THE LOST CHILDHOOD

When they came to see Whiterun again, it was almost the end of Rain's Hand. I cannot tell the year. I never know the years. I only know that it wasn't as cold as it used to be, and they both seemed to like that new climate. I know the snow had melted, releasing the vegetation, painting the world of a dull green. I know that the forests and the windy prairies of that proud hold, crossed by the herds of wild horses, had returned to flourish. I know that, at times, clouds thinned out and let the sun glimpse; that sun, they say, Auri-El wounded with an arrow of his bow, thus letting the light spread in the Nirn. I know what, again, was happening in the world. Not because I was there, I was never physically there, but because thus I wanted to happen. It was the moment I had designated. It was right, once again.

It was on a cloudy and windy day that they saw from a distance the outline of the city, imposing on the hill, in the middle of the valley. Winds were blowing from the east, warm but fierce, and were insinuating among the black locks of a weak Morrigan, almost always sitting sadly on that wagon, eyes closed.

She was tired, very tired. She hadn't talked much during the trip and indeed, the more days passed, the more the desire to live seemed to abandon her, as if her soul was now struggling to remain attached to its earthly body.

Cicero used to notice and suffer from it, without showing it to the outside. He was trying to stay cheerful, giggling, just to try to make that last period easier for her. But often she didn't even hear him. Several times she had fallen asleep suddenly, in the middle of a speech, and Cicero had had to shake her, panicked, believing she was dead.

That day, Cicero was sitting on the woody and uncomfortable bench of the wagon, and Morrigan was laying, heavily abandoned with her head on his thigh. She was breathing deeply and slowly, keeping her now useless hands abandoned near her face.

Cicero, bravely, gathering the good mood to put it at least in his voice, announced that they had arrived.

"We're in Whiterun, Morrigan!"

"Um? What?"

She couldn't hear. It was... it was a sufference to see her like that.

"We're in Whiterun. Did you miss it, at least a little?"

He hoped she missed it. Maybe, coming back to her hometown, she would've cheered up. But maybe it was also the journey that made her so weak. Cicero didn't want to deceive himself that she wasn't ill, no... but even when they had arrived at Solitude, she was very tired, and then she had recovered a little. For that reason, for the first time in his life, he couldn't wait to find a place to rest, instead of immediately throwing himself on the contract.

Thinking about it, how long hadn't he killed? Of course, he had killed the Nord and the beggar, but it had been for self defense, not premeditated and not so pleasing. But if he wanted to go back to the last person he had killed just for the sake of it, he had to go back to the inn's blondie. It had been so long... as the Mother had done before her, so Morrigan was taking away his interest and time for some old habits. And that was fine, it was nice that she had become so important that he couldn't think of anything else.

"Whiterun..." she murmured, as if she couldn't even remember what it was, "ah, aye. I can smell the prairie."

She spread a slight smile, weak and tired, that died immediately on her lips like a leaf in autumn.

"Are you happy to be here?"

"Aye. I didn't think to smell this scent again."

As if the Nirn itself wanted to make her feel at home, the wind blew louder, bringing to them the fragrance of cut grass, pine, wild animals. Then, suddenly, a thunder. And without delay, melancholic, the sky began to cry its despair over the imminent departure of one of its best daughters.

"Here, cover up."

He tried to cover her with her dark cloak, but she stopped him. With one arm, she removed the cloak. She turned her face to the sky, her eyes closed. Cicero could see her eyelids hopping when the cold drops hit her face.

"You'll get cold, little crow." he tried to scold her, effortlessly.

But she let out a low moan, indifferent. Cicero immediately demurred: he knew she wanted to feel those drops on her face because she wanted to feel something. Who was he to stop her?

.

.

When they finally got off the wagon, Cicero had to help her. She no longer had a perfect sensitivity in her feet and had difficulty maintaining her balance. Once on the ground, however, fortunately she seemed to recover, just enough to still seem... alive.

She had a slight smile on her face, her pale lips ruffled at the edges. She was keeping her eyes open, now, out of habit, to seem stronger than she was. She breathed deeply, as they walked up the hill in the rain. Cicero held her arm in arm and advanced slowly.

They climbed the path, passed the first ring of walls, then continued on the wooden planks' road to the city gate. Once there, Cicero pulled her hood over her head.

"We don't want Nazeem to see you, now, do we? Keep your head down."

"We can stay out if you don't want to risk."

But no, they couldn't stay out, they didn't have a place to sleep, and Morrigan needed it. And then it was good for her to see her old house again, it could be the last chance she had.

"Cicero doesn't intend to sleep in the rain for Nazeem the idiot, little crow."

"But what if he recognizes us and runs away?"

He approached her, talking to her ear, half hidden by the dark hood.

"Then the Brotherhood will follow him throughout Tamriel, Morrigan. A hand that represents a thousand, across the whole continent, and a thousand eyes, and a thousand knives. Nazeem cannot escape. Just relax, now, hm?"

She nodded, heartened, too weak to try to retort or even to think otherwise. Then they opened the massive wooden door and they were inside.

The city didn't seem changed, since they had left. Cicero remembered well that time when Morrigan, running half-naked, had appeared from the right and started to run towards him, begging him to take her away. He was in exactly the same place. He remembered the cold, the sun… but most of all, he remembered how the first thing he had thought was that the blind girl was completely crazy. Crazy, along with him.

They didn't stay out much. They went immediately to Morrigan's old house, Cicero carrying her arm in arm, slow and patient. It seemed to walk with a soul more than with a real person, there on the cobblestones of Whiterun, surrounded by wooden houses with elaborate inlays.

They stopped in front of the hovel and saw that time hadn't been merciful: if possible, it was even more shabby than when they had left. It hadn't been long, it was as if it had decided to let itself fall, crooked. It wasn't a beautiful house, it had never been, but Cicero realized at that moment that it had a beautiful view: in the front row in the presence of the Throat of the World.

"The Throat of the World makes you feel small." He commented, studying the mighty mountain.

"Never seen it." Morrigan joked sadly.

Cicero felt heartless.

"Ah, sorry, little crow. Cicero sometimes forgets that you can't see."

"It doesn't matter, it's nice. It means you don't care."

It was true, he didn't care that she was blind. For him she was a person like everyone else, or even better just for that reason. And the fact that she couldn't see and feel small before the Throat of the World, or any other natural greateness, was further proof of how dimensionless she was, how much she transcended time and space, and already belonged to another universe.

.

.

Resuming possession of the house wasn't easy: it had been besieged by three beggars. They complained when they saw Morrigan and Cicero come in, insulted them as one insults death. Morrigan would've liked to be more sympathetic, but Cicero didn't allow her to: he drove them away as he drove rats out of the Mother's body, and those beggars had to thank that he hadn't used rat poison with them. First of all because private property was sacred, they had taught him well in the Brotherhood: respecting the property of the other Brothers and Sisters was one of the five tenets. And secondly because he would've driven away and killed even the whole Whiterun population, just to give a roof and a bed to Morrigan. That house was for her and no one else.

Cicero had to throw away some leather and some useless personal objects of the beggars, but otherwise the furniture had remained intact. The bed had been used, but he didn't care: he changed straw and blankets. He didn't want himself or Morrigan to get fleas.

Morrigan, who was now sitting on a chair in the corner. She was awake, alert but tired, she was moving her head following the noise of Cicero working.

"I'm sorry I can't help you..." she murmured at a certain moment, distraught.

"No! The Princess of the Void could help me, she doesn't because she doesn't want to! Right, Princess? You'd never get your hands dirty like this, and you're right! Let your slaves take care of your own good. Cicero must thank you that you don't have a whip!"

She giggled, finally with more vitality.

"You're right, slave. Work! The Princess is getting impatient for your slowness!"

Cicero turned to her and gave her a deep bow, a foot forward and a waving hand. She couldn't see it, but he didn't care.

"Humble Cicero lives to serve."

She laughed again and stayed still, in her corner, with a dreamy expression. It seemed almost as if she were imagining a palace. A rich and flourishing castle, full of life, of which she was the one and only leader. Cicero could almost see it, there, in that abandoned, cold and falling hovel. He told her, asked her if she was dreaming of a luxury home, but she surprised him.

"No, not a castle. Just... a normal house, maybe in Cyrodiil. With a beautiful courtyard and an olive tree. I'd like it so much."

Cicero stopped for a moment, swallowed, tried not to cry. He thought that, soon, she would've been wherever she wanted.

.

.

In the evening, after having lit the fire and eaten, they both went to sleep, squeezed into the single bed, defying the cold that still lashed the valley, during the night.

Morrigan was agitated, Cicero saw her, lying next to him. The next day they would've dealt with Nazeem, the idea was ruining her and giving her concerns.

"Hey, little crow?" he asked, pretending to be cheerful, "do you remember when Cicero was about to kill you? We were here."

He realized only too late that perhaps it wasn't a happy memory for her. And instead, Morrigan smiled sweetly, as if she were remembering the first kiss.

"Oh aye. I was hoping so much to see you again, you know? I really had a crush on you. I liked that you complimented me, you had a so refined behavior compared to the usual mercenaries..."

"Gallantry is always the winning card with beautiful girls. You couldn't wait to have Cicero getting into your room, admit it!"

She giggled.

"Aye, I admit it. I hadn't foreseen the attempt to slit my throat, though."

Cicero was about to reply, when suddenly she seemed to remember something very important. She reanimated, seemed healthier and more alive than ever, for a moment.

"Hey, hey! Look in my drawer, on your side!"

Cicero turned and, intrigued, opened the drawer.

"Is it there? Is it still there?" she asked frantically.

Yes, it was still there: a rag doll, old, ruined. It was gray, two black buttons for eyes and strands of faded yellow wool for hair. It was unstitched in some spots, from which bits of raw wool came out.

Cicero took it in his hand, looking at it strangely, having the sensation of holding an ancient object, a sacred relic, a reminder of a lost world and age.

He passed it to her and she felt it with her forearms. Then she took it, brought it close to her face. She continued to study it by touching it with her nose, inhaling the smell. It smelled like something old, but Cicero could bet that for her it smelled like home.

"My mother made it. How stupid I was not to take it... how stupid..."

Strange, those were the same things that Cicero used to say about his olive tree.

Morrigan hugged the doll and closed her eyelids, sighing, as if everything had returned to normal after that reunification.

Cicero remained silente looking at her, worried, scared. He saw her there, curled up with ruffled hair, half-smile and her doll, and realized how young she was. She must've stopped believing in ghosts just a few years before, she must've had the first blood at most a decade before. It hadn't been a long time since she slept with dolls, and suddenly Cicero felt... old. But not as usual, first it was only for personal age. Unexpectedly, now, he didn't want Morrigan to go into trouble.

"Little crow, are you... are you sure you want to deal with Nazeem? Suddenly, it no longer seems a good idea to Cicero, what a fool he was to offer you..."

He felt like a monster. He turned to the ceiling, trying to calm down. But Morrigan, as always in those recent times, gave no sign of uncertainty or doubt. She was anxious, yes, but firm.

"Cicero, I need it. I chose myself, it wasn't your idea."

And yet, Cicero had the distinct sensation of having pushed her to that choice. He just hoped... he just hoped everything would've gone according to plans.

.

.

The next morning was Sundas, the last day of the week, when farmers weren't working and the streets were too crowded for an assassin. Cicero hated Sundas, like all his brethren.

It was seven o'clock in the morning when he decided to leave the house to implement the plan. Morrigan was restless and worried as he led him to the door. Before letting him out, she hugged him tightly, as if she feared to not see him again. Cicero let her do it and tried to reciprocate, even if he didn't like it, it looked like a goodbye.

"Are you going so early?" she asked, pleading.

"Cicero must track him, study him. If he didn't do so, he could risk underestimating him. Don't worry, I'll do nothing, I'll just follow him."

She nodded against his shoulder, but held him stronger.

"Why do you worry so much? Cicero has been doing this for a lifetime."

"Aye, I know, but... I have a bad feeling."

It was terrible, having bad feelings. Cicero knew it well, since he had ignored one of them in Solitude. He didn't want to run into the same mistake, but this time he felt she was scared more for herself than for him.

"Little crow, breathe. Slow."

And he made her calm down, forcing her to control her breathing. He felt her chest rise and fall on him, and the air purifying her.

"Does your wound still hurt?" she asked, now a little quieter.

"Yes, and it's good! Less chance to get distracted!"

He chuckled, he hoped it would infect her, but it didn't. So he pulled her away and took her face in his hands, looking directly at her, very close.

"Um, you're really pretty, you know?"

She finally blushed. She was lighter, compliments were always useful to reassure her. It was nice to see her like that.

"And now remember, don't get out of here for any reason. Cicero follows Nazeem, makes him harmless and then comes back to pick you up, okay? All you have to do is relax, Princess. Soon you can finally be free."

She nodded. Cicero looked at her, and unconsciously he too did it as if it might be the last time. Her agitation made him nervous too, though he didn't want to show it. So he looked at her face and made sure to print it well in his mind. He gave her a quick kiss, on her cold lips. He touched her nose, made her laugh, and finally got out the door.

The contract was about to end.

Oh, guys, it's just three chapters left! :O
We're very, very close to the end. I was thinking about publishing them all the next week with an additional update, because I feel like the two final chapters are good to be read together. We'll see!
Anyway, thank you for reading, and brace yourself, this is almost the end :'(