24th of Morning Star, 4E 189

It is a new year, and two months since the Night Mother first arrived here at the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, and still the Unholy Matron has not seen fit to speak to any one of us.

And so, Rasha has decided to revive an ancient Dark Brotherhood tradition - the appointing of a Keeper, a guardian whose sole duty is the safeguarding of the Night Mother's remains. The remaining members of the Black Hand will make their decision tomorrow.

Cicero blew on the wet ink of his latest journal entry. The flame of a nearby candle quivered violently in protest, but it did not gutter out. There was so much more to be said, but there was much he did not wish to recount. Not now. Not ever. There was no reason to speak of the infighting happening among the Black Hand, or the desperate fear glazing the eyes of the younger siblings. He did not have it in himself to chronicle his feelings on the matter. Out of habit, he'd choked them down, determined to crush his grief and fury until he was numb.

He pushed away from the writing table and looked around the empty bedroom. He once shared this room with three siblings, but they were dead. There were more rooms like this in the Sanctuary. Places that had been so full of life were little more than collections of dusty furniture and painful memories.

Movement in the hallway startled him into slamming his journal shut. "Who's there?" he barked, whipping his head toward the door.

"It's just me," Pontius stammered. "I came to talk but— I can come back later."

Cicero cursed at himself for being so jumpy. "I'm not busy," he said, waving Pontius inside.

He cautiously entered the bedroom. "I didn't mean to startle you." He took a breath with the intent to speak again, but then he pressed his lips together in a polite, albeit nervous smile, and waited.

"It's fine." He watched his fellow assassin fidget with his gloves. Pontius and Cicero rarely spoke more than they needed to. His brother's cocky attitude often got on his nerves. But Cicero reckoned that if he had Pontius' looks and heedless grace, he'd probably be a cocky shit, too. That usual air of confidence was nowhere to be seen, though, and a very nervous Pontius was standing before him. "Speak, brother," Cicero urged. "If you need my help, you need only ask."

Pontius breathed a laugh and ran his hand through his short, sable curls. "I need so many things, brother, and I— I am not often at a loss for words, but I am not quite sure how to say what I need to say."

Cicero bit back a sigh. "Take your time," he said, exuding a patience he did not feel.

The Imperial grimaced, undoubtedly sensing Cicero's agitation. "When I wake up I expect to hear them breathing," he said, cutting his eyes to the empty beds lining the wall. "I listen for the gentle push and pull of their breath until I remember they're gone."

With every syllable that left his lips, Cicero could feel his nerves fraying. But he composed himself and said, "I miss them too, Pontius. But they would want us to stay strong."

"I know," he said, his voice rough. "But I'm sick of being lonely. Can I stay in here with you?"

"Of course," Cicero said, casting a glance at the dreadfully empty room. "There are three unclaimed beds. You may have your pick of the lot."

"What if I want your bed?"

"This is hardly the time to squabble over one's sleeping space," he snorted, as he turned back to see Pontius edging closer to him. A sneer stopped the other man in his tracks, but irritation gave way to curiosity when he took note of the heat in Pontius' eyes. "What are you playing at?" he demanded, unsure of how to proceed. "What do you want?"

Pontius remained silent, but Cicero knew what he was after. There weren't many siblings left to pick from if one wanted company. Garnag was too intimidating to approach, and he'd always made his inclination toward women clear. Rasha was, as far as Cicero could tell, utterly uninterested in sex. He rebuffed advances from brother and sister alike, and whenever a conversation would turn toward more bawdy subjects, he would not participate.

It hurt to be someone's last choice. But he wasn't sure if it was a point worth arguing. Any day could be their last, and while forming attachments would be foolish, it would be nice just to lose himself for a few hours. So what if he was Pontius' last choice? He was right there in front of him. He was warm and alive, and willing.

"For Sithis' sake," Cicero sighed. "If you want me to bed you, just say so. If you can't manage the words, then leave."

Pontius jerked back at the bite of those words. There was something like pain flaring behind his eyes, and Cicero liked what he saw. He didn't know how to be kind. Soft touches and warm words were unknown to him. But pain and cruelty— those things he could handle. It was what he knew.

It was a challenge. Pontius would have to admit what he was after, or he would leave. Assassins weren't the type of people who readily submitted to anyone. So Cicero wasn't surprised when Pontius called him a prick and left the room. He'd be back. Desperation would take hold, and he would return to Cicero, and — most importantly — he would have to do things Cicero's way.

"Finally!"

Cicero marks the page in the book he's been reading when Lumen bursts into their room. Only now does he notice the ache building in his neck from staying in one position for too long. He'd been stretched out on his stomach, content as a Khajiit in a sunbeam as he lost himself in a book. Despite the interruption, he can't find it in himself to be annoyed with Lumen for shattering that moment of peace. Not when she looks so happy.

"What has you in such a fine mood?"

"Madanach finally did the Sacrament!" Her giddiness melts into irritation when she says, "I've been waiting forever!"

"It has only been two weeks." Cicero grins at his Listener's frustration. "Maybe less."

"It's been too long! The man can't just tell me he wants someone killed and then take forever—"

"Two weeks."

"— to do the Sacrament!" Lumen finishes her rant with a wave of her arms.

"Perhaps he needed to work up the courage to face you again," Cicero purrs as he rolls onto his side. "You do seem to delight in giving him a hard time."

"It's no less than what he deserves."

He does not miss the smile that curls her lips. The Listener has grown fond of the old Forsworn warrior. He has proven to be a useful ally on more than one occasion. Cicero is quiet for a while, watching as she grabs their traveling packs and begins to fill them with essential items: Spare clothes, armor repair kits, potions, and salves. Rations and water will be added when they leave in the morning.

Cicero pushes into a sitting position, his fingers working at the knot in his neck. "Cicero cannot blame him. It is so much fun to tease you, sweet Lumen."

She tosses their packs near the door. "There should be a tenet against harassing the Listener," she says, stretching her arms over her head before sinking down on the bed.

The corner of his mouth curves into a half-smirk. "Cicero is glad there isn't. He would have violated it ten times over."

"More than that." She tugs his hands away from his neck and replaces his fingers with her own. "Let me help with this."

Cicero leans into her touch. Fingers, both strong and gentle, chase the aches from his sore hands of his lover are the hands of a killer, and Cicero wouldn't want it any other way. He's seen her at her cruelest, and at her sweetest— and her cruelty is what makes these moments all the more enjoyable. Just knowing those hands could expertly snap his neck sends a little thrill all the way down his spine, and straight to his cock. He's just about to tell her about it, but a knock at the door as him adjusting himself and feigning innocence.

"Come in," Lumen calls out. Unaware — or uncaring — of the state he's in.

The door opens just a fraction, and Luka's blond head pokes inside. "Lumen it's time for— oh, and I interrupting? I am. I definitely am. I can come back later—"

"It's fine," she says, pressing a kiss to the back of Cicero's neck while she scoots off the bed. "Cicero could do with a bit of healing magic if you don't mind."

Luka steps toward the bed with a grimace. Looking all the world like a man who's walking across broken glass. He mouths a silent "Sorry" before murmuring an incantation that soothes Cicero's aches away— except for the one between his legs. Damn them both.

"I only need to borrow Miss Lumen for a few hours. Maybe less. Casting can be quite draining sometimes."

"How did you manage to talk sweet, stubborn Lumen into taking her casting lessons seriously?" he asks, hoping that talk of the mundane will take his mind off of other things. "She's been avoiding them like the plague."

"It was her idea, actually," Luka says with a faint smile.

Lumen bites the inside of her cheek, clearly not wanting praise for her change of heart. "There's been so many times where knowing magic would have given me the winning edge in a fight. I'm not going to fail my family, or you, again. We'll find out what elements call to me, and I will master them."

Something like pride swells in his chest. "Do not let Cicero keep you from this task," he says. "He will find other ways to occupy his time."

Luka and Lumen file out of the room, and when the door snaps shut, Cicero reaches for his book. He settles into the pillows for the sake of his neck, ready to dive back into the story that had captured his attention earlier. His cock, however, has other plans and is being rather insistent. So Cicero conjures up images of toe fungus, draugr, worms, and whatever else he finds disgusting. Anything to make that ache go away.

"Cicero?" Pontius' voice calls out from beyond the door. "Are you busy?"

Cicero jumps. The book tumbles from his hands and lands into his lap— right on top of a rather sensitive area, made all the more sensitive by the increased blood flow. A wheeze escapes him. "Pontius," he gasps, trying not to sound as pained as he truly is. "Come in." A wave of nausea rolls in his gut. At least his body is no longer interested in sexual contact of any sort. Not after that.

"Are you—" Pontius edges inside the room, confusion writ across his features. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." He throws his legs over the side of the bed, prepared to stand whenever he can do so without his legs wobbling. "Cicero is healthy and hale. No need to worry."

"Good, because I thought we could do some training. It's been ages since we properly sparred. You were always able to kick my ass. But I always learned from you, too."

"Very well." Cicero stands. A little uncomfortable, but the discomfort will ebb away in time. "Give me a moment to change. I'll meet you down in the training pit."

Ten minutes in, and Cicero has already broken a sweat. But he is doing better than Pontius, who is sent sprawling to the ground by a well-placed punch. "Watch your feet," he says, holding a hand out to the fallen assassin. "Balance is crucial to winning a fight."

The training pit is a large, circular room stocked with all manner of weapons, training dummies, and extra armor. There is not much light aside from the bracketed sconces lining the walls. But the dim light only adds to the challenge— giving the assassins shadows to hide in, but also shadows to fear. Their siblings often lurk in the darkness, and they're known to spring out at anyone foolish enough to think they are the only ones utilizing the room that day. It's why they are so damned good at what they do. They train hard. They train as a unit. A family. Pushing each other to the limit— and shattering those limits.

Pontius clasps Cicero's offered arm and gets to his feet. "See? I'm learning already." He gives Cicero that lovers smile of his, and wipes sweat from his brow, leaving a smear of dirt in its wake. "It's been awhile since I've trained like this."

While he trusts his brother, he doubts the truth in that statement. Cicero spent ten years on his own, but he trained every day. When he left the Sanctuary, he picked fights, and he won those fights. And when he brought Mother to Skyrim, he had to protect her from bandits and nosy guards alike. "You will improve with practice," he says, spreading his feet and preparing for another round.

"Could we take a break?"

Cicero huffs a winded laugh. "We've only just begun.

"I know." Pontius runs a hand through his hair as he sits down on a nearby bench. "But I need to talk to you. In fact, I promised the Listener that I would. And I had to beg her to let me drag it out this long."

Dread settles in the pit of his stomach like a lead weight. But despite his reservations, Cicero sits on the far edge of the bench, prepared to hear his brother out. "Speak, then."

"All right," he sighs, building up his courage. "Lumen said you were under the impression that you were my last choice— that I chose you out of desperation and nothing more. That's why you've been so curt with me."

He groans. "That was meant to remain between Lumen and Cicero."

"Well, I'm glad it didn't, because you're wrong. You're so wrong." The torchlight dances across the gold flecks in his hazel eyes as he stares Cicero down. "I wanted you from the first day we met. But I was terrified of you, and I didn't have the balls to approach you until those final days. Because I knew we were on borrowed time, and if I died, I didn't want to die with regrets."

A cruel laugh escapes him. "So you fucked me so you could die without regrets?"

"No. Cicero— let me try again. That came out wrong." He looks away, his unbound hair slipping over his shoulders. His voice is strangely soft when he says, "What I mean is that… I might have been in love with you."

The words hit him like a kick to the chest. "You did not act like it," he snaps, instantly defensive. Of all the stupid things to say...

"You wouldn't have appreciated it," Pontius mutters darkly. "Had I come to you with declarations of love, you would have thrown me out on my ass." Cicero doesn't respond to that, because he's right. At least Pontius seems content to fill the silence with noise, and for that, he is grateful. "Certainly you remember the man you were. You're all smiles and laughter now. But, then? You were different. At least you seem happier now. I know the jester-thing is a mask, but when I look beyond it I see you, and you are happy."

He is, isn't he? Happy. Content, even. Never in a million years did poor, miserable Cicero ever think he'd find something as elusive as happiness. "I was cruel to you in those days," he says, his chest tightening. "For that, I apologize. I was young and stupid."

"It doesn't matter. Now is what matters. And I just— I couldn't stand the thought of you hating me and thinking that you were my last choice when the opposite was true."

"I did not hate you," he says, that tight coil in his chest loosening its grip.

"I just want things to be easy between us," Pontius says, his voice quiet. Shaky. "I just want to be your friend. It's all I ever wanted."

"If you want my friendship, then you have it." He can sense the silent question between them— will their friendship ever become something more? They may have passed the time together in Cheydinhal. But it's different now. Cicero does not want another lover, and he is content to let that question linger until Pontius gives voice to it. No sense in treading those murky waters now. "Come on," he says, gently smacking Pontius on the arm. "Enough stalling. Get on your feet. Your form is atrocious."

Pontius snorts. "What do you expect? I spent the last ten years running— and drinking heavily."

"Yes, I can tell," Cicero purrs as he gets to his feet. "And while Cicero has heard stories of Khajiit who have mastered the Whispering Fang style so completely they do their best fighting while drunk— you, my dear Pontius, are not that skilled."

"That's rude," he says, but the smile takes the bite out of his words. "I'm not even drunk!"

Cicero stalks his brother like a fox cornering a rabbit, sizing him up. "You drank a few hours ago. Cicero can smell it in your sweat. The alcohol is slowing you down. A fight can break out at any time, brother, and you must be prepared. So if you are merely tipsy, drunk, or hungover, you need to be able to work with it."

The cocky smile fades. "Tell me what to do." Pontius regards Cicero with a look so serious, so intense, if they were not friends, Cicero would reach for a blade. "I want to be ready for anything. We can't be too careful with these hunters after us. I want to be able to protect this Sanctuary, and our Listener, no matter what."

"Cicero will teach you everything he knows. But first, let's start with keeping you on your feet."

Hours later, Cicero steps into the bathtub. His aching muscles practically sing when he sinks into the steaming, scented water. He blows out a breath when he stretches out, but he does not feel at ease. His talk with Pontius left him with more questions than answers. Why now? Why bother telling him all this now, when it no longer matters? It's true that he is somewhat pleased to know he wasn't Pontius' last choice, but he doesn't appreciate knowing that his brother was in love with him. It just makes things more complicated, not less.

The water is still warm when he gets out of the bath. Chased out, more like, by his thoughts. He does not like being left alone. The silence of the Sanctuary can never drown out the incessant chattering in his mind. But he can distract himself from it easily enough.

His motley is laid out on the bed. Freshly laundered and patched and meticulously cared for. His favorite trophy. But now that he looks at it, he feels so strange about donning it. Ever since Pontius brought up the jester, the motley, and Cicero's manner of speaking, he's been at odds with himself. Whenever he thinks of the man he used to be, and the life he used to live, it's like he's looking through someone else's eyes. It doesn't feel real.

Things would have been so different if Cicero had remained unchanged. If he'd only acted rather than languishing in Cheydinhal for so long, perhaps the Listener would've been found sooner. Maybe he could've saved her from a handful of horrors if he'd only discovered her when they were both in Cyrodiil. He allows himself a moment to imagine Malrian, dead by his hand, and Lumen running away with him.

He shakes his head. No. Things happened the way they needed to. Lumen had to choose to leave Malrian, and she had to be the one to kill him.

Still, what would be different if Cicero came to Skyrim ten years ago, rather than waiting?

For one, Astrid wouldn't have sold the Dark Brotherhood out. Oh, no. Cicero doubts she'd have lived long enough to do it had he come to Skyrim in his prime. The old Cicero wouldn't have thought twice about razing a Sanctuary if it meant preserving the authority of the Night Mother and the Listener.

The Listener—

Oh, she would've hated him. He cannot bear the thought of a life without her by his side, and so he dismisses his daydreams with a wave of his hand and stalks to the wardrobe to dress in something— different. A pair of dark brown trousers and a plain white tunic feel like more a costume than his motley, but they will have to do. His relationship with his favored attire is too complicated right now.

He checks his appearance in the mirror before joining the others. He's changed over the past year. The credit for his new scars and bulkier frame goes to Lumen. Who knew fighting dragons would be so beneficial to one's figure? His arms are thick and well-formed, and his thighs sport a curve he always admired in other males. He can even see indentations of abdominal muscles, which is something sweet-roll-loving Cicero never thought he'd see.

Cicero smirks at his reflection. Talk about ego-stroking. Lumen would laugh herself sick if she caught him preening.

He hurries through the Sanctuary, following the sounds of laughter echoing through the twisting hallways. When he arrives at the overlook, he finds Arnbjorn watching the group from atop the stairs. He'd probably been heading to his forge and thought better of it when he saw a crowd. But when Cicero stands beside him and follows his gaze, he can see why he stopped. Luka, Lumen, and Pontius are down in the common area, which isn't all that surprising. What is surprising is the way Lumen is laughing— so unrestrained and free.

Lumen catches sight of them, and she shouts, "Cicero! Arnbjorn! I did it!"

"Did what?" He feels rooted to the spot. Lumen's happiness is intoxicating.

"She may have set Luka on fire," Arnbjorn says, loud enough for those down in the common area to hear.

"Oh, I'm fine," Luka says, waving his hand. "My robes were merely singed. No harm done."

"Look!" She holds her hands out, and after a moment of concentration, they are wreathed in flame. The fire dances and coils around her fingers. She makes a fist, and the flames gutter out by her will. "Nothing weird happened! Well— except for setting Luka's robe on fire. But that was when I first summoned it, and it surprised me. But now I'm getting the hang of it!"

Of course fire would be her element. "It suits you."

Pontius approaches Lumen and holds out a hand. "May I?" Her response is a silent shrug, but that is all the permission Pontius needs to take her hand in his. "Your hands are blazing hot," he says, his full mouth curling into a sensual smirk. "You can have a lot of fun with this spell on the battlefield and in the bedroom."

Luka decides he needs to be elsewhere rather quickly. A wise move, especially if Lumen decides to breathe fire rather than wield it. Cicero is of a mind to watch, rather than get in the middle of whatever is unfolding. The Listener can take care of herself, and — most importantly — Pontius needs to learn her boundaries. He was never so bold with Alisanne.

"Magical foreplay seems like a terrible idea." Lumen breathes a laugh and shakes her head. "I wouldn't even know what to do."

Pontius steps closer to her, his thumb feathering across her palm. "I wouldn't mind giving you a demonstration."

"Interesting," Arnbjorn murmurs, low enough so that only Cicero may hear.

Something twists in Cicero's gut at that flirtatious tone, followed by a nauseating wave of guilt. He is not the jealous type, and Lumen would not appreciate it if he interfered. Flirting with the Listener is not forbidden, and for her part, Lumen is taking it well. She seems to enjoy the banter. But why would Pontius tell Cicero he'd once been in love with him, only to brazenly flirt with his lover right in front of him, and just a few hours later? Cicero doesn't know what kind of game his brother is playing, but it is a dangerous one.

Lumen pulls away from Pontius. "Are you two busybodies going to come down here and have a celebratory drink with me, or what?" Her tone is light. Casual. As if whatever occurred between her and Pontius had been playful.

Perhaps that's all it is— playing. Cicero curses himself for feeling an inkling of jealousy. "Coming, sweetness!" he croons, as he descends the stairs. "Arnbjorn and I were only waiting to see if you fried Pontius to a crisp for being so bold. We didn't even get to place bets!"

"Really?" She laughs, draping herself in a chair at the long dining table. "What he said is nothing compared to the things you've said to me."

"That is different." He takes the seat next to Lumen. "For what it's worth, Cicero is glad you did not have command of magic in the early days of his— courtship."

Lumen snorts. "Courtship? Is that what you call it? More like merciless teasing."

"Details," Cicero says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

As the evening wears away, so does Cicero's tension. More siblings join them, and by the wee hours of the morning, Cicero is given a slight reprieve from his worries. The assassins share food and drink, and Babette entertains (and horrifies) them all with the tale of her latest contract. Lumen carts him off to bed when they are both at their limit. Cicero is not a heavy drinker, but he knows when he is intoxicated. His cheeks feel warm and his head a bit fuzzy. It's not a sensation he particularly enjoys. But some days call for it.

They fall into bed and Lumen's arm comes around him to hold him tight. But Cicero is unable to sleep soundly. Something just doesn't feel right, but he can't put his finger on it. Is he jealous? It's normal to feel a little jealousy sometimes. But he's not sure if that's the right word for this feeling. There was just something off-putting about the way Pontius was handling his Listener— and the way he was watching her. His eyes didn't contain the heat of lust, but the predatory gleam of a hunter.

But that can't be right.

Cicero buries his face in his pillow. He must be losing his touch if he's misreading signals. Perhaps Madanach's contract is just what he needs to feel like himself again. He'd give anything just to be the cackling, murderous jester, rather than this mess of a man who's overburdened with old memories and new fears.

25th of Morning Star, 4E 189

I have been chosen. By some incomprehensible twist of fate, the Black Hand has named me the Night Mother's Keeper. In all honesty, I am both incredibly honored and deeply saddened. This means the end of my contracts. I'll be lucky to lift a blade again. Thankfully, Rasha has promised me one final contract before I accept my new duties.

Cicero felt numb as he prepared for his final contract. He tried reminding himself that it was a great honor to be chosen as Keeper. Only the most trusted assassins were charged with the care of the Night Mother in the absence of a Listener. But it felt like a death blow. Not just for himself— but for the Dark Brotherhood.

He took his time in getting dressed, seeing as it would be the last time he'd ever wear his shrouded armor. Never before had he felt such hesitation. It took him ten minutes to muster the mental fortitude to step into his leather pants, and then his boots. The leather jacket was laid out on his bed, but he only stared at it, unable to put it on. "I'm just taking my time," he lied to himself. "I want to savor this. I want to hold on to this night."

"It would seem congratulations are in order," came a voice from behind him.

Cicero whipped around to see Pontius leaning against the doorframe. "It would seem that way," he said, unable to check the temper in his voice.

Pontius ignored it, and he stepped into the room. "So what vows to Keepers take?"

"We're sworn to protect the Night Mother from dangers both great and small. To preserve her, so that the Listener may once again hear her voice. And— to find the Listener."

"How does one find a Listener?" he asked. "How will you know?

The chill of the Sanctuary was seeping into his bare skin, but he did not make a move to continue dressing. Not when he was being watched. "When the time his right— when Mother has chosen a Listener. I'll know."

"People lie. So how will you know if they are honest?"

"I'll know if they are lying."

"But how?" Pontius' eyes were bright with unhidden interest. "Is there a code word?"

"You're asking questions I will not answer," Cicero said, a soft growl lacing his words. "Do not push me on this."

"There's no need to get testy. I'm only curious." Pontius looked him over. Once. Twice. His eyes were lingering on Cicero's exposed chest. "It seems you've been sworn to secrecy on a couple of things. That must make things more exciting for you. But, I wonder, did you also take vows of chastity, or am I allowed to blow you before you leave for your last contract?"

Cicero's brows shot up. He'd pushed Pontius to be bolder, and his brother rose up to answer the challenge. "I have taken no such vows," he said with a forced calm.

"Good."

Pontius crossed the room in three steps. Firm, calloused fingers grabbed Cicero by the shoulders and shoved him up against the cold, stone wall. With a knee between his legs and Pontius' lips crashing into his own, he had little time to react— let alone think. His body knew what it wanted long before his brain bothered to catch up, and he opened his mouth to accept the sweep of Pontius' tongue.

They parted just enough to gasp for breath. "This is more like it," Cicero laughed. "You're much more interesting when you're assertive."

"Shut up," Pontius snapped, and proceeded to silence Cicero with another bruising kiss.

It hurt. Everywhere Pontius touched him was sure to leave a mark and a lingering ache. But Cicero couldn't care less. His world was crashing down on his shoulders, and a hard, uncaring release was just what he needed. "You're wasting my time," Cicero growled as he fisted his hand in Pontius' hair, calling an end to the foreplay when he forced his brother to his knees. Pontius needed to further instruction, and he proceeded to give Cicero the send-off he'd promised him.

Afterwards, Cicero cleaned up and finished dressing while Pontius watched. For the first time in days, his mind felt clear. But he was not of a mind to show any gratitude. He wouldn't want Pontius to let his guard down anytime soon. The verbal sparring was too much fun.

"Good luck, brother." Pontius was leaning against the wall, exactly where Cicero had been just minutes before. "I'll be waiting for your return. I believe you owe me a favor."

Cicero smirked. "We'll see."

Notes: Apologies for taking so long to get a new chapter out. Health Problems and Life happened. But I am feeling better now. This chapter is a little slow, but it's got some important characterization. Things pick up in the next one, which is almost done! :D