Roused by the insistent cramping of a full bladder, Cicero rolls onto his side and clutches his spinning head. Memories of the night before scatter just out of reach, like leaves caught within an autumn breeze. Another aching throb in his groin has him wobbling to his feet. The question of why he feels like shit can be answered after he finds the privy.
Finding a proper place to relieve himself is made all the more difficult by the unfamiliar surroundings. But Cicero is accustomed to moving in the dark, and he finds a small bucket placed in the corner of the room— and not a moment too soon.
Once his business is concluded, he studies the room with his hands. There's a bed, a dresser, a writing desk, and a few tapestries he can't admire. This is imported furniture, he can tell by the way it's carved, by the distantly familiar, decorative whorls in the wood. It's odd for a room decorated in Cyrodillian fashion to have something as banal as a bucket for a toilet when water closets were all the rage.
But… it's not odd at all, is it? Skyrim has buckets. Only displaced nobles from Cyrodiil, or the Nordic elite, use enclosed toilets. It's such a little thing. An insignificant detail. But he's feeling his way around the room again, exploring every nook and cranny because the details are what matter.
As his eyes adjust to the dark, Cicero realizes there's something oddly familiar about room. He knows the furniture, the layout, even the stupid, impossible to see tapestries. The only detail that's wrong is the piss bucket.
This is his room. His furniture— from Cheydinhal.
But how?
Cicero's heart races as a distant, derisive voice in the back of mind whispers, Maybe it was all a dream. A beautiful dream of a lovely Listener and a steadfast Sanctuary. A family where poor Cicero finally belonged. But here you are. Back in Cheydinhal. Alone. Forgotten. Your only company is that of a few rats and a dead woman, and neither the rats nor the corpse see fit to speak with you. Pathetic.
"Stop." Cicero worked so hard— fought for so long to silence that voice. "Something is wrong."
You are right. Something is wrong. The future of the Dark Brotherhood rests in your incapable hands. They should have left someone else in charge of the Night Mother and sent you out on the streets to die.
"But Cicero found the Listener! He found Lumen. He found home." He runs a shaking hand through his hair, stops, and pats his head because something crucial is missing.
Where is his hat?
Cicero runs his hands down his body. He is clothed in a silk tunic and velvet breeches. The clothes are similar to what he wore when he was a young man, first introduced to the wealth of gold a properly executed contract could provide. He's not worn clothes like this in ages. He prefers his motley. Lumen likes his motley. There's no reason to change his habits when it makes them both happy.
Eyes burning, he stumbles back toward the bed and gropes at the covers. "Lumen," he gasps. "Sweet Lumen, please wake up."
Cicero's mind is like a ship lost at sea, swept up in a violent tide and thrown toward the rocky shores of madness. He is spinning wildly out of control, and he cannot find his place, his time, and he needs the stabilizing force of his sweet Listener to bring him back to reality. He wants to fall into her arms, curl against her, listen to her heart, feel her breathe. He needs her warmth to enfold him, to pull him out of this rapid descent into the deep, dark depths of hysteria.
But she's not there. The bed is empty, and Cicero is alone.
"All is not lost," he says through an inappropriate giggle bubbling up in his throat. "Sweet Lumen probably just woke up before Cicero."
He all but throws himself at the door, grabs the latch and— nothing. It's locked. "No, no, no…" He rattles the latch and then shakes the door on its hinges because he cannot be locked in. "This is not funny!" he shouts, banging on the door. "Let Cicero out now!"
A deafening silence answers. Cicero takes a step back— another— and another— until the backs of his legs hit the bed. He's forgotten how to breathe— how to be. He can't do this again. He can't be trapped in this room with the darkness as his only companion. Not again.
"Stop panicking," he tells himself. "Sit. Breathe. Think. What does Cicero remember?"
As if the broken mind of a wannabe jester could ever hope for clarity.
Through the haze of sparse memories, there are a few that glow like will o' wisps on a foggy road. He is certain they were in Markarth, and that his Listener is not a dream, because he was teasing her about drinking too much, and then he partook because he was feeling light and happy and he wanted to join her. But then— then she was on her back, and Pontius — that wretched, traitorous viper — was standing over her, and then… nothing.
Certainly smothers his inner voice into silence. He may be mad, but he is not crazy, and he did not dream up the last two years of his life. "So this room…" Despite the dim light coming in from the crack beneath the door, he looks around with a clearer gaze— an assassins gaze. "A ruse, Pontius? It will take more than this to fool the Fool of Hearts."
So it's a game, then. But why bother? Why go through the trouble to replicate his old bedroom? Pontius has some serious funds backing this little adventure in revenge, and only the Thalmor would spend gold so carelessly.
That answer leads to more questions. Why would the Thalmor agree to keep Cicero alive? Information, perhaps? They would know where the Sanctuary is located by now, so that can't be what they're after. Maybe they wish to know about the Dark Brotherhood's contacts. Even Pontius should know Cicero would never give information like that away, not even under the threat of imprisonment, torture, or death.
Maybe Cicero won't be the one in danger. Would he spill the Dark Brotherhood's most sacred secrets to save the life of his beloved Listener? He shouldn't. A lifetime ago he wouldn't. But this world holds nothing for him if Lumen is not in it, and Cicero will betray everything he is if it means she will live to see another day.
How selfish a man in love can be.
But Cicero hasn't been selfish in a very long time. He gave the best years of his life to the Dark Brotherhood, only to be betrayed over and over again. Perhaps it's time to think of himself, rather than the whole, for once.
If I want to save Lumen, I will have to play Pontius's game for a while. Very well. Sly Cicero will play the beguiled fool, but only for a short while. He has a Listener to save.
Cicero is pacing the room when the door finally opens. He's prepared to face Pontius, to play his part in this wretched charade. But when a familiar, long-dead Orc walks through the door, he's completely caught off guard.
"Garnag?" he asks, squinting. "What are you doing here?"
Oh, Sithis. Maybe I have completely lost it.
"Cicero," he grunts and holds up a wooden bowl. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm feeding you."
"Why?"
"So you don't starve to death."
Cicero's eyes dart toward the door that's just slightly ajar. He could run for it. Lock Garnag in, but— "You are supposed to be dead. You left to get food, and you did not come back. Cicero assumed the worst."
Garnag sets the bowl on the writing desk. "It's dark in here. I'll get you a fresh candle and some water. Maybe some wine, if we have any left."
"Garnag," Cicero says, louder now. "Where have you been for all these years?"
"Sithis," Garnag sighs. "It's only been a few days. I was delayed."
"What are you talking about? It has been well over ten years!"
Garnag shakes his head. "You're getting worse." The Orc casts a piteous look in Cicero's direction. "You haven't been the same since Dupre was killed. The death of the Listener took a toll on us all but— Cicero, you do know what year it is, yes?"
"It is year two hundred and three of the Fourth Era, and there is nothing you can say that will make Cicero believe otherwise."
The Orc huffs a laugh. "You're about fourteen years ahead of the rest of us, then," he says. "Probably better that way."
Cicero grits his teeth. They're toying with me. If Cicero agrees to play the game with Pontius, then surely he should play it with Garnag, as well? How far gone do they think poor Cicero is? Cicero is only a little strange, somewhat foolish, delightfully mad… not completely and utterly delusional!
"What does it matter if Cicero is a little lost?" He folds his arms across his chest and glances at the door for the second time. "Why lock him in? Cicero does not appreciate this at all."
"It's for your safety and ours," Garnag says, picking up the used bucket and handing it to someone just outside the door, who hands him an empty one. "You don't know where you are half the time. You don't know who we are most of the time. You need to be locked up. Don't want you breakin' any tenets."
Ridiculous. Even if Cicero were crazy, he wouldn't be buying this. "Why not just kill Cicero, then? If he is dangerous, then why haven't the Black Hand stepped in? They can hold a vote."
"They did," Garnag says as he steps outside. "And they voted to let you live."
He shuts the door without another word.
Cicero's mouth pulls back in a tight smile as he stares at the door, listening to the shuffle of fading footsteps. He tries and ultimately fails, to ignore the sinking sensation in his chest. Garnag is alive, and he's working with Pontius— with the Thalmor. Do they think Cicero can be so easily manipulated? Do they believe him so broken, so simple, they can convince him that the last fourteen years — Sithis, has it really been that long? — never happened? The last two years have been some of the best of his life. He has a family. A Listener. A lover. It will take more than a game of deception to make him forget that.
Still… The ruse works well enough to germinate a seed of doubt in Cicero's mind. He shoves his hand inside his shirt, fingers running along the scar given to him by Alduin. The old wound grounds him in reality and stirs the embers of a rage he can scarcely contain.
This betrayal stings worse than any wound, and Cicero plans to pay it back tenfold.
Cicero cannot bear to touch this accursed furniture, so he sits on the floor and waits. There is nothing to do but wait, doze off, wake up, and wait some more. Just to give himself something to do, he traces the lines of grout weaving through the stone floor. They curve like the streets of Whiterun or Solitude, only these streets are just pathways to nowhere.
The passing of time is impossible to track in the darkness, but he thinks it must be late when Pontius finally enters the room. He shuffles in, a candle in hand, and it is all Cicero can do to keep from leaping up and shoving the candle down his throat.
"I'm not supposed to be in here without permission," Pontius says, shutting the door with a soft click. "But I had to see you. I had to make sure you're okay."
Cicero's tongue feels like glue. He has a part to play. A script to follow. But his voice is lost. It's so hard— so bone-shatteringly difficult to agree to play this game when all he wants to do is strangle Pontius with his own intestines. Cicero doesn't think he's got the strength to even pretend to be his friend, to pretend to like him. Do it for her. He reminds himself. Pretend so that you may find your sweet Lumen again.
"Cicero?" Pontius' feet are rooted to the floor.
Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Cicero says, "I am glad you are here." But the words are flat and without infection. When did Cicero become so bad at pretending? "Poor Cicero has been so lonely," he adds, looking up at Pontius and trying his damnedest to look like the pathetic creature they believe he is.
Pontius steps away from the door, inching closer. The movement is careful. Cautious. He's taking great efforts to appear unconcerned when, in truth, he's scared shitless. He is ready to fight or flee at a moment's notice.
How foolish of Pontius to construct a play, assign himself the central role, and completely fail to perform.
"I don't think you've ever been glad to see me, love," Pontius says with an air of nonchalance. "You've accepted my company on occasion, and you've been glad to see me leave, certainly. But you? Happy to see me?" A bitter laugh. "The solitude must be getting to you."
"Cicero is sorry," he says, remembering every cruel word he ever said to Pontius— a man he used. A man he never loved. "But Cicero still doesn't understand why he's here. Garnag made it seem as if poor Cicero has lost his mind."
The reassurance that the lie has become truth spurs Pontius into action. Moving closer, he kneels down in front of Cicero. "You haven't lost your mind," he says. "But you've lost your sense of time. Of us. So the Black Hand—"
"Yes," he snaps, not wishing to hear it again. "I know. They've decided to make a prisoner of poor Cicero rather than granting him the mercy of a swift death."
"You might get better. There's no reason to kill you."
"So Cicero has gone crazy, and you are here because…"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"No."
Pontius sighs. "Because I care about you and I needed to know you were all right."
Cicero barks a high-pitched, delusional laugh. "Of course Cicero is not all right! No one likes being locked up, if they did prison would mean something entirely different! So how long is Cicero supposed to remain in his cage?"
"I don't really know."
"You have an idea, yes? Tell Cicero what you know, or leave."
"You have to stay in here until you're better— until you're no longer a danger to yourself and your family—"
Pontius' mouth is moving, but the sound is distant. Muted. Cicero's ears are full of cotton, and his mouth is full of ash. This has nothing to do with tormenting him for information. This has everything to do with breaking him down to nothing and then building him into something of Pontius's design.
He gets it now. Really, truly gets it. The Thalmor have awarded Pontius a pet.
How typical of the Thalmor. Trading lives like so much currency. And how stupid — how arrogant — of Pontius to accept. He doesn't understand the rules of this game. To manipulate, one must be impervious to manipulation, and the Thalmor have convinced Pontius that he can keep Cicero. But they'll kill them all eventually. Anyone with ties to the Dark Brotherhood, even traitors like Garnag and Pontius, will die. At least Cicero is not in danger of being killed at this moment— but Lumen and Arnbjorn definitely are, and he cannot afford to waste any more time playing the fool.
He has to kill Pontius.
But he has to do it carefully. He'd love to reach out and crush his throat with his bare hands, but such thoughtless violence would only have Cicero locked in a new cage, further away from his sweet Lumen than he is now. How far that is, he doesn't know. But he's going to find her, and then he's going to kill Pontius.
There are so many questions. So many unknowns. But Cicero knows himself. He knows he cannot continue this charade any longer. He's too viciously angry. He thinks he might snap at any moment and that simply will not do because Cicero is always in control. But right now, all that careful control is slipping through his fingers like blood from an open wound.
"If you are not going to help Cicero," he says, his voice dangerously quiet. "Then leave."
"I'm not—" Pontius frowns. "I'm trying to help you!"
"You can help me by leaving." Cicero brings his knees up to his chest, looking for all the world like some petulant child. "Now."
"Fine," Pontius snaps. "I'll visit you tomorrow. Maybe you'll be more reasonable then."
Pontius shoots to his feet and crosses the room. He hesitates by the door, but he shakes his head and walks out, the lock clicking behind him.
Cicero counts to one hundred.
Then one hundred more just in case Pontius decides to linger near the door.
Three hundred seconds pass and Cicero is moving across the room. He lays on the floor, peering through the crack beneath the door. A pair of boots walks by. Pontius would have him think those feet belong to a sibling, but Cicero knows the brisk, controlled gait of a Thalmor guard on patrol. Once the feet pass by, he begins his count. He counts to seven hundred and sixteen before spotting another pair of boots.
Cicero lays there, counting, counting, counting, until he is certain of the intervals between patrols — ten minutes, give or take a little. That will provide Cicero with plenty of time to do what he needs to do.
Getting to his feet, he runs his hands along the doorframe and finds the hinges. This room was never meant to be a prison, if it were, the hinges would be on the outside of the door. The Thalmor should know that, but he is grateful for their oversight. Cicero tries to pull the pin out of the hinge, but it's rusted.
No matter. His dear Luka taught him a spell to use in situations like this.
"You won't always have lockpicks on your person, and— Cicero? Are you even listening to me?"
Cicero looked up. He lapsed into a post-coital daydream, but he was still listening… sort of. "Oh, yes! Luka wants to teach Cicero a— a spell?"
Luka's glare eased into a smile. "I'm showing you a trick that might save your life someday," he said, tugging a pair of trousers in place and approaching the bedroom door. "You already know spells to summon frost. I've seen you use them."
"Cicero only knows how to use frost to preserve ingredients for Mother. He's never successfully lobbed a spear of ice through someone's chest."
"That's another lesson for another day," Luka smirked. "For this, you only need to know the basics of the spell. Now, pay attention— If you're ever in jail, or stuck in-or-out of where you want to be, you can use this simple technique to open almost any door as long as the hinges are made of iron."
Cicero watched, gleefully enraptured by the sight of Luka abusing an inanimate object. The frost spell coated the door hinge, the dark iron glittering in the firelight, and with one swift motion, Luka smashed the hinge to pieces.
"Masterfully done! But why not freeze the lock instead?"
"Most locks are made with another type of metal— corundum or copper or something, and those metals aren't as brittle as iron when frozen. But door hinges are almost always iron because it's cheap. It's all in how the metal is composed, and if it has a ductile-to-brittle transition phase, which iron does and—"
The rest of Luka's lecture on the composition of metals is, admittedly, lost to time. But Cicero spent the rest of the afternoon freezing and smashing every door hinge in the Sanctuary… which meant Arnbjorn had to fix every door hinge in the Sanctuary. He was rather cross with the poor Keeper. Cicero tried to patch things up with the grumpy werewolf; he offered to help around the forge, tend to his armor, and he even offered to polish Arnbjorn's sword— but that seemed to make the Nord even more irritated than before. The ingrate.
Cicero calls on his magic, the hair on the nape of his neck standing on end when the chill of frost coats his fingertips. Pressing a hand to the bottom hinge, he covers it in a layer of ice before moving to the middle hinge, and the top. Cicero shakes the frost from his hands, banishing the spell, and digs his fingers into the crack between the door and the frame and pulls. "Damn door," he growls. Cicero's life would be so much easier if he could just smash the hinges, but that would draw too much attention.
Another tug has the metal groaning and — finally — shattering. With the door locked on the other side, Cicero can barely pull it open, but being small has its advantages, and soon he wriggles free.
Once out in the hallway, Cicero has no idea what to do. He knows this hall. He knows these scorch marks, the decades-old blood still clinging to the walls, and the ghosts of screams still echoing through the air. "Bruma," he hisses. "They brought us to Bruma."
A chill washes over him as panic takes root. He never thought he'd see this place again, but here he is, standing within the Sanctuary-turned-mausoleum to a family he lost. His first true family. Now this sacred place has been violated by the Thalmor, turned into a prison for his new family— a family he cannot bear to lose.
Not now. This is no reason to panic.
Bruma Sanctuary was a fortress long before the Dark Brotherhood took it over. There are three identical wings of bedrooms, a wing consisting of the common area and kitchens, and then the long entrance hall all linked by a central atrium. Lumen and Arnbjorn could be anywhere, but Cicero's willing to bet every septim in the Dark Brotherhood's coffers he'll find them locked in the old interrogation chambers. But he can't walk freely in this place. Not when the Thalmor and his so-called "old friends" are in charge. He needs a disguise.
Blowing a sharp breath through his nose, he glances back at the door to his room. His prison. Hard to believe the Thalmor would leave it unguarded. Even harder to believe Pontius had so grossly underestimated him. Or did he? Leaving his room unguarded… is this just another trap for Cicero to stumble into?
It doesn't really matter. Another guard would be by in a few minutes, and Cicero needs to make himself scarce unless he wants to find himself locked within another — probably less comfortable — cell.
The hallway is lined with doors. Cicero tests one, ready for whatever he might find on the other side— but the door swings open to reveal a dusty, long-abandoned bedroom of a brother or sister from a bygone time. So he slips inside and waits for the guard to come by. Ten minutes comes and goes. Then another ten minutes tick by, and still, there's no sign of a guard.
Something is wrong.
Cicero pokes his head out of the room, straining to listen for anything, any sign that a guard might be near. He can hear heavy footsteps echoing from the atrium, followed by excited voices, but he's too far away to listen to what they're saying. Issuing a silent prayer to Sithis, the Night Mother, and any other god that might listen, Cicero slips from the room and edges closer to the atrium. Lingering in the sparse shadows, he watches a Bosmer guard stop a patrolling Altmer.
"What's going on?" he asks. "Everyone's abandoning their posts. Have we been compromised?"
"Of course not," the Altmer snorts. "The big guy is gonna fight the Nord. The boss is taking bets."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously." The Altmer grins. "And my bet's on Garnag."
"Have you lost your senses?" The Bosmer chuffs a laugh. "Garnag is impressive, even by Orc standards, but there's no way he can beat the Nord in hand-to-hand combat. Have you seen the guy? He's huge, and, quite literally, a beast. There's no way Garnag will win."
"It doesn't matter who wins." A low, wicked laugh. "Pontius says the Nord and the Listener are involved. Even if the Nord wins the fight, he won't live. Boss wants us to kill him in front of the Listener. Reckons she might become more compliant if she starts losing people."
"Wait— I'm confused. I thought the Listener was involved with the mad Imperial?"
"She is, the feral doxy, but we're not allowed to touch him. You know the rules."
"I know." The Bosmer rolls his eyes. "So when's the fight?"
"In an hour, so you'd better hurry."
A bead of sweat rolls down Cicero neck as he watches the two guards depart. He remains in the shadows, trapped between indecision and fear. There are too many guards for just one man— too many guards for only three assassins.
Arnbjorn and Lumen are at the mercy of the Thalmor, and there is nothing —nothing— Cicero can do.
"Okay," he tells himself. "Now you have reason to panic."