Clarice and Cicero collapsed onto Cicero's couch, sighing heavily. It was a lot of work fetching incredibly special ingredients from incredibly strange places for the beloved Night Mother. For example, she required fresh eggs – not store bought, but coming directly from the chicken. For that, they had to search the farmer's market, but found no eggs that had been laid recently. However, the owner knew the man who supplied the eggs; one phone call and 45-minute trip into the middle of nowhere later, they had two brand new, still-warm eggs in their hands.
Then, they had to fetch an assortment of flowers. The Night Mother spoke of several strange breeds which Clarice had never heard of before, but after doing some research on flowers with the same sort of metaphysical properties, she managed to compile a list of more common-to-this-planet breeds. It was then to the flower shop, where Cicero had the hardest time understanding any of the flowers he was picking up. He confused tulips with hydrangeas and peonies with lilies. Becoming quire flustered with the situation, he decided to sit back and allow her to compile the list on her own. Some of the flowers included Snapdragons, Asiatic Lilies, Bleeding Hearts, and Orchids. After a long and frustrating conversation with the florist, who was firmly against their selection, stating that those colours "clashed", they were back home with a multi-coloured bouquet of randomness.
After that, they required a large assortment of mushrooms, many of which were non-existent in this world as well. But, again, they managed to replace them. They had to be fresh, however (of course), directly from the earth. After returning to the egg-provider, who knew someone who grew their own mushrooms (Clarice had to constantly remind him that it wasn't hallucinogenic mushrooms they were looking for), and another phone call, followed by another 30-minute trip into the depths of the middle of nowhere, they had a bushel of all sorts of mushrooms, from all different places, directly from the manure piles and greenhouses.
There were things she required that there was no replacing, such as strange, glowing roots and bowls of odd substances that there was no retrieving in this world. Instead, she had to try and fill the recipe with herbs and other natural things that had similar properties, but nowhere near the same construction. The Night Mother insisted that it wouldn't be as potent as they could possibly have been, but nevertheless, it was still worth the effort.
After compiling the rest of the required substances and placing them in a place where they could remain somewhat fresh, they took some time to relax. Clarice was remarkably confused with the situation. Either she was incredibly delusional in believing what was happening, perhaps she was subconsciously humouring the madman, perhaps she was being played still, but perhaps everything was real. For the moment, considering that she was not working, and there was no more beer and martinis, she would go with this interesting, strange flow, and allow the world to work around her, confusing her, consuming her. The madman and the psychologist, working together to achieve the most strangest of goals.
"What is she expecting to do with all this crap?" Clarice said, turning to look at Cicero.
He looked to her, raising an eyebrow. "How is Cicero supposed to know? iYou're/i the Listener."
She smirked and rolled her eyes, shaking her head. She stared up at the ceiling, thinking about the past events. How strange they were. Never, in her entire life, did she think circumstances as strange as these would ever occur, especially to her.
"Cicero," she said, her head rolling upon the back of the couch to face him. "Tell me about Tamriel."
Cicero looked to her, a huge smile on his face. He smiled and closed his eyes, facing the ceiling again, and sighing. "It is unlike anything here," he explained. "It has so much history. There are Gods and Daedra and different regions in different areas. Cicero is from Cyrodiil, which is much like your standard place with seasons and green grass and trees which change colours. It has a history with corruption and gates to the world of the Daedra. But Skyrim… Oh, beautiful Skyrim. Skyrim is full of mountain ranges and the Throat of the World. One place would be covered in snow, and the next is filled with lush, green grass and dreaded Spriggons. Bears and goats and elk and trolls and giants and mammoths and rabbits and slaughterfish and salmon and horkers and skeevers and frostbite spiders… So many beautiful creatures! And underground Dwemer ruins – Cicero wishes he saw a dwarf! Cicero can't even explain it. You need to see it to understand." Cicero then glanced over to look at her suggestively, but her eyes were closed. She was listening deeply. For the first time in a while, she was listening like she wanted to listen – while envisioning the storybook world of Cicero.
"It's ruled by an emperor…" Cicero continued. "Well, was. He was killed, you see. The Listener killed him. He came from Cyrodiil with the other Imperials. The Nords, natives of Skyrim, and the Imperials are in a constant war. So much racism, so much prejudice. Neither is all good nor all bad. Skyrim is separated into provinces, each ruled by a Jarl-"
"Tell me about the Listener back home," Clarice interrupted him, her eyes still closed. She wanted to imagine this mysterious predecessor.
Cicero thought fondly back to his beloved Listener, who was hopefully waiting for him in the Sanctuary. "She is an Altmer – a High Elf. The Dovahkiin – Dragonborn. She is the most un-Altmer Altmer Cicero has ever met. A Battle-Mage of sorts. Cicero has followed her and assisted her in her travels and battles for a while, before he had to run home and tend to the Mother. She has the sort of Altmer-attitude insofar as she is sort of snuff and cynical, but she was so helpful and could be so kind, even though she killed people for a living." Clarice could see a magnificent woman, standing there, tall, beautiful, almond eyes and pointed ears, hands full of fire.
"Do you miss her?" Clarice asked, opening her eyes, but not looking to him. She was afraid of the answer.
"Of course I do!" Cicero said, looking to her, and furrowing his brow. "She mattered a lot to the Mother and to Cicero."
Clarice opened her eyes and looked to Cicero, frowning gravely. "I mean… Do you, personally, miss her… As more than the Listener?"
Cicero narrowed his eyes, watching her for a long moment, until it finally hit him. He was so socially awkward, and so not used to things such as love and affection and relationships, that he had no idea how to associate those emotions with his own life, and make such connections. He slowly grinned at her. "Listener," he said, slyly. "Are you jealous?"
Clarice rolled her eyes and sneered, looking back up to the ceiling. Cicero burst out laughing and nudge her fondly, laying his head on her shoulder. "No, Cicero does not miss her like that. She was more interested in other shes."
Clarice's eyes widened slightly. "Um, oh," she replied, blushing lightly. "Well, okay then."
"Would you two stop flirting sometime this era so we can finish the summoning?" the Night Mother's voice came to her head.
Cicero watched her face become void of expression, as though she suddenly became deep in thought. "Is the Night Mother speaking? What did she say?" he asked eagerly, sitting up.
Clarice sighed, tiredly. "She wants us to continue the ritual." She sat forward and laid her head onto the coffee table in front of her, exhausted with the running around they had done. Was this ever going to end?
Cicero jumped up enthusiastically. "Well, come on, Listener! There is still much to be done!"
"Yeah, yeah," she said, dismissively. "I'll grab the notebook."
The two reconvened in the chamber where the Mother stood in her coffin, watching them both with dead, dead eyes. The final thing the Night Mother had requested of her, was an empty book. It could not contain lined pages or metal rings – just a bound book, with completely blank pages (thank the Gods for office supply depot stores). They brought the ingredients they retrieved into the room and placed them around the candles, as the Night Mother had insisted. Some things Cicero had relentlessly powdered and ground into a bowl. Clarice managed to come across a podium which could act as a pedestal on which the empty notebook needed to sit. Once everything was prepared, they stood back, and waited patiently, though incredibly excitedly, to see what was going to happen with the things they prepared.
"I need Cicero to leave," the Night Mother spoke to Clarice. She sighed and nodded, turning to Cicero. Good, she thought. She could get some sleep.
"She wants us out," Clarice said, heading towards the door, eyes half-lidded with fatigue.
Cicero looked to her with wide, disappointed eyes. He looked to his beloved Mother, then back to the Listener, then back to the Mother, and again to the Listener, before sighing. "D'oh, alright. I guess poor Cicero has to do what the Mother wishes of him!" With that, he skipped to the door, glancing back to see if anything had been done while his back was turned. Clarice sauntered at his heels.
"Listener, wait," the Night Mother stopped her.
Clarice groaned and looked back, frowning. "What."
"Stay," she said. "Help me. I want you to see this."
She furrowed her brow, before turning back to Cicero. "Sorry, but she wants me to hang out here. Maybe I'm going to be a sacrifice."
"Oh, don't be silly, Listener," the jester insisted. "Mother never gets her hands dirty. My, my, you are so lucky! Cicero wishes he could stay."
"I'll tell you all about it later," Clarice leaned up against the door, watching Cicero back out of the threshold. "We'll gossip." With that, she closed the door, removing the Mother from Cicero's sight – or was it the other way around?
She sauntered back to the podium and stood behind the book, watching the Night Mother's corpse. She was awakened, slightly, by the sheer amount of curiosity she felt for the situation. She was immensely interested to see what exactly it was she needed to see. For some reason, she felt as though whatever it was she was about to witness, would answer all of her questions – she was really hoping they weren't just continuous delusions, brought about by exhaustion, or a dream.
Suddenly, the book flipped open. Clarice started backwards, startled by the suddenness of the motion. Before her, she watched as the pages of the book were being flipped as though by a fan blowing them over at a pace far too slow and fluid to simply be air. The items in the room seemed to be coming to life, as each one began to glow, and lend its energy to the book upon the podium. She saw tiny sparkles, like flecks of the sun, lifting off of the disintegrating objects, and float delicately through the air, before resting onto the pages of the book, and imprinting themselves upon them, dissolving on the paper. She felt a few things touch her skin and become caught in her hair. They were temperature-less – neither hot, nor cold – but she could feel them burning with energy and life. They shook to remove themselves from her wild, unkempt hair, like tiny, glowing insects caught in a web. Eventually, all the items were melted and their flecks of life embossed upon the pages of the notebook.
For a long span of time, nothing happened.
"Good," the Night Mother said. Clarice could hear satisfaction in her voice. "Now, there is one final thing I need of you for this particular summoning."
One of the umpteen items the Night Mother required for this endeavour, was a long, study stick. It was obviously the easiest thing for them to find, since it could be in anyone's back yard. The Mother instructed Clarice to take the stick, and bring it to the book. When the stick was in Clarice's hands, she told her to read the book, keeping the stick in hand. Clarice, not sure what would come of this motion, since she clearly saw no words printed upon the pages when the flecks dissolved into them. Nevertheless, she did as she was told, held the stick firmly in her hands, before flipping open the cover of the book, leaning over to read it.
Suddenly, with a force stronger than hurricane winds, an energy flowed, from the book, through her body, our of her hand, and into the stick. She felt an immense burning scorch through her body, from her eyes, through her brain, down her neck, to her shoulder, down her arm, through her palm, and into the stick she held. She couldn't move at that moment, as the strength of the motion was far too much to control, and the sensation made her entire body convulse. Her eyes felt as though they were burning out of her head. Her heart was racing, as it too felt the singeing of the power.
After a while of this, each page again turning, but at a much faster rate, the force let her go. Before she got the chance to gasp for breath, she fell backwards and landed on her rump. She laid onto her back, breathing heavily, still clasping the stick tightly in her hand. Her entire body no longer felt as though it was disintegrating, rather it felt sort of cool, as though the rushing of cold water spilled through her, soothing her. Eventually, she managed to catch her breath, and held tightly onto it, while she gradually pulled herself back onto her feet.
"What the Hell was that?" Clarice demanded, leaning against the podium for support.
"Magicka," the Night Mother replied. "This particular combination of things, mixed with my own bit of energy, made the Magicka come to life, even in this… dreary world. You don't have the capabilities of harnessing Magicka, so your body wasn't used to the sensation. Thankfully, it passed safely through you into the staff, rather than sticking around to find out what you can do."
"Wait," Clarice paused. "You mean, that could have killed me? And you didn't care?"
"Relax, my child," the Night Mother eased her. "It was a necessary risk. Besides, the chances of it killing you were only about sixty-seven percent. Now, since those ingredients aren't fully what we need and we did a very rough enchantment here, that staff will only be good for one use – and even then, it's dicey."
"What do you want me to do with it?" she asked.
"Well, with the little bit of Magicka still running through you, I need you to cast the spell," the Night Mother explained. "Now, trust me, this won't be easy for you. You won't die, but you will be incredibly exhausted since it's exerting your limits to their… well… limits. Do you understand?" Clarice nodded. "Good. Now, stand in front of me, point the staff at the podium, and allow your remaining energy to spill through it and fill it with force, but keep it in your body. When you know it is at its very limits, release it, and you will have cast the spell. Gods, I hope this works…"
Clarice did as she was told, and stood before the podium, her back to the Night Mother. She breathed heavily before lifting the staff and pointing it at the podium. As she did so, she felt her arm fill with the burning energy again. She breathed heavily, feeling her body charge what was then a weapon. Contrary to last time, she felt her body draining of the energy within her, and filling the staff. As she scraped the last bit of Magicka from her body, she watched as a strange black, purple, and white light swelled at the end of the stick. She widened her eyes, her arm convulsing and muscles flexing until it hurt. Before she felt her body collapse from being completely drained of energy, she felt a certain climax, an abrupt stop in energy flow, which told her she was void of it. She gasped and exhaled sharply, before thrusting the built up energy through her arm, and through the stick. She watched as the swollen purple ball fell from the staff, causing an even bigger purple sphere to expand on the floor.
For a long moment, nothing happened. The sphere sat upon the floor, a vibrating, pulsing shivering mass of purple and black light. Clarice allowed her legs to collapse, since she felt completely drained of vitality, but kept her eyes focused on the strange thing unfolding before her. Unless she was still being drugged, there was no way this wasn't real. She could feel the power radiating off of it.
Slowly, something began to unfold within the void. The power throbbing off of the portal became much stronger as the thing within it emerged, developing a humanoid construction, comprehensible to her cognition. Soon, the portal began to shrink, disappear from sight, leaving behind an odd entity.
A tall, magnificent, skeletal figure stood in the room, a dark smoke swirling around it. It wore a long, hooded robe. It didn't have any skin, but it seemed to be covered in a thin layer of some sort of organic matter, giving it a dark red, bloody appearance upon the skeleton. It had no eyes, only dark recesses in the skull, void of any ocular objects. It seemed to scowl as it looked around the room in disgust. Eventually, its eyes rested upon Clarice. The skeleton then grinned the most sinister, bone-chilling grin she had ever witnessed. It set her teeth on edge.
"Why, hello there, mortal," a deep, husky voice filled her mind.
"Who… Who are you?" Clarice asked, terrified.
"Me?" the skeleton laughed, a horrendous, blood-curdling sound. His torn, tattered, black robes moved about him as though there was a light breeze in a low-gravity chamber. "Why, I am the True God. The First and Only. The Void. I… am Sithis."