First, I wanna' say thanks to everyone for their kind words and encouragement concerning my life right now. It had meant a lot.
Now when I had first published this story a guest had made a comment in my reviews concerning something Critare had said but Cicero ignored. Well, this chapter can be considered my explanation to that. Every chapter up until now has done something to peel back another layer of our mad jester. But while we'll be reaching that last layer in this chapter, it doesn't mean that I'll be leaving that explanation explicitly in the open. We're only at 8 out of 12, so Cicero's still got some self-discovery left to do.
Speaking of explanations- what's up with Critare? I know a lot of you are wanting to know. But sadly, I am not going to say much about our sweet ballerina until my Final A/N. There, I'll be giving the scoop on everything: her character/ personality, her background, etc. (I'll also explain my portrayal of all other characters.) Though I will say that Critare has dropped hints...
Read and enjoy!
Cicero sat in his chamber quietly; perched cross-legged on his bed as he looked around the empty room.
After Critare had fled from him he had just stood, bewilderedly looking after her, before fleeing to where he was now. He was not aware of how time had passed since then. It could have been seconds. Even hours. But he was in no state to keep track of these things at the moment.
He had removed his hat, placing it next to the wreath which was laid before him on the bed. A finger reached out to lightly touch this wreath before it was drawn back as a soundless sigh escaped him.
It was then that he allowed his eyes to wonder around the room again; his gaze quickly landing on a book on the floor, peaking out at him from behind his nightstand. Well, not a book, but a journal. His journal.
He had a number of them- five or six, he did not keep track- scattered all about his room here and there. It seemed like no matter how many times Critare would pick the things up, dust them and place them back on his crooked book self, they always found a way to come off it again. It seemed like they were always moving about. Changing spots this way and that everytime Cicero was not in the room.
Cicero let them. It was the only way for him to get away with ignoring them. The little beasts. They could hop around all they wanted when the jester was not around and hide where ever they liked; on the chairs, under the bed, tuck themselves in corners, even lay themselves out in the middle of the floor. Cicero didn't care.
As long as they kept away from him and stayed shut, he wouldn't bother with them or how they seemed to move of their own accord while he was gone. He'd let them be as long as they'd leave him be.
They were all just cages locking away the monsters. Just prisons he could pour his demons into before shutting them up and tucking them away.
They never served their purpose. The monsters always leaked out, one way or another, despite his best efforts to contain them.
Cicero didn't even know why he bothered with keeping them anymore.
It was especially at times like these- times where he was in such low spirits- that all the demons came creeping out of pages, charging out of the shadows of his memory to come and torment poor Cicero. And Cicero would just have to come along for the ride.
From an early time Cicero had understood that friends were the people who adored you. Friends were the ones who lavished you with praise and compliments and sought to achieve what you had.
Cicero had many friends during his time as an assassin.
He was always the one that could imagine the unimaginable. He was always the one that could do the impossible and raise the bar a tad higher. He was always the one that would be crowded around and badgered with questions by his Brothers and Sisters after returning from a contract.
"Did it turn out like you hoped?"
"Finally scuffed something up with your hair-brained designing, didn't you?"
"No. You got them this time like you always have, right?"
And of course Cicero, being the good celebrity he was, would never keep his adorers in suspense. As soon as he had everyone's attention, he'd jump right into his boastful account of his latest contract without a moments hesitation. During his recountings, he always stop at some point or another to make a witty remark or two about his contract, the method of killing implimented, or law enforcement; absorbing the laughs his audience always rewarded him with like the greediest sponge.
Cicero didn't see anything wrong with his 'grandiose self-image' as one of his dark brothers had once snidely called it. As Cicero saw it, his was the only sensible way to look at it. He was the best in the Sanctuary. Well, if by being the best you were the swiftest, most imaginative, and most versatile assassin around. Yes, Cicero was most definitely the best at what he did in his Sanctuary- perhaps all Tamriel- and he didn't see anything wrong with acknowledging it.
Besides, if anyone at all disagreed with Cicero's excellence, it wasn't as if a whole Sanctuary of people weren't all saying otherwise.
All Cicero's plans for assassinating had some quality to them which made them impressive, if not unique. There was always something about them- something which had to be either totally discreet and unsuspicious or delightfully morbid and demented. Maybe it was a few odd ingredients that brewed a poison together in the belly. An savage animal attack with no sings of provocation. A 'letter from Akatosh' himself which might have carried something nasty inside it. But it was his ability to construct such brilliant contraptions that really set him apart from the rest.
He didn't need dusty tomes or extracted plant fluids to assist him in bringing glory to the Brotherhood. All Cicero needed were some wooden boards, a few iron nails, a line of copper wire, and maybe some glass- and in hours he would have the means to cause mysterious house-fires and wielder-less daggers to fly in a crowded tavern. He didn't even need to have them in his line of sight unlike all those archers and swordsmen. All he had to do was wait until the fat aristocrat's fat wife opened her favorite jewery box to find a surprise needle leap into her throat. Meanwhile he'd be flirting like a scoundrel with the local ladies and treating himself to the finest wines and meats the town's best pub had to offer.
It had all started while he still reasonably young.
An agent of the Dark Brotherhood had approached him just days after an altercation... no, not an altercation- a murder which had followed an argument between himself and another local farmer over the true ownership of some old horse. The fool had been a constant problem for him for as long as he could remember. So later that night, when everyone else was asleep, he had brought a piece of firewood down on his head and let the village saw mill take care of the rest. Problem solved. Needless to say, Cicero had joined without a moments hesitation. He had been sick of the peasant life and the low status and little pay that it came with for a long time now, anyway.
In many ways, the Dark Brotherhood was the best thing that had ever happened to Cicero. It was as if he had been meant for this. He discovered his casual attitude towards killing- and that none of his Dark Siblings were bothered by it. He discovered his natural talent with a dagger. But most importantly, he discovered a religion that suited him. Cicero had never imagined himself becoming the religious sort, but he couldn't help it. He simply adored the Night Mother and found in himself in the deepest reverence for the Dark Lord.
The Brotherhood wasn't exactly a solution to his problems, though. He found more acceptance within this group, but a few friends or people who found him funny wasn't going to fix the fact that he was of no importance to his fellow Dark Siblings. Not when there were some siblings who held so much influence over the rest you'd have thought they were a Speaker. See, there was a difference between being liked and being significant. And Cicero wanted to be both.
At anytime Cicero would be balancing a number of contracts equal to any three of his brothers or sisters. He was constantly traveling. Stopping in his Sanctuary every few weeks only to collect his gold, restock on provisions, obtain fresh contracts, and rest for the night before leaving again in the morning. The man had scarcely conversed with members of his dark family those days. He had other priorities. He had figured out quickly that if he was going to attain some of the higher status enjoyed by a few of his older siblings anytime soon, he had some catching up to do where bloodied hands were concerned.
It was as early as his fourth year within the Brotherhood that it happened, though Cicero did not recall exactly. He remembered what had happened quite well, though.
It had started out as a rather awful night.
Cicero remembered pacing the floors of his in room. He had just come back there after failing to complete his contract that very night. He had managed to pass through the halls of the keep, right to the door of the old treasurer's room; unnoticed and unsuspected as anything more than a commonplace servant at every point along the way. Yes, all well. No problems there. And he had counted on the door being locked like it was, so he had come prepared for that obstacle. The rat, which had thus far proved to be a useful, obedient tool after enduring Cicero's brutal training methods, was sent though the key hole to search the room for any keys. (Cicero had found that the rodents broke less often and were a lot less suspicious to carry around than a lockpick.) It knew the first places to check were always the nightstands, tables, and key hooks. Cicero had taught it so. But as the minutes slowly ticked by without the lovely sound of metal lightly scraping the floors his way or the sight of a key being pushed under the door to him, he grew more and more anxious.
Finally, about an hour later, his greatest worry came to pass. He could hear their voices as they climbed the stairway- the fat treasurer and what he would find out were two guards. But what could he do? He couldn't run or hide. The room he waited outside of stood at the top of a tower. It had no hallways and was decorated with no tapestries or such things he could hide behind. His surroundings composed of nothing more than a long, narrow stairway and some windows which were far too small for him to fit himself through. Cicero had never feared so strongly for himself in his life. In just a few moments, everything that he had been working so hard for in his new life was going to be burnt up and swept aside. And it was all because of that rat.
The three had looked at him, eyes demanding an explanation for just what reason he had been lurking outside the room. His story, like water from the depths of a well, poured out of his mouth though he did not know their source.
He was keep's rat catcher, he had told them. They wouldn't know any better, he knew. People of significance hardly paid attention to the faces of their help. He then explained how a rat he had been chasing ran up the tower and scurried into the treasurer's room by squeezing itself under the door just moments before they had arrived. He had just been planning to use some of the fruit in his pack to lure it out of there- but that now that the- hem hem- honorable treasurer was here, the door could simply be unlocked for him.
The fat one adjusted the pair of greasy spectacles on his face, sneering skeptically at Cicero before unlocking the door.
The door was not open for a second when, by some miracle of Sithis, the rat came scurrying out of the darkness of the room and leaping onto the body of its master. Cicero had grasped it firmly from where it clung to his tunic, shoving it into his bag. When a guard commented then on how drawn the rat seemed to him, Cicero smoothly attributed it to the apple in his pack- which he claimed all rats loved. In reality, his rat was the only one he knew of that had such a tireless appetite for sweetness of red apples, but the three seemed to buy it.
Cicero was about to go on his way, counting himself lucky even though he had failed to place the bottle in the room, when the fat one began complaining of how that rat had spilt his only bottle of wine and bitten into nearly all the fruit he had set out on his table. He barked at Cicero, blaming him for the mess and demanding that he clean it up and fetch him a new bottle and basket of fruit.
The assassin had blinked at him for a moment, his way out of failing this contract just given to him. Cicero offered the fool a wine that he had in his pack right then- that he was given in thanks earlier that day, but that he thought he would give him now as an apology for his inadequate rat catching. The bloated pig seemed to be content with this arrangement, waiting as Cicero placed all the ruined fruit into his bag and mopped the floor of the spilt wine. For a moment he had considered placing the cheese wheel, which had little hairs and the light prints of his rat's feet on it, but decided against it. He didn't like the pig, so what did he care if he got a little sick. Besides, it wasn't as if greasy specs was bound to notice the tiny marks the rat left behind.
After handing the fool one of the two bottles from his pack, he walked out of the keep, breaking into a run once he was out of the entry guards' sight. He made it back to his inn room, only to find himself livid and pacing the floor minutes later. Opening his pack to empty it of the fruit had caused him to realize that he hadn't given the treasurer the poison-laced wine, but his healing elixir.
Cicero was positively furious. There was no way he could fix this now. He wouldn't be able to go in that keep again, not now that there were some assuming that he was the structure's rat catcher. For all he knew, those two guards could have known his lie by then after chatting with their buddies about their mundane days. And it wasn't as if Cicero could sneak into the room from the outside and take care of the issue with his dagger. He berated himself for not paying more attention to the bottle he handed over. Why had he even bothered keeping his potions in wine bottles in the first place?! It was not that suspicious to carry a potion!
Cicero boiled over, grasping the deadly wine from the table and throwing it at the opposite wall. The glass shattered and sent the liquid flying all over the floor; the scent of it drawing the rat out of it's hiding place. Cicero stomped his foot at it, frightening the creature back into it's place under the bed.
The next morning Cicero had asked the inn keeper if there was any interesting news, meaning to find out, at that moment, just how soon he was going to have to skip town now that his lie might have been found out. He had choked on his spiced wine when he was told about the treasurer found dead in his room that morning. The story was that he had died of suffocation.
After a hasty meal, he had headed straight to the Hall of the Dead where the body was still laid out. The priest had told him that he had never seen anything like the man's apparent cause of death. Somehow, he said, some fungus spores had managed to get themselves into the treasurer's mouth. Then, after ingesting some sort of growth serum- perhaps potion- the fungus had begun to sprout, sinking its little roots into the lining of the man's esophagus and wind pipe. Then, most oddly of all, the spores managed to grow overnight into mushrooms; the stalks reaching a point so long, they traveled down the entire length of the man's throat, thus choking him.
The priest then showed Cicero the stalk of mushrooms, the stem still all covered in gore from when it had been pulled out, taking some of the throat tissue with it. Cicero could have envisioned it when they found the pig. Lying all still in his bed with a bouquet of mushroom caps blossoming out of his mouth... Not just mushroom caps, but... Bleeding crown mushroom caps...
Then it all came crashing down on Cicero.
Two days before entering the town Cicero had sheltered himself for the night in a cave and allowed the rat to run about it and stretch. It had laid itself to sleep in a cluster of bleeding crown. He hadn't thought anything about it then, so he didn't bother doing anything to clean the rodent.
The elixir given to the treasurer in place of the poison.
The tiny rat tracks pressed lightly into the top of the cheese wheel.
Cicero didn't think it was ever possible. Somehow the potion had acted as some growth serum for the fungus. Otherwise it would never have had a chance to sprout before being washed away or killed by the body's natural processes.
Once back at the Sanctuary, all it had taken was one comment from his contractor as he collected his gold.
So and so did this to kill their target in Anvil. Haven't heard of someone trying something like that in a decade!
And Cicero had to give something better. He told his contractor the story of his latest kill.
Only, this time, Cicero had meant for the spores to finish the man.
The contractor had been impressed, to say the least. As did all the Dark Brothers and Sisters who had stopped to listen, thinking Cicero's initial claim a bit... too arrogant for his status. They sure all were having a good laugh about it then, though. Pretty soon, the rest of Cicero's family had entered the mess hall to hear the story. Those who were skeptical were told to go see the town's priest, he'd tell them himself how the man died. Even he had said he had never seen any thing like it.
Cicero's tale far out did the plot of the assassin who had killed his mark with a lucky dagger flung from fourty feet away.
They were all so impressed. So excited. Cicero had suffocated a man with mushrooms cultivated in his own body. Genius! The looks on all their faces. All those eyes on him, adoring him and his accomplishment. It is quite an intoxicating thing for one to have all the attention in a room focused solely on themself. Much more so when it's of a celebratory nature. And Cicero was finding himself falling fast in love with it.
It didn't matter to Cicero that it had been an accident. Actually, by the end of the night, he had forgotten that the whole thing had never been premeditated, himself. He had found his answer that night. The faster answer.
From that point on he had become the master designer of morbid, grotesque, and 'custom' deaths. Taking great pride in his work and sharing the success of it with others. Everytime a new method was employed, he would repeat use of it for a few more contracts before implementing a new one. Somehow, he never ran out of new things to try.
And Cicero got exactly what he had sought after. Within six months, he was no longer another blurred face in the expendable mass of his Sanctuary's unrecognized assassins. Suddenly, he was amongst the few whose names carried weight and his thoughts did count for something. There were some who were still unimpressed with Cicero, of course, and jealous of his social progress. But he did not care for them. In fact, as long as he was respected and adored by the majority, he couldn't care for anything else.
That was why what was to come caught him entirely by surprise.
Cicero still wasn't sure how he could have missed them. All the little signs that had whispered of what was becoming of his Sanctuary in Bruma. He paid no mind to the anxious whispers of sanctuaries outside Cyrodiil being destroyed or abandoned. As far as he was concerned, it was just another one of those things that was always happening. After all, he had only ever known the Brotherhood during its slow decline. He didn't consider the far-reaching consequences of what such news meant. The whispers slowly became more worried, reeling in closer and closer to Cicero's home in Bruma. But rather than think of what it meant for Sithis when he heard complaints of the scarcity of contracts or how difficult it was becoming to fulfill them, he thought of what it meant for himself- a confirmation of his surperiority to his fellow siblings.
The next thing Cicero knew, he was standing at the entry of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, at last aware of the situation his Brotherhood was in. Still, though, he was concerned with his place within the Brotherhood's hierarchy.
Luckily for him, Rasha had heard of Cicero's accomplishments in Bruma and hoped that his presence with them would encourage the other assassins. Rasha informed everyone else of Cicero, the Khajit's respect for him bringing the Imperial respect amongst his new brothers- to an extent. He may have been held in some reverence by his fellow brothers, but what was the word of one individual- even a Speaker- when you where just a new comer. To them Cicero was just some obnoxious teller of tall-tales. So he had tried to restore some of his former glory in Bruma there in Cheydinhal.
As more time passed, Rasha realized that many of Cicero's plots- the one's which were crafted to appear like freak accidents- were only contributing to the Brotherhood's diminishing public image. He had admonished him for this- in front of the entire Sanctuary.
"And no more of these extravagant deaths either," he had also said. "We cannot afford to have you spending such necessary amounts of time and resources on one death. In the time you take to plan out one contract, you could have completed four. We can not afford such nonsense anymore, fool."
Cicero had disagreed, but held his tongue, knowing better than to argue with a Speaker. The humiliation Rasha had caused him, combined with the loss of what little respect Cicero had garnered in Cheydindal, left the man with a grudging hatred of the Khajit. Even those who had been beginning to admire Cicero suddenly claimed that they agreed with the cat and had known from start that Cicero's actions could only be detrimental. Cicero hated them all.
He now found himself right back at the bottom with the undistinguished masses where he had started. And this time with no hope of climbing out. All Cicero could do was slash throats and watch as those at the top fought amongst themselves, leaving whatever curse of rotten luck to ravage his Dark Brotherhood further.
Every time Cicero tried to give his piece in some conversation, he was out right ignored.
He had told them all that they ought to not empty the Sanctuary in Eliswer. They had to appear to be in as many places as possible. But it's not as if they didn't have a good reason for ignoring his input. No, he had only experienced the fall of a sanctuary first hand.
And of course, Rasha would not send him with his two brothers to assist the Listener in protecting the Night Mother's body. Though he kept it to himself, Cicero suspected that the Speaker was jealous of him somehow. He just couldn't help the thought.
One of the two came back, and with everyone's Mother. Everyone was shocked to hear about the Listener's death. It was already bad enough that their reputation was failing them- now they could not even fulfill their half of the Black Sacrament.
The looks of defeat in everyone's eyes had been terribly obvious to the Imperial. Cicero had thought that they all were pathetic, each and every one of them. Giving up on their family and Dark Lord when there was a war to be one- disgusting! And so Cicero was not surprised in the least when half of them quietly abandoned. But he would let them go. A faith that couldn't be tested couldn't be trusted, he felt. Besides, he knew Sithis dealt with every traitor eventually in his or her own time.
Cicero had been overwhelmed when it was decided shortly after the Listener's death that he would be Keeper.
It had first been an honor for him, being the devout believer he was, to know that he was the one which would be entrusted with protecting the Dark Brotherhood's very heart within the mortal plane. Then there was the fact that being named Keeper finally separated him from the mediocre crowd he was once ranked with. And it meant that neither his devotion nor skills had gone unnoticed by his superiors. So it was all Cicero could do to hope that the same would go for the Night Mother.
But last of all, becoming Keeper meant that he would have to put down his blade- forever. That was why Cicero decided, since it would be his last, that he would secretly indulge himself with this final contract. With the jester.
It was one method of killing that he had been planning before Rasha had forbidden his "extravagant deaths," so Cicero already had the pretty yellow plume necessary to kill the jester. It had seemed appropriate too: a jester dying of laughter.
The time then came where he and the jester were finally alone. Cicero had not bothered to lock the door, thinking that nobody would find it put of the ordinary for a jester to be heard laughing and laughing- for hour perhaps- until he suddenly stopped. Cicero wasted no time tickling the man's nose with the feather once the door was shut. He knew that this particular death was going to take some time before reaching it's end. So he had to get started right away if he ever wanted to get there.
Cicero was impressed with how quickly the exotic plume did it's work. The man was put under the feather's enchantment right away, beginning to laugh uncontrollably. Minutes passed and when Cicero finally had the man on the floor laughing uncontrollably, he withdrew his 'weapon', sat himself in a chair across from the jester and enjoyed the slow death.
But soon hours had passed and the jester was still not dead. Miserable yes. But dead, no.
Cicero had assumed that the feather's odd properties would cause for the jester to slowly suffocate himself after long enough. With this feather, the more of it which was smelt, the more severe the laughter it invoked became. But still after hours of administering it, the feather's affects hadn't proved enough to kill the jester, and Cicero was beginning to get annoyed.
Something broke inside of Cicero that night as he watched the jester gasp for air on the floor as he held his stomach, by then unbearably pained from the hours of hysterial laughing. Something about the tortured look in his teary eyes or maybe the breathy pleas for mercy escaping his mouth caused him to snap.
Cicero had been looking at him darkly, seeming to be unaffected by his oddly merry begging. But on the inside, Cicero was livid.
Cicero saw something in the jester that he detested. Something that he did not have. Something that he wanted for himself. Something he was horribly jealous of.
Suddenly Cicero couldn't help but feel... unfinished. He was imbalanced. Lacking something vital. And here the fool was. Flaunting it in his face. Mocking him.
Cicero had charged at the jester, his hands finding his neck easily.
He could feel it as the enchanted giggles continued to cause the man's throat to contract under his tight grip, fighting him. Cicero just squeezed harder.
Finally, the body beneath him went limb. Cicero had beaten the laughter.
Upon his return to the Sanctuary, Cicero learned that whatever respect he thought he would gain by becoming Keeper was non-existent.
He was just the care-taker of a woman's corpse. It was as simple as that.
Cicero retreated to his lonely place beside the Night Mother, unable to find any importance or companionship within what little was left of his family. But it mattered little to him for now he had the finest company one could ask for: the Night Mother.
He would whisper prayers to her as he kept her corpse or her audience room. He'd pray for companionship. He'd pray for his Brotherhood to be saved. He'd pray for a Listener to finally be chosen. But most of all, he'd pray for himself to be made Listener.
He wanted it terribly. Murderously.
So that was why when that Rasha announced that he was the new Listener, Cicero had been so... angry he had nearly screamed.
He had doubted the cat the moment the claim left his lips, of course. There was no way Mother would name Rasha Listener before she named Cicero... But he had to ask. Had to investigate.
Cicero finally saw right through Rasha when he could not repeat the binding words. All that time the Khajit had been scheming against him. He had been jealous of Cicero's skill! Jealous of his promise! Jealous of the Listener, Dupre! That was why he had only sent two brothers to aid her when he should have sent twenty. He wanted her to die. He wanted to it so he could become Listener! Yes... Yes... Cicero understood. Cicero understood perfectly now.
And Rasha had wanted Cicero out of the way- to be barred from killing so that he would not impress Mother and be graced with the sound of her voice. That was why he somehow tricked the other members of the Hand to make Cicero Keeper! Well, he was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong. Cicero would be named Listener. He would earn Mother's favor and prove his devotion and skill to her. They would all see and regret.
They each had a part in killing Cicero's family... and in torturing his soul.
Whatever had been happening to Cicero during these days was difficult to explain. Ever since he had arrived in Cheydinhal, he could feel it as a part of himself grew steadily stronger. But now this aspect of himself could no longer be called a part, but rather his whole. Cicero felt so imbalanced because of it; so agonized. He prayed for Mother to end it for him as he did not know in the least how he could stop all the anger and jealousy and... and...
Then one day- it does not matter when- Cicero started hearing the laughter.
Cicero had realized that this laughter which he heard- yet not with his ears- was somehow Mother's answer to him. He had pondered and pondered over it as he kept her body, ate, kept her audience room, and even while he slept. Soon enough, he realized that the laughter was from the jester. The one he had killed.
He continued to mull over the laughter of the jester he had hated so as his two remaining brother's both took their leave from his now wretched existence. Thinking about the laughter was all he had left to do with himself now. All he had for companionship. Oh, he had Mother to talk to. She just wasn't talking back... yet.
Then one night as he laid all alone in his fallen Sanctuary beside Mother's coffin, staring into the flame of a lone candle, Cicero had his epiphany.
His restless mind was winding down into a sleep-like trace as he stared at the little light, seeing in it the night he had killed the jester. The moment was frozen in time to him. All he could see was that jester's face, trapped in a horrified smile, and then his own, twisted in rage. The laughter never ceased to fill his ear as he went on watching himself and the jester. His eyes were bright and bloodshot and angry with his teeth bared in the most hideous snarl. The jester's eyes were tearing up with mirth, crinkling happily at the corners in a way that all too much resembled the smiling mouth... But, wait. Hadn't he been panicking?
No, Cicero realized, seeing the face of the jester as if for the first time. His face. It was him- the jester! The jester was he! Cicero was the jester and the killer! All this time and he had never realized!
Cicero just couldn't help but laugh at his own foolishness. How could have not seen that this whole time he had been... Cicero?! How could he have not realized he had been choking him?!
But oh, did it feel so good to laugh, finally.
Finally, Cicero felt a little more righted up and centered. Finally, Cicero didn't have to be angry, raving, or hating all the time. Now he could be merry, merry, merry! Oh, merry and jovial and care-free was he! And it was so much better being careless than ill-tempered all the time.
But Cicero wasn't feeling so merry and jolly and care-free right then in the present, as he sat quietly by himself in his room.
The jester had to admit that he had been hoping for... better when he came to the Falkreath Sanctuary. What better was exactly, he hadn't really thought about.
He imagined better would have a Sanctuary full of siblings who respected him. And loved him. And loved Mother. Where there was hope and happiness for the dark family.
What he received was no Sanctuary. This family was crueler to him than any he had known before. He had never been mad when he had known the previous families. He was even less than the Keeper of the Night Mother now. Here there was no 'Sanctuary' from the prejudice of the outside world. He was just as little here as he was to all out there. There was hardly a shadow of reverence for Sithis in this place, either. All have abandoned the Old Ways. All have forgotten the joy of killing. All have forgotten the familial nature of the Dark Family. And then there was the matter concerning just how... weak a state this Sanctuary was in.
Cicero had to believe that the silence would end, though. He had to keep the faith in his dear Mother.
Cicero wanted nothing more than for his Dark Brotherhood to rise to prominence again. He longed to see it's reputation restored to the fearsome state it had been long before he lived. He wanted for it to be a family. Yet that was not all Cicero wanted to find the Listener for.
You see, Cicero desired for Mother to pick a Listener for the Brotherhood.
But he desired to be named Listener for himself.
Ever since the death of Alexandre Dupre had reached him, Cicero wanted the title for himself more than he had ever wanted anything. As Listener, he would finally have the authority to take control of the Brotherhood and turn it's fate around. He had no doubt of his capabilities to do so. But there was more than that to it. Becoming Listener would change the attitude of those around him. He would no longer be a just madman. He would be accepted; no longer pressured to prove himself to others or wanting so desperately to be part of them.
Lastly, becoming Listener would make all those years of waiting, of loneliness, of despairing, of faithful keeping, of devotedness, of silence, of steadfast trust mean something. All those years scarificed- his sacrifice- would not have been in vain.
For all these reasons, Cicero believed that when he finally heard Mother's sweet voice, his suffering would end. The restlessness. The loneliness. The unwholeness would all be gone. And his soul would be in constant agony no more.
In a way, Critare had already given him this. She was precious to him. In her, there was the only thing about this place that could be called a Sanctuary. In her, there was something that balanced him, completed him. She was like a counterweight. Critare was a source of peace to him now, even though it was in Mother that he had his promise for the future.
Still, Cicero wanted to have her within his life, even when he became Listener. Even considering the days before his affliction, Cicero could confidently say that Critare had only been the real friend he had ever had. But he had to admit to himself that, to him, Critare was more than a friend.
That was why he could not bare the idea of her not- not... caring for him. For poor Cicero.
But what else was he supposed to think of her reaction to the kiss as?! As much as he wished to convince himself of it, Cicero could not believe it had anything to do with his breath.
Cicero frowned, pulling his hat into his hands and rising from his bed.
It was time he went to speak with Mother. She could comfort him. She always did.
Cicero lit a candle and brought it with him as he went down the short hall leading to Mother's audience room. The fact that his candle was the only light in the pitch black halls- or at least this one- told Cicero that it was still night and that his siblings were still fast asleep. The jester shut the door behind him quietly once in the room and, after lighting a few candles which stood on the silver candlesticks in front of Mother's sarcophagus, huddled up on the floor beside a pew.
He rested his head against the seat of the pew and looked ahead at Mother's hidden form for a few more moments before finally speaking in a low voice stripped of its usual confidence.
"Mother... Cicero does not no what to do... He does not know what to think... Critare came back finally tonight... Cicero was happy about that, too... She and Cicero talked and... and Cicero realised that if she had not come back, Cicero would have been like that Anne now: waiting and wondering and sad... Oh, he was so happy to see her again... But then... Oh, Cicero does not know what he had been thinking...
"He- he kissed Critare... just a little... And then she ran away, right away...
"Cicero does not know what to think, Mother... Critare has come to mean so much to Cicero, he couldn't bare it if she didn't feel the same... You- you see..."
Cicero gulped, licking his lips before letting out shakily, "Cicero thinks that he might love Critare..."
There was a soft sound at that moment, coming from inside the audience room. It sounded like- almost like a breath. The sort people make when they have been sobbing, or at least that's what Cicero thought.
"Mother?" Cicero thought out loud, sitting up. Was she finally answering him? Was he finally Listener?
No, no. Mother would be telling him the words were it his time. Yet, Cicero could have sworn that the sound came from inside the coffin.
Cicero drew his dagger, crotching before Mother's sarcophagus as he inched forward to open it. He pulled out a wire, sticking it into the right spot in the crevice between the doors and pushing forward until he heard the click. If it was one of those pesky, little rats again...
Cicero swung the door open.
"Cri- Critare?" he blinked, dumbfounded at the sight of her, dimly lit by the candles, in Mother's sarcophagus.
She had tears in her eyes and looked at though she had been crying profusely.
"Oh, this is not good- this is not alright Critare," he said rising back up and leading her out of the coffin by the hand.
But as he continued to blather, Criatre spoke herself, her soft dove's voice hardly audible underneath the jester's.
"Darkness rises-" she said.
"You're luckly my trap-device is somehow broken, otherwise I don't know how you would have gotten in alive. Eh, how did you get in, exactly? Oh, never mind it-"
"W- when silence-"
"What's important is that you're out of there. Oh, don't worry. Cicero will explain everything to Mother-"
"Dies."
"Do not worry. But you really ought to not-"
Cicero stopped in his tracks, turning himself slowly to look at the girl he trailed behind him.
"What- what did you say?" he asked shakily.
Critare took a deep breath and blinked, the action pushing two more tears down her face.
"Darkness falls when silence dies," she said quiet and smooth, her voice not catching once. "She told me to tell you that."
Cicero froze, feeling his blood turn to ice.
It couldn't be...
No, no! There- there were his journals. Yes, the journals. Critare had picked them up many a'time while cleaning his room. She could have discovered the binding words then! No... No... Critare could not read.
"Cicero?" Critare asked quietly, her face turning slightly more in misery.
But wait. She had said 'she'. She. But she had not said who exactly this 'she' was. Yes. It could have been the Pretender who had set her up to do this... But why would she not claim Listenership for herself?
"Who told you to say that?"
Critare lowered her eyes and slowly turned, silently pointing to the stone sarcophagus behind her.
But... but this couldn't be happening... She had to have discovered the binding words, somehow!
Cicero pulled himself away from Critare, pacing the dark room.
"Cicero... Cicero, please." Critare said, beginning to weep.
The jester was thinking frantically, trying to come up with an explanation for all of this.
This couldn't have been happening and yet it was! It- it couldn't be right. Mother would have never named Critare Listener. She was too frail, too weak! And her hands were not nearly bloodied enough. Mother couldn't have chosen Critare; it was a joke. A joke! Cicero didn't understand.
That's when Cicero caught sight of a cluster of dried leaves hanging on the wall, dimly illuminated by the scarce candlelight.
That's when Cicero understood.
It all came flooding to him in moments. The garland. The pretty garland. All those hours Cicero had spent telling Mother about what a wonderful friend Critare was. That she was so nice and pretty and had such a charming little dance. The short weeks it took Critare to win the hearts of over half of those in the Sanctuary with her pitiful tears. All the times she had listened to his jokes and let him prattle on to her about whatever he had on his mind. Every instance she had assisted Cicero with something.
She had tricked him just like she had tricked the others and he fell right for it.
And now, because of it, he had lost Mother forever. She had taken her from him!
She had lied. Lied. Lied. Lied!
"C- Cicero," Critare sobbed weakly.
"Liar!" Cicero roared at her.
"What? What's going on in here?"
The Pretender walked into the audience room at that moment, carrying a torch.
"Well?" she pressed when no one answered.
"Oh, Cicero will tell the Pretender what happened!" the jester yelled, causing Critare to bury her face in her hands.
"Mother has chosen a Listener," Cicero cackled cruelly, capering about.
"I'd imagine this new Listener is you?" the Pretender said through gritted teeth.
Cicero laughed hysterically at this.
"Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no! Cicero would not be named Listener. Not while this... hehe, Liar was around to steal it from him.
"She lied to you, she lied to them, and them she lied to me. She fooled us all!"
"No, Cicero," Critare cried pitifully, only enraging Cicero further.
"No?! No?!" Cicero half-roared and half-mocked.
Suddenly his face twisted with a hatred greater than anything Critare had ever witnessed from him.
"NO!" Cicero roared at her, at the Pretender, at Mother. At the world.
He stormed out of the audience room and into his own chamber.
Cicero let out a roar of despair once he was alone. His gaze quickly fell on the wheat-and-sage wreath lying on his bed and he was immediately offended by the sight of it. He took hold of it, fitfully pulling it apart until it was nothing but a mess of wheat, sage, mountain flower, and white creep cluster tufts in his fists and on the floor beneath.
So this chapter, as always, turned out a lot longer than I had intended. I'm also not entirely pleased with the flow of it. But what can you do when you've got so much to cover and everything ties together? On another note, I had added something (a very small something) to chapter 7 towards it's end after I had realized I had forgotten to put the near vital in.
I hope this chapter wasn't difficult to follow because I hadn't recounted everything that occurred in Cicero's journal. This chapter was just long enough as it was without me putting details like Cicero convincing Garnag to kill Rasha. In cases like that, I figured I'd just fill in my story of what when on behond the scenes and let you guys, with your previous knowledge of the journals, fill in the blanks. If that makes any sense at all. :\
Thanks again to everyone for all their reviews and continued support for this story. I'm so happy to hear you all enjoy it and am still surpised to see how well it's been received by you guys. I'm so grateful for all of you; the favs, followers, and lurkers alike!
Thanks for reading and please review!