"Cicero's long-ago past is not interesting, that's for sure," he began. "Sure, my childhood was… difficult. But that happened so long ago, that Cicero's moved forward in a direction he believes is best for him. He used to be… Sane. Ha, ha, ha! What a relative word. 'Sane'. To each his own, of course! Anyway, Cicero's race is called 'Imperial', from Cyrodiil. He became a part of what is called 'The Dark Brotherhood', because it was the only place he felt at home. Home! Another relative word. Who dictates what his 'home'? But he met the Night Mother. Poor, homely Cicero was humbled at the sight of her! He felt her power radiating off of her, and Cicero already felt unworthy to be in her presence.
"You asked humble Cicero if his Mother is dead. Technically, her body is no longer filled with her soul, but she does speak through the body she used to have. The beautiful, magnificent Night Mother is far from dead! And never will she die!
"After a great many happenings, the Listener was killed, and we had to flee the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary in Cheydinhal. Humble Cicero, faithful Cicero, was appointed Mother's Keeper! I suppose that doesn't make much sense. Cicero forgets you don't know much about the Brotherhood. You see, the Night Mother administrates her orders to only one person, and that lucky, lucky person is called the Listener! The Listener is the only one lucky enough to hear her voice. She gives orders to this Listener, and the Listener tells the Brotherhood, and the Brotherhood obeys what she dictates. It all goes 'round and 'round and 'round and 'round! But when you do not have a Listener, who is to hear the Night Mother's voice? And if you cannot hear the night Mother's voice, how can we fill out contracts? And if we cannot fill our contracts, how does the Brotherhood stay afloat?
"One by one by one by one, my brothers and sisters were killed off! Cicero, as the faithful Keeper was left all alone, completely isolated. Forever and ever alone. Cicero took it upon himself to find a place for him and his beloved, sweet Mother to stay! There were two sanctuaries in the winter province of Tamriel, called Skyrim. Beautiful Skyrim! Cicero had his own sanctuary in Dawnstar, but he had to take his beloved Mother to where the Brotherhood was. More solitude, more alone, all alone. Cicero, the Fool of Hearts, and the sweet, sweet Night Mother. Meanwhile, a prophecy was being born. A prophecy of Dragons.
"Tamriel, you see, is a place where man, elf, reptile, and feline live much as you do in this world. Sure, some are in a constant, endless war with each other, but it is the thought that counts! There were Argonians and Khajiit and Orcs and Altmer and Bosmer and Dunmer and Frightening Falmer and Nords and Red Guards and Breton and Imperials and suddenly Dragons! And the Prophecy came out of it, for the Prophecy could speak the Dragon Tongue and shout like Dragons could. And the Prophecy came to the Dark Brotherhood and, suddenly, the Night Mother, after so, so, so long of silence, spoke! To the prophecy, of course. Lucky, lucky Listener.
"Sure! Cicero wanted to become the Listener… but he couldn't. Cicero, dear Cicero, isn't worthy of hearing her sultry voice. Cicero is the Keeper, not the Listener – and keep he does.
"But how did silly Cicero snap?" he laughed uncontrollably. "The Jester! One of Cicero's contracts was a laughing jester. He laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed! Until he didn't. Cicero had to kill him, because that was what the wonderful Night Mother wanted of modest Cicero. But when the silence began to take over, and consume me, I could hear him laughing. The Jester. Laughing, laughing, laughing, laughing. No one else could hear the laughing, but I could. And oh, how Cicero loved the laughing! But he longed to hear Mother's voice. Cicero live to hear mother's voice. But he couldn't. He wasn't the Listener. He was the jester. The Fool of Hearts! Laughter incarnate!
"The sanctuary in Skyrim, close to pretty Falkreath, was betrayed and raided and so many people died. The Bitch Snake offered herself as a sacrifice, with good reason! She tried to have poor, poor Cicero killed! But the Listener didn't kill him. At his wits end, he wasn't meant to die. Caring, generous, gracious Listener! When the survivors of the bloody massacre at the sanctuary migrated to the Dawnstar sanctuary, Cicero's own sanctuary, they brought the Mother with them, and the Listener became the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, Skyrim division! And Cicero stayed Keeper.
"But if everything is so happy and good in Cicero's life at that moment, how did he end up here? The Hagraven! Those evil creatures are… Hmm… How shall I put this? They are bird-women who study magic. Witches! They screech incessantly! Kaw, kaw, kaw, kaw kaw! They are known for their expertise in destruction magic. But one had been delving into a different sort of magic! The evil, Daedric magic. Necromancy! A new member of the Brotherhood was told to kill this Hagraven, since those who resided around its camp were worried that it was to be the harbinger of the end of the world. But the soon-to-be-sister mucked it up! She got herself killed, and the Hagraven turned her wrath on the sanctuary! The creature burst through the back entrance and burned everything that could burn. Poor Cicero hid with his Mother, unknowing if anyone was still fighting, or if the fire swallowed everyone whole. The Hagraven soon turned her gaze on us – the Mother and me.
"'You are a perfect test subject,' it said to poor Cicero. 'Not even Sithis can tell you where you may end up!'
"Then it held out is feathered arms, extended its destruction-filled claws, and cast a spell on poor Cicero and his beloved Night Mother. A thick, purple and black void consumed me, and I couldn't breathe. I gasped and gasped and gasped and gasped, but no breath came. Frightened Cicero felt like he was falling, falling, falling, but nothing was rushing past him. For a while, I was sure I had finally entered the Void! Cicero was ready to be welcomed by the Dread Lord and the wonderful Mother. Finally, I would hear her voice.
"But, no. The ride ended. Cicero's feeble lungs filled with air. I coughed endlessly for what seemed like so, so long. When I finally regained my sight, I looked around myself. Cicero and his dear, sweet Mother entered another world. Neither of us had ever seen anything like this before. After I discovered what way was up, I knew I had to try to survive. But, oh, the metal boxes on moving wheels! The huge buildings, the strange suits! The smoke in the air and the things in the sky! And everyone looked the same! Everyone thought poor Cicero was part of a 'mid-evil' fair? What is that?
"When I discovered how to live, I took my beloved Night Mother to a grocer, since it seemed to be the only thing I understood. I tried to buy something, but they didn't accept my gold! Cicero was sent to have it appraised, and received so, so much of your decorated paper. Cicero managed to buy a small home for him and his beloved Night Mother, surrounded by these strange people that seemed to know nothing of anything and anywhere. I was… Alone. Again. Surrounded by people, but completely alone.
"But all these people who surrounded me told me that I was insane. I was so obviously different. How could poor Cicero survive in this world, when he was so different from everyone else? That was when he knew he needed to find someone who could help him be… Well… Normal. And it took so, so, so, so, so long, but I eventually found… you. You, who listens when poor Cicero is alone and crying, while the Jester laughs. Yes, he is laughing again. But you… You are helping me. You can hear me when he is laughing. You can hear me when I am screaming. You listen. To me.
"And… Thus… Here we are, Doc. You, me, and Cicero."
When he was finished his speech, he did not look to her. He fixed his eyes on the hardwood floor below him, and traced the grains in the wood with his eyes. He was too afraid to look up. Cicero. The man who was essentially the manifestation of insanity and not-caring, was worried about what another person thought of him. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to turn his mind inward, and not even listen to a word she might speak.
She didn't move. She merely stood her ground, watching him. She truly had nothing to say. A million questions floated about her head, rattling within her skull, tickling her corpus callosum with thin, nail-like fingers. She knew perfectly well, though, that asking any of those questions could potentially put all the progress he has made in great jeopardy. Essentially, the only thing she knew she could do, was stand there and watch him, while the next song the album began to play. She knew very well that in order for any sort of relationship between the two individuals was to continue, she needed him to speak first.
And in complete honesty, she had absolutely no idea whether or not she believed anything he just said. Obviously, it was completely illogical, and went against anything she had ever learned. Obviously, the entire thing sounded completely insane. But was it really? Was that story really just the ramblings of a madman, concocted to fool the fragile psychologist? Was he testing her gullibility? Did he really believe what he just told her?
"This band," Cicero said, after a long while of silence. "The music is good to dance to."
"You talk all the time about dancing," Clarice said, her voice quiet. "But I have never seen you dance."
Cicero slowly looked up. His face showed no hint of madness, at that moment. No devilish grin or insane eyes were upon this eccentric visage. Instead, the former was replaced with a loose, serenity with a lack of taut wrinkles or smile lines. The latter was substituted by light brown eyes filled with clarity and peace, two adjectives she thought she would never use to describe the man. Slowly, his lips stretched into a content, though incredibly sad smile.
"Because," he told her. "Cicero-" he paused for a moment, closing his eyes. He opened them again. "iI/i don't have anyone to dance with."
Cautiously, she took a step towards him. She watched him closely, monitoring his reactions carefully as she approached him. He did not move, though he observed her curiously. One gentle step, two, three, until she was mere moments away from him. At this distance, her eyes were just below his, her body just inches from his. Carefully, she reached a hand towards him. She touched the hand opposite hers with her fingertips. His palm was warm but rough, and sent violent tingling through her entire body. He was like handling dynamite – one had to be so careful, so vigilant, else he might explode into fits of unpredictability. He did not move, though. Rather, his eyes slowly shifted down to his own hand. It was as though he wanted to do something in reply, but his body, and years and years of life without physical contact (other than that which could render him with bloody hands) disallowed him. The inner conflict raging within him, like a massive hurricane or a nuclear bomb about to explode, was strong enough to be felt by the doctor. His hands shook violently with longing.
"You can touch me," she said, her voice so quiet, both parties had a hard time hearing it.
At these words, Cicero allowed himself to indulge in his craving, and he carefully replied to her touch. He allowed his own fingertips to come into contact with hers. That simple motion, the simplicity of feeling fingertips, was enough to make them both want to crumple and land in each other's arms. Their hands explored each other's for a long moment, the other pair joining in the amusement, and they kept their eyes focused on one another's.
Eventually, he took her hands in his. She allowed her hands and arms to be manipulated by him. He moved her hands upwards, and gently placed one around his neck. Soon afterwards, one hand followed by the other, both her arms were snaked around his neck. His hands returned South, but stopped to vacation at her waist, where they held on gently. The music played behind them, soothing them, lulling them into submissiveness of each other. The sound of the beat, the music, the vocals, and each other's breathing keeping in time to the song, consumed them, until they drifted into the belly of the moment. Together, they danced in a ring of slowed time, their movements and unsaid words between the two disallowing anything to penetrate their dome of contentedness – even time. The world continued around them, but they remained suspended, lost, hardly seeing, hardly hearing, just feeling each other's presence – that was enough for them.
But the moment that surrounded them didn't end its play time there. It felt the need to take a step further into their dome, and consume them further. Before they knew it, sight was taken away from them. Sound was banished. The only thing they knew of at that moment, was each other. They felt each other. The madman and the psychologist. A man who hadn't known of real love in almost his entire life, and a psychologist who was merely trying to be the method to kill the madness. They were pulled together by the moment, forced to face each other, and be brought closer until the gap between them was sealed. They felt as though they were floating, lingering in the air, above the ground. She became the madman, overwhelmed by emotions, and he became the doctor, easing her through slowing of time and the closing of space, until all clocks were stopped, and all spaces closed. And their lips, like tractor beams, pulled them to a single destination – they were to meet at the middle.
The moment the two parties felt their lips upon each other, it was as though the world imploded. "Fireworks" was an understatement. Reality hovered around them, knowing perfectly well that it had no place in that world. His lips were dry, but warm and soft, and gave away easily under hers. The kiss seemed to never end. It was soft and gentle at first, but slowly eased into something much more passionate. His instincts took over for him, due to his complete lack of knowledge in the topic, and showed him what must be done.
He kissed her constantly, gently, full-heartedly. If his lips happened to leave hers for even a moment, it felt as though a chunk of himself was taken out of him, until he closed the gap again. She inhaled deeply, tasting his scent like she never imagined she would. She held her arms tightly around him, holding him, tasting him. His lips broke slightly to allow the emergence of his gentle tongue craving to taste her more deeply than he had. She replied to the motion with one that mimicked his. They tasted each other deeply until touch and taste were the only two senses which existed in the entire world.
And then he heard the laughing.
In one motion, like someone had switched on their internal vacuums, reality came back and slammed into them like a cold, rocky avalanche. Time resumed with what felt like a massive explosion, and their other senses returned to them, like poisonous flowers blooming in their eyes, ears, and noses. With a motion which kicked them hard in the chest, the world resumed its usual course. He parted from her.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice shaking violently. "I can't."
And as fast as he was there, he was suddenly gone again. Out of the room, out of the door, out into the open air, and away from her. She felt so cold. So alone. Solitude.