Tirdas, Hearthfire 1, 4E201
6:00am
The Road to Falkreath, Falkreath Hold
Amara quickly learned that Cicero wasn't going to let her do any work at all on their journey.
When they broke camp at dawn the next day, it was Cicero who banked the smouldering remains of the fire, prepared the wagon, and hitched up the horses. When he finished, he simply wrapped her still-slumbering self up in a blanket and lifted her into the front of the wagon, which is why she woke up drooling on his shoulder two hours later.
Normally she would have enjoyed the lack of chores immensely, but after recent events she was practically bursting with nervous energy that had nowhere to go. After an hour of bugging Cicero, he finally let her get down and jog next to the wagon for a bit, though he pulled her back up before she felt truly calm.
There was a single moment of excitement in the day when two extremely stupid bandits tried to hold them up.
"Close your eyes, Little Listener," Cicero said. A wild, crazed grin grew on his face as he stared down the suddenly uncertain bandits. Amara thought this was rather odd even as she obeyed. Why spare her from a gruesome sight? She was set to become an assassin, after all.
The bandits both screamed shrilly as Cicero cackled and lept from the wagon like a rabid Sabrecat. Their cries quickly cut off, replaced by weak gurgles and the liquid squelch of tearing flesh. Amara shuddered where she sat, recalling the sensation of a knife in her hand, of bone giving way beneath her fury. The sharp scent of blood filled the air.
"Keep your eyes closed," Cicero said with a giggle. Cloth rustled, then leaves. A heavy body thudded against the ground some distance away, followed shortly by a second. A few more seconds of rustling cloth and then warm, gloved fingers closed gently around her hands, pulling them away from her eyes. The wild, crazed look in Cicero's eyes had faded into something more like dark satisfaction. He examined her face—looking for what, she did not know—then nodded sharply and climbed back into the wagon.
Amara glanced back once at the red-stained dirt as they departed.
They camped by lake Ilinalta for the night, and Amara spent a long time watching the light of the campfire reflect across the gently-lapping water. Eventually Cicero managed to coax her down onto her bedroll. Despite her nervous, pent-up energy, she was soon fast asleep.
Again, she woke on Cicero's shoulder well past sunrise.
"Are we almost to Falkreath?" she asked groggily, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. The forest rose high around the path on either side, though lake Ilinalta was occasionally visible through the trees on her side.
"Yes, noon should see us there," Cicero said cheerfully. He reached down between his feet to retrieve a waterskin and bread. Amara took them gratefully.
"And then how far to the Sanctuary?"
"A few hours, no more. We will arrive by nightfall."
Nervous fear bubbled in her stomach, but she quashed it with a deep breath and a swig of cool water. "Oh, alright," she said lamely, and fell silent.
Amara was still silent when they pulled into Falkreath, nervously braiding and unbraiding her hair. The townspeople largely ignored their slow passage through the town, though Cicero's strange attire garnered a few inquisitive stares."Relax, little one," the jester said when Amara startled so badly at the sudden baying of a hound that she nearly toppled off the wagon.
Amara, drawn taut as a bowstring by apprehension, thought this easier said than done.
They passed through Falkreath without incident, reentering the forest as the sun began its descent. Three hours into the last leg of their journey and Amara felt like she was going to vibrate straight through her seat. Finally, Cicero sighed shortly and stopped the wagon.
"Sleep," he commanded, lifting her into the back without ceremony. "Take a nap, Little Listener. You are going to hurt yourself."
"I'm not tired," she mumbled tiredly, but nonetheless curled up in the space between Mother's coffin and the side of the wagon. Warmth—the barest hint of Mother's presence—curled around her, and within minutes she was asleep.
Astrid paced the length of Arnbjorn's forge with quick, agitated strides. The Keeper was due at any moment—was at least a day late, in fact, and with each hour he didn't appear her nerves ratcheted up a notch. She wasn't worried about the man himself, despite the insanity that fairly oozed from his letters. No, she was worried his presence would destabilize her own position in the Sanctuary.
"Astrid, love," Arnbjorn sighed, setting down the leather plate he was mending when his wife passed him for the hundredth time. "You're going to wear a trench into the floor if you keep that up."
"This is infuriating," she said, not stopping. "Sithis take him, what could delay the Keeper? He should be here by now!"
As if in response to her exasperated comment, they heard the door to the Sanctuary open. Astrid straightened, frantically smoothing her hair back, and took a deep, calming breath. "Get the others, I'll greet him," she said with forced calm.
Arnbjorn grunted in acknowledgment as Astrid strode determinedly to the stairs, taking them two at a time, and stopped before the table that held her map. She stood facing the entrance, hands clasped behind her back, and quickly smoothed her expression into one of cool welcome. The soft footsteps drew closer—audible, she knew, only because he wanted her to hear. She prepared herself to face the Keeper.
But she hadn't (couldn't have) prepared herself for what he brought with him.
She took in his appearance in a split second as he rounded the corner. He was only a little taller than the average Imperial, with reddish hair and a dangerous, half-crazed expression on his face. An ebony dagger hung from the belt of his Jester's motley. All this she had expected, if not so explicitly.
What Astrid was most certainly not expecting was the child sleeping in his arms.
The welcome she had carefully prepared died in her throat as she stared. For a second she thought it might be an un-child, like Babette, but there was no undead pallor to her skin; the child's face was tanned and rosy-cheeked. Her brownish-blonde hair, nearly the same color as Astrid's, was pulled back in a messy braid that hung over Cicero's arm. Her dress was dirty and much-loved, made out of dark blue homespun cloth. If Astrid had to guess, she would have placed the girl's age around ten or so.
In short, she looked exactly like a normal farmer's child.
Cicero didn't say a word as he came to a stop in front of Astrid, an expectant smile on his face. His eyes glimmered with mischief, and Astrid realized he had expected exactly this reaction. She quickly composed herself.
"Welcome to the Falkreath Sanctuary, Keeper," she said. "I wasn't aware you were going to bring your daughter."
Cicero laughed as if she had just told the best joke in the world, only quieting when the child in his arms murmured and shifted. "Daughter!" he chortled. "No, no, Amara is not Cicero's daughter."
Oh joy, he speaks in third person, commented the sarcastic voice in the back of Astrid's head. This was dismissed in favor of focusing on the girl and her relation—or lack thereof—to Cicero. "Ah, forgive the assumption," she said, dipping her head slightly in apology. "How is she related to you, then?" It wasn't the most subtle of cues, but Astrid couldn't bring herself to care.
"She's not!" said Cicero jovially. "Little Amara is much better than a relation, oh yes!" For a split second Astrid's mind went horrible places, but Cicero continued. "Cicero found her on the outskirts of Whiterun two days ago. Amara is a very special little girl, but Cicero would prefer to tell this story only once, if the Lady does not mind."
Had he kidnapped a random Nord child?
"Of course," Astrid said slowly, seeing no better option. "Right this way."
The rest of the family was assembled and waiting near the forge. More than a few eyes widened upon seeing the child in Cicero's arms. Astrid quickly introduced each assassin before yielding the floor to Cicero.
The Keeper beamed. "Well met," he said, his eyes sweeping over the assassins. "Cicero has wonderful news, oh yes!" He paused, relishing the tension. "Our Lady has returned! Our Lady has chosen a Listener!" Shock rippled through the group and Astrid felt her innards turn to ice. Oh no, she thought, briefly closing her eyes.
Festus was quickest on the uptake, his eyes locked on the child sleeping in the Keeper's arms. "You don't mean… the girl…?" he asked in an awed and disbelieving tone.
"Yes, yes!" Cicero giggled, dancing in place. "The Little Listener!"
Another wave of shock rippled through the group. 'When' and 'how' and 'a child Listener' seemed to be the primary questions. Babette in particular was staring at the girl with thoughtful, narrowed eyes.
"Mother has chosen well," the Keeper said, waving off most of their bewildered questions. "Cicero can see it. Little Amara is fierce and cunning, though there is much for her to learn. She will grow strong"—he looked directly at Astrid—"in time."
Astrid read the subtext clearly: she's not a threat to you right now.
Well. She tapped her lips thoughtfully, offering a tiny nod of acknowledgment. That certainly gave her much to consider, if nothing else.
"Now, the Little Listener must be put to bed," he continued, "and Cicero must attend to Mother before he can retire as well."
Gabriella stepped forward without prompting, holding out her arms. "Forgive our lack of accommodations, Keeper," she said calmly. "You'll have to share your room with… the Listener, or sleep in the common room. I can put her to bed while you attend to the Night Mother."
Cicero looked at the Dunmer for a long, considering moment. Finally, he nodded and passed Amara over. Gabriella easily accommodated her weight, then turned and vanished into the depths of the Sanctuary.
Nazir and Festus followed Cicero to retrieve the Night Mother's coffin. Babette and Veezara vanished after Gabriella, presumably to try and work out some new sleeping arrangements, leaving Astrid and Arnbjorn alone in front of the forge.
"Well," Arnbjorn commented dryly as he returned to his project. "Didn't see that coming."
"No," Astrid agreed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Neither did I."