my shirt again, this time tripping me up easily and forcing me to the floor. I lay on my back, helpless as he straddles me before wrapping his hands around my throat. His golden eyes are slits as they stare down at me and I can't help but admire the colour, even in this moment. "And there is... no... Listener!" With each syllable he pulls me up and away from the ground before forcing me back down again. The back of my head splits against the stone floor and the screaming pain that ensues clouds my vision. I choke on my tongue and gasp for air, dizzy and confused. He begins to ease his whole weight down onto my windpipe and finally, I utter the words.
"Darkness rises, wh-when silence dies-"
.
.
.
.
A/N: Thank you so much to everyone that's read this far and followed/faved/reviewed oh gosh thanks so much. I understand that Skyrims a bit old now and Cicero's not very well liked, generally speaking, so i really appreciate the bit of attention this story is getting! I love reviews so much thank you thank you!
I'd also like to point out that I am aware of my mistake regarding Cicero's current location in the flashbacks. I know it's meant to be Bruma but for some reason I decided to repeatedly mistake it with Bravil woops. One day i'll get around to fixing it!
From here on out I'll start using Bruma instead! I hope it's not too confusing to follow ohno
