Morndas, Last Seed 31, 4E201
2:30 pm
The Road to Falkreath, Whiterun Hold

Surprisingly, Cicero left her alone for the first hour or so. He hummed tunelessly, filling the silence. Amara stared out at the road, following the fluttering paths of butterflies as the wagon trundled slowly through the plains. No one else was on the road, save patrolling guardsmen. She even knew the names of some. After the first few paused in their rounds and stared intently at her face, Amara realized that it would be rather strange to see her on a random man's wagon. She hid her face after that.

Cicero finally broke the companionable silence when they passed the road to Whiterun, continuing on toward Riverwood. Amara was intensely grateful that he hadn't turned toward the city; nearly everyone around Whiterun, from Honningbrew to Dragonsreach, knew her, and she was sure her presence on the jester's wagon would have raised many awkward and unanswerable questions.

"Has the Little Listener ever traveled?"

Amara blinked and glanced at him curiously. "Yes," she said, absently running the hem of her cloak through her fingers. "Papa took me to meet his friends at the College up in Winterhold when I started practicing magic. Then, when Mama and Papa… when they died, we went to Cyrodiil to stay with my Auntie Lynette."

Winterhold had been amazing. Papa's friends were all so powerful and intelligent, and they hadn't looked at her sputtering fireballs with disgust or fear. It amazed her, still, that Papa had been so brave and full of love that he had given up his position in the College to marry Mama and take over the farm when Grandpapa had died. Amara didn't think she would have been that selfless. But when she had told Papa, he had simply smiled and swung her up onto his strong shoulders. "My little darling," he had said, "one day you will have the dragon-fire of Talos in your heart too, and then you'll understand how a sacrifice can become no sacrifice at all."

This, perhaps, was her dragon-fire moment. She wondered if Papa had been this scared.

Cyrodiil, on the other hand, had been a unique blend of awful and good. Auntie Lynette was married to an important statesman and thus lived in the Imperial City, with it's high white walls and bustling streets. It had been quite a rude shock to go from the rough, honest cities of Skyrim to the bizarre delicacy and politicking of the Empire. But her aunt, uncle, and cousins had all welcomed her and Alar with open arms and heartfelt condolences. Uncle Ned had even offered to adopt her into his household so she could take lessons from the tutors who taught his three daughters, Emelia, Julia, and Minette.

Alar, of course, had refused. "She belongs on the farm with me," he had insisted, tucking her under one arm. "Besides, Papa wanted her to go to the College of Winterhold when she came of age."

Amara's mouth tasted bitter when she remembered his words. He hadn't meant them as lies, but he was surely quick to forget. She wished he had left her in Cyrodiil.

"Hm, well-traveled indeed," Cicero said with a smile.

Amara side-eyed him thoughtfully and acknowledged that whatever she had gotten herself into was undoubtedly better than staying alone on the farm. It might, perhaps, even prove to be better than staying with her Aunt and Uncle. That remained to be seen, but surely being spoken to by a cosmic entity like Mother counted for something.

"Did you like traveling?"

Amara fidgeted, looking off the side. "I… I liked traveling with my papa. And… Alar was good company."

Cicero hummed neutrally. "Our family travels often from the Sanctuary. You will grow to like it, Cicero thinks. It can be quite… freeing." He sounded strangely wistful, though Amara couldn't fathom why.

She was intrigued by his statement, though. "Cicero, who… who's our family?"

Cicero blinked at her in surprise. "Oh. You do not know who Mother is? Hm."

Amara chewed the edge of her lip self-consciously. "Should I know?" she asked hesitantly.

"No, no," he said, waving a gloved hand dismissively. "Cicero just thought… well, it does not matter. Cicero will tell you, but not now. Tonight, perhaps, when we are not on the open road."

Amara frowned thoughtfully. What was so important about their new "family" that he couldn't tell her now? Then again, 'Mother' must have been some kind of daedra. Perhaps an aedra, but then what would there be to conceal?

Still, the dismissal rankled her and she scrunched her nose in distaste. "Is there anything you can tell me?" she asked with childish impatience.

Cicero laughed, unbothered by her demand. The wagon trundled slowly over a bridge, the river beneath burbling as if in agreement. Amara glanced quickly over her shoulder, feeling a pang in her heart as Whiterun began to fade into the distance. Once they traversed the upcoming switchbacks, she wouldn't even be able to see it.

"Truth be told," Cicero said, distracting her, "Cicero does not know much about our new family. Cicero can only speculate."

"Oh… did they invite you to join?"

"Yes, of course. Cicero is the Keeper. It is a great honor to host the Keeper." He gave her an unreadable look. "It is an even greater honor to host the Listener."

Amara wanted to ask why, but Cicero probably wouldn't have told her anyway, so she fell silent. But then… what if she was the only one who could hear Mother? That prompted another question: what was Mother going to say to her? Through her? A frustrated little pulse formed in the back of her head. What was her purpose in all of this? She was just a random farmer's child, nothing special. If anything, Mother should have picked Alar; he had a dragon's soul, for Talos sake!

A gloved finger suddenly poked Amara's cheek, jolting her from her frustrated brooding. She looked up to find Cicero squinting down at her, head cocked to the side.

"You were frowning quite… murderously, little Listener," he said by way of explanation. His eyes were bright with curiosity, glowing nearly amber in the sunlight. "Why?"

Amara scowled and huddled up beneath her cloak, debating whether or not to tell Cicero her true thoughts. "I… I don't understand why Mother spoke to me," she admitted at length. "She should have spoken to Alar, not me. He's important, at least." The words were bitter, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

This seemed to be not at all what Cicero expected her to say, if his surprised blink was any indication. "Little Listener is important," he said slowly. "Cicero does not know what Mother knows, but he is sure that she knows what she is doing." He arched one eyebrow. "Do you know better than Mother?"

"That's not what I meant," Amara snapped. "I just—I don't understand! There's nothing special about me! If there was, I—I would have been able to save Mama and Papa."

And there it was. As the words escaped her, she suddenly realized that was why she felt so uncomfortable. Why was she useful enough to be spoken to by a daedra, but not useful enough to save her parents?

There was a long pause as Cicero considered her statement. "Little Listener is only eleven," he said slowly, consideringly. "Younger, perhaps, when her parents were killed. It was not the Little Listener's job to save her parents." Another pause, then, quieter, "and if your brother is so important, why couldn't he?"

Amara jolted in surprise. She hadn't considered that. Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly, but no sound came out, and she was left wide-eyed and confused as she considered the question: why couldn't he?

Amara was no closer to an answer when the sun finally dipped below the horizon. They had passed through Riverwood, Whiterun long behind them, and continued on towards Falkreath for several hours. Cicero deliberately left her to her silent ruminations as he bustled about, preparing their shelter for the night, tending to the horses, and lighting a fire.

It was only when she was settled on a bedroll in front of the roaring campfire that he addressed her. "Cicero promised the Little Listener that he would tell her of her new Family," he said, tossing one final log into the circle of stones. Amara nodded eagerly, immediately distracted from her painful and unanswerable question.

Cicero hummed and settled down one his bedroll next to her, waiting until she had shifted around to face him before continuing. His posture was relaxed, his eyes clear and lucid. "Our new Family is the last one left. We had many, once, but they were purged." His expression grew dark. "We serve the Night Mother, who was once enshrined in her sacred crypt in Bravil, but the—bad people, unholy people, they did not care for Mother. Cicero barely managed to flee, and his family was killed giving him that chance."

Amara exhaled shakily, her eyes filling with sympathetic tears. She knew what that felt like, at least.

"The Family listens to the Night Mother through you, Little Listener. Only, we have not had a Listener in a long, long time. Cicero does not know what this Family has been doing in the absence of Her words."

"Cicero," Amara asked tentatively when he paused. "What will Mother say to me? What does she want me to do?"

The Imperial's half-hooded, sober eyes darkened further, and his visage suddenly became terrifying in the flickering light of the fire. "Are you certain you want to know?" he murmured, moving close enough that their legs nearly touched at the knees. "I will tell you, but you must be certain. You cannot run away."

"I have to know," she said, swallowing hard. Cicero's use of first person slid past her unnoticed, fitting perfectly with the strange, otherworldly mood the conversation had taken on. "I won't run."

He nodded slowly, and she straightened her spine, tensing in preparation. Whatever he was going to say, she knew she wouldn't like it. She also knew she had to hear it. It was inescapable. "The Night Mother is the bride of Sithis," said he, voice rasping and dark. "The Night Mother speaks the words of the Void to you, Amara. The Night Mother will tell you who has been consigned to the Void, and we will carry their will out, unquestioning and merciless. Do you understand?"

Assassins, her mind translated helpfully, you've been chosen to be an assassin. Amara closed her eyes and breathed slowly through the disbelief. Talos, she prayed, tears slipping unbidden down her cheeks. What have I done?

But there was nothing for it. Even before she had heard Mother's voice, she had been on this path. The little Nord understood that now. She had always been bloodthirsty and raging, always prepared to strike without she knew why.

There was no turning back.