Morndas, Last Seed 31, 4E201
1:37 pm
Clay-Shoes Farm, Outskirts, Whiterun Hold

The words hung between them like tangible things.

Cicero stared at Amara in wide-eyed shock, utterly speechless. His grip on her elbow slackened and fell away. Amara stared back, fisting her hands in the fabric of her tunic uncertainly. Had she made a mistake? The Lady hadn't lied to her, she was certain, but Cicero did seem rather unpredictable.

Finally, in a hoarse and reverent voice, he spoke. "Those are the words," he whispered, leaning closer to peer intently into her eyes, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. "Those are the binding words. And you— has our Lady…?"

Amara blinked back at him in vague confusion. Our Lady? Who—? Her eyes widened in sudden realization and she glanced at the nearby coffin. Mother, of course! Cicero wasn't transporting an ordinary corpse. He revered her, if 'Mother' and 'Our Lady' were any indication.

Suddenly, Cicero whooped and leapt to his feet, nearly startling Amara into bolting. "She's back!" he cried, picking Amara up by the waist and lifting her high in the air. "Our Lady is back!" The little Nord shrieked in surprise as Cicero spun her in a circle, laughing jubilantly. "She has chosen a Listener! She has chosen you!"

He stopped abruptly, holding her up at arm's length in front of him, and stared intently into her wide hazel eyes. Amara froze under the scrutiny. "You are so… small," he observed, a thoughtful frown twisting at his lips. "So little. A Little Listener." His expression sobered into something approaching sanity. "How old are you, little one?"

"El—eleven," she said, squirming under the weight of his stare. "Twelve in Morning Star."

He stared for a moment longer before the unnervingly lucid look in his eyes faded away and his grin returned. "Cicero will teach you!" He said, spinning the both of them in another wide circle. "Cicero will teach you everything, little listener!" He laughed. "Oh, come, come! We must go to our new home, all three of us, yes!"

"New...home?" Amara repeated, suddenly afraid. The Lady had said to go with him, but... Her fingers curled into Cicero's sleeves as ice pooled in her stomach. Again, she wondered if she had made a mistake.

"Yes, yes!" Cicero said, either ignoring or failing to notice Amara's fear. "New home! Oh, Cicero and mother were going, and now the Little Listener will come too!" He giggled and finally set her down.

Doubt and fear of the unknown choked Amara as she watched the jester caper about. Leave and go where? The wind rose again as she trembled, indecisive. Nightshade filled her lungs. Her shaking slowed to a stop. The tiniest, faintest bit of the Lady's presence nudged at the back of Amara's mind. Trust me, she said. The little Nord swallowed hard.

"I have to get my things," she said, raising her voice just enough for Cicero to hear. "Then we can—" her voice wavered. Trust, she reminded herself. "Then we can leave."

Cicero turned and beamed at her. "Of course, Little Listener!"

Bryn, praise the Divines, was patiently waiting by the cart, grazing on grass that grew by the roadside. Amara's hands shook as she swung up into the saddle and took the reins. It was too late to turn back, now that she had told Cicero the words. He wouldn't let her go so easily, she knew.

Amara kicked her heels sharply into Bryn's flanks, urging the mare into a gallop. She didn't bother to wait for Cicero. He would catch up, and she wanted a few minutes of silence to gather herself before she had to face his strange jubilation again.

"What have I done, Bryn?" she asked, leaning down and pressing her forehead into the mare's neck. She breathed deeply, washing away the lingering nightshade with musky hay and damp horsehair. A thought struck her. "What is Alar going to think? Oh, Divines," she moaned. "He'll return and find me gone!"

Who cares? A poisonous little part of her asked. Who cares? He left you behind. Now you leave him behind. It's only fair.

Until that moment, Amara hadn't been angry at Alar for leaving. She had been sad and scared, sure, not angry. But as the poisonous little voice whispered in the back of her head, a wave of fury overtook her, sending hot tremors down her spine. She gritted her teeth as sat up straight, knuckles going white as she squeezed Bryn's reins.

"Why shouldn't he know what it feels like?" she asked out loud as Bryn galloped through the gate and up toward the farmhouse. "He's the one who left me alone. He deserves it."

She vaulted off her mare's back, hitting the ground with a satisfying thump, and paused just long enough to tie the reins to the hitching post before she stormed into the house. The door slammed shut behind her, shaking lingering water droplets loose of the leaky roof and into the overfull catch buckets below.

She wanted to scream and yell and break something. Fury pounded at her insides, waking the feral little piece of her that had been unleashed so recently. She wanted a blade in her hands and the feeling of warm, sticky blood dripping down her fingers. She wanted to hurt someone.

Instead, she stopped.

Amara exhaled slowly, leaning back against the solid weight of the door. Thick knots and whorls pressed into the skin of her back through her thin tunic. The little Nord closed her eyes and pretended it was her papa's calloused hands pressing comfortingly between her shoulder blades, safe and warm and steady. Silent tears dripped from her chin and pattered softly to the floor.

What am I becoming? she wondered.

At length, she stood and went to her bedroom, wiping her face clean as she walked. Trust, she reminded herself, snagging her empty pack from the edge of the stairs and climbing down into the basement. It was a mess, of course, because who was left to remind her to clean up after herself? She picked up important articles of clothing as she went, stuffing them into the pack uncaringly, then sorted through the wardrobe with the same methodic apathy.

Her books—what few she had inherited—were lined up neatly on the table next to the wardrobe. She hesitated, then gathered them into a neat stack and double-bound them with some spare leather ties. Her meager drawing and painting supplies went into the most sturdy basket available. This, too, she bound closed. The books and the basket went upstairs, set by the door, but when she returned for her pack, she faltered. This was her room, the home she had shared her whole life with Alar, and she was about to leave it behind, maybe forever.

She squeezed her eyes shut, though a few hot tears escaped anyways.

"I miss you," she said quietly, leaning against the wall for support. "Mama. Papa. I really miss you. Would the Lady have spoken if you were still here?"

She didn't know.

Hollow and aching, she trudged back upstairs and began gathering food into a spare sack. There was no point letting it spoil, and no one else would be in to eat it. She banked the fire and put away the pots and dishes, clearing the table. The empty, wide expanse of wood beckoned her to leave something for Alar. A note, perhaps. Amara chewed on her lip, indecisive, before retrieving a scrap of paper and some charcoal.

Might as well tell him I'm not dead, she thought.

She had just written the last word when there was a knock on the door, as portentous and weighty as the tolling of a temple bell. Amara pressed her fist against her mouth, stifling a sob. Trust, she reminded herself forcefully. She left her note on the table and walked to the door; each step felt like a mile. Her hand shook when she reached for the handle, but her eyes had finally dried.

Trust, she thought again, more strongly, and opened the door.

Cicero beamed down at her, though something unreadable curled behind his eyes as he examined her face. His wagon was parked just outside the front garden, her vehicle to an uncertain destiny.

"Are you ready, little Listener?" the jester asked cheerfully.

"Yes," Amara said. She was proud that her voice only wavered a little bit. She picked up the block of books and the basket, cast one final look back, then stepped out and locked the door behind her.

The tumblers slid into place with a heavy click that echoed in her very bones.

Cicero loaded her meager belonging into the back of the wagon with extreme care, even reverence, then lifted her into the front by her waist. Amara frowned a little at the manhandling, but was too tired to protest. She settled down on the bench and pulled her hood up, curling into a miserable little ball as the jester secured Bryn's lead to the rear of the wagon.

At least one friend would follow her.

Cicero lept up onto the bench with feline grace, offering another giddy smile as he took the reins. "To our home, Little Listener," he said. The wagon started forward with a lurch.

"Yeah," Amara said softly, casting one final look back at the house. "Home."