His apartment building was near the edge of town in the high-budget end of the city. It was known for having whole-floor suites and large, extravagant rooms. So, either he was incredibly rich, some kind of heir, or the fact that he had a pocket full of golden coins which he got appraised was true.
She stared at the extravagant building, feeling so small in comparison. She pressed the button for the floor on which she had told her he was, and waited to hear his voice. Eventually, there came a muffled shouting through the speaker.
"Yes, yes, hello, hello!" shouted the voice. "Clarice Stoker?"
"Yes, Cicero, it is me," she said into the speaker, laughing lightly.
"Ah! Good!" he shouted. "Can you hear me okay? Poor Cicero doesn't know how to use this thing!"
She laughed and took a step away from the speaker. "Yes, Cicero, I can hear you fine."
"Good!" there was a pause. "…Now what do I do?"
"Press a button on the speaker to unlock the door," she informed him, still grinning.
"Oh!" then he went quiet. "A button… A button… Ah!"
Suddenly, the door began to buzz, informing her that it was unlocked and she could enter. She, still laughing, walked through the door, excited to see his apartment. The lobby was massive and organized, incredibly clean. She smiled politely at the woman sitting at the front desk, who was doing monotonous paperwork. The whole place reminded her of a hotel, but considering the extreme size of the place, it was no wonder why there needed to be a woman at a front desk for constant support.
The whole place seemed to be themed red and gold. There stood a massive-mouthed fireplace on one wall, waiting for usage. There was a bar and grill in a connecting room that was too dark to see properly from where she stood. In front of the door, across the room, sat the large dual elevators, with doors so tall it looked as though it wanted to swallow whole all those who entered, and drop them down its massive gullet. Below her feet, were faux-wooden tiles and a large, oriental carpet that was soft and vacuumed. Large, winged chairs and two couches squatted in the center of the room near the fireplace, adorned with decorative pillows and comfortable fabrics. The place did look quite homey, but everything seemed to be too forced and formal. She knew the fireplace wasn't real, the chairs were vinyl, the stone was plated cement, and nothing seemed truly legitimate. She frowned, and walked to the large elevators.
She took the claustrophobic moving room to the fourth floor, and emerged into a long, narrow hallway that seemed to mimic the lobby downstairs. The carpet was a bit older, but still the same shade of red. The light fixtures were sconces holding black lanterns containing yellow light bulbs. The walls themselves were horizontally half red and half white, though the white and crown mouldings seemed to show too much age and dust. The entire floor contained six doors, leading to six massive rooms, and Cicero's was one on the end.
She stopped in front of his door, and knocked energetically. On the other side of the door, he heard a voice speaking. Cicero's voice. She frowned, listening closely. He seemed to be talking to someone, but no one was answering him. She couldn't make out many words, other than "be nice" and "so pretty" and the like. She frowned, when the voice seemed to go quieter to what sounded like sing-song humming and incoherent whispers. She moved away from the door and knocked again, a bit harder. All at once, the sounds on the other side stopped completely. She heard what sounded like a massive set of doors closing and latching, before the door in front of her was yanked open.
"Clarice!" Cicero said, enthusiastically. "Please, come in, come in!"
She smiled politely at him, before entering into his house. She looked around. The first thing that came to her mind was how oddly empty the e
ntire apartment was. It was a very open concept, with everything but the bedroom, and bathroom being all one room, separated by arches. He had one couch and one chair in front of a coffee table, furnishings she was almost positive were included in the apartment. There was a wall unit, which was completely empty with naught but a TV that was covered in dust, suggesting its distinct lack of use. There were shelves and drawers which didn't contain anything but phonebooks and other miscellaneous items that came with the apartment. In the kitchen, she could see it was a little more full, but still not a fully-stocked kitchen as one would expect when thinking of a kitchen. The majority of the room was a dark brown colour with hardwood floors and a few oriental area rugs. The only doors were the one she came through, the one to the bathroom, and the one to the bedroom, which was notably closed.
"Cicero really isn't known for his interior decorating skills," he told her. His voice echoed through the emptiness. "But he doesn't spend much room in the majority of the house, and he never has guests, so why must there be things to look at? Please, have a seat."
She removed her shoes, and made her way into the living room. She glanced around the room, noting its evident lack of anything decorative other than with what it undoubtedly had when he moved in. There were several candles in small holders on the tables and shelves that were spilling over with much use. Other that those dying candles, was one thing, which was curious in comparison with the rest of the room. In a corner of the room, hidden behind a few things, was a picture frame bracket on which hung upon a hanger, an outfit. It was a peculiar outfit, and seemed to be well worn with years and years of usage. The reddish-suit was patched and repaired with different colours, making it seem more complicated than it was. Clasped buckles and tassels hung from it. The entire thing looked clean, though it didn't look worn in a little while. Beside the outfit, on a shelf, was an odd hat with two points beside each other: a jester's hat.
Cicero walked in the room with a rum and coke for himself, and a beer for her. She forced herself to look away from the suit to offer him a smile and take the drink. He sat beside her, sipped his own beverage, and look to where she was previously looking. He grinned when he saw what her eyes were upon.
"You found Cicero's suit," he told her. "It's the suit Cicero used to wear in the Brotherhood. The suit he came to this strange world in. That's Cicero's jester suit."
She glanced to him. "It looks well worn."
Cicero giggled. "Cicero never took it off! Well, unless to wash it, of course."
She frowned, glancing at it deeper than she had prior. Her eyebrows furrowed. She found, embedded and bled into the threads of the suit, mahogany stains. They dappled the lapel, the sleeves, several places on the chest, and a strange streak from the bottom left corner all the way up to the top right. "Those stains… They're awfully dark on the red. Spaghetti sauce or something?"
Cicero tilted his head slightly and regarded her strangely. He grinned slowly and shook his head, giggling slightly. "No, of course not," he told her, looking to his suit. "They're blood stains."
She felt her blood run cold in her veins. She couldn't help but widen her eyes in slight fear, staring at the stains on the suit with a completely different set of eyes. What had she gotten herself into? With one swift motion, the entire reality of the situation hit her hard in the face. She was playing the psychologist role to this obviously insane individual. Before she knew it, he was kissing her. Then, suddenly, she was sleeping with him. Now, she was in his house, alone, with an obviously insane individual. She suddenly felt manipulated, as though this was the idea the entire time. She could read the headlines on newspapers the next morning: "NAÏVE PSYCHOLOGIST MURDERED BY MADMAN IN HIS APARTMENT: She Didn't Even See it Coming when she Slept with Him!" she shuddered.
"Um, maybe I should go," she said, standing and placing the beer on the table.
He watched her, confused by the suddenness of her motions. "But why? You just got here? Did Cicero say something?" he pretended to slap himself across his face. "There! Cicero is punished!" she gathered her things and walked to the door. "Wait, please!" he stood and grabbed her arm, stopping her. She looked down to him, frowning frightfully. "Please," he repeated. "You haven't even met Mother yet."
She stopped. The mention of the mother peaked her curiosity. She knew that if she was staying, it would be for the wrong reasons, but that didn't seem to matter at that point. She truly felt as though she was in danger, but the thought of seeing something that could help her cure the man's mental illness was enough to want to make her stay. She turned to the bedroom whose door was closed, and imagined an old woman, eyes closed, a series of tubes and wires implanted into her, keeping her alive. She could see her looking like death. The thought frightened her – though perhaps she did wake up.
"You're right," she said to Cicero. "I'm sorry."
He smiled and clapped enthusiastically, setting his drink down, and standing to approach the bedroom. She gave him a wide berth as he headed to the room, and watched as he stopped at the door, turning to face her. He frowned and regarded her carefully for another short moment.
"Mother isn't used to company, you see," he told her, matter-of-factly. "You need to understand things about Mother. She is so old, old, old, but more beautiful than anything in the entire world – Tamriel or this place. Please, be gentle with her. Cicero is her Keeper, you understand. Only he is allowed to touch her and keeper her like the old tomes have dictated."
"I understand," she told him. The anticipation was beginning to grow within her. It was strange how an old woman could have such a vicious influence on this man, and make her so excited to see this elderly character. It would allow his story to make full sense to her, once she saw the mother – the other main character in the story.
That's when Cicero nodded and gripped the doorknob tightly. He watched it for a short moment, before gradually turning it, listening to it closely, in love with the sound of the tumbler turning, the apparatuses spinning within the mechanism, the sound of metal scraping upon metal. Once the doorknob was turned to its limit, he pressed his body against the door, and gradually applied weight until it began to open with ease. Within the room, she received a gust of the smell of oils and burning candles assaulting her olfactory glands. She leaned to the side to get a better look at what was in the room, and another gust hit her, but this time, it was a heavy heat, as though the humidity was up in that room for preference – or preservation.
He looked to her for one more glance, before opening the door completely, and stepping in. Clarice paused for a moment to gather her thoughts away from her wandering mind, and focusing them all on the task at hand, something else she had taught herself to do for years and years, especially when she was told her husband was going to die of terminal pancreatic cancer, while she still had to work to provide money for his hospice expenses.
Her eyes hungrily stared into the room, and her legs, as though of their own accord, stepped forward, desperate to enter the room and reveal the truth that was within, and thus explaining everything she was suspecting – or disproving everything she thought was real. The moment she saw what was within, her face contorted to an extreme variety of bewilderment.
In the center of the room, surrounded by burning candles and shelves, which were stuffed with different bottles of oils and all sorts of old papers and notes that lined the walls, was what looked to be an iron maiden. It was tall on its own, towering over her, but was also standing upon a wax-caked pedestal which, especially in the light casted by the flickering candles, seemed massive and ominous. She furrowed her brow, watching it, thinking that there was no way something would be inside of that thing. If so, it would have definitely been more of a casket than anything.
Cicero walked to the front of the thing, and unhinged an internal latch, which allowed for the two doors to be opened. He huffed as he pulled them back. Loud moans of ancient hinges protesting their involuntary movements erupted in the room, until it stopped as it was fully opened, revealing the oddity within. Actually, oddity was far too weak a word. Clarice was at a complete lack of words.
Hidden behind these massive, heavy doors, was, essentially, a corpse. It was well preserved, dark, well-oiled, but incredibly dead. It lacked eyes, lips, muscular structure, and was essentially dark skin upon bone. Its arms were crossed in front of itself, its head tilted on one side of the coffin, completely leaning sideways, as though for everlasting comfort. The strangest thing about it, was its skin colour – the strange darkness to it that seemed too inhuman, even for a corpse, and its ear – it was pointed at the tip.
The first thing she told herself to comfort her buzzing mind, was that it had to be a prop for something. There was no way that was real. Again, this madman was testing her gullibility. But when she looked to Cicero, she noticed him looking up to her with the fondest eyes, as though she was the only thing in the entire world that mattered. She looked back to the corpse.
"I'm going to go fetch our drinks," he told her, walking to the doors. "You may say hello, but please do not touch her."
With that, he was gone. Clarice felt a heavy darkness weighing down upon her, emanating from the corpse in front of her. She knew it had to be a fake. If not, it was dead. But those hollow eyes, that deadness of the entire creature, the lack of motion… Despite all that, she still felt watched. She felt as though there was something staring at her through that form. Watching her. trying to communicate with her. At that moment, she was all ears, aching… to listen.
"You know you are driving him insane, right?" she said to it. She wasn't sure what made her feel inclined to speak to the thing, but the presence she felt from it told her that she needed to speak to it – to communicate with it. "His mind is completely lost because of you."
"iYes/i," a voice suddenly came to her. It filled her mind to the very top of her skull, stimulating each lobe in her brain in some way. She shuddered, feeling cold fingers falling down her spine. She was forced to close her eyes. When she opened them, however, she was suddenly suspended in mid-air. She felt enclosed by a cold darkness, complete nothingness surrounding her – a void. In front of her, in the midst of the darkness, was the corpse, but she looked so much more alive. She had a glow to her, a life. She stared at her through hollow eyes which seemed to be filled with more life. She illuminated with life – a life which did not fill her physical form, but was there, in the void, speaking to her. "iYes, my Cicero. He is so faithful to me. My dear, sweet, wonderful Cicero. I will not share him, mortal. You have gone as far as you ever will with him. Know this: I will not share him./i"
Those last words seemed to be filled with an uncomfortable poison. With the injection of those venomous words at the end, she was unleashed from the suspension, and sent falling from the void. Before she knew it, she was standing back in the warm room, staring at the corpse of the Night Mother, left to her own devices. The last words haunted her. They were drenched in such a threatening tone that she no longer received such a positive feeling from the corpse.
"…Clarice?" she heard a voice behind her.
She turned to face Cicero, her eyes wide, face pale. She tried to collect herself, but her hands were shaking and she felt ill. She looked up to him, speculatively. "Did you drug my drink?"
Cicero widened his eyes, eyebrows furrowed. "Whatever do you mean?"
"The Night Mother… Came alive," she said, glancing back to the corpse. "She spoke to me."
She turned back to look at Cicero, and was startled by what she saw. He stood there, eyes incredibly wide, mouth agape, unmoving. His hands holding the beverages shook slightly as he took a step towards her. It was as though some great epiphany hit him like a massive bag of cement blocks.
"Did… Did she speak the words?" he said, his voice quivering.
"The words?" Clarice frowned, looking back to the casket for a moment, before looking back at him. "Well, she said that she refused to share you. I think that's some kind of threat."
"Did she speak the words!" he said, taking another step towards her, eyes longing. "Anything about Darkness? And Silence?" his voice cracked as desperation spewed out of him.
Clarice frowned and furrowed her brow, before shaking her head. "No. She just threatened me." She turned to look back at the coffin and the corpse within for a moment. As she turned, she heard the sound of a bottle and a glass falling and shattering. This made her swiftly turn her head back to look at Cicero. Before her eyes could find Cicero, she was suddenly leaning backwards slightly, one arm around her neck holding her completely still and unable to struggle, with the black metal blade from before, pressed against her neck. She heard Cicero's heavy breathing in her ear.
"Liar," he seethed. "Blasphemer. You want me to leave my beloved Mother. I never will. Never will! You deserve to die, deceiver. How dare you try to separate faithful Cicero with his beloved Mother?" he spat with each word he hissed into her ear. "She is all he has left!"
"Cicero!" Clarice gagged, struggling for breath. "Listen to me!"
"iNo!/i" he shouted. "Never again will you be Cicero's Listener! He should have known better than to trust you!"
"Cicero, wait!" she choked. "Don't do this! I want to be with you! I want to help you! I care about you, Cicero!"
"No!" he shouted into her ear. He pressed the blade harder onto her neck. She felt it slip underneath the tender skin, unleashing the red beads beneath, which trailed down her skin, leaving behind pathways of ruby. "You are not allowed to say that!"
"Please, Cicero," she felt her breath leaving her, struggling under his arm, giving way to the darkness with threatened to consume her. She could no longer gasp for breaths, for no air came. "Please… Don't do this…"
Cicero watched the life slip from her eyes for a long moment, glaring at her skin. He saw her lips, finding them dry and purple from the lack of breath. Normally, he wanted desperately to see that again, see the life leave the flesh. But at this time, all he could think of was those lips upon his, warm and gentle, comfortable. For the first time in too long, he had been comfortable. His arm shook with inner conflict as the struggle left her. He was brought back to the moment before his death, when the prophecy could have killed him, but spared him. The faithful Listener. He closed his eyes, struggling with the thoughts running through his mind. He couldn't do it, he told himself. Not to his Listener.
He moved his arm away from her, and she fell to the floor, coughing uncontrollably. He stood over her, watching her, clasping his ebony blade tightly in his white-knuckled fist. Both his hands were shaking violently, as were his legs, and his head was pounding. He didn't move for a long while, watching her, wondering if she was going to survive.
After a long coughing fit, she carefully climbed back to her feet, and refused to make eye contact with him. Cicero knew that he could not continue with this. It was ruining him. Why should he care about trying to fit into this foreign society, when all that obviously mattered to him was getting back home, where he could find the real Listener, and be back home with those he knew, and trusted.
"Leave," he hissed, his voice groggy. "Don't return."
Clarice, without saying anything, picked through the broken glass, before collecting her things, and walking out of the house. Cicero watched after her, his entire body shaking. He could only envision their moment that night a week ago. He could only taste her lips upon his, feel the comfort she provided him. She turned and faced the Mother. She stared at him with dead eyes.
He launched himself at her, ebony blade in hand. He leaned against her, holding the blade to her dead neck, grinding his teeth. He seethed into the Dark Elf's dead, pointed ear.
"Why do you do this to me?" he begged, his voice shaking as a sob choked him. "Poor Cicero - iI/i have been inothing/i but faithful to you! Why am I treated like this? Why?" he pressed the blade into her dead throat, and no life blood fell from the wound – just dust, and oil. "I… I hate you…" he sobbed, not sure he knew exactly what he was saying. "I hate you!"
Suddenly, the doors of the casket closed, locking him in with the Night Mother. He immediately felt claustrophobic in there with the corpse he had known so well. He watched the pitch black area where he knew her face was, now more terrified than furious.
"iCicero/i," said a voice. It was a dull hissing, that filled his mind. As it was spoken, the visage of the Mother was illuminated. He felt his entire body go numb. After the word was spoken, the doors shot open, and he was tossed out of the coffin. He looked up to the body, hands shaking violently, dropping his ebony blade far from his reach. He crawled desperately, on all fours, towards the corpse, staring up at her.
"Mother?" he said, his voice shuddering. "Is that your voice I hear?"
No voice came from the corpse for a long moment, but he begged for the sound again. It was like something he had never heard in his entire life. It was a sound he would kill for – and he has. He whimpered as he begged for forgiveness from the corpse. He didn't know what he was saying, he told her. He pleaded for forgiveness from his Matron, not knowing if she would ever allow such a thing for him after what he said.
"iCicero/i," the voice came again. Cicero began to weep at the sound of something he had longed to hear for years. It was as though he was starved for so long, from all food and drink, and suddenly, he was given a taste of something he craved his whole life, but never knew, in his dying breath. He bowed down in front of her, begging to her for something, anything, to be spoken. "iTake me home, Cicero./i" the voice came again. "iTake me home./i"
Cicero began to sob uncontrollably. He knew he was not the Listener, because the sacred words were never spoken. He curled himself into a ball, the only words he knew he would ever hear from his beloved Mother running through his mind constantly. He curled himself into the fetal position, holding his knees tightly to his chest.
"I don't know how," he sobbed into his knees, his whole body shaking. "I don't know how!"
There, in that position, the only words he would ever hear from the Night Mother embedded in his mind for the rest of his life, he rocked back and forth, until an uncontrollable laughter rung in his mind. He couldn't help but burst out laughing from the sound of it, until his consciousness slipped away, leaving him alone with the laughter.