Ugh, before I get into what I really want to say to you guys, I just want to apologize for how late in the day this came. School's started this week, so updates are getting harder to keep up with. I didn't get to go over this chapter like I had with the previous two, so excuse any mistakes or poor wording you may find. I'm probably going to edit this one more time over the next week. Also, sorry for the length. (3,500 words! O-O)

This chapter is another long list of info ending with another Cicero-tantrum, but the ending will set into motion the rest of this story.

Thanks to everyone for all of their reviews and fav/follows! You guys are great and all of your kind and supportive words have meant a lot to me. Since I've gotten so busy, I'll be putting off all my other stories for the time being until this one is completed. Updates come every Thursday.

Thanks again, you guys! :)

It had been only two months since the slave had infiltrated His Emptiness' final sanctuary, but since then things had changed greatly for her. For one, Critare's amount of work was reduced, somewhat. But that lesser quantity of work was traded for new tasks and assignments... as well as privileges.

It was all clear why, to Cicero. He knew that the only reason anything had changed at all for her was because she had so cleverly beguiled everyone. Got them thinking she must be as precious and fragile as fine Argonian porcelain. Oh dear, they were all good and charmed by her false sweetness and soft obedience. Pitying her with her shabby crocodiles' tears. Foolishness. It was foolishness, all of it. Cicero didn't even know why he stood for it in his Sanctuary.

The Pretender and her pet were the only ones other than Cicero who had not seemed to have any change of heart over the weeper. Whatever troubles or vexations were on the whore's mind would be tallied in brusies on the servant's back before long. Yet, no matter how many times the slave was threatened with abandonment or burial by her mistress, Cicero knew all too well that neither were ever going to happen. The not-Speaker was far, far too in love with the whole thing to let it go. The mere ownership of a slave bolstered her ego. It was a novelty, a trophy, a badge of authority. No, she certainly was not going to let go of her prize, not when it fed her little fantasy of queendom.

It was quite clear that the dog still loathed the woman with every hair of his shifting hide. Cicero remembered finding the two together while out for a stroll. The dog was holding the slave fiercely by the hair and while looking to Cicero as if he was in a hurry to silence what little noises she was making before they could be heard by someone. Cicero could not guess why, though. She was covered head-to-toe with fresh bruises, likely from a recent beating, and had the look of someone desperately trying to hold back tears.

"Quiet! Quiet, now!" he commanded her lowly. "Stop that crying! Astrid isn't going to hear anything about this, do you hear me? If you tell her anything- one little thing- I'll roast you in my forge and sell your charred ass as dog meat to some poor butcher in the city! Are we clear?!"

The little weeper had nodded quietly. After that she had avoided the dog when she could and, oddly enough, did not leave the Sanctuary unless ordered to for the next two weeks.

But everyone else, all of Her Foolishness' lackeys, had changed their minds about Critare. Mostly for the better.

Before, Long-ears had gone about ignoring the weeper. She would send a glare her way after she had stayed in the same room as her, crying, for long enough. Now, when she wasn't ignoring Critare, as she still did for the most part, she was laughing at her. The snob always found her good for a bit of amusing conversation. She never out-right mocked her- in fact, knowing the way she acted, it was hard to tell why she spoke to the slave at all. Cicero guessed that it had something to do with her pompous, smug grey-snob ego. Perhaps, the Pretender was not the only one who had received an unrealistic boost in self-importance from the slave.

The dark skinned kill-joy had changed considerably. He had never been able to put up with the weeper's weeping for long before snapping at her to get out or leaving the room himself. After that first month, the man had showed signs of softening up to her. She had gotten that worthless sack of fluff under her spell. All she really had to do was cry and feign insecurity whenever she was told to leave the room or stop that ridiculous crying. Then he'd look so guilty and would uneasily try to soothe her. He'd try doing other small things to ease his guilt, like skipping meals so she'd have more to eat or cleaning little drops of blood off the floors when he tracked it in for any odd reason. He was just a big, soft, spineless, softy.

The wizard was still as cranky and moody as always, only now he tried to practice patience with the weeper. Only the weeper. She was the only one in the Sanctuary who listened to his long, winded rambles about the Dark Ages, the glory days of the Brotherhood, and his rants about the way things were now. When the geezer was done, the slave would look at him for a moment as if she hardly understood a word he had said. She probably didn't. But the fact that she was the only one who listened to him, gave him the idea that she cared about what he said, was the only reason he would apologize after exploding at her or try to control the impulse to yell when she arranged his things wrongly.

Scales had taken quite a liking to her. Like long-ears, he had just ignored her the first month or so. By now, he was having long, seemingly casual conversations with the slave. But when they spoke, they both did so in their usual low voices and so made it impossible for Cicero to know what they spoke of. While it sure did seem like greenie enjoyed his little talks with the slave, he appeared to have motives for it that went beyond friendly conversation. Those motives became quite clear once you observed how at ease he was making contact with her. And he always looked at her with some possessive appraisal. It made Cicero sick to know that any sane, living person could actually want someone as pathetic and foolish as her- while he was treated like some leperous pariah! Sickening!

It was the little monster, though, that was the worst of them all. When she wasn't having her slave help with blasted potions and brews, it was hair-dressing and tea-parties. Tea-parties? Honestly, this place had reached a new low. When Cicero had first arrived, the bar had been set so low, he was shocked to see they found a way under it! The puny un-child would never admit it, but Cicero knew she enjoyed all the pampering even if she acted annoyed when her slave-nanny offered. She simply adored the attention- something which couldn't be sucked out of anyone else. Cicero still wasn't sure whether it was belief in the monster's harmless pretence or the excuse to get out of normal chores that left the slave so willing to cater to the shrimp. Either way, the whole thing bothered Cicero to no end and just went to reinforce his conviction that the whole lot of the Sanctuary, deep down, had no real love for Sithis. The whole world believed the Dark Brotherhood was extinct, and that Pretender was allowing them to spend their time playing.

Just recently the un-child had asked the weeper to make her a dress- as if she had needed one. It had actually been quite a laugh.

There was the little monster, standing on a stool while the slave worked around her, obeying instructions as she had no idea how to go about dress-making.

"We should make a dress for you too, Critare," the monster had said.

The weeper just shook her head and whispered some sort of disagreement.

"Oh, come on. I'll help you and you could finally get rid of that old black dress."

The skeletal creature shook her head again. "No, I like my dress. I don't want a new one."

"Are you sure-"

"Yes. I'm sure, Babette."

"Okay, okay. Sheesh! No need to cry about it. I'm sorry."

The obsession the girl seemed to have with her old, thread-bare, black dress was an odd one indeed. She never took it off, ever- not even to bath or wash it. According to what she told the un-child, she just washed it when she bathed. She took good care of it too. In how ever many years she had owned it she had only ever cut it thrice, as the few lines of fine stitches told. She never patched it, but would only use black thread to repair it for some reason. And oddly enough, it was the only thing she would wear. No shoes, no hats, no gloves, nothing. Not even for cold weather. Cicero did not know how she managed it, much less why she insisted upon the habit. But, he supposed, you couldn't expect anything sensible from a mad woman.

The dress was the only thing she owned other than that doll. A few weeks ago she had started acting quite oddly around her little bed of hay. She became extremely hesitant when anyone came close to it and would try to shield it at certain times. She had been hiding something, obviously. It took only a week for the not-Speaker to figure that out. And when she did, she had forced the weeper to show her what it was. Whatever it was the whore had been expecting, the expression of surprise and irritation written on her face made it clear that a child's toy had not been it. The weeper came clean then, telling her mistress everything. She had found the doll, alone, while outside of the Sanctuary and hid it because she thought that the Pretender wouldn't allow her to keep it. She swore over and over again that she did not steal it and that when she had found it, their was no one else near which could have been the doll's possible owner. It was a lost toy. She begged her mistress to allow her to keep the baby doll more fiercely than she had even begged her for mercy after Cicero had attempted to end her for her crime against the Night Mother. When her request was granted the slave embraced her mistress and thanked her tearfully before holding the doll close to her as if it was her own child. Pfft! And not even after the whole doll fiasco did those buffoons around the Sanctuary realize the normalcy of Cicero's relationship with dear Mother. It was justifiable, perfectly reasonable even. She was the Night Mother, after all- not some average corpse. But no, no! Cicero was still the only strange one there!

The weeper's work load had lightened in some ways as her relationships with the not-Speaker's minions improved. For instance, the slave now only swept and washed the floors at a given time of the week while still tending to certain messes when they occurred. For the most part, the time she didn't spend repeating old chores was now directed at new responsibilities. With the new-found trust she had in her slave, the Pretender had given Critare the privilages to leave the Sanctuary for leisure while additionally tasking her with running trips to the market. Because they were all such a sloppy, lousy excuse for servants of Sithis, the lackeys evidently had reasons to worry about "being recognized" while out in public. So until recently, from what Cicero had gathered, when it came to acquiring necessities, the bunch would have to rely on spending what little income they had with the few fences they had connections to in other cities. The system was limited, of course. And even though they were all a disgrace to the Brotherhood, they at least were above reducing the guild to a reputation of common bandits by looting the bodies and homes of those they killed. So they followed the Pretender's rule to never loot a kill or their home.

But now, with the slave, they did not need to continue their miserable diet of old fruit leathers and bear meats hauled in by the dog. Now they could finally spend contract gold in the neighboring city were they could get fresh cabbages and chicken eggs and bread, even candles, ingots, and paper. The not-Speaker had made sure the softy taught the weeper to handle the septims and that the wizard and scales taught her how to defend herself with magic tricks and a little knife if it was necessary when she made her trips.
Cicero had tried making his own trips to the market. A few days after the foolish weeper had opened the Night Mother's coffin, the jester had left to visit Falkreath so he could replenish Mother's special blend of oil. Mother was going to be due for an oiling soon, and faithful Cicero wanted to be prepared ahead of time.

"I'm sorry... sir. We don't have any of what you're looking for here." the grave-priest had told him.

"Oh, don't be silly with Cicero now," he had answered, giggling. "You have the blend his mother needs, you're the priest afterall. I know what you want; just a little bit more gold from Cicero to sweeten the deal, hmm? Cicero will pay anything, really. Just test him."

"Er... You know that sort of oil is for... dead people, do you?"

"Yes, Cicero does."

"Oh. Well... Cicero, it's not that I won't sell it... I just don't have it here. I use only use a few specific brews for embalming here, and all of them I make myself. I don't have what you're looking for. But I could give you some of my own oils... I won't charge you for them."

"No, no, no..." Cicero had sighed as he left.

He went to the general trader to see if he had Mother's oil, but no. It was the same with everyone else in this cluster of huts for a city.

He had come back two days later to see if any happened to have the blend, then. He had never gotten the chance though. As soon as he was seen, the merchants that knew him at immediately closed shop. They refused to sell to him. And it had taken him three weeks to finally accept that they never would.

He had been reduced to petitioning the Pretender with a request for a way to get more oil. He loathed doing it, but refused to let that stop him. It was for Mother, and he would do anything for Mother. That whore had denied, though. Acquiring such a rare oil was going to be a difficulty and oil for the Night Mother was just not at the top of their priorities, apparently. A few weeks later, she gets the idea to have the slave run all the errands. Cicero had chosen that moment to once again remind the not-Speaker about the dire situation of Mother's oil.

"Don't you understand, Astrid," he had said as kindly as he could manage with her. "Mother requires a certain oil if her skin is to stay so lovely and fresh. Other oils might discolor Mother's precious skin and fail to moisten it properly. It has already been so long you see, a month. Mother will be needing her oil soon, before damage occurs."

Her Foolishness had just smirked at him and told him that she would have the slave look into it. After another patient week, he had reminded her again. And again she smirked at him and said that the slave had already made an order for it with the Falkreath Trader. But that there was no way of knowing when it would arrive.

Over those next two weeks, Cicero had been nervously looking for a gift to present Mother with when he was finally able to open her coffin and fulfill her duties as Keeper. Just something to make amends for how far behind he had come with his responsibilities. It was proving... difficult.

He wouldn't make her a new song, or dance, or sharpen her a new dagger as he had already given her dozens of each. No, something more special was needed. He had tried baking, but the loaves, what sad excuses they were, spoiled while they had waited. After his third attempt went to waste, the others had forbid him from wasting anymore flour. He could not embroider fabric or whittle wood, so gifts of that sort were out of the question. He had tried visiting the market again to search for something suitable- a babble or trinket perhaps- but was discouraged from even trying the moment he arrived. How could he forget? No one in the village would be seen doing business with him.
So it would be flowers, then. A big, pretty bouquet that he would keep fresh for weeks with potions from the un-child's stash. The only problem- ho, and there always had to be a problem- was that there were no flowers! Not in the Sanctuary. Not outside it. Not for the next surrounding mile, Cicero wouldn't be surprised.

He knew what happened to them, too. They had all been picked by that weeper and woven into little flower crowns placed in the un-child's hair. They were picked and either cut up and bottled away as raw ingredients or brewed into tinctures sold to the city apothecary.

Cicero had being searching for several hours now, looking for flowers and had found little more than a handful of bulbs and buds. And he had had enough of it.

He screamed and uprooted a bush of nightshade. He turned around and stormed back to the Sanctuary, a force of nature in his fury.

When he found her, she was in the dining area, working on supper for the lackeys.

"You!" he roared.

The weeper jumped and spun around, watching him fearfully.

"Do you see what you've done, now!" he yelled, shaking a fist full of flower buds at her.

The weeper shook her head at him, tearful already.

"Alright, what is it now, you insufferable fool?" the wizard snapped, tiredly rubbing his eyes as he walked in.

"What is it?" he repeated. "What it is is this useless wretch spoiling everything! She's picked all the flowers to be had and now there's nothing left for Mother!"

"Flowers, Cicero. Really?" The un-child rolled her eyes.

"When did you get in here?" the old one asked.

The little monster ignored him, focusing instead on Cicero.

"Last time you were going to kill her just because she opened some lady's coffin-"

"Some lady? The Night Mother! The Unholy-"

"Matron of the Brotherhood! Yeah, I get it."

"No! No, you don't!"

The wizard spoke up, "Wait, wait. I'm lost. Is this about flowers or that blasted corpse? Can someone tell me, please?"

"Look, Cicero. We have no flowers. I'm sorry, but if you wanna' blame anyone, blame me for it. I was the one using them to make all those potions. Not Critare."

"What's happening?" Scales asked lowly, just walking in on the whole scene.

"The clown's having another meltdown," the wizard muttered to him.

Scales nodded, "What happened this time?"

"I don't know. This is either about flowers or the Night Mother, but no one will really tell me which it is."

"Hmm."

"This isn't about flowers or the Night Mother," the little monster answered them. "This is about Cicero. And only Cicero!" She spun on her heel and put her hands on her hips, glaring at Cicero.

"I don't know what your issue is with her, but you need to get over yourself! She's done nothing wrong to you!"

Cicero clenched his fists. "My issue? Look at her, she's-"

"Babette is right," the wizard interrupted. "You've been nothing but a bully to that girl since she got here and it's going to stop now."

"No one's going to tolerate this anymore," greenie said cooly.

Cicero stomped his feet and screamed.

"Oh! None of you like Cicero or his jokes or singing! Or his hat! None of you! But he doesn't care! He wants nothing to do with any of you worthless milksops!"

Cicero stormed out of the room, furious.

Once he was in his quarters, he let out another roar and kicked a leg out from under his shoddy table. He moved on to the chair, throwing it at a wall. He swung around, hooking his hands under the frame of his bed in a fast grip. With one sudden thrust of the arms, he flipped the whole structure over, screaming.

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