As you could tell from this and the chapter before this, I am still alive. It would've been nice if more than 2 people told me what they wanted from the final act of this story, as there were clearly nearly 100 views on my note but... I guess no one can really expect feedback now a days. *lesigh*

It's not too late to offer your piece though!

But anyhow, here ya go.

-Liliedove


Forget her. FORGET her! Just forget her. No more crying. No more pain! Let it WASH away with the gentle caress of the Night Mother's cold fingers across the tear stained cheek of her loyal child! No more of this... rubbish!

It has been two MONTHS now since Cicero saw her last, hand outreached towards him! But oh, Cicero had to kill! Yes, he had to kill, kill, KILL! Nothing else would do... no, nothing else would do! And THEN- she was gone.

Forget her, you fool. Idiot. BUFFOON! What's dead is dead! GONE!

Cicero lay in a rickety old bunk pushed against a jagged wall in a small dead end of a cavern. The covers he pulled up to his nose were scratchy and threadbare, with untold stains splotching about it in patches. The dry air around him was warm and gentle, gliding over his face as though it were trying to whisper comforts to him. He closed his eyes, picturing her face in his head. She bent over him, those beautiful eyes sparkling like pink rubies, shining with requited love for him. She would then glide her fingers lightly across his forehead and then down a cheek. Closer, she'd lay herself across his beating heart, her breasts pressed softly against his ribs. Her fingers would stroke him below the lip, and then her face would hover over his own, her lips melting into his.

The image of her burnt corpse flashed in his mind, and his eyes flew wide. He then scrunched them together tightly. "Oh, SITHIS! TAKE THESE DAMNED MEMORIES AWAY!" He yelled. He thrashed around in the bed, then burying his face in the flattened pillow. "NO MORE OF THIS! NO MORE! Cicero can't take another moment of it! It would have been better if Cicero had DIED!" A sob caught in his chest. "Pass this burden from my back, Mother... Let your servant be finished with his purpose."

But Cicero knows better. Yes, Cicero knew much better... than that. Mother chose him for a reason, and Mother kept him alive for a reason as well. Madr-... The previous Listener... Her death was allowed, and being allowed meant that what she was needed for was over, was able to be completed by another. There must have not been another to survive to carry on the task Cicero now bared. Cicero was now the last truest member of the Dark Brotherhood. If he died... so would the Brotherhood.

He crawled out of bed and over to the barrel in front of a dusty, cracked mirror set on top of a crate. Picking up his knife, he dabbled his hand into a bowl of water and smeared it across his stubbled face before slowly flicking the blade against his skin.

"Oh, bother and befuddle..." Cicero muttered, then sighing in defeat. "Just forget about her. It would be best to just forget about her. Don't picture her smiling. Don't listen to the mind for her glorious laughter! Don't think of the night that perhaps happened in that small room of the Temple of Mara. Don't think of the life that could have happened but didn't. The life that should of happened. The life I! …we, deserved."

Pausing for a moment to inspect his work, he turned his chin side to side with a curled finger. There was no point in all of this anymore, was there? No signs of the jester were left to be seen with the naked eye. All that was left of him was a dried shaft of a man, scraggly red hair mangled over his shoulders, cheeks sunken, eyes swollen purple, skin balched, and more wrinkles resting on his forehead than he had ever seen before. The clothes that could have once been well fitting on his body were worn like bags with pools of gathered fabric sagging off of his skeleton.

"Maybe the jester should die with her, don't you think?" He said to himself as he cocked his head to the side. "OH, CICERO! How could you say such a thing to me? Your only friend? I am the only one who understands you!" He crooned, knitting his brows together. He paused. "Perhaps he's right." He then muttered. "The jester is Cicero's only friend now."

He stood, rubbing a rag over his now smooth face. It was time to get over her. Time to move along and continue on with the task he had been honorably given. He took a brush and yanked it through the ends of his hair, gritting his teeth together. He couldn't be seen like this. No, just looking at himself in the mirror, hearing the jester call out and mock him for the past month in this god-forsaken cave, was enough agony to bare for the rest of his lifetime. NO MORE! No more. No more listening to stupid, mortal thoughts! The jester is right! He ALWAYS is, of course! A laugh suddenly bubbled out of his lips, dimples digging deep into the hollow of his cheeks. Shedding the tattered tunic and trousers, he pulled on a green suit. He buttoned his vest and tied the braided belt around his waist before pulling on a pair of brown paddock boots. As a finishing touch, he pulled his hair back loosely and placed a fur lined hat on his head. Looking himself over in the mirror, he winked at himself. "Aren't I dashing?" He laughed. "A lady killer! Cicero looks like a lady killer! Oh if only she could see this! She'll be jealous of the attention Cicero will be getting tonight!" Turning, he walked himself to the mouth of the cave in confident strides.

The sun was sinking into the west, light glittering between the trees and resting warmly against the boulders and gently swaying grasses. Lighting his face, he looked out over the horizon, breathing in the fresh air. He then looked down at the golden band on his finger. Bringing his hand to his face, he slowly pulled it off, observing it as it became illuminated in the light. It was time to let her go. The look on his face became sullen. Juggling it between his fingers, he then gripped it in his palm. As he was about to wind his arm back for a swing, he felt a sudden presence beside him.

"Cicero? Have you finally come to take your turn of watching?" It was a young Redguard, tall and lean. He was holding an arm full of sticks, which he apparently found while crawling under branched out bushes as evidenced from the leaves sticking in his coarse, haloing black hair.

Cicero gave him a dull look out of the corner of his eyes as he tucked the ring into a pocket. "I'm afraid not, Zanthar." He said in a muggy voice. "I must go to the Winking Skeever again."

The young man, whose barely shadowed face was etched with undeserved aging, then scowled. "You were supposed to take your shift hours ago!" He exclaimed.

"Who's the Night Mother's Keeper, and who is the new recruit who shouldn't be complaining if he wants to keep his head on his shoulders, or his heart in his chest?"

Zanthar clenched his jaw before walking past him into the cave. "I'll just set these inside. Don't take too long, whatever you do there. I'd like to sleep too you know."

"Yes, yes- of COURSE! Of course, Zanthar, you will be given your sleep. Sweet, sweet sleep granted by our Unholy Matron! But for now, her Keeper must do her bidding."

Zanthar brushed off his shirt, then sighing with his back still turned from Cicero. "And just might what this bidding be, might I ask?"

Cicero crossed his arms, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "One of our Brothers to be is supposed to meet me there. He's... Important, I'm sure. The last person who made me feel as he made me feel was the previous Listener. He will come to us in time. Until then, we must keep our eyes out for him."

"At the Winking Skeever?" He said with a raised brow. "Where you just come back drunk every time you go out, muttering some woman's name?"

Cicero stiffened. "Does Cicero really..?" His mouth gaped open for a moment before he clamped it shut. "No matter. I am to meet him there for I told him to meet Cicero there in a letter he slipped under his door before departing from the inn we shared. Now has your curiosity been satisfied? HMMMM?"

"Fine. Just don't use all our assassination earnings on mead and stale bread, alright? We need to save up for better weapons and armor, not to mention some better furnishings."

"DON'T tell Cicero what to DO!" He scolded. He then softened his expression. "But alright, Cicero... Understands." He then turned away. "Oh! Well would you look at that! The sun is half way down in the sky! Better run off to the Winking Skeever!" He declared, then taking off in a run down the rocky slope.

Within an hour, he sat at a table in the corner of the Winking Skeever, peering out from the corner of his mug at the people walking in and out of the room. He had done this many times now, and was considered a regular. He was the man who wanted to be left alone, and yet seemed to constantly be interested in all who entered. When a barmaid gathered up the wits to ask him his name, he'd state, "Just an old fool, drinking out his last days of solitude in Solitude." He'd then glance up at her and continue glumly, "Or you could just call me Cicero. Nice to meet you, now be on your way." Occasionally someone would peek an interest in him and would sit down across from him, only to earn a rushed conversation and quick adieu. Now if someone were to bring him up in question, those who knew about him would shy them away from his presence. If he wants to die alone let him, they'd say. Don't waste your words on him.

The beautiful nord bard, Lisette, struck up the tune of dragons and war, and a hero who saved them from Alduin's wrath ten years ago. An unnamed hero who represented the spirit of all of Skyrim. Cicero scoffed into his glass; he didn't exactly do all that much good if Skyrim was still falling down in shambles around them. Maybe it wasn't Alduin who was eating their souls, which he noted was a good thing, for the soles of the living truly belonged to Sithis. But what did he do with his special power? His strength? NOTHING! Nothing. The Dragonborn left his beloved Skyrim to rot in a civil war! He clenched his mug. Of course, Cicero didn't care so much about the terrors of the war himself as it was the way it affected the Dark Brotherhood; if the Dragonborn had done his job, they would all still be ALIVE! Why hadn't he overthrown the Empire, driven them out of Skyrim when the war had just begun?

He then heard the chair in front of him scrape back, a heavy breath released in a snicker. "Well, what happened to you? Did you get handled by another frost troll? You look awful."

Cicero's eyes widened as he looked up at the man. With his peppered mousy hair cut short and his once wiry and mangled beard shaped into a goatee on his rather charming face, he almost didn't recognize him. "You!" Cicero exclaimed. "You came!" He looked down his nose at the new soft blue scarf wrapped around the nord's shoulders. "Rummaged through another wagon, did you?"

Thorek leaned an elbow across the table, then sweeping the mug out of Cicero's hand. "I might have." He said as he took a gulp from it. Cicero's mouth was left open as the mug was placed back into the curve of his hand. "So where do I start?"

"Eager, are we?" The look of shock on Cicero's face faded, replaced with a grin. "You need to prove yourself to me first, of course."

The look on Thorek's face was one of disbelief. "Prove myself? I thought I already had! Has your pee brain already forgotten the way you squawked in front of that frost troll I killed? Or how I could have killed you many times over but didn't?"

"Yes," Cicero hissed, then leaning in across the table. "But I need to know if... You can be trusted."

Thorek leaned back with his arms crossed against his chest. "I'm not sure if anyone in your business could possibly be trusted."

Cicero narrowed his eyes, whispering. "And why is it that you suddenly desire to be apart of my... business? I recall you once saying you'd never join an illegal cult."

He averted his eyes, then flagging down a barmaid. "Give me one of those warm loaves of bread, would ya?" Cicero waited patiently, his eyes never leaving him. As the plate of bread was set in front of Thorek, the man hit the maid's butt with a word of thanks before taking the loaf to his mouth. Sighing out his nose, he closed his eyes for a moment. "Look, desperate times call for desperate measures. They way you're looking on the outside is the way I'm feeling on this inside, minus the nice clothes."

Cicero glanced down at his clothing, cocking a brow at the comment before meeting the man's gaze again. "So the reason you are now suddenly interested is for the money, is it?"

"Of course. And shelter." Thorek looked at him unblinking as he shoved the crumbs of the loaf between his lips.

"Alright, Cicero will agree to letting Thorek have a chance. We have heard whispers of a man in Riften who has been performing the Black Sacrament. He goes by the name of Theodore Tulventi."

Throek furrowed his brow. "What is the Black Sacrament?"

"Cicero will explain that better once you return. Meet with Tulventi, and do as he asks. He should pay you a nice sum of money or some other substance. If it's too little, make sure he knows not to disrespect the... business. Once complete, you are to return to me in a cavern towards the southwest of Solitude. With every septim earned, and any information you can gather about the Imperials views on the business. Do this, and I will consult Mother once more about your joining."

Thorek gagged. "So what you're saying is that, after I do this, I won't be able to keep my earnings and I still will have to be simply further considered for the job?"

"Didn't Thorek say that desperate times call for desperate measures?" Cicero's smile grew.

Thorek grumbled, then standing to his feet. "Fine then. Take care of business in Riften with a guy named Tulventi, gather intel, and then return with the reward to the southwest of Solitude. Got it." He then turned to leave, but before doing so he looked over his shoulder and said, "Oh, and thank you for the bread."