A/N: Switching POV a bit.
It had started as subtle manipulation.
Get into her good graces, make her comfortable around him. He had wanted to convince her - this new recruit - to join him against Astrid. Teach her The Old Ways, guide her and groom her. And when Mother offered him confirmation of his good work through making her worthy of the title of The Listener - it sort of made him equal parts proud and disappointed. Of course, he had wanted that honor - but if Ula was good enough, then he clearly was on the right path.
But...Now? Now that they were closer? Now that they were friends, had been on many jobs together - and she had the audacity to be kind and gentle with him? And she had the audacity to be so soft and quiet as she was vicious and precise? Oh, that had not been the plan.
Nothing prepared him for what he was feeling. - Not that he was sure what exactly he was feeling, but he had a foggy idea of what it could be...Maybe. Not that he could focus long enough to really understand it all, but there was definitely some effort.
But, here. Now. There was an idea of a plan stuck in his head, something to try and figure everything out. He had some time to reflect, just for a moment, before it began.
She was always there, sacraligeously placing first against the true matron of his heart. She, so secular, so sinful, so right. Velvet-clad hands begged the mind to just give in, to touch - to feel so that he could be sure she was truly real.
And he chastised himself for his audacity. He could never come up with such a grand mirage. She had to be real, and he didn't need to defile her with his dirty hands to prove it. She was chosen, an example of perfection in The Dread Lord's eyes and the true favorite of The Night Mother.
Surely Sithis would not have conjured the perfect woman for him, either? The Dread Lord did all for his own entertainment, surely not his lady's Keeper. And yet here she was all the same: a beautiful illusion of the profanest and deadliest sort. A maiden, so kind - a killer, so ruthless.
No, she was certainly not for him, of course - he was not a romantic in that sense, and the very idea entertained was almost laughable. Still:
There was a small undercurrent of hatred for her that he could scarcely describe - but it colored their every interaction. Not that he disliked her, no - no - on the contrary: How dare she make him feel this way? How dare she attempt to validate him as a fellow human being?
...He knew it was not her fault, though. Not really. She had done nothing. It was all on him to control his own emotions. Naughty Keeper.
She was...An itch he was forbidden to scratch, a nagging little thing that rooted itself firmly into his brain.
Was this a test? Was her purpose distracting him from his duty? But...She was part of that duty, though, wasn't she? His job was making sure she was healthy, guarded, protected and...Happy, right?
Every movement she made was torture, every smile rewarded was bliss. She commanded him to do something, and he had to fight the urge to - to - to do what? Whatever it was, it was a desperate, sometimes aggressive or anxious feeling; Reaching an aching crescendo when she was so near to him that he could reach out and touch her. It was a different sort of madness.
And she: So careful, so sweet and deadly...With her full lashes and warm, red mouth. How easily he could have killed her in her sleep or choked her to death - slip a knife between her ribs. In all the times they had been alone together. But she was precious, in so much that he considered her to be fragile. She trusted him in a way he knew she did not trust the others - never complete, of course, but still enough that she would be surprised at the sudden aggression. And he would have liked to revel in that shocked expression. Wide eyes and open mouth, pleading - gasping -
- And that was the strange part, what he couldn't understand: Why did he think of such things when he knew very well he could never consciously hurt her? And not even because of The Tenants, but because he had no desire to -? Such easy prey, and he couldn't even bring himself to fantasize about what-ifs. Why fixate on anger and jealousy at all?
So now he was here. He had to know.
Shaking hands tugged on the tips of the fingers of his gloves as teeth gnashed against cracked lips. Nervous, dreadfully nervous, and yet he wanted in. He desired to see if it felt the same, tending to her as he tended to Her Unholiness's corpse upstairs. Was what he felt the same reverence? Desire of Worship? Was it because of her title? That might actually settle him. That was familiar. Was it wrong of him if it was the same? Would Mother be displeased? Angry? And what if it wasn't the same at all?
What would that mean?
So he pushed the door open, averting his eyes to the ground in case she was indecent, which was very possible because she had said she was taking a bath. Why else would she be in the bathing room, anyways?
Fingers twitched in memory of long ago touches, and ancient feelings were dredged up from the pit of his stomach. It was a sort of burning thrill in the idea of a woman's nakedness that he had scarcely felt in nearly a decade, and it shamed him. He should not be feeling such a way. Not towards his sweet Listener, no. She was a darkness too pure to be categorized and compartamentalized in such an undeserving way.
Before the time he called The Silence, he had certainly not been celebate - no - but he did not really remember That Time either. Or at all. Truly, he had completely forgotten such strange and foreign desires of the flesh, which made them all the more dizzying to experience now - as if they were someone else's feelings altogether. And perhaps they were - they were not Cicero The Keeper's thoughts, but of the long dead Cicero The Man's.
But it was only a post-mortem jerk of the corpse's limbs, and the thought lasted for less than a moment where then it was dutifully pushed to the depths of his mind.
This was not about desire or lust - it was about intimacy. Curiosity.
She gasped - which made him flinch and mis-step in the dance of his practiced walk, though his eyes remained glued to the stone floor. "Keeper!" Was the exasperated word that came out of her mouth, but how he had wished it had been his name, which was a painful irony in that he had been adamant for the longest time to call her only by her title. "What are you doing in here?" He heard her as she sunk deeper into the hot, sudsy water, and he felt like butterflies were nesting inside his intestines.
"My duty, Listener." He spoke, voice practiced and cheery. "Ula has had a very busy week!" He moved into the room more completely, shutting the door behind him. She did not move from the spot within the tub, which made him certain she had all of the more pleasant bits covered. He managed to work up the courage to glance up at her, and he felt the flicker of some forgotten emotion flutter in his chest in response to her expression. It was close. Close to what he wanted.
Dead indeed. His other-self had been gone for years, and yet - What was this now? What new level of sacrilege was this? Surely punishment was the only way to rid him of such guilt - but that was for later. He would pray for forgiveness later. Now - there was this. There was her.
Wide and nervous eyes, a pouted mouth, and curls pressed wetly against her round face - she looked absolutely grand as a victim. There was something in that moment that made him forget that she was a killer as much as he was, because she looked so vulnerable and - He swallowed and felt his throat tighten for a moment as he stepped forward, forcing his gait to remain unabated and as normal as possible.
The thoughts were ghosts, and they were transparent, then gone. Floating, flying - never there.
"What?" She had responded confusedly, a squeak from a woman who was normally so calm and cold. He sort of liked that. His mouth twitched up into an amused smile, focusing his stare to her eyes and definitely not at the exposed expanse of collarbone and shoulders that sat above water and soap.
"Cicero is the Keeper. He Keeps The Night Mother and the Listener, remember?" It was a question she did not seem inclined to answer, so he took it as a yes. He was not so easily forgotten, was he? No - of course not, she thought the question had been rhetorical. "And you are The Listener. It is The Fool of Heart's humble duty to serve you." And he bowed shortly - eyes never leaving hers.
A thought from somewhere else edged languidly into the expanse of the Other, the large part of his mind that was full of riddles and songs and words that never made sense - this thought that whispered something about servitude and catering to her every fancy and whim, command me - and how that would have meant something so unclean had he not been -
And then the thought was broken, stopping there as he watched her sink deeper into the soap. He did admit that he was sad to see the porcelain skin covered by the suds. She was so pretty - but he - The Jester, The Keeper regarded her the same way one does a painting or a statue, not a living, breathing -
"I don't need help, Keeper. Uh, but thanks. I'm - I'm okay, thank you." She stammered, heat flushed cheeks growing darker.
"Nonsense, sister!" He exclaimed, panicked that he would lose the opportunity to feel, to understand- "Cicero wants to help!" He moved closer to her and she moved so her chin touched the water. Her hair was wet, and she had all of the supplies she used to wash near her on the floor, so he simply sat at the edge of the tub. "Please?" He plastered on his best smile for her and she looked up at him.
"...I don't know if you realize this, but I am currently naked." She stated flatly. He stared at her. "People wash naked. I'm naked." He squinted at her, tilting his head as if the angle might make his brain work better. Right, right. Naked. That had occurred to him. Yes. People usually took baths without clothes, right? Naked. ...So what?
"...Does...Ula...Want bashful Cicero to get naked too?" He furrowed his brow in confusion, not quite following her point. "That's a little unnecessary, don't you think, Listener? I'm not the one in the tub - "
"No! No, I just meant - I'm - I'm uncomfortable with your presence in here." She mumbled. "While I'm...Naked." Ouch. That hurt, though he wasn't sure why.
"Come now, Listener. We are both adults." He scoffed. What an innocent little flower. He had seen plenty of women naked - there was nothing under the water that he certainly couldn't imagine, at least - though, he would never. Sweet Ula was not some tart to fantasize about. But it wasn't as if nakedness was inherently wrong, either. Unless - Did she think he was some pervert? Some debased -
"Adults!" She exclaimed, breaking his trail of thoughts. "Exactly. Don't you see how strange this is -? " He frowned. No, he did not, thank you very much. He was just trying to be a good subjugate. Make Mother proud, have Ula like him. She was quiet for an agonizing moment, just looking at him. Studying his face. He tried very hard to look wholesome and nice - because, he was. For his sweet Ula, he really was. Finally she spoke: "Tell me, Keeper: What is it that you think you can help with? I'm a grown woman, so I don't really - I've - I've already washed, I'm just soaking. And -"
"Um, well -! " He looked around the room, full of steam and heat. For a moment, his thoughts derailed again - it was sticky in here, and he was growing too warm, and perhaps he should have taken off some layers - but then he came back around to what she had said and thought carefully. Desperate, grab whatever you can. He looked at her, then and - Yes. That would do. "Oooh, I know! Cicero could wash and brush Ula's pretty hair?" She seemed to relax a little.
"Well I haven't done - I...I don't require assistance with that." She said meekly, obviously aware that he was going to reject that notion. She looked tired. She knew she did, and she knew he knew that and he could see that in her face. She could have ordered him out and he would obey, but he knew he seemed very eager to be helpful, which he was. He watched as she made a decision in her head, deflating with defeat."...Fine, I suppose you can- "
"Yes!" Ha! Success! He laughed and clapped giddly with pent up excitement, nearly toppling into the tub with her. He grabbed one of the bottles near the edge of the polished stone bath as she wet her hair more. She moved, turning her back to him with some small hesitation.
"Okay, but just - be gentle, okay?" She mumbled. He carefully removed his gloves and set them on the floor beside his feet. He dipped his hands in the water and she flinched, though he hardly payed attention. He was too happy. She was finally letting him do his job right. Ula never liked him doing things for her, and it made him feel like he was just bad at it, that perhaps he had somehow offended her or that he was just unsatisfactory. And here he tried so hard.
He filled his palm with the nice smelling soap for her hair and lathered it between his fingers. It was not quite the oil he smoothed over Mother's, but it was close enough. Same principle. Massage it into the scalp, work it towards the ends.
Practiced hands ghosted over black strands, which curled rebelliously against the weight of the water. He hummed a tune as he did his job, careful to comb his fingers through the thick mass with utmost care. Her hair had always been his favorite - so heavy, and long, and dark as The Void. There had been times when the urge to plunge his hand deep within it was almost maddening. Soft, shiny, silky. Careful, careful - gentle and slow lest he tug the hair too hard and hurt her. She would never ever let him do anything ever again! And maybe she would even be angry. He couldn't handle that.
She relaxed beneath his gentle touch, slipping into the water a bit more deeply and stifling a sigh with one of her hands. When he had finished, he found himself hesitating to touch her again. He would have to touch her with his bare hands. He already had, but this - this was her skin and - His heart was a lump in his throat that he could not swallow around. He finally did continue, pressing on - the warm, flushed skin brushing his shaking fingertips. He gently captured her neck beneath his palm, pulling so that she leaned her head back. This allowed him to gently pour water over her hair, washing it free of the soap.
And he looked upon her countenance.
Her expression was rapturous - calm, serene. Eyes shut and mouth unmarred by the usual tightness it had. There was one mad, delightful second that he thought to immortalize this moment by slicing her throat - it was bared to him, after all. To sink a knife into that pale, unmarred softness and bloom red was -
Oh, he shivered. To even think of it was too much. But he would miss her terribly, and to kill her was still unthinkable. He never meant it like that - no. It would be a gesture of frienship, not anger. Like an artist making a quick sketch. The only art he knew how to do, however, was murder. Well, the result would have been the same, thought the intent was different - And that would simply not do. She needed to be alive, of course. Silly Cicero.
He murmured to her that he was finished with his task, surprised at the softness in his voice as much as she was. He had not heard that exact tone come from his mouth in years. And to whom had he spoken to, so soft and serene? He did not know. Maybe it had only been in a dream.
Her eyes slowly opened, and when reality came crashing back to her, she stiffened again, hands fluttering over her neck and collarbone. "Uh, thank you - " She stammered, "C-can you - I have my robe over there, if you would -?" With great reluctance he moved himself from the tub's lip and retrieved her coverings. He looked away as he offered it to her, and he heard the wet splashes of her body moving out of the saftey of the water.
He did want to glance at her, perhaps while she was distracted and would not see him do so - but then he chastised himself. Ula's sweet softness was not for his eyes. He was supposed to be good and protective and so - so very dutiful. And then, if he had given into such compulsions, he'd be the sort of man she had probably suspected him of being when he first entered. He was not trying to peek, he was the happy Keeper doing his job, trying to sort through his feelings.
There was a flutter of discontent in his breast before she cleared her throat so that he knew he could look. He snapped out of it, forgetting it almost completely and as quickly as when he had been overcome with the compulsion. And he did so, cheerfully. No - no bad, naughty thoughts for Cicero.
"Um - " He saw her glance at the door, almost as if she were trying to escape. But that was not it at all, and they both knew that much. The expression had been the same, but there was no fear, only silly embarrassment.
"Cicero is not finished! He has to brush sweet Ula's hair, no?" He saw her flush as she pulled the robe tighter around herself. He could see what flashed through her mind at that moment. It ghosted across her eyes. A word. Naked. But she had the robe on, so he didn't quite understand.
"If you want to. I like doing it myself, but - " Her voice faltered as she walked toward him, and she must have seen something in his face because she relaxed a little. "Okay." She turned from him and awkwardly sat in front of the small vanity in the corner of the room. The mirror was fogged up, and he was sure not to stare as she stretched and wiped the steam free from the glass. He certainly did not see the way the line of her body looked against the stone, either - curved, with soft places that were obviously meant for hands. He sat beside her on the bench seat, and she turned so he could access her hair more easily. Gingerly picking up the brush, he combed it through the wet ends first before slowly making his way up to the roots.
Yes, just like he did with Mother - but it felt different.
Well, at least that question had been answered, but what did it even mean? How did it feel, then?
Warm. Quiet. Less like a chore and more like prayer, though markedly less reverent. It was a worship of a different kind, though he lacked the vocabulary to properly dictate what it truly felt like. She, a woman and he at the altar of her mind, asking her for something, but he wasn't sure what. He understood, though, on some level, that it was a singular honor to touch her so familiarly - and that it was not inherently exclusive to what could be considered to some as an intimacy reserved for lovers. She had lived a different life, and this was not what it would have meant to another woman, and on some level he appreciated that immensely. This was affection, but not romance. This was certainly not that at all, though somewhere deep inside he wished it was. It was something akin to a test, however and one he hoped he passed.
She was very still through the ordeal, and he found himself worrying that she was a corpse - that he imagined she talked to him and moved around, when in reality it was him and - but perhaps - A bare hand ghosted over her shoulder as he moved a section of her hair, and he felt the heat radiating from her form. Alive, good. Yes. Paranoia was always his biggest problem, but it never hurt to just check, did it? She leaned a little into his palm.
He halted, retreating. His hands were still bare. He felt the compulsion to put the gloves back on but rooted himself firmly in the spot. Panic ebbed and receded into his sense of duty. Velvet would cause static, and he didn't want to seem incompetent in his little task. He focused on gliding the brush through the tangles of her curls, gentle and precise strokes. When he had finished, he had forgotten about the gloves entirely. She smoothed a hand over the mass of black and turned to smile at him over her shoulder.
"Thank you. That was um - That was less awful than I expected. I suppose you would be good at this, though - " Her eyes averted. "Mother doesn't feel pain, so I guess I thought - " She was uncharacteristically nervous, which amused a part of him that he had not felt in a long time. The rest of him, the familiar parts were just as nervous as she was - and anxious. "It was nice. Weird, but, uh, nice."
It was nice to catch her off guard, though, to impress her. All of him agreed with that.
"Cicero can braid your hair, if you like." He offered quietly, scarcely having thought about the words before he said them, "So it doesn't knot while it dries. Cicero knows how much Ula hates knots in her pretty hair." He just wanted to be near to her for a bit longer, that's all.
"Um, yes. Thanks." She nodded, turning away from him once more. "Could you - ?" He realized that she couldn't bring herself to ask him a favor, which he was appalled by. He was here because she was The Listener. He was The Keeper. That was the nature of their relationship. Didn't she know she could ask anything of him?
Anything, least of all something small as this - whatever it was.
"Yes, My Listener?" He prompted. She reached to the vanity's table and produced a small bottle of sweet smelling oil. This, he understood. It was to keep the ends of her pretty hair looking nice, and to smooth the curls into something manageable. It was certainly not the same as the preservation mix he used on mother's hair to keep the bugs out, but -
"Um, can you - I'll do it if you don't want to, but you do it so softly and soothing, I just - "
"Of course." He smiled. She wanted him to do this task. Good, very good. He was happy to help. And she liked him doing this. Said he was doing well. She was learning her place. And so kind about it, too.
Nimble hands went to work quickly, too eager to touch the silky hair again. It had already began to curl, so he had to act fast. Within a few minutes her hair was combed, the sweet smelling oil distributed through it evenly, and then braided away from her face. He felt very pleased with his work. When had he learned to braid hair? He couldn't remember, but that wasn't important. He was good at it, and she seemed to like it. Her palm moved over the thick braid as she swung it over her shoulder.
"Very nice, Keeper." He wished she had said his name, again. Oh well.
"No, no! Thank you." He bowed with his head. "Humble Cicero lives to serve." He watched her as she stood, hands nervously smoothing over the robe to make sure everything was in place and properly covered. He liked the way the shape of her face looked without the billow of shadow-colored hair to frame it. Of course, the normal way it looked was great too - but this gave her a sense of innocence that he found nearly transformative. Her eyes averted from his countenance as he stood.
"...I'll be going, then. I must dress for bed. I suppose - I'll see you tomorrow, then." She smiled nervously - why was she so nervous? And headed for the door. She opened it, then paused in the door frame. "Um and...Thank you, Cicero." His breath caught in his throat.
Oh, yes. That was a nice reward. Formal Ula said his name, formed the syllables with her sweet little mouth. He felt like flying - but he could probably settle for a cartwheel or two, maybe a backflip if he had enough space. He gripped the hem of his shirt giddly, trying to maintain calm as she shut the door.
His heart pounded in his chest. That was some experience. Very different than what he thought. She made him feel, made him human again, made him feel real and -
He blinked a few times, thoughts halting as the world spun and closed around him.
The gloves.
He put the gloves on after he found them on the floor and took a deep, calming breath. He remained still, flexing his fingers now and again as he settled back into whatever semblance of normalcy he had left.
Yes, she certainly was something. His eyes trailed to the door, and he finally felt the heat of the room get to him. There was sweat beginning to form on his forehead. His chest felt tight, and his mind drifted to The Night Mother.
Would she bless such a thing? Her loyal Keeper and Listener - Together? He couldn't be sure, and the only person who could was Ulalume. Of course, he couldn't just ask her to ask Mother. That was silly. Then she'd know how he felt! And then he'd be rather embarrassed. Foolish Cicero.
But Mother would want him happy, right? And Ula certainly made him feel happy, and didn't he deserve that? He had found The Listener, after all - success! He wasn't sure where such a thing - relationship? Would go, but as long as - He would do everything for her. She was his second Mistress, his boss - But more:
She was his friend.
She made him feel better, soothed the pain and the anxiety and -
And oh, how his heart ached for someone to understand, for someone to accept him the way he was. To smile at him, to thank him. To recognize how hard adjusting had been, someone who laughed with him, not at. Who saw he was more than the fool, that he had been more, that it was all a mask and he was really something else inside, and he could be that man again if he tried - maybe not completely, but by Sithis, for her he would try. He respected her, trusted her. He would follow her even after death if she so asked.
Ulalume.
His maiden, his Listener: the ruthless killer. And he: Her loyal Keeper, The Jester, Protector.
He decided it then. All that was left was to act!
The Laughter bubbled up in his throat.
Excitement!
...And then...Shame.
The smile faded.
No, he couldn't. Even after everything, he did not feel that he was good enough for Mother's chosen. He still hadn't - No - he was -
He would see what the coming weeks brought. His task was not yet over. Once he had completed his mission, then he might be worthy. And even if he wasn't - She was kind, enjoyed his company. There was that, wasn't there? Doubt crept in, as it always seemed to do lately. Maybe that's what Mother had intended? For them. He shouldn't be so greedy, wanting more but - He had to focus on his duty, bring Astrid The Pretender and the last of The Dark Brotherhood back around to the Old Ways. Then Ula could lead them back into greatness.
The rest would inevitably come later, if it was meant to be.
