4E 225 (The 23rd year after Alduin's defeat.)
Cicero stuck his bare feet out by the fire, warming each one of his wiggling toes. He was spending the night in the inn up the road from Dagny' home. Tonight, the main room was almost deserted. The only other face was the bartender in the corner who looked nearly eighty. He seemed to be falling asleep with his head leaned back against the wall and his mouth hanging open. There was a raggedy broom propped up against his body. Three large, feathered rugs were spread along the floor, and varying decorative baubles dangled from the low, wooden ceiling.
Cicero's chest was tight, he hunched over, curling his shoulders forward. The fire crackled and cast bending shadows on the floor. The flames were inviting and made for a warm, relaxing, atmosphere. But, Cicero, by his own admission, was not great at relaxing. His years with the Brotherhood drilled into his head an important habit- never let your guard down. It proved to be a rather difficult habit to break.
Now, 'letting your guard down', that was the Listener's forte. When she relaxed, it was like a ritual; alto wine, candles, a bubble bath: these were the best parts of her spell. She'd always encouraged Cicero to join her in whatever "relaxing activity" she was doing, be it the meditation, the rock collecting, or the baths.
By Sithis, did she take a lot of baths. She always persuaded his mind to find dreamy rest with her in the tub. He recalled the paleness of Hypatia's extended hand, reaching out from the bubbles, and calling him into the bathwater. He remembered her wet fingertips drumming on his back, and the whisper of his name like a sigh, as she wrapped her arms pleasantly around his body. Somehow in all that relaxing love, Cicero could never shut his mind completely off. Though he did tell her often that the voices (though not completely gone) were much quieter in her presence.
Her advice to him had always been "breathe". If he couldn't stop the laughter, or if he was just upset, she'd drape her arms around his shoulders and rest her forehead against his. They would breathe together in sync. There was something rather intimate about it.
"Meditation" is what she called it, and it was mostly learned from the Greybeards in High Hrothgar. When Hypatia first discovered her Dragonborn blood, she spent an entire month in the monastery. She came back to the Dawnstar Sanctuary with her eyes a little brighter and mind a bit freer. Ever since then, she made semi-annual trips up the 7,000 steps. Once at the beginning of First Seed and again on the first of Hearthfire. Occasionally, Cicero would join her. He recalled those days with mixed emotions.
"Meditation can be very helpful, even without the Thu'um," the Listener had tried to convince him. "There are so many benefits, Cicero. It gives you a sense of focus, clears your mind, gives you better control over your thoughts. Perhaps you would find some use in it. I encourage you to try it!"
Her smile was warm, and Cicero did as she suggested and attended a few of the sessions. He would sit cross-legged on the grey stone with Hypatia and the Greybeards, breathing for what seemed like hours. Nobody spoke, but every so often, a low rumble would shake through the monastery.
"Breathe and focus only on that," Hypatia told him one morning as they both sat on the floor near the windows. "When a thought appears in your mind, I want you to recognize it, and then let it go. Observe your emotions, but don't ruminate on them."
This was much easier said than done. Cicero had thoughts jumping around like popcorn in his mind, springing upwards, demanding to be acknowledged and acted on. During the meditation hours, he sometimes laughed in sporadic fits, not meaning to, but certainly disturbing the silence and ruining the experience for the rest of them. In the end, Cicero chose to opt out of these sessions.
Instead, he spent his time at High Hrothgar wandering the stone hallways, gazing out windows and daydreaming. After that, the trips were sometimes lonely. The Listener would spend most of her day with Arngeir, training and meditating on the power of her Thu'um. At night, he and his Listener ate privately together. To his surprise, Master Borri was an excellent cook.
He sighed. Would they ever make the trip again?
The walls of Cicero's mind were painted fully with the image of the Listener. Her brilliant white smile, her long blonde hair, her toned Nordic physique; she was the most enchanting woman Cicero knew.
Where in Sithis' name could she be?
His mind waltzed dangerously between the various possibilities. Had she hit her head? Fallen down a cliff? Eaten the wrong berries? He clasped his knees tightly together, a sour taste in the back of his mouth.
What if she'd been kidnapped? Oh, by Sithis, what horrifying, despicable, awful things could her captor be doing? He dreaded to remember all of all different methods of torture and interrogation he'd learned in the Brotherhood. Clenching his fist, he imagined himself wringing the neck of her captor. His fingers twitched angrily as he pictured her trembling body on the floor of a dark cellar, her hands chained to a stone wall.
He threw the thought away… No, she couldn't be captured. Surely the Listener was too powerful… too mighty to be subdued. Right? His throat ached. If not captured, then what? His gaze fell to the floor.
Maybe she was dead… a bloated corpse in the Karth river. This was the most horrid image of all.
Oh! How could Cicero have let such a horrid thing happen? The Listener depended on him to guide her, protect her, and care for her. Stupid Cicero… Stupid, incompetent Cicero.
"Agh!" the silence was broken by a frustrated yelp.
The bartender in the corner awoke with a startled gasp, the broom, which was then leaning against his body, fell to the floor with a clatter.
"Everything a-alright over there?" he asked, concerned.
Cicero felt his cheeks flush, as the yelp had certainly escaped his mouth without his permission, but he waved his arm toward the man with feigned confidence. "Oh, excuse me! Cicero's foot came a bit too close to the flames!"
The old man grunted and bent to pick up his broom.
Cicero tucked his arms in at his side, sliding down in the chair. The sun was just beginning to peek in through the window. Oh, wonderful, another sleepless night. It was nearly time to hear Dagny's response.
It was easy for anyone to hate Cicero. He was loud, annoying, always dancing, always whistling, always singing, always shrieking. He would prance around the house in that bothersome way, carrying on about his weapons, his mother, and the type of flowers she liked.
Yet for all his flaws, Dagny never disliked him.
When she was younger, she liked him because he was funny, a silly jester in a red costume. He amused her with his large, animated expressions; she liked the theatrical gestures he made, as though he were some sort of dramatic actor. He clapped his hands, stomped his feet, and danced to unheard music—everything he did brought life to the otherwise uninteresting manor.
It was a contrast to her mother, Hypatia, who often slept late and was mostly drunk or locked in the study. With her, there were never any silly songs and dances. She only smiled when she wasn't drinking.
But when Cicero came around, the atmosphere shifted; things were light and joyful. He brought shiny trinkets, candy, and gifts. Their mother was a different person in his presence: airy and less depressed. When Cicero came to visit, Dagny and her siblings would flock to his side, scrambling to receive their presents. Cicero chuckled, happy to hand them spectacular wonders from beyond the manor's fences.
"Cicero's coming!" called Dagny's eleven-year-old brother, Tor.
Ten-year-old Dagny looked up from her book to see Tor's chubby face pressed up against the window.
"He's coming up the path now!" he said. "He's carrying a trunk!" Tor squealed with glee, as Dagny set down her book and came near Tor to peer out the glass. Cicero was down below, unloading a wide chest from the back of his carriage. It was so large, he stumbled toward the front door, almost unable to carry it.
Tor and Dagny descended the spiral staircase with joy, each running to be first to unlock the front door.
"Cicero!" Dagny called as Tor swung open the wide entrance. She leaned backward to avoid being ran over by Cicero who could barely see above the trunk he carried.
The jester was a bit sweaty, It had been only minutes since he arrived at the Dragonborn's manor, and Tor's eyes were already gleaming with greed and excitement. What special things would his mother's strange friend bring this month?
"Fuck yes! It's my elven sword!" Tor clambered clumsily onto the kitchen chairs as Cicero heaved the weighty trunk onto the table.
"Laaanguage," Cicero chastised in his sing-song voice. "Cicero hates hearing such foolish words from such intelligent children!"
"Please, tell me you got the sword!" Tor asked, practically begging.
"Hmm… I don't recall you making any mention of wanting a sword? Cicero strictly remembers Tor asking for socks."
Tor made a face, unimpressed with the joke.
"It's what he deserves," scoffed their sister, Alissei. She was Dagny's twin, and everyone said the more put together of the two. She had apparently heard the commotion and came to see what was going on. She stood at the other end of the table, watching with scrutinizing eyes—pretending, rather badly, to be uninterested in the whole thing. But Cicero knew she was just as excited for presents as the rest of them.
He chuckled, fidgeting with the metal latch at the front of the trunk. The children each held their breath, waiting eagerly for Cicero to lift the lid. When the lock was finally undone, the jester fumbled around in the trunk before withdrawing a long, golden sword.
Dagny had never seen a more beautiful weapon.
"For the eldest," Cicero said. He waited for Tor to cease his happy bouncing and handed him the golden blade. Tor tested its weight in his arm, rolling the sword over a few times in the palm of his hand.
"How does it feel?" Cicero asked curiously.
"A bit heavy," the eleven-year-old admitted.
"Oh, you'll grow into it!" Cicero chuckled. "Now, for Alissei!" His hand and face disappeared inside the trunk and resurfaced holding a small wooden box. Cicero beamed at Alissei and opened the lid to reveal a set of five small glass vials. Each vial was full of a different colored liquid, one such liquid was completely clear, though Dagny had a high suspicion it was not water.
"It's poison." Alissei said smoothly, giving off the impression she was well acquainted with all sorts of venom, though being only ten.
"Oh, yes!" Cicero cackled. "So intelligent, just like her mother!"
Alissei smiled—she was easily won over by any compliment regarding her intellect. Despite her young age, she'd already taken an interest in all things alchemical. "Thank you."
"Next! For Dagny." Cicero reached again, into the large trunk, and pulled from it a small, ebony dagger. "Quick and sharp!" he said. "The perfect weapon."
"Wow, thank you," she said as Cicero handed over the blade, dark black with one ruby gem secured at each side of the hilt.
"A dagger for Dagny," he chuckled. "Wait, hmm? That could be a limerick! Dagny's dagger… Dagny's dagger with which…. she daggles…she…? Hmm."
He pressed a thoughtful finger up to his chin. "Know any more words that sound like 'dag'?" he asked.
The three children looked at each other and Dagny shrugged; Alissei scrunched a face and thought hard.
"Daglocks?" asked a different voice from behind them. Cicero laughed and turned on his heel.
Above them, leaning on the railing, was their mother and Cicero's best friend, Hypatia. She looked tired; her hair messy as though she'd just woken up (though it was nearly two in the afternoon). She gazed down at them all from the top of the spiral stairs. She looked rather angelic in her long, white nightgown.
"LISTENER!" Cicero gasped, outstretching his arms, awed by her presence. "Oh, come down here! Come down here and see what dear Cicero has brought you."
Hypatia descended the spiral staircase in circles, and Cicero kept an admiring eye on her. It had been many weeks since they'd seen each other, and he was all too thrilled to be with her again. As she made her way to the kitchen table where everyone was gathered, Cicero held open his arms and she embraced him willingly.
"Ma, take a look at this sword!" Tor swiped the golden blade across the air a few times.
"Cicero got that for you?" she asked.
"Yes," said Tor.
"Why, it looks like it was made for you!" she said.
"And he brought Dagny a dagger, and Alissei some poisons!"
Hypatia turned to Cicero and smiled widely.
"How thoughtful," she said cheerfully. "Oh, it's a relief to see you! How long are you staying?" she asked excitedly.
"How long does the Listener require my services?" he bowed dramatically and winked at her.
"…Indefinitely?" she chuckled.
"Hmm, a tempting offer," he teased. "Cicero must admit, a tempting offer, indeed…" Hypatia grabbed his arm and pulled him closer, giggling foolishly.
"Oh, but really," she laughed. "Please stay here for at least… a week this time?" She looked up at Cicero with large, hopeful eyes.
"As my Listener commands it!" he sprang forward and spun Hypatia around in a quick dance toward the trunk. "Now, Listener," he came up behind her and whispered into her ear. "Your present," he grinned.
The children were also curious to see what Cicero had brought their mother.
"Does the Listener like this chest?" he asked her. Hypatia examined the beautiful walnut trunk. Along the front were carved intricacies patterned in the shapes of vines along the side.
"I love it. Is it for me?" she asked.
Cicero twirled around the side of the table and leaned forward. He reached his gloved hand underneath the bottom, and without warning, a small compartment sprung open out of the side.
The kids all squealed in delight. A secret compartment! It was something funny, like from a fairy tale. Dagny watched as Cicero pulled open the compartment, to reveal the hidden drawer at the base of the trunk. It was large enough to fit a few decent sized books.
"Woah!" said Tor. "Ma, what will you hide in there?"
***
What will you hide in there?
***
Dagny woke from her dream to a silent bedroom, (not even her husband, Endon, was making a noise) and pulled the white sheets up over her head. She reached out a hand to feel for her husband. He seemed to be awake; as soon as she touched him, he scooted closer to wrap her up in a hug.
She was glad she didn't have to face the night alone. There was something painful about remembering those whimsical days.