Chapter 36
Cicero had noticed the door, of course. The door that everyone avoided going into or out of; the door that they even avoided looking at, and made the sign of Mara across their chests when they passed it. It piqued his interest; much more so than the boring court proceedings dear Marcus seemed to enjoy listening to. This must be the way to Dervenin's master, the one to whom the old man had begged him to deliver a message.
He made discreet inquiries of the housemaid, who was reluctant to say anything at first until Cicero flirted with her and flattered her hair, her eyes, her common dress ("But you wear it so well, you might be a princess in disguise!"). Eventually, she gave him the key when he promised her he'd only "take a peek inside" to make sure everything was alright in there ("After all, dear Steward Falk asked Cicero personally to check it out!").
Now that he was inside, Cicero was highly disappointed. There was nothing in here of any use to anyone. Layers of dust were kicked up by his curl-toed boots, broken furniture was piled everywhere. There were a few odd pieces of silver dinnerware – goblets, plates and the like – and some empty mead bottles, but otherwise nothing of note or value. And if I spy a buzzing fly…I'll consider myself lucky because there's nothing here! he thought sourly. No hidden treasure and no master to deliver the message to.
He wrinkled his nose against the dust and smell of mold that permeated the air. How long had he lived with that smell? Years, perhaps? Decades? And quite likely to live with it to the end of his days, he thought sadly to himself. Poor Cicero. The Last Son of Sithis would die alone in the Dawnstar Sanctuary with no one to care that he had lived or died. It was such a tragic ending to a life well-lived in service to the Night Mother and Dread Father. If he'd had an audience, he might have wept in his melancholy.
But a flight of stairs leading up caught Cicero's attention, and he decided to explore a little further before giving up on this place. He sincerely doubted he'd find anything of value here, much less the old madman's master. Even a ghost would be hard-pressed to stick around. A ghost could boast he had the most of empty rooms with which to host a feast of toast and venison roast. Cicero was rather proud of that sentence. It was probably the longest string of rhyming words he'd come up with to date.
The stairs led up to a large common area with a corridor at the other end. Once more, the only thing of which there was plenty in this room was cobwebs. And dust; he mustn't forget the dust. I must. I must. I must remember the dust!
The gloom of the corridor was lit only by ambient light coming through grimy windows to his left. Doors on the right hand side indicated more chambers, so Cicero stepped up to the first door—
– and promptly found himself in a quiet birch forest with no knowledge of how he'd arrived there. Voices up ahead told him he was not alone here, so he quietly drew his new dragonbone dagger, and crept forward. He had named the new dagger Stabby, and his ebony dagger he named Pokey, because that's what they did when he wielded them.
To his amazement and delight, a large banquet was spread out under the birches, with only two people seated at the table. One was dressed in fine clothing, with a circlet upon his brow. He had a glazed look in his eyes, as though the world made him weary. The other man was – Cicero didn't quite know what to think of him. His hair was completely white and slicked back from his face, which sported a neatly trimmed goatee beard not seen in Cyrodiil in centuries. His finery was made in the style of a fine gentleman's clothing from times past, but in mismatched hues of russet, fuchsia and lavender. It was a thing of beauty, and it made Cicero weep inside with envy. He sheathed Stabby. He had a feeling it wouldn't do him any good here, anyway.
"More tea, Pelly my dear?" the fine gentleman said to the nobleman.
"Oh, I couldn't," the man named Pelly refused. "Goes right through me. Besides, I have so many things to do... So many undesirables to contend with. Naysayers. Buffoons. Detractors. Why, my headsman hasn't slept in three days!"
"You are far too hard on yourself, my dear, sweet, homicidally insane Pelagius," the fine gentleman soothed. "What would the people do without you? Dance? Sing? Smile? Grow old? You are the best Septim that's ever ruled. Well, except for that Martin fellow, but he turned into a dragon god, and that's hardly sporting!"
Cicero does not think he's in Solitude anymore, the little Imperial thought to himself. It was clear to him now that he was in the presence of Sheogorath, the Daedric Prince of Madness himself. The man sitting morosely at the table was Pelagius, also known as the Mad Emperor, who died centuries ago. Cicero had a feeling he wasn't even in Tamriel anymore. Is there dancing and singing in the Shivering Isles? he wondered.
Still, there was every possibility he could turn this to his advantage by making a good impression on the Prince of Madness, and if there was one thing Cicero knew how to do well, it was to turn on the charm.
He sauntered up to the banquet table and sat down at the end closest to him. Stretching across "Pelly", he grabbed a sweet roll from a silver charger and leaned back in his chair, lounging indolently while he munched on the treat. Pelagius appeared not to notice him, but the finely-dressed gentleman paused a moment in his reminisces to stare at Cicero.
"Oh, please don't mind humble Cicero," the little jester said. "Do go on with your story! Cicero loves stories! Eh…you were saying about Martin Septim being turned into a dragon…?"
As if on cue, Sheogorath laughed. "You know, I was there for that whole sordid affair," he boasted. "Marvelous time! Butterflies, blood, a Fox, a severed head... Oh, and the cheese! To die for."
"Yes, yes, as you've said, countless times before..." Pelly – or rather, Pelagius – said in a bored tone.
The Prince of Madness sputtered indignantly. "Hafrumph! Well then, if you're going to be like that... Perhaps it's best I take my leave. A good day to you, sir. I said good day!"
Pelagius seemed unimpressed and unconcerned. "Yes, yes, go. Leave me to my ceaseless responsibilities and burdens..." Whatever else he might have said, Cicero would never know, for with a warping sound, Pelagius was enveloped in a purple cloud and vanished.
"How rude!" the god exclaimed. "Can't be bothered to host an old friend for a decade or two!"
"Cicero was enjoying your tale," the red-haired Imperial giggled. "He especially liked the part about the severed head!" He grabbed a bottle of wine just before Sheogorath's hand closed over it and pulled out the cork with his teeth, spitting it a good distance away. He'd had many years perfecting that move. "Er…who was your not-so-gracious friend?" he inquired innocently, though he had a pretty good idea.
"Emperor Pelagius III," Sheogorath confirmed proudly. "Now surely even you know about Pelagius' decree?"
"Was it the one about no dancing after dark?" Cicero asked, frowning thoughtfully. "Or perhaps the one about all his courtiers dressing as cows? Cicero loved that one! Or, I know! It was the one where he sacrificed the priests of Zenithar because they didn't know how to play!"
"Wrong, wrong and wrong," Sheogorath grinned, enjoying the guessing game. "On his deathbed - oh, and this was inspired - he forbade... death! That's right! Death! Outlawed!"
Cicero bounced up and down in his seat, clapping his hands. "Ooo! He didn't get out of that one alive, did he?" And here he cackled madly at his own joke, springing to his feet and capering around the table.
Sheogorath's eyes narrowed, but the smile never left his face. Here was one of his own, certainly, but there was a darker shadow that filled this one. The Prince of Madness knew he might be allowed to toy with the little jester, but he wouldn't be able to claim him. Even Sheogorath knew well enough not to cross the Dread Father. Still, he could have a bit of fun before he released the little madman. And if it took a few years, well, that was hardly his fault, was it?
"I don't suppose you know where you are, do you?" he asked now, with a calculating grin.
Cicero looked around. "No," he shrugged, uncaring. He picked up three shiny red apples from a bowl on the table and began to juggle them. "It's a very nice place, though. Much nicer than some places Cicero has been in. This isn't part of the Blue Palace, then?"
"You're inside the mind of Pelagius, silly," the Prince grinned maniacally before sobering. "Oh. Is it your... first time?" He practically leered at the jester, as if at a virginal young girl.
Cicero simpered, letting the apples fall and snuggling up to Sheogorath. "Would the kind gentleman like to help Cicero….feel better?" He let his voice drop an octave on the last two words. It usually made young maidens blush, but the Daedric Prince was made of sterner stuff.
"Certainly not!" Sheogorath sputtered, taken aback. This was definitely not going the way he had planned. Most people, when they realized they were in his power, panicked and made all sorts of foolish promises which he would use to teach them not to mess with Madness Incarnate. He was starting to think the little jester could teach him a thing or two, and that simply wouldn't do!
"Ah well," Cicero sighed, disappointed. "Cicero is only here to deliver a message, dear, kind sir, and then he will be on his way."
Now, this was more like it. Sanity was something he could work with. "Reeaaaallllyyyy?" Sheogorath drawled, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. "Ooh, ooh, what kind of message? A song? A summons? Wait, I know! A death threat written on the back of an Argonian concubine! Those are my favorites."
Cicero paused in admiration. What an inspired idea! He would have loved to discuss the finer arts of torture with the Prince of Madness, but those blank, fathomless eyes were staring at him again, and if he hoped to return to the Blue Palace with all his Imperial parts in their proper place, he knew he needed to stay on his toes.
"Well? Spit it out, mortal. I haven't got an eternity! Actually... I do. Little joke. But seriously. What's the message?"
Cicero broke into a caper. "Ooo! Cicero was told that you might scold, but he must be bold and deliver what's told before he gets old! You've roamed and roamed, and floated on foam and your servant groans, 'It's time to come home!" At least, that's what he told me to tell you."
"Were you now?" the gentleman said slowly, eyes flashing dangerously. There was a limit even to his patience. "By whom?" Before Cicero could tell him, however, he exclaimed, "Wait! Don't tell me! I want to guess! Was it Molag? No, no... Little Tim, the toymaker's son? The ghost of King Lysandus? Or was it... Yes! Stanley, that talking grapefruit from Passwall. Wrong on all accounts, aren't I?"
"Cicero doesn't know any talking grapefruits," the little jester apologized, "but he once met a singing orc."
"An orc that can sing?" Sheogorath blinked in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how outlandish that sounds? Orcs can't sing!"
"Neither does this one…anymore," Cicero grinned slyly, breaking into another jig. "But you still haven't guessed who addressed the jest..er," he sang in a silly voice.
"Ha! No matter!" Sheogorath waved dismissively. "Honestly, I don't want to know. Why ruin the surprise? But more to the point. Do you - tiny, puny, expendable little mortal - actually think you can convince me to leave? Because that's... crazy. You do realize who you're dealing with here?"
"Is there another master to deliver the message to?" Cicero asked innocently. "Ooo! Perhaps the master is the tree?" He danced over to the nearest tree and rapped his knuckles on the bark. "Master! Master! Are you in there?" he sing-songed. "Humble Cicero has a message for you!"
Sheogorath watched him cavort, a shrewd look in his fathomless eyes. He knew true madness when he saw it. This wasn't it, but it was damned close.
"No, no, silly Cicero!" the jester admonished himself. "Masters don't hide in trees! They hide in…teapots!" He cartwheeled to the table and picked up a beautiful white china teapot painted with blue, red and purple mountain flowers. The fine ceramic was almost translucent as he held it up to the light, dumping out the tea and peering inside.
"Are you in here, Master?" he bellowed into it, his voice ringing hollowly. When no response came, he tossed the teapot over his shoulder, ignoring the tinkling crash as it smashed against a cluster of rocks. "No Master there, either," he sighed sadly. "Cicero thinks he made a mistake coming here."
"Oh, no no no! No mistake at all," Sheogorath assured him. "What you made was a choice. Granted, not a very wise choice, but these things happen. Ah, the folly of youth..." He sighed and raised his eyes to the sky above. "You know, you remind me of myself at a young age. All I cared about was riding narwhales and sleeping in honeycombs and drinking babies' tears... Word of advice if you ride a narwhale. Mind the pointy end." He shook his head in fond remembrance before seeming to recall the jester standing before him. "Ah, but there I go, waxing poetic about my misspent youth. Now where were we? Ah yes. You're the mortal messenger. And I am...? Honestly. Have you any idea?"
There really wasn't any doubt in Cicero's mind. He took out his juggling balls and began tossing them into the air. "You're the Master, perhaps?" he offered coyly. "Or a madman? Or a Master of Madmen?" He didn't even flinch when the balls turned into oranges, then hedgehogs, and finally severed heads.
The gentleman blinked in surprise. "Jolly good guess! But only half right. I'm a mad god," he continued. "The Mad God, actually. It's a family title. Gets passed down from me to myself every few thousand years. Now you. You can call me Ann Marie. But only if you're partial to being flayed alive and having an angry immortal skip rope with your entrails. If not...then call me Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness. Charmed." He made Cicero a mocking bow, which Cicero felt would only be good manners to return, after he put the severed heads down on the table. One tipped over into a plate of sweet rolls.
"Er…does this mean you'll return home?" Cicero asked hopefully, sitting down and catching a sweet roll before it rolled off the table. He put his feet up on the table and began munching down on the treat. He had to admit they were the best sweet rolls he'd ever eaten.
"Now that's the real question, isn't it?" Sheogorath mused, seating himself and staring keenly at his companion. "Because honestly, how much time off could a demented Daedra really need? So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to leave. That's right. I'm done. Holiday... complete. Time to return to the hum-drum day-to-day. On one condition. You have to find the way out first. Good luck with that."
A heavy feeling sunk to the pit of Cicero's stomach. Magic brought him here. Magic he didn't have. There might be an exit in this glade somewhere, but this was the Prince of Madness he was dealing with. He might believe he'd found a way back only to discover that he'd been playing hopscotch with a talking rabbit.
Or…he could try to outsmart the Daedric Prince of Madness.
"Cicero has only one question, then."
"Yeessss?" Sheogorath strung out.
"Humble Cicero would like to know what it is mighty Sheogorath is not telling him."
"Ha!" the Prince barked. "I do love it when the mortals know they're being manipulated. Makes things infinitely more interesting." He leered at Cicero again and stood once more, waving around at the clearing.
"Care to take a look around? This is not, I dare say, the Solitude botanical gardens. Have you any idea where you are? Where you truly are?" At Cicero's indifferent shrug, Sheogorath continued indulgently, "Welcome to the deceptively verdant mind of the Emperor Pelagius III. That's right! You're in the head of a dead, homicidally insane monarch!" He cackled gleefully.
He gave Cicero a moment for it to sink in before going on. "Now, I know what you're thinking. Can I still rely on my swords and spells and sneaking and all that nonsense? Sure, sure. Or... you could use... The Wabbajack!" With a flourish, he produced a large, three-faced staff from thin air. "Huh? Huh? Didn't see that coming, did you?"
Cicero could safely attest to the fact that he had been in far worse situations and places than a dead monarch's mind. That didn't worry him as much as the realization that his jester's hat and motley were gone and all his other possessions had vanished. He was garbed in a standard suit of very fine clothing, armed only with the Wabbajack. The three faces – all of them angry – seemed to leer at him no matter which way he turned it.
Fury raced through him. It was a dangerous thing to disarm a Dark Brother, but caution told him to wait and bide his time. Cicero knew the meaning of patience. There was no point in going toe-to-toe with the Mad God himself, armed only with a staff given to him by that same Mad God. Determined to make the best of a bad situation, Cicero looked around as Sheogorath re-seated himself at the table and ignored the little Imperial.
The mist had cleared away enough to reveal three stone gateways set around the glade. One of these had to be the way out, but he was hoping the Prince of Madness would at least confirm this with him. However, when he approached Sheogorath to ask, the Daedra only looked at him blankly and said, "Do you mind? I'm doing the fishstick. It's a very delicate state of mind." He wouldn't say anything more.
So that was it. Despite trying to prove his own madness to the Prince of Insanity, he still had to play by Sheogorath's rules. Shrugging, Cicero set off through one of the stone gateways. Might as well see what else was here.
"Oh, good choice!" rang out Sheogorath's voice in his mind. "Well, good for me. I find everyone being out to get you so terribly entertaining! You might find it….less so."
"Cicero is used to people being out to get him," the little jester grumbled as he walked along. "No one appreciates poor, humble Cicero!"
"Ha! Well, this should be old hat to you, then," Sheogorath gloated. "You see, Pelagius' mother was…well, let us say 'unique'. Although, I suppose in the grand scheme of things, she was fairly average for a Septim. That woman wielded fear like a cleaver. Or did she wield a cleaver and make people afraid? I never get that part right."
Cicero sniffed disdainfully. "Cicero would only use a cleaver if there were no other weapon available. Not balanced enough!"
"Right you are, me lad!" Sheogorath approved. "Anyway, to get back to my story…she taught her son well. Pelagius learned at a very early age that danger could come from anywhere. At any time. Delivered by…anyone."
Ahead through the thinning mists, Cicero could see a large structure emerge. It looked very similar to the Arena he had seen in the Imperial City. A flight of stairs led up to the right on the outside of the building, and since the portcullis was down, with no discernable lever with which to raise it, Cicero – knowing he was being led – climbed the stairs to the top of the wall and looked down inside.
On the battlefield below, two Storm Atronachs were duking it out. Until the moment he arrived, one sat there doing nothing, taking hits from the other. Once he crested the top of the wall, the other – which Cicero assumed to be his – began to fight back. Across the Arena from him was his opponent, flanked by two guards. The face was in shadow, but the posture was unmistakable. The man was enjoying beating Cicero's atronach to a stormy pulp.
"The objective here is simple, you simpleton!" Sheogorath told him. "Use your Wabbajack to defeat your Enemy, while they do the same!"
It sounded easy enough, but Cicero was smart enough to realize that nothing here was going to be as simple as it seemed. Use the Wabbajack to defeat your Enemy, Sheogorath had said. The atronachs weren't his enemy; they were merely decoys. He looked across the Arena again at his faceless Enemy and leveled the Wabbajack. Firing it off, he saw the figure dodge to one side, but the bolt of energy hit one of the guards instead. Instantly both guards turned into wolves, which immediately set upon the Enemy, bringing him down. The figures faded, and Sheogorath's voice rang out, congratulating him.
"Oho! I thought you'd never figure it out!" he crowed. Cicero smiled smugly and headed back down the stairs, taking the path back to the grove.
"With the threat gone, Pelagius is under the delusion that he is safe, which means you've helped him out…sort of. And we're that much closer to home."
Back at the banquet table, Sheogorath hadn't moved.
"Master Sheogorath!" Cicero called, "Cicero did what you wanted. Does this mean he can go home now?"
There was no response. The Mad God stared blankly ahead of him, though Cicero felt that he was keenly aware of everything going on in the grove.
"Cicero doesn't like this game at all," he pouted, flouncing down into a chair and taking a long drink from a bottle of wine. It was really good wine, too. If he still had his backpack, he might have stuffed a few bottles into it to take home with him.
Two other stone gateways beckoned. With a sigh, Cicero dragged himself to his feet. There was no rest for the wicked, he knew. He chose a gateway at random and walked through it.
"Ah, now this is a sad path," Sheogorath mourned. "Pelagius hated and feared many things. Assassins – no offense meant, me lad – wild dogs, the undead, pumpernickel. But the deepest, keenest hatred was for himself. The attacks he makes on himself can be seen here fully. They are always carried out on the weakest part of his fragile self."
And indeed, in the clearing ahead there were two figures, both of whom appeared to be Pelagius himself, though the larger one looked harsher and crueler than the smaller one.
"The self-loathing enhances Pelagius' anger! Ah, but his confidence will shrink with every hit. You must bring the two into balance."
But how to do that, Cicero wondered. Right now, the little guy was taking a brutalizing from the big guy. He could join the fight, perhaps, but he knew his fists would have about as much effect as swinging the Wabbajack like a sword. No. It had to be done Sheogorath's way, and that meant using the cursed thing.
He shot at the big guy and watched with satisfaction as the figure shrank smaller. It wasn't enough, though. He was still bigger than Little Pelagius, who was by now down to his knees.
"Attack! Attack!" Cicero encouraged. "Hit him back! Cicero will use the Wabbajack!"
Whether the figure heard or not, Little Pelagius staggered back to his feet as Cicero struck Big Pelagius once more. He was still larger, though, and now, two shadowy, ghostly figures appeared to spar with each other and get in Cicero's way.
"You seem to be having a small problem," Sheogorath mocked him gently. "Or perhaps it's a big problem? Maybe if you shrunk the whole thing down a little first?"
"Cicero is working on it!" he sang out as he fired the Wabbajack at Little Pelagius, watching with satisfaction as the image grew larger. A few more shots with the Wabbajack at each one brought them around so their sizes were now reversed. Confidence was now greater than Self-Loathing. The figures disappeared.
"Wonderfully done!" Sheogorath praised. "Pelagius is finally ready to love himself….and continue hating everyone else."
Feeling more than a little pleased at having figured out two of Sheogorath's puzzles, Cicero headed back to the banquet table. Nothing here had changed, except the severed heads were now cabbages. Sheogorath still appeared to be in his comatose state, but Cicero knew that was a ruse.
One last gateway remained, and Cicero realized this must be the last trial. He could go home after this. He skipped through the stone portal.
"You've headed down the path of dreams," Sheogorath said in his mind. "Unfortunately for you, Pelagius suffered night terrors from a young age."
"Cicero used to have nightmares, too," the little jester said sadly. "Mama used to come and comfort him. Cicero misses Mama!" He sniffled and rubbed his nose against his sleeve, but kept walking.
The mists cleared away once more and Cicero saw a young boy – young Pelagius – sleeping fitfully in a bed in the middle of the clearing. The boy's face was contorted in the fear born of a troubled sleep. He tossed and turned from one side of the bed to the other, but did not wake up.
"All you need to do is find something to wake our poor Pelagius up. You'll find his terrors easy to repel…but persistent."
By now Cicero knew that shaking the boy to wake him would be fruitless. Daedric Princes found odd forms of entertainment where they could, and Sheogorath would not be denied amusement he had gone to so much trouble to set up. Cicero used the Wabbajack on young Pelagius.
A wolf warped in and leaped at young Pelagius in his bed. Cicero shot with the Wabbajack once more, hitting the beast in mid-leap, turning it into a goat. It bleated and trotted over to a patch of grass and began grazing contentedly.
Well, that wasn't so bad, he thought to himself. If this was the worst of Pelagius' nightmares, it was something Cicero could handle, but he still wished he had Stabby and Pokey.
The boy Pelagius still didn't wake up, however, and that meant hitting him with the staff again…and again…and again.
A bandit chief appeared and Cicero spun and leaped out of the way until he could get a bead on him with the Wabbajack. The bandit turned into another image of Pelagius, awake and wandering around, but the boy in the bed still tossed and turned.
The next to appear was a Hagraven, and Cicero's stamina was put to the test as she shot fireball after fireball at him. He leaped and dodged and tumbled away, while she evaded the shots from the Wabbajack. Finally he caught her off guard by sneaking around a clump of bushes and leveling the staff at her. She turned into a rather comely young lass, curvy in all the right places, but Cicero knew what she'd been, and didn't feel attracted to her in the slightest.
"Cicero thinks you're still a hag under the skin," he scoffed at her and she flounced off in pique.
A flame atronach was next, and if the Hagraven had been tough, the atronach was nearly impossible to avoid. Scorched and singed, his skin peeling from several direct hits, Cicero gasped with relief when he finally scored a direct hit and the creature of flame turned into an ordinary bonfire.
Pelagius was still moaning in his sleep. Cicero was ready to give up and resolve himself to spending the rest of his days in the Shivering Isles filling a bucket with water from a sieve.
"What does it take to wake you, silly child?" he demanded crossly, hitting him once more with the Wabbajack.
Nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.
At first, he thought Morokei had come back to unlife as the Dragon Priest emerged from the portal. Electricity vraapped across the clearing and Cicero narrowly avoided getting skewered. He shot at the Priest but missed, and had to run and dodge to avoid another attack.
Run…shoot….dodge….run…Run and run, under the sun, and Cicero isn't having fun…
At last he managed to get a clear shot as the lich hovered near Pelagius in the bed. The creature melted away, but Cicero noticed a chest appear behind the bonfire that had been the atronach.
"Ooo! This is more like it!" he smiled, coming over and kneeling in front of the chest. "Cicero likes chests full of gleamy, clinky coins!"
The chest was master-locked, and Cicero realized he had no lockpicks on him. Scowling, he stalked back to the banquet table as Sheogorath's voice echoed in his mind.
"Well now, that's something to crow about. With Pelagius up and about you're moving right along. We'll both be home in no time!"
"Cicero is done with these games!" the little Imperial pouted, flinging himself back down into his chair. "Cicero wants to go home now! He's fixed Pelagius for you." He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at the Mad Prince.
As if coming back to himself, Sheogorath blinked and turned to look at Cicero, a speculative gleam in his blank eyes. "Well, 'fixed' is such a subjective term," he allowed graciously. "I think 'treated' is far more appropriate, don't you? Like one does to a rash, or an arrow in the face. Ah, but no matter. Heartless mortal that you are, you've actually succeeded and survived. I am forced to honor my end of the bargain."
The Daedric Prince of Madness rose and clapped a hand on Cicero's shoulder. It was a mark of Cicero's self-restraint, knowing with whom he was dealing, that he didn't body-throw the Prince across the clearing.
"So, congratulations! You're free to go!" When Cicero didn't move, uncertain how to return without Daedric assistance, the Prince said quietly, "I have been known to change my mind. So…go. Really."
He turned back to the table, ignoring the Imperial jester once more. "Pelagius Septim the Third," Sheogorath mused out loud. "Once the Mad Emperor of Tamriel, now so boringly sane. I always knew he had it in him!"
Disgruntled, Cicero shifted in his chair, and picked at a cream torte. The cabbages had reverted back to his juggling balls once more, and he put them in a pocket he found in the fine clothes. He wanted his jester's motley back. He wanted his hat back. He wanted Stabby and Pokey back. Being in the presence of the Daedric Prince of Madness wasn't as much fun as he thought it would be.
"Well, I suppose it's back to the Shivering Isles," Sheogorath said mournfully. "The trouble Haskill can get into while I'm gone simply boggles the mind! Let's make sure I'm not forgetting anything. Clothes? Check. Beard? Check."
"Sending the jester home?" Cicero suggested petulantly, under his breath. Sheogorath appeared not to have heard him.
"Luggage?" He went on. "Luggage! Now where did I leave my luggage?"
A warping sound filled the grove and a man Cicero recognized stepped through. It was Dervenin.
"Master!" the black-eyed madman exclaimed. "You've taken me back! Does this mean we're going home? Oh, happy times! I can't wait to—"
"Yes, yes," Sheogorath said dismissively. "That's quite enough celebration. Let's send you on ahead, shall we?"
Dervenin warped away, leaving Cicero alone with Sheogorath once more. "And as for you, my little mortal minion," the Prince of Madness said, coming over to the jester. "Feel free to keep the Wabbajack as a symbol of my…oh, just take the damn thing!" His eyes crinkled in amusement. "You take care of yourself, now, Cicero," he said, calling the little Imperial by his name for the first time. "And if you ever find yourself up in New Sheoth, do look me up. We can share a strawberry torte."
He placed a hand gently on Cicero's shoulder. "Tis a shame you belong to Sithis, me lad," the Prince said, sincerely. "You've given me more entertainment in one afternoon than Pelly has in four hundred years! You and I could have made beautiful madness together! Ta ta!"
There was another warping sound, and Cicero's vision blacked out. He felt a shudder go through him and he opened his eyes to find himself standing in the same empty corridor of the Pelagius Wing of the Blue Palace. His gear lay neatly beside him on the floor, but he was still wearing the fine clothing, holding the Wabbajack.
He took a few moments to change back into his jester's motley and made sure Stabby and Pokey were in their proper places. He slung the Wabbajack onto his back in the holster usually reserved for his bow, which he'd left – at the Dragonborn's insistence – back at the Winking Skeever.
Cicero wasn't sure when – or if – he would ever use the cursed thing. Pretty Tamsyn might like to have it, but for now he would hold on to it and see what it could do. As he left the Pelagius Wing, slipping unnoticed out of the door, Cicero murmured a little rhyming couplet he made up on the spot.
"Madness is merry, and merriment's odd
When the jester has dealings with a mad god."
Marcus sat in the antechamber, waiting for Cicero. He blamed himself. He should have been watching the jester more carefully. All he could do now was wait…and wait…and wait.
Honestly, how long does it take to explore one closed-off wing? he thought crossly, after an hour had gone by. After the second hour, Marcus was beginning to worry. What if he'd fallen through somewhere and was hurt? The guard had said the place had been closed off for a long while. Cicero could have been injured, and was lying there bleeding to death. He got to his feet, intending to try to persuade the guard once more to let him in.
"Ah! There you are!" Falk Firebeard said as he crossed the lower chamber. "I've been looking for you! The Jarl will see you now."
Marcus groaned. The timing, of course, couldn't be worse. He couldn't admit to Falk that his companion was running around loose somewhere in the Pelagius wing – or at least, that's where he suspected Cicero had ended up. The little jester was just going to have to fend for himself for a while. He'd waited too long to get this audience. Gripping his satchel of documents tightly, Marcus followed Falk upstairs to a private chamber where Jarl Elisif waited.
After showing him in, Falk remained, though he closed the door.
"Uh…" Marcus began. "I thought this was going to be a private audience." He raised his eyebrow at Falk.
"I stay with the Jarl," Falk scowled firmly. Marcus shrugged. Fine, let the man stay. It wouldn't change what he had to say to Jarl Elisif.
He gave her a gracious bow. "Jarl Elisif, I'm pleased to have the opportunity to meet with you," he began.
"And I've heard of your exploits as well, Dragonborn," Elisif smiled, coloring slightly. "You're much younger than the tales make you out to be."
He fell back on his standard, stock line. "I'm much older than I look, Jarl. I have some papers here which will not be easy for you to read, but I feel it would do you a disservice not to bring them to your attention."
"Papers?" Falk interrupted. "What papers?"
Marcus hesitated for a brief moment. There was a very good chance he would get thrown out of the Blue Palace once the contents were known, but Tamsyn had been firm. Elisif needed to know.
"I have proof that your late husband, High King Torygg, was preparing to hand over Skyrim to the Empire and the Thalmor upon the assassination of Emperor Titus Mede the Second."
"WHAT?!" both Jarl and Steward cried together.
"It's a filthy lie!" Falk shouted, drawing his sword. Elisif had gone several shades paler.
"It's not a lie!" Marcus insisted, keeping his hands well away from his swords. "If you don't believe me, read these for yourself. The journal is a dossier the Thalmor kept on Torygg. The documents are letters exchanged between him and Elenwen."
"Let me see that!" Falk demanded, sheathing his sword and grabbing the journal, leafing through it. His face went from mottled red to ghostly pale in the space of a few minutes. Weakly he sank into a chair next to his Jarl. He handed her the journal as he took up the sheaf of documents, flipping through them.
"That's Torygg's handwriting," Elisif said faintly, looking over his shoulder. "He…he was promised they'd make him Emperor if he turned over Skyrim to them!"
"It's worse than that," Falk moaned. "Ulfric Stormcloak knew. That's why he challenged Torygg!" He turned to Marcus. "Where did you get these papers?" he demanded angrily.
"From the Thalmor Embassy itself," Marcus said truthfully. "They kidnapped my children to get to me. I…found these when I reclaimed my kids."
Falk's eyes widened. "Did you…?" he breathed. He couldn't continue.
"No," Marcus said firmly, guessing what the unspoken question was. "I didn't kill the Ambassador. That happened after I left with the children."
"They kidnapped your children!" Elisif exclaimed softly, in horror. "Are they alright?"
Marcus smiled. "Yes, Jarl Elisif. Thank you for asking. They're fine now, though Lucia still sometimes has nightmares."
"The poor child!" Elisif breathed. "How old is she?"
"She'll be nine next month," he told her, and Elisif's eyes grew larger.
"But you don't look—"
"—like I'm old enough to have children that age, I know," Marcus chuckled. "Lucia is adopted. And so are Blaise, Sofie and Alesan. They were all orphans I've taken in."
"I see," Elisif smiled. "And do you have a wife, Dragonborn?"
"Not yet," Marcus admitted. He completely missed the look that passed across Elisif's face. "I've been a bit too busy for that."
"Getting back to these papers," Falk interrupted firmly, "regardless how you came by them, you do realize what this means, don't you?"
"Yes," Marcus said soberly. "It means that Torygg was keeping things from both of you. I suspect not all of his court was ignorant, however."
"What do you mean?" Elisif asked.
"I won't make an unsupported accusation," Marcus said slowly. "I would only ask you to ask yourselves who stands to gain the most if the Thalmor have control of the entire Empire, including Skyrim."
Falk's eyes narrowed, and Marcus could see the wheels turning. He hoped it would be enough to put them on alert and watch the courtiers more closely.
"I can't believe this!" Elisif murmured. "I knew Torygg was ambitious, but I never dreamed he would sell us all out like this!"
"And to the Thalmor, of all people!" Falk added, bitterly. "We've always tried to remain on good terms with them, because of the treaty and all, but this goes beyond just diplomatic courtesy."
"It's treason," Elisif said faintly. "And Jarl Ulfric knew! That's why he said Torygg was unfit to rule! He accused Torygg that day of collaborating with the Thalmor. We all thought it was just the same, tired old argument. We never imagined he was prepared to…to kill Torygg over it."
"Ulfric was trying to prevent Torygg from betraying Skyrim," Marcus said quietly. "By challenging him in the traditional way, he was giving Torygg a chance to come clean, to confess and step down. But Torygg had already gone too far to back out. He was in too deep with the Dominion. He couldn't back out, even if he'd wanted to."
"It would appear from these documents that he didn't want to," Falk said miserably. "The latest ones are dated two days before his death, detailing how the assassination would take place, and involving…the Dark Brotherhood." He whispered the last words.
"Well, that won't happen now," Elisif said, smiling a little too brightly, "because the Dragonborn has dealt with the Dark Brotherhood. They won't be a threat to anyone now!"
"It doesn't mean the Dominion won't try again," Marcus reminded them. "They'll just find another patsy to use."
"'Patsy'?" Falk queried, unfamiliar with the term.
"A fall guy," Marcus explained. "Someone to take the blame." Falk nodded, understanding.
"I just don't know what to do now," Elisif murmured. "I've been in mourning for someone…someone who wasn't who I thought he was." She looked pale and wan, and decidedly unhappy. She looked up at Marcus with tear-filled eyes. "What do we do now, Dragonborn?"
"You go on as you have been going," Marcus said. "You run your hold and do your job and keep things together. Don't tip your hand to anyone you don't trust entirely, and above all, say nothing of this to the new Thalmor Ambassador."
"And what about the snake in our garden?" Falk asked shrewdly.
"I always find it's best to get rid of pests when I find them," Marcus smiled. "There are a number of ways you can do that. I'm sure you'll find the one that will work best for you."
"Won't you stay?" Elisif asked, her emerald eyes pleading. "I may be in need of a new Thane soon."
"I have to go speak with General Tullius," Marcus said, gathering the documents together. "There are things I need to discuss with him, regarding putting an end to the hostilities in Skyrim." He didn't tell them he was also headed to Windhelm to speak with Ulfric Stormcloak.
"I don't suppose you'd let us keep those?" Falk asked, indicating the documents.
"I'd rather hang on to them for now," Marcus said. "If you're discovered with them it could prove…difficult for you, diplomatically speaking. Just sit tight and wait for me. I'll return soon with a plan for the future."
"I won't say 'thank you' for bringing this to our attention, Dragonborn," Falk said soberly. "You've shaken us up with this knowledge, and it's going to take some time for us to come to terms with it."
"I understand, Steward," Marcus said. "Just believe me when I say I have Skyrim's best interests at heart."
"Torygg said the same thing," Elisif frowned unhappily.
Marcus flinched inwardly. There really was nothing he could say to take away the hurt he'd caused.
"I'll be back soon," he promised, and allowed Falk to escort him out.
In the outer chamber, Erikur was still protesting loudly to anyone who would listen.
"—think he is demanding a private interview with our Jarl? It seems awfully shady to me! They could be discussing anything in there! I thought we had an open court here!"
Marcus didn't even spare the man a glance as he headed down the stairs to the foyer to find Cicero waiting for him near the main entrance.
"Where in Oblivion have you been?" he hissed at the little man as they made their way outside. "And what the hell is that thing on your back?"
"It's called the Wabbajack!" Cicero said proudly. "Cicero got this as a gift for helping cure a madman."
"Wabba-what?" Marcus echoed. "You cured a madman? That's crazy talk!"
"I know! I know!" Cicero bubbled, dancing a jig on the spot. "Cicero got to meet the Prince of Madness himself, and eat the best sweet rolls he's ever tasted! And then he had to help cure the madman so he could come back home…"
Marcus let his sworn brother prattle on about his adventures in wonderland as they headed back to the Winking Skeever. It all sounded like A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court to him. Clearly Cicero must have fallen asleep somewhere and dreamed it all up. It didn't explain the staff, but he could have found that in a forgotten corner somewhere. It didn't matter. He hadn't killed anyone while Marcus was gone, that was the important thing.
After their midday meal, Marcus left Cicero at the Bard's College because the little man wanted to hear the afternoon Oration, where tales old and new were swapped among the students and the public. On his most solemn promise to behave himself, Marcus left him there and headed for Castle Dour, the headquarters of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim.
Lucius Maximillus Tullius was a no-nonsense man in his late fifties, his grizzled gray hair cropped close to his head, his aquiline features as sharp as chiseled stone. His voice was equally sharp.
"Are my men now letting in every curious spectator who comes through?" he demanded irritably without looking up. "State your purpose here or leave immediately! I have more important matters to attend to!"
Marcus said nothing, but dropped the packet of documents down in front of the general. It took a great deal to surprise Tullius, but this worked well. He looked up, eyes narrowing.
"Am I to assume I'm in the presence of my mysterious 'friend'?" he demanded.
At Marcus' nod, he rifled through the papers. Even the first few superficial glances told him this was something of immense importance. "Rikke," he addressed the Legate opposite him. "Hold all my other appointments. And close that door!" Tullius collected the papers and the journal and gestured to Marcus. "Follow me. Legate, when you're ready."
He led them both up a flight of stairs to his private sitting room. "Sit down," he ordered, not invited. Marcus remained standing. At Tullius' raised eyebrow, Marcus merely smiled. Relenting, Tullius remembered his manners. "I forget sometimes that not everyone is in the Legion. Please, sit down," he said.
Marcus' smile grew broader and he seated himself. Tullius followed, taking the seat on the other side of the table. Rikke remained standing at ease nearby.
"Now," Tullius said. "Suppose you tell me what this is all about. Just who are you, and where did you get these documents?"
"My name is Marcus, called Dragonborn," he introduced himself. Behind him, Rikke gasped in awe. Tullius remained unimpressed.
"Is that some kind of hereditary title?" he asked, just shy of a sneer. "Or did you just claim if for yourself."
"It was given to me because of what I am," Marcus said calmly. He refused to allow the general to bait him. He held the upper hand here, and he knew it.
"Oh?" Tullius inquired skeptically. "And just what are you?"
"He's the hero of legend!" Rikke exclaimed before Marcus could speak. "The Dragonborn is the only one who can kill a dragon permanently by devouring its soul!"
"I see," Tullius scowled. "So being this hero of legend gives you the privilege of invading sovereign territory and stealing sensitive state documents, does it?" he demanded.
"They kidnapped my children," Marcus said, refusing to back down.
"Not the first time you trespassed, if I understand the events correctly," Tullius said shrewdly. "The kidnapping, regrettable as it was, was a reaction to what you did on your first trip through."
Marcus nodded in acknowledgement of that point.
"I didn't think the Thalmor would confess to knowing anything about the dragons returning," he admitted, "especially if they were involved. And I allowed myself at that time to be persuaded by others that it was the only way to get the information we were after."
"And did you find out what you were looking for?" Tullius asked, though he already knew the answer.
"No," Marcus admitted again. "We were completely wrong about their involvement. The dragons aren't working for anyone but themselves. I said as much at the time to my…my partner, but my words fell on deaf ears."
"And now the Thalmor Ambassador is dead—" He held up a hand as Marcus started to protest. "I know that's not your fault," he allowed, "but the fact remains that the Dominion has had to send in a new Ambassador, and if you thought Elenwen had a stick up her arse, you haven't dealt with the Dominion!"
But really, it is my fault, Marcus thought, with only the slightest twinge of guilt. If I hadn't had to hand over Mephala's Blade, we'd still have the devil we know as opposed to the devil we don't.
"So, does this mean you're not interested in my information?" Marcus asked, reaching for the papers. Tullius' hand shot out and stopped him.
"I didn't say that!" he snapped. Both men withdrew their hands. "I ought to have you arrested and turned over to Ambassador Ramallion at once," he said thoughtfully, a shrewd gleam in his eyes. Marcus held his breath, wondering how many trained Legion soldiers he'd be able to take out before he was cut down. He'd made a big mistake coming here. Tullius wasn't looking for an advantage over the Thalmor. He was loyal to the Empire through and through, and that Empire had bowed its knee to the Aldmeri Dominion.
"But," Tullius went on, almost reluctantly, "the information you've provided to us before revealed a plot to unseat a sovereign Jarl of Skyrim – even if that Jarl has misplaced loyalties. And you revealed someone whom it would be unwise for us to trust; anyone who would attempt to assassinate a Jarl might be tempted to go after the Emperor next."
"Funny you should mention that," Marcus drawled blandly, indicating the documents between them.
The irony wasn't lost on General Tullius. The quick glance he'd had told him there was something much greater and more dangerous at stake here than an unseating of a Jarl.
"Yes, well," he hedged. "I'll just have a look then."
For a full half-hour Tullius perused the letters and the dossier, handing them off to Rikke as he finished them. Whatever emotions he may have felt while reading remained a mystery, but Rikke's were right out there.
"That son-of-a-bitch!" she shouted. "How dare he!"
"Legate, please," Tullius said wearily. "I'm still reading."
"Sorry, sir," she muttered contritely.
Finally the general raised his head to look Marcus in the eye. "What are your intentions regarding this very sensitive intelligence here?" he asked bluntly.
"I'm not out to blackmail anyone," Marcus said. "I've already let Elisif read these."
"And she didn't burn them?" Tullius raised an eyebrow.
"She didn't ask if she could," Marcus stated. "Falk wanted to keep them, but I needed to show them to you." And to Ulfric, he thought, but he didn't say that out loud.
"You've already showed these to Elisif?" Rikke asked, concerned. "How did she take it?"
"She was stunned," Marcus admitted. "I'd have softened the blow for her if I had any better way to do it, but she needed to know." Rikke seemed satisfied with the answer, but Tullius was still in doubt.
"And what do you gain from this?" he demanded of the Dragonborn. "What's your price for keeping this information secret?"
"Secret? Price?" Marcus blinked. "You don't get it, do you?" At Tullius' blank look he pressed on. "I'm not doing this to blackmail anyone. I would have thought you'd want to know the Thalmor are plotting to assassinate the Emperor. I would have thought you'd want to know how they're fomenting unrest through manipulation in Skyrim. They're behind all the problems here!"
"I know that!" Tullius snapped impatiently. "Do you think I don't? For thirty years I've had to bite my tongue and 'make nice' to the enemy that brought us to our knees! We were the pride of the Empire, the Imperial Legion, victorious through hundreds of wars in over a thousand years, and we had our asses handed to us by a bunch of pointed-eared daedra who don't fight fairly!"
"Who use magic against you, you mean," Marcus remarked.
"Not just magic!" Tullius argued back. "They use subtlety and subterfuge. They plot and plan for decades in advance before launching their objectives. How can mere humans fight back against a race that can bide its time and wait until we're all too old to lift a sword; when the younger ones have been beguiled into compliance and acceptance that this is the way it's supposed to be because that's the way it's always been!"
"The Stormcloaks seem to be finding a way," Marcus pointed out.
"Stormcloaks!" the general snorted. "A bunch of traitorous rabble, that's what they are!"
"That rabble may be all that stands between the Empire and the Dominion," Marcus felt obliged to say.
"The hatred runs too deep," Rikke explained. "I don't think anything will get the Stormcloaks to lay down their arms and accept peace."
"I'm sure they want peace, too," Marcus countered. "They just don't want that peace dictated to them by the Aldmeri Dominion. That's what Ulfric was trying to say when—"
"When he traitorously slew his liege lord," Tullius rumbled. "I don't care what else the man has done. That's unforgiveable. He deserves to die, just for that!"
"Even if that liege lord was ready to sell you all out to the Thalmor in order to be named Emperor?" Marcus demanded angrily. "Even if that High King you all held so dearly was in on the plot to assassinate Titus Mede?"
Tullius looked as though he was about to retort, but stopped, and his posture seemed to slump a little. "None of us had any idea that was going on," he admitted.
"Because that's how the Thalmor work," Marcus pointed out. "You said it yourself. They work behind the scenes and plot for years in advance. They were probably setting this up right after the Emperor beat them at the battle for the Imperial City."
"That wouldn't surprise me in the slightest," the general muttered. He blew out a breath. "Fine. What would you have of me? If you're not after blackmail, what then?"
"An end to the Dominion," Marcus said simply. Rikke goggled at him, and Tullius gave a derisive snort.
"Yes, well, good luck with that, Dragonborn," he sneered. "I can't help you there. My loyalty lies with the Emperor and the Empire, even if that Empire is somewhat flawed."
"I'm not asking you to do anything that would go against your vow to the Emperor," Marcus said. "All I'm asking is that you agree to meet with Ulfric Stormcloak to discuss a cessation of hostilities. Stop the fighting, killing and dying."
"Out of the question!" Tullius barked. "Ulfric Stormcloak is still a traitor in the eyes of the Empire. I won't bargain with traitors!"
Marcus sighed in frustration. "Look, it's the only way to stop the dragons permanently. I have to kill Alduin, and the only way to do that is to go after him, where he's hiding in Sovngarde, feeding on the souls of the honored dead!"
Rikke went pale. "Is this true?" she whispered.
"Every word," he told her solemnly.
"General, we can't let that happen!" she exclaimed. "Our honored dead!"
"It's just a bunch of myths and legends," Tullius scoffed. He might have said more, but there was a sudden, insistent pounding on the General's door.
"Who is it?" he demanded irritably. "I said I wasn't to be disturbed!"
Marcus quickly gathered the journal and documents and stuffed them back into his backpack as a disheveled guard came in.
"Sorry, general, sir!" she exclaimed. "But there's a dragon—"
"What?" Rikke and Tullius shouted together, and Rikke moaned, "Not again! Is it the same one?"
The woman nodded. "Yes, sir! It's flying over the Blue Palace now!"
"Muster the men, Rikke!" Tullius ordered. "Where in blazes do you think you're going?" he demanded as Marcus rushed past him.
"To do my job, general!" came the reply as Marcus raced out the door.
Halfway down the thoroughfare, Marcus was met by Cicero.
"Dear brother!" the jester exclaimed. "There's a dragon—"
"I heard, Cicero," Marcus smiled grimly. "Let's go!"
In the streets people were screaming and scrambling for cover. Shutters slammed over windows and locks clicked on doors, as if that would keep a determined dragon out of their homes. The Bards College was devoid of performers as they passed, everyone having headed for cover. Several of the city guards were converging on the Blue Palace, but the screams ahead of them told Marcus the fight wasn't going well.
Perched high on the roof sat a huge ancient dragon, its bronze scales gleaming in the afternoon sun. It launched itself into the air and made a wide circle out over the bay before swooping low over the courtyard. Marcus was ready, and timed his Dragonrend Shout perfectly. Shrieking and floundering, the coldrake gasped out a wall of frost before clawing its way back into the sky, heading towards the training yards outside Castle Dour, the most open area it could safely land in without impaling itself on the windmill.
"Back the way we came?" Cicero asked, a gleam in his eyes.
"And hope Dragonrend doesn't wear off before we get there," Marcus growled in frustration.
They pelted down the thoroughfare, meeting other guards and Legion soldiers on the way. The dragon had fought fiercely upon hitting the ground, and several bodies already littered the training grounds. Just as Marcus and Cicero cleared the archway, it hauled itself back into the air. Marcus sent Dragonrend after it again, but missed.
"Archers!" Captain Aldis cried out. "Fire at will! Don't spare the arrows!"
"Cicero thinks they'll need something stronger than iron or steel to get through that hide," the jester commented. Marcus nodded. His eyes continued tracking the dragon, who seemed content to do the most damage in the courtyard, diving in and out, and strafing with its blasts of cold.
The ancient wyrm came around once more to whirl in mid-air, facing the pitiful mortal fools who thought to bring it down. Marcus was struck once more by the sheer awesome power displayed by the great beast, its agility and ability to almost bend itself in two to switch directions; the way it could hover in mid-air, its large, leathery wings whipping the dust and loose pebbles into the air, blinding its foe.
The dragon souls within him stirred, and Marcus felt them push at the corners of his mind. They were kin to him, by way of his dragon blood and dragon soul. What were these puny joore to him? Why should he not claim his rightful place as thur over them? If this nameless one wished to challenge his fitness to rule, let it try. He would prove whose thu'um was stronger.
Dragonrend ripped from his throat and hit the ancient one full in the chest. The ambient glow of the thu'um rapidly spread over its form, and Marcus grinned cruelly as he saw the fear in his opponents' eyes for the first time. The dragon landed heavily in the courtyard and immediately lashed out with wing and tail, slamming several guards and Legionnaires against the surrounding stone walls. Clouds of frost billowed from its maw, bringing scores more to their knees, and bringing a shudder to the Dragonborn.
So that's the way it will be, eh? he thought. Good! I thought this would be another boring exercise.
Part of his mind registered Cicero leaping in and out, cutting and slicing with great effect with his ebony and dragonbone daggers. But it seemed far removed from who he was now. He was no longer Marcus, a poor excuse of a dovah, crammed into a pitifully weak body. He was Maar Kos; he was The Terror, and the other dov would soon learn to bow to him and acknowledge his power. Yes, even the one who held himself above all others; even Alduin would bow before him.
"YOL TOOR!" he Shouted, frustrated at not knowing the third word of the thu'um. It was a shortcoming he would soon remedy after this. He didn't even stop to see what effect his Shout might have had on his foe, or on the people around him who scattered out of the way. They didn't matter. Only victory mattered. The ancient one lunged forward to snap at him and he dodged nimbly out of the way, slicing down with Dragonbane and stabbing upward with the Blades sword. The Blades sword found its mark in the underjaw of the beast, and sheared through the roof of its mouth. With a shudder, it settled to the pavement, igniting as it did so.
Yes, come to me, he thought. All the knowledge and experiences held by the ancient one were his to absorb. It struggled; they all did. But it was a futile effort. He was The Terror, and nothing and no one could stop him.
Cicero stared at his sworn brother. Something was different. Something was…off. Marcus acted as though he were completely unaware of the jester standing nearby. He walked away from the beast, leaving behind the gems and coins, which the remaining soldiers quickly descended upon and pocketed.
Halfway back to Castle Dour, the Dragonborn was confronted by a subdued General Tullius.
"Alright, Dragonborn," he sighed. "You win. Set up your peace conference and send me the details. I'll be there."
The Terror stared at the mewling joor without recognition. Silently, he turned and headed through a nearby archway leading past the smithy and down to the town below.
"What in Oblivion was that about?" the general demanded sourly.
"I have no idea," Rikke said. "But at least we don't have to worry about this one coming back."
"You there!" Tullius called out to Cicero, who was following after the Dragonborn. Cicero halted in his tracks. "Is he going to make arrangements or not?"
"Cicero is certain his dear brother will do as the general has asked," the jester simpered. "Please do not be upset with dear Marcus. Absorbing the dragon's soul is…unsettling for him." He was making excuses, he knew as he hurried off, but in truth he had no idea what had just happened, and was anxious to go after his sworn brother as quickly as possible. In the state he was in, Cicero had no idea where the Dragonborn would go next, but he had a strong feeling he wouldn't be following the original plan.
[Author's Note: So now we know what was in the documents Cicero found. And what has just happened to Marcus? Will he come back to himself? Will he be in any condition to negotiate a peace treaty? I guess we'll just have to wait and find out.
Here I have to give a nod to my younger son, David, for the names of Cicero's daggers. David played "Oblivion" and "Skyrim" long before I did, and he always used duel-wielded daggers he named Stabby and Pokey. So thank you, David! And thanks to all of you for sticking with me.]