I'm making no apologies.
October was a pretty bad month for me, personally. During it, my dad was diagnosed with cancer and I found out that my mom is in the midst of a pregnancy she may not survive. So last month I pretty much took a break and made school work my main focus as I tried to deal with all this stuff.
Nevertheless, I will finish this story. I don't start anything on this site that I won't finish.
The weeks following Critare's departure had been the amongst the longest in Cicero's life. And the most agonizing, by far.
He had worried himself to sleep the first night, fidgeting internally with all his insecurities over what he had presented Critare hours before. His first thoughts the following morning after he had leapt out of bed where to see his friend so they could go about whatever the day presented them together, as they had all those previous weeks. His second thought was that she wasn't there for him to spend the day with anymore.
He had flopped back down on his bed once he recalled this, feeling an awful yet small weight bearing down in his chest.
One day. Two days. Three days were all it took for Cicero to finally complete his contraption for Mother. He didn't know why he even bothered with it. The whole point of making the stupid thing was so it could offer Her UnHoliness protection while he was away, helping Critare... which he wasn't. His progress before the girl had left had been slow, slow, slow. But in her absence, he had worked tirelessly on it. Obsessively, even. Devoting every anxious thought and bit of nervous energy to it. And then... it was done, just like that.
Cicero had sprung the complex trap once or twice right after its completion, telling himself that he was merely testing it. After the fifth 'test' he decided that he would quit lying to himself and just install it into the Night Mother's sarcophagus. Thirty minutes or so later, the process was completed. The poor jester sighed. For the remainder of the day he tried to think of something he could do. Something that could be done without Critare.
Four days. Five. Six and seven. Somewhere on that seventh day marking the first week since Critare left for her contract, Cicero had begun to worry. He had worried ever since she left, really- well, even before she left, if he wanted to be entirely realistic- but that was beside the point!
Critare ought to have been back by this time... If she had been taking a carriage, that is. Of course, Cicero had no way of knowing if she was traveling by carriage, thanks to that Pretender... And if she was traveling by foot, it would take longer. Of course it would... But then again, she was after a mercenary. A busy, busy mercenary- who is in someplace one day and then another the next. Having to chase a mercenary all over the country would be a very time consuming task, indeed. Indeed, indeed. Especially when one considered all the nuances of travel, traveling could take a very long time. With the bandits and the bears and the little fishes that liked to bite and the tall, slippery cliffs-
Cicero burst into a fit of giggles, prying the end of his dagger into the grain of his wood table a little more roughly.
"Slippery cliffs!" he screeched, but not quite yelled. "They'll kill us all. When we pay no mind. They'll get us when we slip- all in our own time."
Eight days. Nine days.
"Wake up!" Cicero spat quietly, shaking the sleeping un-child.
"Go away," she muttered groggily, turning herself over to try and avoid the jester's reach.
"But Cicero needs the un-child now! This is urgent- no, no! You will not dare go back to sleep, you little-"
The imp was up on her feet in a flash, her face inches from his as one tiny hand grasped the collar of his heavy tunic while another held a knife to his throat.
"I will cut you," she said, her tiny voice like it always was but her dark, little eyes speaking volumes to her vexation. The fact that they looked so tired only served to make them more menacing.
Cicero blinked, "Well, someone's a grumpy little bear."
The un-child groaned, pushing him away from her.
"Go suck an egg, Cicero!" she said as she tried to kick him with one of her stout legs, only causing her to loose her balance and fall back onto her bed.
"Oo-ooh, but please, little blood-sucker! Cicero needs your help."
She crossed her arms, "Ugh, fine. What for?"
He took a deep breath, "Cicero needs the list of items given to Critare when she left- nine days ago... Er, what's wrong?"
"What's wrong?! You woke me up for that shit!"
"It is important!"
"It could have waited until morning!"
The little monster huffed before climbing down off her bed and leading Cicero out of the bunks, grumbling to herself.
"The little monster should know she could have just told Cicero where to find this list," he said once they were within the room the imp kept her alchemy table.
"Oh, and have you run through all my things again?" she asked pointedly.
Cicero recalled mess he had made of her chest and cabinet when he had searched through them for a spool of twine and scissors only ten days earlier. He stiffened, closing his mouth.
It only took a moment for the un-child to produce a small slip of paper which she then handed to him.
"Here," she snapped.
"Why Cicero thanks the lit-" his words were cut off as he felt himself being pulled down, grasped at the collar again by the un-child.
"Next time, someone better be dying. Or- Sithis help me- I will take whatever it is you wake me for and stick it down throat."
The jester blinked, "Cicero looks foward to it."
The un-child sighed before kicking Cicero, having success this time.
The jester yelped and clutched at his shin before looking over the slip.
"Eh... Cicero can hardly understand this..."
Ten.
Cicero slept late into the day, much to everyone's liking. He had been up the previous night trying to decipher the needle-like writing on the paper he had been given. By the time he had finished he had about enough energy left to worry frantically over what he had discovered for an hour before collapsing, asleep, into his chair.
When he woke, it was evening. He went about asking if Critare had returned yet, knowing the answers but unable to help himself.
Wringing his hands, the jester went to Mother's audience room, sighing as he spotted the withering garland.
For the remainder of the day and long into the night he rambled madly about what plan he had learned the Pretender had given his friend.
Things to keep warm: a cloak, fur mittens and shoes. Enough alchemical ingredients to allow her to make what she needs, be it healing elixirs or poisons, but just the right balance so she's not suspected of malintent if her bag is inspected. Anything else she needs can be recovered from the land- she ought to travel light. And make sure she knows to never walk out a city's parameters with an unused potion in her pack unless she's looking to be looted by bandits. Also, give her some herbs and spices with cooking purposes only. Thirty septims; enough to get her to Whiterun and a night at the inn there. If she needs more money- that's what her ingredients and empty bottles are for. A bowl for mixing and brewing. A map. A few apples and some bread.
"Not even a teeny, little herb knife to protect herself from wicked thorns Mother. Ha-ha! Can you believe that. No, no. Critare is dead. Dead, dead. Ho-ho! But hey, at least she was given some fur boots and mittens, you see? Now at least when the skeevers come to nibble at what's left, her fingers and toes will be nice and warm for them. That's nice, don't you think? Now, isn't it?"
Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Sixteen.
The tenth day had set the daily routine for the jesters following week.
Sleep through half the day. Get up. Eat something. Raise hell in the Sanctuary. Retreat to the Night Mother's audience room. Prattle on whatever thought popped into his head until dawn. Rinse and repeat.
Most topics he'd discuss in his long, frantic monologues to Mother included help for Critare, making him Listener, punishing that Pretender, making him Listener so he could hear her say what had become of Critare, new plans for Mother's coffin-trap, how he missed Critare, how he longed to hear Mother's voice, songs for Mother, and when things were ever going to get less boring around the Sanctuary.
By the seventeenth day, Cicero's anxiety just became too much to bear.
He had snapped.
Scales and softy had to fight to keep him pinned to the ground as they shouted for the others to hurry, trying to keep their voices audible over the screaming jester and the growing fire. The other assassins suspected nothing when they had seen Cicero shuffling in and out of the halls minutes before, cackling buoyantly to himself as he carried armfuls of straw- straw that they weren't aware was being taken from their bunks. At the sound of shattering glass and the smell of smoke creeping through the halls that soon followed after, half the assassins had ran into the enchanting and potion-crafting room to find Cicero, bouncing on his heels atop a mound of burning straw and firewood. The bottle shards of half the un-child's elixir store littered the ground, dowsing it with their many contents. Any remaining bottles must have been stored in Cicero's pockets, as he somehow kept producing another to throw on the fire under him and watch in delight as the liquids were ate up in red, cyan, viridian, or lavender breaths of flame.
Greeny and the softy were quick to get him off the burning mound and pin him to the floor after hastily picking their way around the sharp mess. They screamed for the doggy and grey-snob to come and help put out the fire between shouts for the un-child to hurry as she scurried through her wrecked cabinet, shouting back at them.
"My Dark family!" he had merrily greeted them when they walked in, utterly oblivious to their shocked faces and enraged shouts.
"Three fool boys of Morthal,
They prayed a prayer to Mother,
But had our dear Night Mother heard,
My rhyme'd be less absurd."
Even when he was being roughly grabbed and slammed to the ground he didn't stop shouting his nonsense for a moment.
"Dark Brothers! Dark Sisters! Why do we wait and hide? We are the Dark Brotherhood! Let us set the world on fire tonight! What have we to fear of those bears and wolves and all their music! Who cares for gold when we have such green moss growing out our ears? Hee-hee! Make room for me, do not forget! Never, never forget these last dying words of mine- ha-ha-ha-ha-hee! Madness is merriment and merriment's might- come now, all you- sing with me! Sithis is most displeased with their indifference. Ho-ho-ho-ho! He'll kill us all!"
Cicero stopped for nothing. He was utterly out of touch with reality. Even with the numerous shards of glass cutting into his back and the various sensations of burning, itching, cooling, and numbing leaking into the wounds, he didn't stop fighting against those holding him down. Not until the little monster had forced whatever sedative it was she had finally found down his throat.
The doggy and grey-snob were quick to realize after dumping water on the fire that the kindle had been supplemented with some sort of oil. With the fire twice as bad, they frantically roused the sleeping wizard awake and out of his chair and had him put it out with a magic frost.
Cicero woke to find himself in his room strapped- tightly- to an old, out-of-use torture table leaning against one of his walls. Nearly a whole day had passed since Cicero's episode, the Pretender furiously demanding that he be left alone for a whole day. And another half-day passed before the un-child walked into the jester's chamber to find him completely still and quiet and awake on the board.
"Are you feeling good now?"
She still let him down anyway when he didn't reply.
For the next few days Cicero dedicated his hours solely to making improvements to the contraption he had placed in Mother's sarcophagus- time during which he did not make a sound. All additions, tunings and modifications were entirely unnecessary and really only served the purpose of giving him something to do with his destructive energy. It also kept his thoughts from running away with him.
So by the twenty-first day, when he had exhausted all possible tweeks that could be made to the complex device, he had sighed and said,
"... wonder what Critare would have thought of it..."
It was the first thing he had said in days and he regreted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Now he was thinking about it all again.
He wondered around the Sanctuary, eventually seating himself in the kitchen with the other members of his 'family'. If he had looked up he would have noticed that half of those seated with him- the un-child, greeny, softy, and the wizard- were all as quiet and despondent-looking as he was.
In Critare's absence, the grey-snob had been forced to take up the burden of cooking for her fellow lackeys- a task she had carried out before had a slave to do so for her and one that she was absolutely thrilled about having to return to.
She had just finished the stew when the Pretender had entered the room. Taking in the expressions of half of those at the table, the not-Speaker seemed to stiffen some with her expression hardening, but went on seating herself with everyone else anyways.
Finally, about half-way through the quiet, unhappy meal, the Pretender threw her goblet down.
"Damn it, all of you!" she hissed. "She's fine! Do you hear me? She is fine!"
Softy and scales and the little monster had all quietly lowered their eyes, like children watching their mother and father fight at dinner.
Things went on in a tense silence for a minute more before the jester blurted,
"Cicero blames the un-child!"
"What?!" the imp threw her hands down on the table.
"If it wasn't for you, she might never have learned how to craft a poison. And now she's probably swallowed it- ha-ha! If it weren't for you she would still be here, washing the socks of all you lazy, lazy sloths!"
"Get the hell out- now, Cicero!" snapped the Pretender.
"No!" he sang out, bouncing up out of his seat.
"Cicero was already leaving!" he finished, leaping out of the room as he cackled like he had won.
He returned to Mother's audience room, whispering nonsense to her again long through the night.
Twenty-one. Twenty-two.
Twenty-three. Four.
Shall it take a
Whole twenty more?
Over the next week, Cicero returned to a routine much like the one he had in the days leading to his break-down. Sleep became sarce. After rambling hushed prayers to the Night Mother to make him Listener, to bring back Critare, and to punish the Pretender for hours on end, he would fall onto a stone pew and sleep maybe one or two hours. He'd wake and tend to Mother's audience room, going over tasks again and again once he had finally run out of things that needed cleaning or keeping. One of the challenges of this was in ignoring the garlands lining the walls along the room which were long past their time and drying out were they hung, dropping flakey little petals on the ground under them. Cicero couldn't bare to take it down yet, but it was still a constant reminder of a friend he had been trying to keep his mind off of. He had settled for trying to ignore the things altogether with little success.
At some point in the day, Cicero would leave the Night Mother and find himself something to eat in the kitchen when it was not occupied by anyone else. Sometimes this couldn't be avoided. Sometimes he would have to eat with his dark siblings around him. That was how he noticed the Pretender's sudden habit to stare at him acidly- almost suspiciously- when she thought he wasn't looking. Cicero didn't know why this was. Frankly he didn't care. He presumed it couldn't have had anything to do with his behavior which had been so abnormally un-bothersome of the late. The other members of the Sanctuary had no idea what to make of the Keeper's sudden change of habits. Most just hoped he wouldn't end the episode violently again.
At around sunset he would leave the Sanctuary and sit outside it, watching the roads, waiting. He would return to the Sanctuary- a time which was different everyday- when he couldn't bare waiting any longer. The jester would make his lonely pilgrimage to Mother's audience room, where he'd purge every waking, disturbed thought onto her dead ears.
One day though, when Cicero came outside to wait and watch, he found that he was not alone.
It was dusk, so there was just enough light out for him to still see a faint line of smoke rising behind a nearby thicket. Not knowing what to think, Cicero investigated. Not interested in the least with what the source of the smoke might be. Though he had not been guessing anything in particular, finding the softy, had been the last thing he would have guessed of.
Much less the softy in a state of complete inebriation.
He was reclined with his back laid out on a low boulder in the clearing. Bottles of some specific Hammerfell liquor lay around him, most emptied.
Though at the moment he was occupied with a small wooden tube. Cicero didn't have to think hard to realize that this pipe was responsible for the smoke. Or to realize its part in the Redgaurd's present state.
Cicero stepped through the thicket, choosing to enter the clearing with the softy as he couldn't think of any reason why not to and decided that alone was a good enough reason to sit by him. Cicero pondered half-heartedly on what must have been burning in that barrel. He had been around enough of Skyrim to have learned that skooma was the poison of choice here- along with everywhere else. Yet nothing in the scent wafting at him hinted at moon sugar.
"Oh, hey there," softy greeted to the jester once he noticed he was there. The man's speech was thick, as if his tongue was made of rubber. That and his heavy, gazed over eyes were indicative of just how intoxicated he was.
The Redguard didn't seem to mind it when Cicero didn't reply, just leaving the jester be as he sat himself atop a stone next to him.
Softy was the first to break the silence.
"Can't do this in the Sanctuary," he finally grunted, raising his pipe for Cicero to see. "Astrid would have my head. Made it very clear this wouldn't be tolerated. A month ago I would have got so pissed with myself if I had done this. But tonight- tonight it just couldn't be helped."
He let out a long, aggravated sigh, lifting the pipe again.
"Here's to eleven years clean out the door," he said before taking another long drag out of the pipe.
"So is this what you do every night now," he pointed to Cicero, smoke puffing out his mouth as he spoke. "Go and sit outside."
Silence. Cicero lowered his gaze.
"I get it. We all do. Uh, most of us at least. We're all worried... You- you know what you need? You could use some of this," the Redguard held his pipe out to Cicero, offering it.
"Oh, now don't be so snub- or whatever they say. Its a lot better than lighting a bunch of shit on fire and er, going crazy."
The softy sighed and leaned back onto his boulder once he had finally forced the pipe into Cicero's hands. Cicero did nothing to acknowledge it. Justing holding it away from himself as it smoldered.
Softy gazed up at the night sky as he went on talking, "Wormwood leaves with trama and canis roots. One of my old little mixtures. Found the last two to be more than decent relaxants if used just right. The wormwood's good for counteracting the more... nasty effects of the roots. Ugh. Better than that filth they bring in from Eiswer, anyway. Don't see anything that's not there with my stuff. Cheap. You can get it any where. Plus, you won't ever attack anything that moves. The trick is to not be picky...
"Damn that Astrid," he sighed. "She always was so pig-headed... But this time, ugh... S'been thirty days, you know. Since she left. That's- that's a whole month!"
Cicero turned away, looking up at the night sky himself now. The pipe still remained un-touched in his hand, the smoke wafting from the barrel and into the open night air.
"Too long," he whispered.
Thirty-one
Dead and done.
Thirty-two
Swallowed her brew.
Thirty-three
Crushed by a tree.
Thirty-four
Gored by a boar.
Thirty-five. She finally returned.
Cicero had been waiting outside again that night, wringing his hat in his hands, when he heard the sound of leaves being tread softly under foot. He made no move to investigate this time and merely waited for the source to come to him- if it ever did. It could have just been a rabbit for all he knew.
Then heard a soft voice- soft as a dove's coo.
"Cicero?"
Cicero stood, holding his breath. He walked out to where he could see the trail leading to the Sanctuary door more clearly when he saw her. Critare.
He stood there for a moment, watching her dumbly, before charging her way and embracing her.
He spun her around as he shouted, "Oh! Cicero has missed Critare so much! He thought she might have died or been kidnapped. Maybe even arrested. Ooh, he couldn't bare not knowing! But you're back! Cicero had prayed to the Night Mother to tell him when you were coming back so many times."
Cicero stopped spinning them around, looking winded as he went on speaking with her in his arms. "But she never answered. Oh, Cicero had wanted to be Listener so much while you were gone. More than he had ever wished it before. Ah, but no matter. Mother will make Cicero Listener in time. Cicero knows it."
Critare lowered her eyes at Cicero's last words, as if she felt guilty of something. But Cicero did not think anything of this.
"What's important is that Critare is back." The statement suddenly reminded the jester of who he was with and seemed to renew his excitement. So much excitement, in fact, he practically glowed.
He sprang up and began spinning Critare and himself around once more, shouting, "You're back! You're back and oh so safe and with Cicero! What happened? Are they dead? Did Critare run into trouble? Cicero will cut them all down!"
Finally Cicero stopped spinning and placed Critare back onto the ground sighing, "Cicero missed Critare."
The girl opened her mouth, looking as though she were about to speak, when Cicero piped in again.
"How did it go? Things were not too hard for Critare, were they? She had managed to do it without being caught, right?"
Critare lowered her eyes for a moment, before bringing them back to Cicero's. "I met a merchant on the way back, one that sold plant things. He was really nice. And since he liked my wreaths so much he asked me to make some for him for his wife. Other people saw them and really liked them too. Some even paid me to make some for them."
"That's very nice, Critare. But how did the killing go?"
"Um... The merchant was so happy after I made him his wreaths, that he let me make one for myself."
She reached into her bag, "Only I didn't make it for me. I had made it for you."
Critare produced a wreath from her satchel, handing it to Cicero who held it preciously as he examined it. The foundation was composed of something that looked like white creep cluster. The rest was filled with a pretty array of frost miriam, yellow mountain flower, white sage, and even wheat.
"Cicero doesn't know what to say... He loves it and will treasure it always. He swears," he smiled at Critare. "Oh, Cicero wishes he could craft a gift like this for Critare... He had tried so hard to find her something presentable. He had tried whittlings and little clothes and fishes and songs-"
"You had tried to give me fishes?"
"Yes, yes, Cicero had. Caught them all with no trouble. But those treacherous water-rats thought it'd be funny to die on him the next day. What a laugh."
"Oh... Well, you did put them in water, didn't you?"
"Of course Cicero did. Left them in a bucket in the Sanctuary," he replied, a bit stung at the assumption that he could have been so dull.
"Oh... Well, then maybe that's what killed them... You know... Most fish like water to be only so hot or cold... Maybe the water in the bucket was too warm for them."
"Of course!" Cicero whispered to himself, now feeling like a fool. "But, oh, never mind the fish. Tell Cicero about your contract."
Critare swallowed, "Th- the giants were nice. They let me pet the mammoths."
"Gah, I had asked about the con- wait! Did you just say you pet mammoths?! As in touched the pets of giants?!"
Critare nodded weakly.
"Are you mad, woman? You never touch the mammoths! No one ever touches them! Coming within fifty feet of them is enough to make their giants angry with their clubs! Don't you know that it's dangerous."
"But they let me."
"They... let you?"
"They liked me, I think... After I helped one pull an arrow out of his foot, I put a healing salve on it. He was happy, it sounded like. He led me back to his camp and I realized eventually that he wanted me to help dress some wounds on his friends. They were all happy. They gave me some of their skeever dinner. I made them some garlands. They started showing me things around their camp. All the nice things they've found, painted rocks, and purple tree sap. The last thing they showed me were the furry mammoths. They were so hairy and warm. After that they gave me cheese and... I went on my way."
Cicero sighed, "Alright, Critare. But what happened on your contract?"
"I- I had to hide one night in a cave. I was hiding from some really big spiders-"
"Spiders!" he drew his dagger reflexly. "If Cicero were there he'd have- oh, but that doesn't matter. Tell, then, what happened on your contract next. Don't leave poor Cicero in suspense."
"They didn't find me... I was able to leave the next morning."
She was avoiding the topic, Cicero realized.
"Good. Good. Now please tell eager Cicero what happened."
Critare averted her eyes, "Um, but I did find this in the cave."
The girl pulled what looked like a red-glowing nirnroot out of her satchel.
"Have you ever seen anything like it?"
"That- that's very nice Critare. But-"
"I saw a man vomit green stuff on a fox."
"Critare, please-"
"It killed it. And- and then there was a lost horse in the middle of nowhere-"
"Critare!" Cicero rang out sharply, grasping Critare by the arms.
Critare finally looked Cicero in the eyes again, watching him sadly.
Cicero observed her for a moment before he spoke again; slowly, clearly. Calmly.
"What happened?"
Cicero regretted his words as soon as he spoke them. He saw that look which he was far too familiar with cross Critare's face. That look of futile resistance steeling against a torrent of misery about over come her. That look which she always wore when she was just a moment- a moment- from breaking down.
And she did.
"Hush, hush, Critare," he said soothingly, holding her to him as she sobbed onto his shoulder.
He honestly did not know what to do. Much less, what to think. All he knew was that he had his closest friend crying on his shoulder- and about her contract, as it seemed. What could have happened? Did he get away? Did she get caught? Did she give the poison to the wrong person? If he didn't know what had happened, how could he sooth her?
"Critare... Critare... Are you worried the Pretender will punish you for making your mistake?"
Critare sniffed. "W-What?"
"You're contract. It is alright if Critare made a mistake while completing her contract. Not everyone was cut-out to be an assassin, like Cicero. There is nothing to worry for. The Pretender will not hurt you. Cicero will not allow for that. Many of the others will not either. You're mistake-"
"But I didn't make any mistake... really," and the tears started again.
"What does Critare mean, 'really'?" Cicero asked as he led her to a fallen tree. It was killing him not knowing what had happened. He could fix it if she would just tell him.
Critare shook her head before hiding her face in Cicero's shoulder again. She didn't want to tell him.
"Tell Cicero, he'll understand."
"I can't..."
"Why not?"
"Because its... Because it was so... sad..."
"Oh..." Cicero had forgotten about her reluctance to do harm.
"I'm a bad person, Cicero."
"What?! No. No. Critare is not a bad person! She is the kindest, sweetest person Cicero knows. How could she think she was bad?"
Critare hung her head and shrugged.
Cicero was silent for a moment before speaking, "If Critare does not wish to talk about her contract yet, Cicero will respect that. He won't force her to tell him."
The silence that followed stretched on for minutes with Critare making no sign of reply, only staring out into the distance.
Finally she spoke, her small dove's voice quavering a touch despite its distant tone.
"I found him... Or he found me while I waited on a road to Solitude."
"Your contract?"
Critare nodded, face still turned away from Cicero, "Erendriel. It didn't take long. After I went to his boat-home in Whiterun, they said he was going to Solitude after he finished the bounty he was on now. I had been gone for a week by then. So I went north and waited for him with the poison ready on a main thoroughfare. Well... really in the woods near-by... But he still found me. Just saw me on the road when he wasn't paying attention. I followed him when he had greeted me. He mentioned that I really shouldn't be out alone but he didn't suspect anything. So I guess he thought I was staying with him for protection, maybe.
"He had been really nice. He talked all the time and made funny jokes. I didn't laugh at any. I never talked either. He shared food and I helped him with building fires and all those things... One thing he talked a lot about was Anne, the girl he said he loved. They had met in a small village and fell in love right away. He had the sweetest stories to tell. The way he spoke- there was just a look in his eyes... You could tell that he really loved her.
"'But it wasn't enough for her father,' he said. Anne's father didn't want her to marry a wood elf. So he refused to give him his blessing. Erendriel hoped he could prove himself by becoming a mercenary. Two years later, he said he had come back, but things were still the same. So they ran off together to Jorvaskr and they were going to get married within the next two months.
"I- I think that Anne's father had been the one who had placed the contract on Erendriel... Because the person wanted Erendriel gone before those two months were up.
"We had been traveling for four days when we saw... it one night."
"It?"
"The monster," she whispered. "It was so big and loud. And it flew so fast."
"A dragon," Cicero said to himself.
"Everybody in Whiterun had talked about one they said had burt down a house the day before I got there... I didn't believe them. But then I saw it, it was breathing fire everywhere. In the sky and on the grass and even the wolves. Erendriel put out the camp fire and told me to hide. We hid on different sides of the road. I saw him- the monster- get in a fight with a giant. I knew because he would breath fire and I could see it's shape. They were getting awfully close. And soon enough they had gotten so close- and the dragon set the trees nearby me on fire."
Critare paused for a moment, swallowing.
"I... was scared. It scared me. I ran out from the trees. I couldn't help it. It saw me then. Erendriel knew. That's why he charged out at it and hit it with his axe, I think. They fought while I kept hiding. Soon it was over and the dragon was gone and Erendriel was left on the road... I thought he was dead but he kept making sounds... The burns hurt a lot.
"Eventually I was by his side... His eyes were gone, it looked like... Everywhere was black with pink underneath. I tried to heal him with magic. The black started going away- but by the time I was out of mana he was covered more with the dark-pink wet places and he was crying for me to stop. I- he was hurting really bad and I just made it worse... I couldn't think of what to do. He wasn't dying... So I got the bottle from my satchel. And I told him it was a healing potion when I gave it to him... Only it wasn't a healing potion... I didn't know what else to do..."
Critare's eyes met Cicero as they started to spill over with tears, "It's all my fault, Cicero!"
"No, no, no" Cicero began, continuing to assert his words of reassurance when Critare shook her head. "It is not Critare's fault. You were just scared. You didn't mean for it to happen... Er, this way, this way Erendriel dies a hero. He would have rather have you alive and himself dead if someone had to die. Those hero-warriors are all the same like that... It's not your fault. Do not blame yourself, Critare."
"But if I didn't-"
"You were frightened. And you should have ran if there was smoke and fire that close to you. The elf with a name I cannot recall at the moment-"
"Erendriel."
"Yes, that. Well, he ran out for you. But he could have ran back afterwards and hid like you-"
"No, he couldn't have-"
"Never mind it, Critare. You did what you could. You gave the fool a quick death. Put him out of his misery. You did a good thing for your contract."
Critare sniffed, "I did?"
Cicero nodded, "Yes. He was going to die anyways Critare. Everyone dies at some point. His was just made a bit sooner because someone placed a contract on him. It was going to happen- whether you did it or someone else. So, so Critare really shouldn't blame herself for the inevitable. And come to think about it, the fool's death probably was. See, Critare tried to stop it. She tried to save him. Perhaps this was just the way things were meant to be. But you still gave him the easy death where he could have had the hard one. Cicero-"
The jester bit his tongue before he went any further. Cicero would have let the fool have the hard death. And watched it happily.
He cleared his throat, "Don't you think so?"
"I guess," Critare frowned, laying her head against his shoulder. "It's still sad though. Even if it was meant to be that way."
"We don't have to be sad just because what happened was sad," Cicero whispered, stroking Critare's hair.
The jester had meant what he said- and meant it with the purest intentions. That was partly why Critare's sudden outburst- one that was more miserable than it was angry- took him by such surprise.
"But Anne does," she neither snapped nor sobbed. "Anne has to be sad. Anne has to say good-bye to Erendriel. Anne has to be the one who has to wait and wait and wait forever. Anne has to be the one that cries and wonder what happened or where he went or if he's dead or alive and never know the answer. She has to be the one who isn't happy!
"It's sad!"
Cicero opened his mouth, about to protest, when he remembered that it was not even an hour ago when he had been in the same position.
He thought it over and decided that he would share this thought with Critare, for what ever comfort it could provide her.
"But Cicero does not have to be. See, it's because of erm, the Erendriel, that Critare comes back to Cicero and he can see her again."
Cicero continued with his low ramble, encouraged by Critare, who was turning her face slowly back to him, and by the sense of joy growing in him as he realized the truth in his own words.
"Were it not for the elf Cicero would be like Anne. He would be the one who said good-bye to Critare and not know it was their last."
Cicero was smiling now and one could easily hear the merriment which was becoming more evident in his voice with every word. And Critare, while her brown eyes still glistened with tears, had stopped crying and seemed to be finding some sort of comfort in Cicero's words. The more he spoke, the more she forgot about the world outside herself and her Sanctuary and all the sadness that always seemed to be prowling through it, just waiting for the opportune chance to smother her again.
"Cicero would be the one who'd be waiting for Critare forever and wonder if she was ever coming back to him. Cicero will never have to worry again if Critare is dead or alive and gets to know where she went and about every little thing she did and every person she met. Anne might have to be the one who is sad, but Cicero... Cicero at least gets to be the one who is happy."
Cicero last words carried off into the night and in a moment silence was once again the only thing that stood between them in the cold night air.
A small smile stretched itself slowly over Critare's face.
A laugh bubbled up from the depths of Cicero's gut.
Suddenly, they were on both their feet; spinning eachother around within the sweet little grove outlying the Sanctuary as Cicero shouted rhymes into the empty night air and Critare giggled, watching him happily.
"One day more to see Critare!
One day more to see her smile!
Evermore to spend with her!
Nevermore worry will have I'll!"
Cicero couldn't find it in himself to stop shouting out at the sky. He couldn't even think of it. The happiness he felt consuming his heart was eating up his mind as well as it seemed. And yet he was thinking at the same time.
She was a like a beam of moonlight, Cicero finally decided. It seemed so right, so much the truth. Did he really once think of her flesh as pasty and sickly? Now, with the light of the full moon illuminating her face, the moon seemed to be telling the jester that it was her essence.
He was dancing with a moonbeam cloaked in the ink of night now. It was as simple as that.
"Narry, Narry; Cicero's merry!
He has his dearest friend, you know."
To anyone else, this moment shared between the two would have looked like nothing more than two equally mad individuals- one jester and one half-starved pauper girl- raving together amongst the low fog in the wilderness; enjoying a sensation of happiness facilitated by a delusion of mutual love.
Perhaps some could appreciate that the jester, half-merry and half-menacing, could bring joy to the dancer who was all too often half-numb and half-grieved- and she, for him.
Buy still. Nothing more meaningful. Nothing more lovely.
"With skin so fair, we've not a care,
And how like the moon does she glow!"
In truth though, the feelings that where playing out in the hearts of our jester and dancer where ones which have been a muse to artists of every part of the world, of every era. It was a scene of a kind worthy to be captured within the amber of an artist's craft. And it had been so many times before by so many of them; that moment of bliss between two lovebirds as they frolicked about eachother.
But unlike the paintings or carvings, the moment between our jester and dancer carried onto its end.
As soon as it had began, Cicero and Critare slowed their spinning to a stop. Both were panting, looking at one another silently.
"Cicero is happy Critare is back with him," he said.
"And I'm happy to be back here with you, too," she replied, smiling.
Cicero was so happy right then. He didn't know what he was thinking when he did it. In fact, he wasn't think at all. He just... did.
The jester brought his face forward, his lips just touching the dancer's.
Critare pulled back right away, gasping. Cicero was stunned. He didn't know what to do or make of what had just happened. Critare's wide eyes met Cicero's for a brief second. And then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone, having fled into the dark of the woods.
Cicero stood, watching after her. Still shocked by what had occurred.
Two last things:
First, do we have any artists out there? I was wondering if anyone would be interested in making a cover for this story. I had an artist once who had expressed some interest and promised to do it for me once... But it's been three months and I haven't heard from them. I thought now would be a good time to bring this up as the moment with Cri and Cicero spinning around had been what I envisioned for it. But you guys can do whatever you want. I don't have any money to offer you; I'm just a poor student with no artsy skills. All I can give is my appreciation. So anyone interested, please pm me.
Secondly, we still have a ways to go with this story. So for any of you who have really been enjoying these past few chapters... all I can say to you is to batten down the ****ing hatches for chapter 8.
Thanks for reading and please review!