THE FALSEHOOD OF THE LOVERS

Going home was always a bit like dying, for Cicero. Not in a negative meaning, because death for him was never something to escape from. It was like closing a job and starting completely from scratch. Saying goodbye to everything that had been, to all the problems and all the joys of a contract, to never come back. All subsequent works would've been different, and so he could live his existence in watertight compartments. He didn't like to mess up, he didn't like to take a contract for too long.

And there he was, now, with the longest he had ever dealt with. Not so much in terms of actual timing: it had taken him a lot more time to kill the Grand Champion. But in terms of responsibility, of procrastination. With the Grand Champion he had immediately known what to do; with Morrigan, however, after two weeks, he was still at the starting point. He hated having to leave home with the idea of going back to something that he had done wrong, left uncompleted. Now that he had carte blanche, he had no idea what to do. He simply wanted to say goodbye to the contract, let it go, go back to his former life. But at the same time he didn't want to, because the idea of depriving himself of her company and her empty eyes was unbearable.

Once out of the Listener's quarters, then, he headed for his room, confused and much-needing rest. Being the Keeper had given him the chance to have his own room, where to keep his tools and take care of the Mother in private. Also, the fact that he was a little crazy and usually people thought he was annoying had encouraged the desire of the others not to have him around the common dormitory. Actually, Cicero wasn't so happy with the matter. He had always been in common rooms in Bruma and Cheydinhal, and he had begun to sleep alone only when the Brotherhood had disrupted. He would rather not remember those dark years, he would've liked to be more in touch with his Brothers and Sisters. But he knew that in their eyes he was eccentric, old and far too high in the hierarchy to share common areas with simple assassins.

.

.

"Hey, hey! Wait! Now it's up to Cicero!"

The Brothers protested, amused, and then finally their shouting died out. Cicero, with a gallant smile, stood up, reaching the center of the dormitory. He felt the eyes of his companions on himself, especially the younger ones.

"So?" one of them spurred him, "what was your worst contract?"

Some were already giggling. In particular, a girl, barely twenty years old, with curly blood-colored hair, freckles, lively eyes and a bizarre look. She was holding her hand in front of her mouth, forcing herself to keep quiet, while the rest of her body couldn't stop laughing. Her name was Galla and they had gathered there just for her, drinking and laughing: she had had a bad day, her victim had run away, she was new and she was afraid they would've repudiated her.

"My worst contract?" asked Cicero, pretending to think about it.

"Yes, come on!" insisted a young boy, "You too must have made a shitty contract in your life!"

Cicero raised a finger to the sky, theatrical. He liked to boast, at least in that field, one of the few he knew he was good at.

"Oh, misplaced hope, Brother! I'm the best here, and to gain my fame I've never made mistakes."

A chorus of cheerful disapproval. They insulted him, but with affection. With the same affection of biological brothers, to be honest. And, on the other hand, weren't they? So many souls born from different wombs, different parents, and yet all united from the first to the last in loving the same Mother.

"Cicero, don't try to get smart!" Ademar intervened, treacherously, "there was that contract of the cat of Anvil!"

A chorus of laughter. They were sure there must be at least one flaw, in the brilliant career of the most famous murderer of the capital and the entire region.

"You remember it, Ademar?" Cicero replied, falsely annoyed, "You're the only one in here. This means you're getting old, you know?"

In fact, he was the only one who could remember the unlucky cat of Anvil, the others were all young, new and passionate recruits. Cicero used to enjoy their company, they were constantly reminding him why he had joined the Brotherhood, although he was a couple of grades higher and at least six years older.

"Don't you try to change the subject" threatened Ademar, the athlete, the seducer, surrounded by the attentions of the Sisters, "it's the game, you have to tell that story. Come on!"

Cicero bowed slightly, laughing, and making even his spectators laugh.

"All right, then. Let's talk about the cat of Anvil. It was one of my first contracts, and definitely my first Khajiit. It happened... in Anvil. Did you ever imagine?"

Laughter, again. They were easy to entertain, the recruits. They were nice souls, many of them had found themselves there not to live on the streets. But over time they were learning to appreciate the cause and the religion, as well as gold and bonuses.

"I followed him a bit, he was a big, dark cat, entangled in even bigger and darker business. I had killed cats... I mean real, quadruped cats, until then, and somehow I assumed that a Khajiit was nothing but a bigger cat..."

"Now don't try to justify yourself with poetics" Ademar scolded him, adjusting the black curls and winking at a blonde Sister, next to him, "what happened is too stupid, don't add preambles! You'll end up making it a valuable story, when it's just the story of how foolish you are!"

"Ademar, your words hurt me, Brother!" Cicero joked, putting a hand on his heart and pretending to shed a tear.

"Anyway..." he went on to say, "he was much bigger than me, and agile, and also equipped with more claws and teeth. I wanted to catch him from behind and finish him quickly, get my first bonus, go back to the Sanctuary."

He moved a bit in the audience, to be seen by everyone. He liked it, being the center of attention. Something he had never experienced as a child and of which he was now happy, knowing that he was surrounded by his true family, the only one who could understand him.

In a few steps, light and casual, he came to the bizarre girl, Galla, the one with the blood-colored hair, like his. He turned directly to her, more than the rest of the crowd, staring straight into her eyes.

"I reached him in a dark alley, sneaky" he continued, miming what he was telling, "I was a step away, I was ready to jump to his throat, and suddenly..."

He paused, stared at Galla again, and saw that she was holding her breath, with an anxious smile.

"Suddenly, I remembered that the fucking cat had a tail."

There was a roar of laughter. Cicero himself couldn't but laugh, this time really embarrassed. A positive embarrassment, nevertheless.

"Well, I hadn't seen it, all right? It was black, I was aiming at his neck, I didn't think about it! I stepped on his tail, and that damn cat shouted, as if I was already killing him."

The laughter grew louder. One of the youngest was holding his stomach, swinging back and forth like a possessed man. Even the girl laughed, her eyes narrowed, she was almost crying.

"And then" Galla asked, amid hilarity, "than what happened?"

"Then of course he noticed me, Sister! He turned around and didn't think twice about using those claws I was carefully trying to avoid..."

He raised his jacket, at the right side. Three scars, now old and white, stood out on his muscles and embraced him, from his back almost to the navel.

The girl was charmed, her eyes wide open. She found the scars attractive, and Cicero didn't fail to notice it. She was a beautiful girl, she was an assassin... why not? Ademar used to sleep with all the sisters, he could've left one for him.

"Did you manage to kill him?" she asked, hanging on his every word.

"Oh yes. Well, it took a while, and in the fight the alley was full of fur. Everyone in Anvil woke up, they chased me at least in twenty, and to get away I had to throw myself up to my neck in a drainage channel, I smelled like death for a week. I swear to you that it was the worst contract of all the history of the Brotherhood. And I was expecting a bonus, do you understand? I'm lucky they haven't expelled me!"

Everyone was still laughing, especially Ademar and the redhead. Cicero, taking advantage of her interest, lowered himself towards her, who was sitting down. He took her hand, bowed, and kissed it gently.

He spoke a little lower, just for her.

"You see, dear, there's no such thing as a perfect assassin. Don't be ashamed of what happened today, you'll make up for the next assignment. You'll become an excellent Silencer, I can see it in your eyes. One contract at a time, all right?"

"One contract at a time..." she sighed, heartened.

Cicero could read gratitude in her dreamy expression. Then he winked at her and pinched her cheek, making her blush.

"Cicero, no! I refuse to believe you'll be able to pick up a girl with this stupid story!"

"Ah, that's why you pick up so many: all your stories are stupid, you have a lot to tell!"

Another laugh in the group, and uncorked wine, and a toast to imperfection.

.

.

Those warm memories badly mixed with that icy environment.

The Dawnstar Sanctuary: a hole in the ice, inhabited by cold people. Not that Cicero hated them, after all the Listener and Babette were nice to him. But it wasn't like it used to be.

It wasn't at all like it used to be.

He sighed, nostalgic, and opened the door to his room. It was too big for his tastes. He used to prefer narrow, more private spaces. But he realized that he was complaining too much, so he decided to curb his negative thoughts.

Without further ado, he went to his chest. He wanted to change clothes and rest, but first he had to take care of the Mother. So he extracted the oils, the special gloves, the gauzes, the poison, and... and the cards. He would've brought them to the Mother, a gift that was also a bit of a request. He gathered everything and went to the other side of the Sanctuary, with all that stuff.

He went through the archery hall, and saw a small group of recruits laughing happily, and he remembered Ademar and Galla, his friends who were gone. They had died in Bruma, when that Sanctuary had gone on fire.

Cicero ignored the group, imagining himself with them, joking, at twenty-five. So much time had passed... so much time.

He arrived in the main hall, decorated with the great iconography of Sithis, and immediately, even before he crossed the threshold, he heard Nazir's voice.

"Oh Sithis, that jester is coming!" he had spoken out loud on purpose, and Cicero thinned his eyes, annoyed.

He passed by him, without slowing down.

"If you wish, Cicero can dance for you, Nazir. We all know you like it."

A cruel allusion to both his hatred of Cicero's joviality, and his questionable taste for young Nord boys. Not that Cicero had anything against sodomites, after all they were just people deceived by the myth of love, like everyone else. He hated just that particular sodomite.

Nazir wasn't intimidated and spread a sideways, sarcastic smile.

"I like men, not retards."

There it was. There it was what remained of the ancient family. A sick mind and a bunch of indifferent brethren.

Cicero rolled his eyes and ignored the Redguard's insult, climbing the stairs. He knew he wanted a bickering from him, but Cicero wasn't in the mood, not that day. Too many things to think about, too many mixed feelings: the immense joy of the Mother's approval and the equally immense sense of defeat for a contract that seemed interminable.

Once at the top of the balcony, he turned left, towards the altar. He knelt, touched the ground with his forehead, and finally opened the sarcophagus, beginning to carry out his sacred task.

It took long, but no more than usual. He treated her bones, one by one, from the large femurs to the smaller phalanges. An innate delicacy was necessary not to disintegrate her. In twenty years, Cicero had never ruined anything, not even a part of the fragile corpse of the Mother. He thought he was good at his job, although it wasn't what he had expected when he had joined the Brotherhood.

He remained silent all the time, diligent. It was also a matter of concentration, to be honest. He only allowed himself to murmur some spells, from time to time, to repair some more damaged spots.

He had a billion things to say, but he restrained himself, and only started talking when he was done, two hours later.

"Mother, you're perfect!" he flattered her, checking his work, "sorry for the poison on your feet, but those rats want to use you as a nest, we have to eradicate them once and for all."

He closed the bottles, especially the poison, he didn't want to assassinate the newborn Brotherhood in one fell swoop. He also thought about putting a warning, for those who had approached to pray. As funny as it would've been to see a recruit die at the Mother's feet, the last thing they needed was even just one member less.

Now that everything was tidy, Cicero took off his hat and work gloves, remaining with his hands uncovered. He preferred it this way, he saw it as a form of respect, at least when it was necessary to make requests.

"Mother, sweet Mother, thank you for having spoken to me through the Listener. Thanks for the time granted to me, for the grace granted to me. I don't deserve all this because I was wrong, I doubted you. But you also know that I'm sorry. Now, I'd like... I'd like to give you these."

And he showed her three tarot cards, pulling them out of the deck.

.

.

Galla snapped a noisy kiss on his cheek, cheerful.

"Cicero, I love you! Do you love me?"

No, he didn't love her, or at least not in the way she meant. He had felt a lot of love in his life: for the Mother, for Cassio, for the parent, for the Brotherhood, and also for Galla, yes, but not in the conventional way. He couldn't feel butterflies in his stomach. He liked being with her, and that was it. Actually, he indulged her, because everyone did so and because even to the other assassins it seemed strange that he felt nothing, apart from a generic sense of devout and chaste love towards some cornerstones of his life.

"Yes, I love you, if you really need to hear it. But you won't change my mind anyway."

"Cicero, the tarots tell the truth!"

"Tarot cards are just pieces of colored paper randomly chosen from a deck. There's nothing scientific, I don't like them."

"Neither the Void is scientific, but you believe in it!"

"The Void isn't scientific because it is the parent of science, Galla. It has given rise to everything, including science, which therefore is its specification, it cannot explain it because it's inferior. And you, don't be blasphemous, Sithis can hear you!"

Galla rolled her eyes and said she didn't care, she would've read his future anyway, whether he wanted it or not.

Cicero consented, just to silence her. He took the cards, shuffled them and returned them to her.

"Now prepare, Cicero, you're about to know your destiny!"

With excessive theatricality, the girl had him choose three cards. She turned them around, one by one.

"The Fool, the Lovers, the High Priestess. Now we must interpret them."

"Well" Cicero immediately stopped her, "the Fool for sure isn't me. It must be Ademar."

His friend stared at him with an annoyed gaze, from the bed on which he was lying, apart.

"That's not how they work." Galla reproached him.

"The Lovers are Ademar and all his various young ladies, as well" continued Cicero, undeterred, "and the High Priestess, I don't know, it must be you, Galla. She has red hair."

"I said that's not how they work!" she exclaimed, resentful, throwing the rest of the deck against his chest.

.

.

Cicero observed the three cards of his life, the Fool, the Lovers and the High Priestess. He held them in his hands, remembering Galla, and how unjust he had been with her. He passed a finger on the ruined and yellowed surface of each one, observing the golden drawings and miniatures. Then, at last, he laid them down at the feet of the Unholy Matron.

"The Fool was me indeed" he admitted, in a low voice, "and you're the High Priestess, wise, incorruptible, loyal..."

Then, suddenly, a noise behind him. Someone was walking.

He stopped talking, but he didn't hide anything. It no longer made sense.

"Hey, Cicero! Sorry, I didn't know you were taking care of the Mother, I'm leaving."

The jester turned, sad. It was Babette. He was always happy to have her around, he didn't want her to leave. She was the only one who really felt like a Sister, perhaps.

"Hey, little monster! It doesn't matter, you can stay, I'm almost done."

Babette raised her eyebrows, astonished, and joined him in front of the Mother.

"Do you speak in the first person today? Weird."

Cicero shrugged.

"With the Mother, I strive to. I don't want her to think I'm talking for someone else. It is difficult, always, so difficult, but Cicero... I, not Cicero. I strive. Do you think it makes sense?"

She smiled, sweet.

"In your weird way, you always find how to make sense."

Cicero knew it was meant as a compliment. And, in the end, he took it as such: he knew he had a really, really sick head, but if he still managed to be logical, then he wasn't hopeless.

"What are you doing?" she asked curiously, pointing to the cards resting on the ground.

"Oh... I'm dredging up the past..."

"The Listener told me what happened, you know? Do you want to talk about it?"

She had introduced the subject like that, direct, without taking even a moment to introduce herself.

"Do you know that your irruption with hot topics without even warning is nothing less than sexual assault?"

Babette, in her false innocence of false child, giggled, red in the face. But the reality was that Cicero wanted to talk about it with her, yes. Not for the sake of it, but because she was the wisest person he knew. And even the oldest in there: although their age difference was nearly three centuries, he felt more comfortable with her than with the younger ones, including the Listener. It was as if she only could understand him, perhaps because she was the only one able to elaborate a strong feeling like nostalgia.

"Come on, tell me, why is this girl special?"

Again, no pleasantries, but Cicero didn't protest.

"She's special, and that's it."

"Uhm. Is she beautiful?"

Cicero chuckled, because he knew what she was assuming. He wasn't so weak as to give in to pity for every pretty girl he saw, and he wanted Babette to know.

"Yes, she is. But beauty didn't save her, I killed many beautiful girls. Indeed, the more beautiful they were, the more pleasurable it was to send them into the Void."

"But you don't want to kill this one..."

"It's not that I don't want to physically kill her, it's that... I don't want to deprive myself of her company."

"Yes, this means you don't want to kill her." Babette retorted, mercilessly.

Cicero chuckled, giving up.

"It would be a shame to remove her from the world. She's sweet, she treats me like I'm not... crazy. And she's so smart. She can read with her fingers, you know? Most Nords don't even know what the alphabet is."

This time Babette laughed too. She too was a foreigner, a Breton. Both she and Cicero were far from home, in a wilder land than they would have liked.

"In short, as I said, she's special, and that's it" Cicero resumed, "she must be so for the Mother as well."

"Don't you think that maybe she's special for you, and not for the Mother?" Babette dared, pointing to the Lovers card.

Cicero chuckled, nervously, nodding his head violently. He refused to believe it.

"No, no. Of course, I feel affection for her, but it wasn't even that at first, this can't be the reason I spared her life. And then, I can't feel love. I've never felt it, I can't feel it now. It almost seems like a mockery, at my age."

"Why not? I waited two hundred years before tasting the deer stew, and it wasn't even a good idea, given the vampirism. I just did it. Never say never, Cicero."

But Cicero kept on denying vehement. He closed his eyes, inhaled, trying to reassemble all the thoughts that were crowding, overlapping, mingling indistinctly.

"No, no, no, no, no" he repeated, stubborn, like a religious chant, "that of the Lovers is a stupid card. Look at them! They don't even look at each other, idiots. They stand at the sides of the card and look up, towards their god, or whoever he is. They don't really love each other either. There's no romantic love, it's just a fairy tale to sweeten procreation, a lie that fools tell themselves, trying to stand out from the beasts. There's only one love, and it's that for the Mother, the only thing that makes us aware of the Void that is this life. There's nothing else."

Babette was visibly disappointed to have to deal with that obstinacy. She shrugged, without insisting.

She put her hand on his shoulder, friendly, as the Listener had done earlier. It seemed that everyone felt pity for him. Cicero didn't like it, he wished to kill them just to show them he was still worth to be feared.

"But you accepted the other two cards, Cicero" she finally commented, moving away, "maybe it's time to face the third."

Yey, more flashbacks! I love flashbacks! And Morrigan will be back next chapter!
So many reasons to be happy!
FOR NOW.
MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.