Weep

by Four-Eyed Koi

The story of a lonely jester who falls for a melancholic dancer just as mad as he. Cicero&OC. OC is the Listener but not the Dragonborn.

9. Spinning Infinity

Hello, everyone!

Sorry for the long wait- hopefully it will be worth it.

Now before we go on here, let me make an announcement: Mom had the baby (a boy) just at the end of March. Let's hear it for little Nakowa! Everyone is alive and healthy!

I need to apologize for the length of this chapter. In all honesty, it just kind of happened. I kept thinking, 'oh, just another 1,000 words'... Yeah, no.

Now for the people who made this chapter possible:

Hhall2014, thank you for your help and feedback on the action aspect of this chapter. Without your advice I really don't know if I'd been able to pull this off.

Princess Calico, thank you for your help and input on certain aspects of the dialogue in this chapter. You are the sweetest girl I know, so I find it so ironic that you helped me reach that dark state of mind for some of the nasty things said in this chapter. Particularly from Astrid.

By the way, both be great authors, my people! Check out their stories!

Enjoy!

---

I'm finished making sense

Done pleading ignorance

That whole defense

Spinning infinity, boy

The wheel is spinning me

It's never-ending, never-ending

Same old story!

- Foo Fighters, Pretender

Cicero worked alone as he scrubbed the stone floors of the Night Mother's audience room.

In his current mood, the Keeper couldn't care for any of the unfavorable circumstances he was working under. The room, lit by numerous candles, was stuck in some uncomfortable medium between dark and bright. The stone floor beneath the jester was just as frigid as the still, icy air wrapped around him and was doing nothing to help his sore palms and knees. All these things Cicero could have easily done something about, but didn't. He just went on scrubbing the floor, letting the air be filled with the scrapping of the brush's bristles. Other than the occasional dark muttering, he worked silently and at a brisk pace. After having cleaned over a reasonable space of the floor, he would dunk the brush into the bucket kept by him and return to scrubbing.

A week and a half ago, the weeper had come out of that coffin- the coffin which he still wouldn't look directly at, nor even face in the direction of, unless it could not be avoided- and said the words that he had waited for so long to hear.

But not from her.

Apparently, the very moment that weeper had shown herself to the Pretender, her mistress had ordered for her to hide in the sarcophagus and listen to what Cicero said. As the story went, the Pretender had been suspecting that the Keeper- the faithful Keeper- had been plotting against Her Foolishness. Oh, the irony!

"No, no... Cicero is no treason-er. He whispered no plots... No, he whispered only prayers... for your death... If you want treason, now... ho ho... look no further than our honorable Listener..."

The Pretender must have been so sure Cicero was plotting against her, too. At least, that's what he had to assume as she did not seem too happy to hear that all the ruckus Cicero had made had not been because he had been "discovered". No, not happy at all. Of course, it could just as easily have been the fact that her slave was now the Night Mother's chosen Listener.

Oh, there was no doubt in Cicero's mind about that. He knew that look on the not-Speaker's face. He knew it, he knew. It was the same look that had been on Rasha's face everytime the cat had looked at Cicero during the period between Dupre's death and his Keepership. And he knew all too well what that look meant.

The others wanted to know what all the screaming had been about, of course, and had been just as dumbfounded as their leader to find out what had happened.

They got over it quite quickly and instead commenced a celebration for their dearest weeper's return to them.

"So, what in the Void's name took you so long?!" the softy had exclaimed, lifting her up in a large embrace as he smiled ear to ear. "We had been worried sick about you, twirls!"

And the weeper told them everything thing she had done on her travels. Everything that she had told Cicero, save for the story of the elf's death and his lover, Anne. Unlike Cicero, they were far too entertained by her whole story to pester her for what had occurred during her contract. The weeper looked as though she was trying to share in their enthusiasm and amusement.

The Pretender, though, was not amused.

"You had wasted nearly a month coming back here to play with giants and merchants!" she had hissed.

The weeper was punished with a severe beating. She was given a few hours to recover afterwards before she was sent away to visit this 'Montierre in Volunruud' to see if there was any truth to her claim. This time the softy had come along with her to ensure she would return quickly.

Not six days later did the two return with a shiny amulet and an order for the Emperor's head. If the softy's testimony and the fact that such a contract was too audacious to have been made up weren't enough to confirm Cicero's worst nightmare, there was still the amulet. One look and Cicero knew. He had seen enough of the royal life while still an assassin in Cyrodiil to know what that amulet was... and that it was real.

That had been the hardest blow. It was then that Cicero could no longer hang on to the weak, albiet still lingering doubts of Critare's legitimacy as Listener which he had been clinging to as if they were a peice of driftwood in a tempest. Cicero was forced to see them all blown to ash and carried away from him so that he was left with nothing to hope on.

But, oh, the rest of them all had been so impressed. Cicero could still remember it perfectly.

The softy and weeper had stepped into the lobby around noon, meaning that everyone was still free enough to gather into the lobby and hear the verdict. (The weeper's Listenership had been practically all anyone had talked about during their absence, and they were practically quaking with anticipation to find out if it was true.)

"So?" the little monster had asked, looking at them both expectantly from where she stood on a chair.

The softy took a moment to remove his cloak and shake the rain drops from it before he spoke. Finally, he raised his head, beaming at them.

"It's true," he said. "It's really true. She's it. She's the Listener."

A slight gasp, a barely audible whisper had left the Pretender's lips at this.

"What?" she had said.

But no one other than Cicero had heard her.

"You actually found someone in that crypt, then?" the grey-snob had drawled out monotonously in her thick accent.

"And what if they did?" huffed the dog, crossing his arms. "Any idiot can say he's the Listener and meet with one of our frequent customers in one of the usual spots. Collectively, we've met with Maven Blackbriar- what- eight times at her meadery this past season."

The grey-snob sighed, "But that's just it, you over-grown mutt: they didn't go to one of our usual meeting places. And they didn't get the invitation through a letter- Astrid would know. They went to some ancient, little hole in the ground in the middle of some bloody frozen nowhere called Volunruud. Didn't you know this"

The dog merely grunted, "I'm just not convinced."

"Get ready then," the softy said, still grinning, "because you're about to be."

"So, like I asked earlier: you actually found someone there?" asked the grey-snob.

"Did we ever! He still had the body and all the nightshade and everything for the sacriment still lying out when we got there!"

The unusually merry kill-joy stuck his hand into a leather pouch hanging on his belt, producing the gold amulet.

"This was his payment," he said, holding the pendant up.

"Well, I'll be," the wizard breathed, hobbling forward on his cane to examine the glimmering pendant.

"Congratulations. He gave you a gold pendant on a gold chain," the dog said gruffly.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that, boy," the old coot said half-mindedly, holding the pendant up in the light. "This looks to be one of those Imperial amulets I heard about. Rare. Expensive. Given only to those within the Emperor's closest circle of trusted advisors. If it's real, it'll be worth a fortune."

"If it's real?" asked the dog.

The wizard shrugged, "I've never seen one, myself. Only saw a picture of it in a book once."

"Luckily," said the Pretender, finally speaking up. "I have a friend in Riften who can determine if this," she took hold of the amulet, "little beauty is real. And better yet, what it's worth."

Cicero still knew that this amulet was real and even had a vague sense of what it was worth. He had stayed silent throughout most of the conversation. Seeing the amulet was all the confirmation he needed that Critare was indeed the Listener of the Brotherhood. It was all he could do to stay in his little dark corner and watch the scene unfold while he tried, once more, to come to terms with all that was happening. Besides, no one would take Cicero's word for it if he said anything.

The Pretender went on speaking, running the amulet's chain through her fingers as she spoke in her casual drawl, "Now, why don't we get on to the important part: who is going to die?"

Softy grinned from ear to ear again, "That's the best part. But I think we should have our Listener tell you.

"Go on," he said, nudging the weeper.

The girl looked at her feet pathetically before speaking in her usual quiet voice, "The man wanted us to kill the Emperor."

For a moment there was nothing but an instance of intense, stunned silence. And then the excited buzz began. Everyone, except Cicero and Astrid, had been saying something as they gathered around the weeper. The flea bag made a few sarcastic remarks and rolled his eyes at the blood-sucker's teasing. That snobby-snob actually spoke to the weeper without insulting her, though she didn't quite compliment or congratulate her. The un-child jumped up and down and seemed to be everywhere at once, chattering lively with everyone. The softy and greeny talked about how great this all was. The old git, smiling for once in his life, clapped the weeper on her back and told her that he was proud of her. This lasted only a moment, though.

Because amidst all the applauding, there was a pair of hands clapping in a manner that was... just wrong. There was nothing very normal about it. It was a slow, pronounced beat that cut through the rest of the commotion like a cold knife. But nobody within the celebratory group heard this off-applause until their own started to die down. It was then that the cruel applauding was made known; intruding the atmosphere like a cold draft. The mocking clap brought all other noise to a rude halt... Everyone felt uneasy.

Cicero hadn't even realized that he had been clapping at all until they all turned and looked at him worriedly.

He picked up the pace of the clap beat, so that it sounded like an earnest applause. It was as if the jester couldn't stop himself. With the realization that he had been clapping also came the realization that he was bitterly, vehemently angry.

Cicero chuckled, his tone full of mocking praise; the pitch, so high, that his voice cracked on annunciated words. "Why, an Emperor? Is that what you say, hmm?"

At his words, the weeper ducked her head down in hurt. Even though her hair fell around her visage to veil it from him, the jester could tell that she was crying by the way she brought her slim hands to her face. The little monster climbed on a chair next to her friend and put a tiny arm around the girl's shoulders as they were wracked by pitiful sobs. The softy's eyes were blazing as he stood from his chair and, in one sudden move, stepped forward as if to make towards Cicero. The wizard and lizard both stuck arms out in front of his torso to stop him. The softy complied wordlessly, but never broke his burning gaze from Cicero as he clenched and released his large fists.

He was angry- and Cicero could have cared less. Nothing could stop him now that he knew the weeper was crying. And nothing did as he continued his passive tirade without even pausing to breathe.

"My, how... impressive." Cicero nodded, weilding every annunciated word like a knife, "Such an honor worthy of a Listener! Ooh, such an honor indeed! Don't you think so? Well, don't you, Listener?"

Cicero burst into giggles even though his blood was burning and his head was spinning like a top. Everyone one but the weeper was looking at him. Every face read either fear, annoyance, or anger towards the Keeper. And as he took in all their faces, Cicero was suddenly overcome with a deep resentment for each and every one of them and he couldn't tolerate staying in their presence for another instant. He had jumped to his feet, sprinting out of the lobby as he cackled at the top of his lungs.

Cicero pushed the bucket forward a foot, before pulling himself up over a space of floor with it. Dunking the brush in the bucket, he set about working on the untouched area of the floor, being sure not to raise his head to look at the sarcophagus just feet in front of him. Even if raising his neck would have relieved the acute aching which had built in it.

A week and a half ago, Cicero couldn't have allowed for the weeper's garland, by then as dead and dry as the bones of a skeleton, to be removed from where it had hung on the walls. Even when it no longer resembled the lovely peice it had once been and was slowly falling away to bits on the floor, he simply could not bear to see it gone. The morning after the binding words had been spoken, he had tore every section of it down with a such fervor that it wouldn't have looked out of place were he murdering some old, terrible rival. He removed every scrap, every leaf and petal of it. He would not have any of it remaining. The garlands were thrown into a cauldron in his chamber where they made good kindling for the match he struck and dropped into the basin.

A week and a half ago, Cicero would have looked for any excuse to spend time with what were his two favorite people. Now it seemed they couldn't be avoided often enough. Yes, after that disasterous event several nights ago, he had checked the traps he had laid in Mother's sacrophagus to find each one undone. He had wanted, with a sort of authoritative frustration, to know exactly why his ingenious traps had failed to keep that horrible creature out. Why they would betray his very intentions for creating them- to keep the Night Mother away from his enemies. Though he wanted to believe that it was through some manner of trickery that she managed to disable the traps within, he knew that it was he who had shown and explained to the weeper every mechanism in his desperate schemes to impress her. Yes, he had checked on the traps. And true, he had reset them all out of duty to protect his Mother. But it was also done to distance himself from her corpse. Knowing that she had the traps to protect her gave him an excuse to only be around her when it was necessary for her maintenance.

A week and a half ago, Cicero might have been drawn to the muted hum of voices carried to his ears through the door- the one which opened to the narrow starway leading into the lobby- which had been left ajar. Somewhere, some length away from the audience room, a number of the sanctuary's inhabitants were talking amongst each other. Probably laughing and sharing stories or telling jokes- all things Cicero would have been tempted to venture out of his chamber or away from Mother's side for, even though he knew how likely it was that he'd be excluded. Now Cicero reframed from all company. True, he had been in states in the past where he had abhorred the company of other people, but never to the extent that he did now. If he could not be alone if he needed to retrieve some equipment, then he would wait until he could be. If he couldn't be left to eat in total solitude, then he would not eat at all.

Even the Night Mother's presence was repulsive to the jester. Any presence, even that of a cold, silent woman's still body, shut away behind inches of stone, was an offense to him.

Cicero had only a vague idea of the goings-on within the sanctuary as a consequence of this new behavior now. From what he gathered, the weeper had been fulfilling some 'big contracts' leading up to what would be the Emperor's in a few days. She was even away on some contract right at that moment. Someone else was likely with her, in that case. She was always accompanied by someone now, these days. Cicero really couldn't be surprised that he knew all he did inspite of his self-imposed isolation. It was hard not to hear about something in close quarters especially when it was all anyone would talk about!

The Keeper scooted the bucket to his left and began scrubbing the floors in that direction. Given the coolness of the stone floor, none of the water had yet dried up, imbuing the floor with a glossy, reflective quality. Not so reflective to be like a mirror, but rather the surface of a pond. And a pond frozen-over at that. While the glassy floor mirrored the lights of the candles, it also absorbed the dark of the shadows; somehow managing to do both while keeping each extreme from one another so that Cicero appeared to be kneeling in some shadowy void lit by misty lights.

A week and a half ago, Cicero may have appreciated this sort of thing.

Hell, a week and a half ago, this sort task would have been accompanied by obnoxious chattering, singing, rhymed anecdotes, tune-less humming, tapping feet or fingers, or half-stifled giggles. Why? Because it was for the Night Mother! Everything, always for Mother. Now, he carried out all his duties with a begrudging reluctance. They were hollow chores now and nothing more. There was no joy or love in the acts.

Not anymore.

It would be difficult for someone to understand Cicero's current predicament if they had not ever endured something similar.

You see, in his own sense, Cicero was a man which had been betrayed. And there is quite possibly no feeling ever felt by a man which could rival the ugly sting of betrayl. It takes its roots in many unpleasant things- despair, insecurity, shock and bewilderment, rage, wrath, fear, regret- festering into wounds so deep, they never heal. To have been betrayed is to have taken solace in a friend for years, the security of someone to depend on, an ear to confide in, and to return every kindness out of nothing but earnest love and devotion to rudely wake and find the bond of shared hardships broken, your faith crushed, trust abused, secrets unsafe, and all your love and devotion suddenly unreciprocated. And yourself abandoned. That is betrayal. That is the cruelest of all the heart's agonies.

That is what Cicero experienced with Mother... and with Critare. With Mother, it had been the quantity of years he had known her rather than the quality of the relationship in them. Being the believer he always was, Cicero never doubted the Night Mother's care for a humble child of Sithis such as himself and always felt that she was, somehow, watching over him as he watched over her. He never doubted she listened to him, as he always listened out for her, albiet, strainingly. He did fret over the songs, stories, and gifts he would frequently present her with. This was especially true in his early days as Keeper. Aside from the other motives, Cicero needed Mother to accept him as he had no one else by that time and those he did meet- above ground- always rejected him. The worry that the little extra things he would do for her only served to push her away from him, as they would with everyone else, plagued his mind constantly. Soon, though, he came to accept Mother's lack of response, of praise and gratitude for good and faithful Cicero. He found security in the fact that he had not yet been done away with like the others, for if Mother did not love Cicero, surely she would have rid herself of him and found a new Keeper. That is by no means to say that Cicero's assurance of being liked kept him from fear of somehow losing the love he had acquired. He thought of love as though it were some treasure of gold; leave it unattended, and some thief comes in the night and takes it from you. Despite this, Mother did not talk, or provide, or smile, or embrace, or coddle. Yet Cicero didn't mind. He watched over her and kept her from harm and she, him. He, with his blood and sweat. She, with her more mysterious ways. They were always together, and this was all Cicero needed to know that he was loved and not alone.

But knowing is not like feeling.

And it was not until Critare that he had ever really felt that he was loved. She was not the company Cicero wanted initially; she did not laugh or smile or talk nearly enough. He soon found, though, that this did not matter at all. That personality and temperament meant nothing when you were offered acceptance. Especially when it was so scarcely given to you.

Cicero wasn't exactly sure what it was that caused him to fall in love with Critare. He did not know the ways of these things and hadn't given any thought to it since the incident. All he knew is that the trust and love, that somehow found its place with her, was discovered just in time for him find that it was all a trick! He had bared his mind and soul to her and she had given him smiles and words of encouragement... so... so...

Cicero stiffened, gripping the brush in his hand so hard that it pained him. He was recalling all those tender swellings of adoration his heart had entertained merely a week and a half ago- the ones which felt now like tender gaps of aching. It was always accompanied by a fussy pressure behind his eyes, wanting release. But Cicero did not like these sensations. They were both something he did not know how to deal with. There was one feeling, on the other hand, which he quite well did.

The jester held his eyes shut, letting the aching in his chest be cleared out by the boiling in his veins. Letting it smoke out the hollow wailing with hot fumes. He reopened his eyes and went back to his scrubbing, doing so more aggressively than a moment before.

Though he refused to dwell on it; with the recent betrayal of the only two souls he had ever cared for, it seemed that his hopes were all Cicero ever really had. In that right, he could have been called a man in grieving.

It was his dreams which had remained by his side through every lonely hour. Whenever he had been cold, it had been his dreams which would wrap their arms around him and warm his bones until he was well again. When he had been tired and weak, his hopes would come and whisper words of inspiration so that he felt he could lift mountains. And whenever had felt all was lost, it had been those hopes that would remind him of the promise of tomorrow. See, while it was Cicero who had taken care of Mother, it was the hopes and dreams which had always taken care of Cicero. Mother gave him security in the present. The dreams gave Cicero security for whatever lied ahead.

So to see them swept away from him, was like the loss of an old, dear and faithful friend for him. The binding words spoken by Critare had all at once sucked the last breath from them and hammered the last nail in the coffin door, forever sealing off what he had hoped for before he could even say good-bye. It was all happening too fast. One moment, he had his all his hopes for the future. The next, he was standing six feet over them and there was nothing he could do to dig them back out and restore them. It was practically dizzying.

And he was expected to move on- that was the real joke, there. He was supposed to press on and forget about it- as if he had never wanted anything. To find a new hope for holding on to. He was just supposed to accept it and be gracious about everything- he sure knew it was what they had wanted, if the looks on their faces were enough to tell him. Well, they had no idea what it was like- those lazy, worthless sloths! They had nothing to want for! They had everything! Cicero had nothing!

And it was all her fault. She was the thief that tricked Cicero and stole Mother from him. And Mother was one the one which let herself be stolen! They both betrayed him. They both let him down and left him with nothing!

In one swift move, Cicero rose up and kicked the bucket across the room, his movement like an unsprung coil. The bucket flew through the air, splashing some water over the floors before bouncing off the opposite wall and clattering on to the ground.

For a moment he just stood there heaving, watching as the bucket rolled listlessly to a stop.

That was when Cicero heard the sound of his name being giggled pass through the door left ajar on his left. Turning around, he faced it, drawing himself closer to the yellow glow entering through the narrow gap.

They were talking about him. Cicero did not like this at all. Still, he couldn't place a reason to why he was making his way over to the lousy fools. He just did it. He pulled the door further open, passing through the hall smoothly and silently. If he was going to be in the presence of others, they weren't going to know about it. To be seen was to remind they could talk about him however they liked and that he could do nothing of it. To be seen was to be mocked.

Finally, Cicero reached the large round torch that stood at the mouth of the stairs leading to the audience room. He snuck over to the torch lining the adjacent wall of the lobby- the one that stood at the start of the hall leading to the Pretender's room. He crept into the hall, just a few feet in, where the shadows became dark enough. Cicero stayed against the wall, a little ways from the opening to the lobby, hidden in the heart-black shadows.

He listened.

"... I certainly don't feel one bit sorry for the fool."

The grey-snob.

She continued, "If he wants to hide in his room and mope around, that's his choice. I, for one, wouldn't cower away in some dark corner. No, I'd step out and face all you with my chin held high."

The little monster, "So you think he's hiding? From us?"

"That's what I had just said, wasn't it?"

"Why? What'd we ever do to him?"

"Nothing."

"Then why-"

The dog groans, "Because he's psychotic!"

The wizard, "Damn fool thinks we're all out to get him!"

The Pretender, "He may not be entirely wrong about that now..."

She and her mutt chuckled quietly.

The wizard, "How's Critare holding up?"

The un-child sighs, "She was still crying a lot before she left. She still wouldn't talk much either."

Scales, "The clown still won't speak to her?"

Pretender, "He won't speak to anyone, Veezara. It's been the best ten days I've had since he's gotten here. And frankly, I couldn't care if it never ended."

Un-child, "But Critare..."

Scales, "Will forget about him... Eventually."

The wizard growled, "Nazir's right. That boy needs to pull his head out of his-"

Un-child, "Festus."

"He's being completely unfair to that poor girl! The little fool. Always prancing about here, proclaiming he's 'humble, humble, Cicero'. Bah! Well, he's sure done swell showing us just how humble he really is these past few days!"

"I really don't know what Critare ever saw in him. Guy's a complete lunatic- I mean, Critare is too, but she's... she's..."

The lizard, "Not a complete unruly, obnoxious, jack-ass."

There was a murmur of agreement amongst everyone.

Then the room rumbled with the dog's chuckles, "I glad the pathetic little twerp is miserable. Never liked him. Never contributed anything- other than racket and messes. It's like the good old days again- when he didn't exist!"

Another collective murmur of agreement.

Scales, "Gah, I'm so glad I don't have to hear any of those dumb, son of Sithis jokes anymore!"

Murmurs, this time all laughing along.

Scales, more boldly, "'That's not my horker that's my wife!' Har. Har. Har."

Laughing.

The un-child, in a fit of childish laughter, "That was the worst joke ever!"

Grey-snob, "And do you remember all those ridiculous songs? 'And if I spy a little cat'..."

There was a pause before she and the blood-drinker burst out with, "'I'll feed it's corpse to my pet rat!'"

They laughed hysterically together.

The coot belly-laughed gustily, "Now those weren't as bad as his bloody boy tantrums!"

Loud and humorous howls and hollers now.

The lap-dog laughed, "I know he's a loony- but you'd think he'd get that people don't appreciate shoes in their food while they're trying to eat it!"

Un-child, "And all those times he'd come bounding through the halls- practically tumbling over us!"

Grey-snob, "And how he could never shut up about his 'dear Mother'!"

Groans.

The lizard, "Don't even get started on that!"

The dog, "Yeah, it's not like we all don't know what he does to her when none of us are around to hear it."

The howls were maddening. Cicero had to leave soon. His head was starting to spin.

The Pretender hummed smugly, "Very funny, Arnbjorn. Now if you all don't mind, I have some things to attend to. Thank you for planting that letter again, Gabrielle. Too bad none of us can be there to see when it's found on Maro."

The others went on talking as the not-Speaker left the room. Cicero pressed himself against the shadowed cave wall, unnoticed as the icy woman slowly passed him.

He stalked her like an agent of death as she strolled to her room like a queen.

She had left the door to her room open, allowing Cicero to slip in unnoticed as he surveyed her looking over some papers upon her desk. He did not see, though, the sly curling of her lips upon his silent entering. She knew. And she was ready.

"Do the recent turn of events have you... down?" She asked smugly.

Cicero bristled.

"Down?" he hissed through teeth bared in a smile. An unsuccessful attempt at looking nonchalant. "Cicero has no idea what you speak of. He is... always merry. Always!"

She cooly picked up a peice of parchment, her back still to the jester, rolling it up and placing it in an urn with others.

"Oh, please," she said humorously as she moved. "Give it up already, Cicero. Everybody already knows how jealous you are of your precious Critare."

"Bah!" he growled. "Her Foolishness should speak! Cicero knows what his not-Speaker feels. He's seen the looks she gives Critare. He knows what's in her heart, witch! He knows you are jealous. And he knows you fear."

"Enough."

"He knows you fear that she will turn on you. That she will take all your power from you, that the others will follow."

"I said, enough." She was gripping the ends of the table. Cicero knew that she was frustrated that she had lost control of the situation so fast, and he reveled in it.

"You were always suspicious of her. You were always suspicious of everyone. Cicero knows you. He knows everything!"

The Pretender spun around on her heel to look at him, her cold eyes blazing.

"Well, at least I have something to lose, clown! What do you have, Cicero? What do you have to lose?"

Cicero shook, the rage erupting out of him. "His honor! No matter what, Cicero still has his honor! That, no one can take from him!"

"Honor?" she chuckled mockingly. "Is that what you think of yourself? You're even more conceited than I thought."

"You dare call the Mother's Keeper conceited, woman? You dare to call him that when it is you who wastes countless septims- thousands upon thousands every season- on expensive perfumes and ointments and lotions and- who knows what else! You buy gold dyes to hide your greying hair and-"

"Shut up!"

"Potions to keep it soft. You purchase all sorts of salves to soften the wrinkles around your eyes. You buy pretty gems and soft silks-"

"I'm warning you!"

"So much luxury! You have a feather bed while everybody else sleeps on hay! And just how many of the others know what you spend on those succulent meats you buy only for yourself? How often do you leave this Sanctuary to filfill contracts anyways, my Speaker? It's no wonder you keep your contacts with the Theives Guild so close when you have such constant need for things your wee subordinate's can't afford!"

"That's it-"

"So you can call Cicero conceited all you want! The only vain one here is you-"

"You just can't accept that Mother finally chose someone else over you!"

That got the jester's attention. He stopped, waiting in a pained silence as if he was recovering from a hard blow to the chest.

The Pretender saw the moment of weakness and advanced.

"You can't accept that Mother chose someone else over you," she repeated. "Just like the rest of us always have and always will. You can't deal with the fact that she never loved you- just like everyone else! I know why you're really upset about our new Listener, Cicero. The other's might not, but I sure do! I know you inside and out, you worthless slug!

"And you know what the best part is? That you've known this all along. No one needs you. No one wants you. And certainly no one loves you. So why not just do us all a favor and drop dead already?"

That was it.

You wouldn't have been able to see any sign of it on the outside, but something inside Cicero snapped at that moment. What ever it was, he was holding it together now with all his strength.

And it wasn't his temper.

Cicero had always thought it odd how people would talk about anger as something which clouded the mind. If anything, he found that it was quite the opposite; anger- of the capacity he experienced now- was like a brisk wind which drove out all the fog. He would know that he was capable of strength that he normally did not possess. He would know that the sensations of pain and exhaustion were just lies of the body, and that he could still carry on. He could see everything happening around him, absorbing it all as if he had seen it happen a thousand times before. He could move with inhuman grace, placing every step and blow flawlessly.

To Cicero, anger was perfect clarity. Just through a blood-red lense.

He was angry now. To an extent that was matched by only a scarce few other moments in his life. A capacity that made this effect on him possible.

He moved towards the Pretender, who made to draw her dagger once she saw the intent in the Keeper's eyes.

Cicero kicked her hand away in one deft movement, injuring her wrist. Her eyes widened in alarm.

Astrid had just enough time to shout for help before Cicero grasped her- one hand clenching the front of her armor, the other gripping her unblemished forehead- and slammed the back of her skull left into the cave wall.

Cicero was aware of the others murmuring in alarm from the lobby close by. The noise caused by her head being slammed had one- maybe more- of them running to get to her room. Cicero would not have any interruptions, though. So as the Pretender slumped to the floor, Cicero promptly turned and walked a chair to the door, proping it under the doorknob. The entire time his movements relaxed and unhurried.

They made contact with the door just as Cicero turned back around, leaning his weight on the chair to ensure that it would stay there.

He crossed his arms casually, his expression an odd balance between something firm and something at ease. It was unreadable. Astrid had never seen Cicero like this, she realized as she held her throbbing head from where she laid slumped against the wall. And, as she came more to, Astrid- for the first time in years- feared for her life.

She and the madman had argued countless times before, about countless things. And when they were bad, they were always bad. But never once had either of them laid a hand upon the other. Astrid knew that her subordinates would side with her if Cicero were to ever attack her- and knew the fool was bitterly aware of it as well. And even though she had doubts that they wouldn't defend him with the same vengence were the situation turned around, the woman allowed herself the reassurance.

But now it was different. Now the act had been done. Cicero had done every intolerable thing imaginable. He had damaged furniture, set fires, started arguments, destroyed thousands of septims worth in potions and elixirs, and so much more. He had even threatened Astrid's slave with a dagger. But he had never actually initiated true violence with anyone- much less the so-called leader of the Sanctuary. Astrid understood that, now, there was no backing out or fixing this for Cicero. Not anymore. He had attacked her. The only way this would end was in his death. He had nothing to lose. No reason now to not finally kill her.

This was what scared her.

"You had never liked Cicero," he said in a tone surprisingly low and even. His voice and his gaze, so fixed upon her, were both so eerily uncharacteristic of him.

"Pity," he sighed, "Because Cicero can be such a good and fun friend. But that is no matter. There is only one reason that you never liked Cicero."

"What's going on in there?!" shouted Babette. She sounded worried, still unsure.

"You never liked him because he wasn't like the others. He wouldn't be another one of your lackeys."

"Astrid, come on!" The doorknob turned back and forth in futile attempts at opening the door. "Open this door." Nervous, so nervous.

"You thought you could reshape him- twist his mind around to serve you on a bended knee. Just like you had with that lazer-eyed softy and some others. But Cicero only wanted to follow the old ways- and you only wanted to follow your ways. You wanted to be in control. You wanted to be the queen. You felt threatened by the Night Mother and Cicero's devotion to her. And you were right to be, Astrid, dear. You were right. To. Be."

"Oh, my..." came a shaky, sacred breath from behind the door as Cicero spoke.

"Vee... Festus... Arnbjorn..." the un-child whispered. Then suddenly louder, "Veezara! Festus! Arnbjorn! Get over here, now. Astrid- she- she's stuck in there with Cicero. I think he's going to kill her! Please!"

Three more were behind the door in an instant, pounding it with their fists.

"Open this door!"

"Cicero, you don't have to do this."

Cicero sighed, as if this all were part of some long, boring routine.

"You were right, Astrid. You were right, little lady Pretender. Cicero has grown tired of your insolence." His even voice started to grow hoarser, louder. "Of your stubborn refusal to accept the Old Ways. Of your treatment of Cicero."

"Cicero... come on..." the wizard said from outside.

"Festus," shouted scales, "I think you're going to have to blast the door open!"

They were all still trying to beat down the door as he went on.

"What?!" shrieked the little monster.

The wizard, "Don't be rash, boy! We can't risk harming-"

Greeny, "You have any better ideas?!"

"Don't use that tone with-"

"Guys!" the little monster.

The jester's voice raised, "You will not disrespect Cicero or mock him or ignore him ANYMORE! Cicero has had enough of you Pretender! He's putting an end to it, tonight!

"Where are your lackeys to save you now?"

Cicero lunged at her, intentionally. He knew his time alone with her was coming to a close. Fast. He had also noted it as her fingers wrapped around the throat of a sapphire-colored glass bottle. Her eyes might have never left his, but he knew that she had been searching for something specific by the way her hands had felt around the collection lining her vanity.

So when Cicero lunged, the Pretender sprung up, swinging the bottle at him in a wide arch. Anticipating this move, Cicero's hand struck out, his fingers snatching her wrist like the mouth of a snake. In two steps he was behind her, twisting her arm as he pinned her wrist to the base of her neck. She hissed in pain, dropping the bottle into Cicero's other awaiting hand. He quickly tucked the bottle into his belt, knowing it might come in handy later.

"Okay," said the lizard. "On one... two..."

Fools. Didn't they knew they shouldn't be giving away the moment they were to come barging in?

"Three!"

The door burst clear in an explosion that was more smoke than flame. Cicero was not harmed in the least by this, having the Pretender held in front of him so that it was she who suffered any damage- mostly small cuts on her face and other exposed skin from bits of broken wood.

Just like that they came pouring in; the lizard first, leaping over the debris with his swords drawn. Pointy-ears and the un-child were next.

"You want her?" Cicero taunted.

"Then have her!" he shouted as he threw the woman at them.

Greeny startled, his feet scrambling to halt the momentum he had gathered with his arms flailing above him in his attempt to keep his Speaker from falling into his charging swords. The result left him in an imbalanced position, incapable of withstanding the force of the figure charging at him. The un-child and grey-snob hadn't registered what had happened and didn't stop themselves until it was too late and they were already colliding into the back of the lizard.

In as little as three seconds since the door was blasted apart, Cicero had them all toppling over eachother. Scales twisted dangerously in alarm, trying to keep his swords from harming any of his sisters. He managed to keep from seriously harming anyone at the price of falling on the un-child at an angle which hurt her. Oh, and a blade did make a moderately deep cut in the Pretender's left upper arm.

There was a snap and the little imp let out a high pitched wail as her ankle broke, leg bending too far forward to be natural with the bottom of her foot still flat on the ground. Snatching a peice of weathered metal from the desk on his way out, Cicero charged at them. He easily lept over them, placing a foot on the back of the kneeling Pretender to aid him in his jump. Just like that, Cicero landed on his two feet outside the Pretender's door. He turned to the right, prepared to leave the Sanctuary for good.

"That's quite enough!" yelled the wizard, blocking the hall leading to the Sanctuary's door.

Cicero growled, turning on his heel and heading down the opposite hall just as the old coot raised a hand glowing with frost magic.

It was a shame that bolts of magic energies were always as loud as they were. So loud, that Cicero could hear eacg blast of cold and where it aimed so that he easily dodged it. The bolts splashed against the floor and walls, a two foot radius of cold glaze spreading over where Cicero had been just a moment before.

Cicero cackled manically, running the last span of hall into the lobby.

"Good luck, clown," the dog threw nonchalantly over his shoulder as the jester passed his forge.

Cicero scoffed, pulling the mystery bottle out from his belt and uncorking it. Without missing a beat, he brought the liquid up to his nose before resealing it. Trolls fat and the pugnant odor of what could only be poison bloom. He could work with that.

He continued his sprint up the stone stairs, stopping himself when he reached the top. He turned, facing the lobby. The jester knew they were likely still recollecting themselves, deciding what would happen. That was the problem with working in groups; time was always wasted communicating when things went wrong. When you were alone, you had only yourself to look after. That was Cicero's advantage. He could see them in his mind. By now they had all picked themselves up and asked eachother if they were alright a dozen times. By now the blood-sucking imp had been told to stay behind, despite her protests. And the wizard had been ordered to stand gaurd. They had figured out that this would be their best bet for trapping Cicero. It wasn't like the coot would be of much use in a chase anyways with that bum leg. The Pretender was telling the others to follow her. They were running out and down the hall, into the lobby and-

"Damn it, Arnbjorn, what are you doing?!" someone shouted at the dog. The Pretender.

Ah.

Cicero readied himself. He knew he was just a moment from being spotted by them once they took their eyes off the dog for a fraction of a second. That was what he wanted. He needed them to see which way he went. That fact far outweighed the risks- which were small given how far he was from them, his speed, and his proximity to the cover of the halls.

"Working," the dog bit back smugly. He knew what he was going was upsetting his 'dearest' wife. And she knew there was no way she could make him join the hunt. Cicero didn't have to see it for himself to already know that this wasn't going to stop her from bickering.

The not-Speaker fumed.

"Work later!" she snapped as scales surveyed the wide area, quickly spotting Cicero and then shifting impatiently.

The Pretender went on, "We have a pest problem, if you haven't noticed! Now, get your hide in motion and-"

"Astrid!" the lizard called out, pointing in Cicero's direction once he had her attention.

The woman sneered as the grey-snob fumbled to ready her bow. Cicero gave them his best smile and skipped a brief caper before running down the halls. He knew that from their angle, the stone pillar behind the dogs forge would leave none able to see whether he had went right, to the halls of the audience room and his chamber, or left, to the kitchen and bunks. Exactly how he wanted it.

"Help out!" the Pretender hissed to her unconcerned husband before barking at the other two to come with her.

"Did you two see which-?" she started, stopping once she saw her subordinates shaking their heads.

She growled, marching up the stairs they had last seen Cicero on all the harder. At the top, she brought her feet together in a way that looked like a stomp.

"Fine," she snapped. "Veezara, you're coming with me! We're going to check the bunks and everything else from that point. You," she pointed to Gabriella, "will search the rooms that way," she indicated the halls to the right.

"Stay focused and don't let your guard down! I want this son of Boethiah's head on a platter- so don't you go ruining it by letting him get the best of you. Blotch this, and I'll be eating your flesh for super tonight. Got it?!"

The elf nodded ruefully, stalking off into the open area and right into the short hall splitting into three sections. She quietly nocked an arrow as she surveyed her surroundings, dropping instinctually into a crouch as she edged foward. She passed the first room to her left, assuming that she'd find the jester in either his room or the Night Mother's, forgetting the jester's newfound contempt for the dead matron.

Gabriella entered the room Cicero had claimed as his after checking the walls, making sure he was not pressed up against them where he could hide. She only spared the room a quick look-around. What little furniture the room held was broken and wouldn't be capable of hiding the jester from her. Besides, the room had an... unwelcoming atmosphere to it. The creaking furnishings covered in layers of dust with the articles of moth eaten clothing, pieces of rotted food, and other random objects strewn mindlessly about the floor gave the space such an unnerving presence of desolation. As if the room shut all out in retaliation to the world which had forsaken it.

Gabriella shivered involuntarily and pressed on, finding the audience room empty like the first. She assumed Cicero wouldn't have hid himself in the coffin, having heard of how this action was received by him when Critare had done it not long ago. She checked outside the door on the other side of the room after making sure he was not behind the stone sarcophagus, finding nothing again. There was nowhere for him to hide in the room, really.

The elf kicked a pew over in her frustration, causing it to collide into one of its neighbors.

She knew he was somewhere near. It was instinct; the sixth sense that grew out of years of stalking prey while staying vigilant of presences which were not supposed to be around. She had that prickling at the back of her neck now and hated it. Feeling as though you were the one in the dark of things- much more, the one being stalked- was aggravating to a hunter like Gabriella. Of course, that was only because she was convinced that she was the predator in this situation.

Gabriella took a step towards the door back into the hall and slipped, falling back but managing to catch herself on a pew before her whole body hit the floor. She had failed to notice all the water puddled on the floors. The whole area was moist, at that, as if it had just been cleaned. She had to start paying more attention to the ground she walked on. It was easy enough- natural- when she was on a contract. But in her own Sanctuary, such rules were easy to forget.

She started hoisting herself back up, freezing half way as she heard a slow scrapping to her right. She swung her head, eyes just catching a broom before it clattered to the ground. It had been propped on the wall a moment before...

Gabriella resumed pulling herself back up. She let out a breath, adjusting her quiver. It was nothing, she tried telling herself as she set the broom back up against the wall.

She knew she was right. That it was impossible for Cicero to have done that without her noticing. But she could not supress the shiver she felt as she looked at the room around her, her eyes falling on the large sarcophagus centered before the stained glass image of Sithis.

Seeing that, it suddenly occurred to her that if the Night Mother was real, then she was watching the elf, right that moment.

It didn't help ease the feeling she was being followed.

She stalked out of the room, entering the final space: the tiny room occupied by little more than a stone bed, desk and throne. A room unused by all for some reason she had never known. She supposed, when living with a group of fellow assassins, few were comfortable sleeping on their own. Why, then, Cicero had not chosen this room over the larger, more cluttered one, she'd never know.

She did not need to enter the room to know that it was empty, but still she did. Unable to believe it until then. Still she felt the presence of the maniac practically hanging over her head- he was closer than ever now.

She checked behind her. Nothing.

Gabriella furrowed her brow. She knew he had to be near, but could not place where he could be hiding. She had checked every space for him. Every nooked and cranny he could have fit himself in. Gabriella started to consider whether it was worth it to go and check the Night Mother's coffin after all; not knowing that all she had to do to find her mark was turn around and tilt her head back to see him, bracing his arms and legs against the walls of the narrow channel to hold himself above the room's entry.

Cicero stared down at his enemy, a smile like that of a thirsty spider adorning his face. He certainly thought himself like a spider right now. Up on the ceiling where the little bug couldn't see him... Biding his time until it was the moment to-

Finally, the grey-snob turned around. Cicero sprung into action, releasing himself from the wall. His legs first, swinging out under him and at the elf. She had no time to react once she registered what was happening. Cicero brought his arms in a moment after his legs, adding momentum to the direction of his fall now that it was in a full swing at the elf. His feet landed right where he wanted him: in the space of torso just below the collar bone, knocking the wind out of her and sending her flying back a foot or two. As her body hit the floor like wave- one thing after another until finally the head violently met the stone floor, Cicero curled his body out an under him, legs, abdomen, then arms. His motion was redirected, his flight brought to a halt as he landed on his feet next to the grey-snobs unconscious form. He removed all arrows from her quiver, leaving her with only the one which she had nocked on her bow moments before.

"You know Cicero's favorite thing about this room?" he asked her as she stirred, giggling.

He exited the room and shut the wooden door on her.

"It has a key and lock- on the outside!" he answered boisterously as he put the weathered bit of metal he had taken from the Pretender's in the wide key hole and locked the wench inside. This room had been the one the Pretender had "offered" to him when he had joined the Sanctuary. It had not escaped him that the door locked from the outside... Ignorant witch. He had been more than offended at the assumption that he would need to be contained- and that she'd be so willing to lock him away. She had always left the key out on her desk, though, perhaps forgetting that it had been there. But that didn't matter now.

He tossed the key over his shoulder and deposited the arrows into an urn beside the door. He knew that it was highly unlikely she'd look around for her arrows once she came to. No, Cicero knew she'd be too frustrated with trying to hunt him down- especially after escaping the room. Yes, escaping. Cicero was hoping for it.

"Now for Queen Cretin and her noble lizard-squire," he chuckled humorously.

But there was no humor in him. There was only that eerie, practical calm that stood in the eye of the hurricane of fire and acid raging around him. He strode out, stalking with a haunched back like a predator towards the bunks. Once there, he casually walked about; browsing his surroundings like a disterested shopper as he listened to that Pretender and scales argue in the kitchen. They were too caught up in their disagreement about whether to go back and check on the grey-snob to notice him- apparently they had searched as far as the alchemy and enchanting room, even the spider-fiend's den. It wasn't as if they'd be capable of seeing him from their vantage point anyways, so long as he kept from the edge of the second floor.

"She is a professional marksman armed to the tooth with poison tipped arrows..." the Pretender snapped. She was on the side of waiting for the pompous one.

Cicero's hands passed over a large weave basket on the little monster's bed packed with pretty, newly corked and wax-sealed bottles filled with a variety of the monster's finest poisons. The not-Speaker had her cooking up a basket of these every day now to be sold to the caravans or local merchants. They needed all the gold they could get if they were going to accomplish this Emperor thing. He halted his hand, turning his gaze to the lovely assortment of greens, ambers, canaries, crimsons, sapphires, blacks, and opaque whites sparkling in the fire light.

"... He is a hasbeen loon who's been out of practice for years!"

"Then what do you think is taking her so long?..."

Cicero's fingers brushed over the corked necks appreciatively.

"How thoughtfull of her to leave them here for Cicero..." he muttered to himself.

"Something is wrong, Astrid," the greeny went on. "She should have been back here by now."

"She's probably cleaning off an arrow she just removed from his sorry corpse!"

"Then we've got nothing to worry about. I'm going."

Cicero continued his muttering. "Instant... Lingering... Cough and wheezing... Blood-freezing... Burining pains... Panic... Fool's Courage... Aches... Disorientation... Water-eyes... Numbness... Paralysis... Severe illness... Rage... Manna eating... Blindness... Weakness... Dizziness... Double-vision..."

"Don't you dare! You're not leaving me here alone!"

"Come with me, then!"

"No! It isn't necessary!"

Cicero sighed. Of course she'd say that. She'd never admit to being afraid of a second confrontation with Cicero.

"We need every number we've got, Astrid! What, are we just supposed to leave her alone to die instead?"

Cicero picked up the basket, deciding he had stalled long enough. In just a few steps, he was standing at the end of the second level, looking down at his adversaries. Still, they did not see him. Pity.

Well, he might as well give them a show.

He set the basket down, taking a few bottles into his hands like a fistfull of grapes.

"Listen to me, you-"

"Hi-ho, somber ones!" Cicero sang out, stopping Astrid.

Scales drew his swords hissing, "You little-"

His threat was cut short by the cluster of poison bottles flying at him. He dodged out of the way just in time for them to shatter at his feet.

Cicero cackled thunderously as he pelted the Pretender and the lizard with the dangerous bottles.

"Cicero will not die alone!" he cried.

"He will take all you bleeders with him! Ha ha ha!"

Despite his frantic act, Cicero was sure to shower enough of the bottom of the log ramp leading to the bunks with the bottles. It wasn't the puddles of dangerous fluid which were the problem for them. It was the bits of sharp glass which threatened to cut open the bottom of their feet and allow the fluids into their blood stream that they needed to avoid. The space which covered the ramp was too large for them to jump over and reach Cicero safely, but neither tried. Besides, if they really wanted to reach Cicero they could have just left the kitchen, ran through the crafting room, the lobby, back up the grand stone steps and to the bunks. But Cicero knew they were incapable of considering this given their crippling fright and fussing. They just couldn't think several minutes ahead of the bottles being hurled at them, this was another one of Cicero's advantages.

But oh, how they ran!

"I-told you- ugh- that- we- should have- moved those," scales snapped at the Pretender as he lept painstakingly from spot to spot clear of broken glass. It was getting more difficult considering the growing amount of floor being covered with broken glass and toxic liquid. Again: they could have just left the room, but Cicero wasn't complaining.

"Shut up, Veezara!" the Pretender snapped as she pressed the back of her head against a cupboard, covering her eyes as a bottle exploded on the little wooden door by her head.

"Ol' Cicero

was a merry ol' soul!

A merry ol' soul was he...

He called for his knife and carved a big hole-

A very big hole in yee!"

Finally, when Cicero decided he had had enough with the poisons, he drew his precious dagger and jumped into a fray with the other two. He knew he had to cut his fun short if things were ever going to get anywhere...

The lizard made a predictable attack at the jester: an all-offensive over-head swing of the sword which left his balance poor and too open for a counter attack. Cicero brought his dagger up to block the blade while it was still two feet away from his person, igniting sparks. Like Cicero predicted, scales tried adding more and more force behind his blade while they stayed locked in this position, hoping he could disarm the Keeper.

Cicero scoffed inwardly as he recalled all the times greeny had boasted of his skill with the sword. He actually thought that all those targets he sparred with before killing counted as real experience. Most of this contracts were of classes not competent in swordplay, most had never fought a real fight. All his 'special training' was useless after years of no worthy opponent. He had forgotten so much.

But not Cicero.

The jester smirked, releasing the pressure he had placed on his dagger as he slid to the side. The lizard flew forward, his own force sending him to the ground.

Cicero changed his attention to the Pretender who, which he knew by the soft clang he had heard a moment before, had picked up some kitchen thing and was swinging it at him now- as he could tell by the extra shadow lying next to his. Cicero ducked back, watching the old iron pan swing over him. He brought himself back up, snatching the woman's arm as he thrust the point of his dagger up at her torso. And hand grasped at his ankle- no a claw, rather- pulling back and causing Cicero to fall to the ground, his hold on the Pretender forcing her down with him.

Cicero landed on his back- with the Pretender landing somewhere else- and the lizard tried to straddle him as soon as he did. He delivered a flurry of punches to the jesters face, his itchy-thorny scales doing some extra damage, but it was still nothing to Cicero. The Keeper growled, throwing a right hook at the lizard's face- that one hit sending him sprawling back. Cicero continued his assault, grasping the argonian around the throat as he jumped to his feet and brought the lizard up with him.

Cicero positioned the tip of his dagger inches in front of the lizard's slit eyes, which widened with fear before he placed his hands over the jester's, trying in vain to push the blade away from himself. Suddenly the back of Cicero's head exploded in pain as the Pretender brought that pan onto his head, hoping it would knock him out. It didn't. The blow didn't even affect the jester's grip on her lackey. He merely blinked before he continued to force his dagger closer to the argonian's scaly face. That's when greeny was struck with a fine idea and brought his knee up, slamming it into the jester's gut. That got to Cicero.

He staggered back, the Pretender beating him again and again with the pan, encouraged by her lackey's success. Cicero continued to draw back until he felt himself come in contact with the dining table. His left hand shot back behind him, touching something thin and metal right away before curling his fingers around it. He swung it forward at the Pretender in an angry arch. The aged fork, as he discovered it was, was impaled in the Pretender's right thigh. She screamed, dropping to the floor as Cicero delivered a kick to her gut. He bounded over to the lizard, who had finally recovered his swords, and wasted no time in swinging his dagger at him.

For once though, the lizard did not do what Cicero predicted.

He flipped the swords around in his hands, so that the blades pointed back, using the hand guard to worsen the punch he was sending at Cicero's approaching form. Cicero tried to twist himself out of the way, but it was too late. The steel hand guard crashed into his torso, knocking the air of him and causing him to lose his balance all at once. He tried to regain his footing, but placed his foot wrongfully on a shard of glass- the glass of a poison bottle. He did not panic as he felt the tell-tale numbing of a paralysis potion crawl up his blood stream. Panic would only make things worse. It didn't make him any less angry, though.

He let the poison consume him, releasing his dagger and falling down.

It would all be over soon, he knew. The bottom of his foot was no longer in contact with the puddle of fluid, so his advantage would only be lost for a matter of seconds. And they were the gloating type- yes...

"Astrid!" greeny called, dropping his swords and picking his way over to Cicero. He was seeming to have difficulty maintaining balance with the slippery liquids. Cicero rolled his eyes.

"He's paralyzed!" he called out again as he lifted Cicero, dragging him by the back of his collar to the not-Speaker.

The Pretender looked up at him, her mouth twisted in a snarl as she pulled the fork out of her thigh, panting. She threw the bloodied fork across the room, turning her blazing eyes to Cicero. Cicero observed her as she stood herself up. She was sweating, her dotted with scratches, forming bruises and smudged by dirt, and her hair, which had been pulled back into its usual neat bun, was now messed.

She looked liked she was having a bad day.

Her eyes never left Cicero as she stepped towards his dagger.

"Pick him up and hold him good," she ordered as she picked the blade from the ground.

"I want to ensure that he suffers," she continued as her lackey complied with her command, pulling the jester's arms behind his back and holding his form tightly against his own.

The not-Speaker slowly prowled back over to Cicero and her lackey, twirling the dagger in her hands casually as she looked him over. He started to feel the effects of the poison wearing off of him. Slowly, but control was coming back to him.

"So this is what it comes to," she said to him. "But I suppose that it was always meant to be this way... Cicero the Keeper, meaningless to everyone who ever knew him, dying like a cornered rat. This sanctuary never wanted you. Critare never wanted you. A whole, wide world full of people and none of them ever wanted poor, lonely Cicero," she pat Cicero's cheek in a way that was mockingly sweet.

"Even dear Mother has chalked up your existence to nothing but a poor waste of servitude. And so you die here, alone, without any friends... how sad," the corner of her lips curled in a smirk as she positioned the blade before Cicero.

Cicero looked at the dagger, his precious dagger. It was the one thing which he still kept from his days before Keepership. He had obtained it on a contract to kill a wealthy merchant. Cicero had spotted it on the man's person after his death, never having given him the chance to use it to defend himself, naturally. Normally, he was opposed to taking any extra spoils away from contracts- he had already been paid, and he was an assassin, not a common highway bandit. But when he saw this beauty, he thought he could make an exception. The metal of the dagger was a silver and steel alloy, heated in a certain way that made it exceptionally strong but as reflective as a mirror. The blade, about nine inches in length, was like white nickel in color and flat along the base to the tip where a narrow grove had been carved. The razor edges not even a nail's width. The small cross hand guard was plated with silver in an oriental design and, like the blade, still shone like the day it had been crafted after all the care Cicero had taken of it. The handle was carved out of polished ebony, as odd as that was, and was also decorated with a curtain design all the down to the pommel. The only flaw in it was the notch stuck in the blade from when it had made contact with the lizard's sword minutes before.

It was beautiful.

The Pretender plunged the dagger forth, sticking it about half-way into Cicero's gut. She looked back up to Cicero's face, expecting to see his visage broken and defeated. Instead, her victorious grin faltered at the demonic smile she saw. His eyes were bright with hate and a demented smile stretched from ear to ear. She stared, confused.

The paralysis poison had finally left Cicero's system. Now Cicero had control- of his body and their lives- once again.

He placed his hand over the Pretender's; gently, like a friend offering assistance. She merely looked on with a furrowed brow, unspeakably confused by the kind smile adoring the jester's face. Then, in one short movement, Cicero shoved the remaining half of the blade into himself.

Astrid looked on, perplexed; for a split second not knowing why he did this until she heard the small groan of pain coming from Veezara. She staggered back, disturbed by the jester's move and unable to believe what she had just allowed. She had forgotten that Veezara was holding the clown flush against him. And with the length of the blade...

Cicero had pushed the blade through himself and into Veezara.

The Keeper beamed, showing bloodied teeth. He pulled the dagger out of his torso, removing it from the lizard as he did, and bashed the not-Speaker on her head with the pommel. She fell. He spun around and gripped scales, still kneeling over in pain, by his shoulder. Cicero wasted no time in thrusting the blade into the lizard, enjoying the grimace that spread over his face. This time, he shoved the whole length of the dagger into him- as he had done to himself moments before- until the hand guard halted any further progress and inches of the blood-painted end protruded from the lizard's back.

"Where's that cocky grin now, lizard?" he asked innocently, drawing another groan from the argonian as he twisted the blade in his chest.

"P-please," the lizard begged, blood starting to pool on his lips.

Cicero ignored him. "Tut, tut. A little stab to the gut and that cockiness is gone for good, huh? Well, that won't do. That. Won't. Do. At. All," he said, twisting the blade just a little more with every bit of his final word to the lizard.

Cicero pulled the dagger back out, letting the lizard crumple to the ground. Veezara curled in on himself like an infant, holding his wounds in a desperate attempt to slow the bleeding, though there was nothing he could do for the exit wound on his back. It was a good decision on his part, too, because as soon as the jester was done with him, he kicked him once while he was down. Where, though, the Keeper did not see. His gaze was already set on the Pretender.

The lizard would not be bothering him again though, that much was certain.

Astrid took her hand off the sore bump on her head as soon as her eyes met the jester's. She scooted back as the jester wiped his dagger's hilt and his gloved hand- both slick with the argonian's blood- on his pant leg, slowly prowling over to her as she had moments before. She stopped scooting herself once her back touched a leg of the table, too frightened to turn herself from the jester so that she could move herself around it.

Next, Cicero wiped the blade clean. He examined it casually as he looked back up to her.

"How sad..." he grinned, readying his dagger for a swing at the woman's neck.

That moment, when Cicero's arm was pulled completely back, the woman's eyes flickered up to the second story where the bunks stayed open to the kitchen- like her attention had been caught by some odd movement there in her periphery. Cicero had his suspicion of what this was. And when the Pretender's eyes returned to his face- no longer desperate and fearful, but defiant and glad- Cicero had his confirmation.

But, argh, what a give away!

"I know how to pick a lock, fool!" a snobby voice rang out behind Cicero as he leapt to the side, just dodging the arrow as it landed a foot from him and bounced off the dirt flooring. He had been hoping he could work things out so that arrow would hit someone else...

"Yes!" he shrieked back. "Cicero was expecting that!"

He was, actually. He knew the grey-snob's type. Strictly archery. Archery; where it was far-off from danger and easier to hide or to get away if caught. Cicero had met plenty of such cowards who called themselves assassins in his day. They liked to think themselves conservative and cautious, but Cicero knew the truth. Their fear of confronting death showed in every little thing they did. Over-stocking on arrows and potions for each trip. Poisoning arrow tips because even the most precise shot through the neck might not guarantee a quick enough death. Always keeping more lock-picks than necessary handy just in case.

And just getting back from a trip, Cicero knew that it was more than likely she'd have more than a spare pick on her to escape with. While he hadn't intended for it to be right then, he had intended for it. And if he had been wrong, oh well. The thought of pompous dying a slow death of entrapment in her own Sanctuary didn't bother him in the slightest. It actually made him... happy.

Cicero smiled. "Out of arrows?"

Pompous drew her dagger, "You little-"

"Clown? Loon? Freak?" Cicero instigated as he beckoned the elf to spar with him.

When the elf was five feet from touching the very bottom of the ramp into the kitchen, she yelped, pulling her foot up suddenly and slipping forward some.

"Whoops! Did Cicero forget to mention the bottom of that was covered in broken glass and poisons? Ooh, his bad," he pouted mockingly.

Cicero laughed with delight and the elf fell limply to the floor, cursing. Paralysis!

"Ooh!" he winced as she came face down on more glass shards and likely more varieties of poisons.

He watched as the elf slid the remaining few feet down the ramp, more glass scraping into her.

"Well, that's that," he smacked his lips and started to turn back towards the Pretender.

Bang!

Cicero almost kneeled over, holding his head in agony. A pan to the head, again. Really?

Cicero growled.

"Will you stop doing that!" he snapped as his other hand shot out to yank the pan out of her hands.

"Really, now!" he continued, shaking the pan at her scornfully. "You'd think by now you'd have realized that this only stalls things!"

He sheathed his dagger, beating her over the head and back with the pan a few times before throwing it across the room. He'd see how she liked it. She staggered back, trying to sheild herself from each blow with her arms. He kicked her square in the gut, putting the whole force of his body into the blow, and sending her sprawling into the dining table. The collision knocked the table back a few inches while the Pretender's arms slid mindlessly behind her, shoving some plates and goblets to the floor.

Cicero wasn't done yet. He picked a platter up off the table, smacked her on the head with that before discarding it. Picked up a goblet, striking her collar bone with that before discarding it. Then a tankard. A plate. A candelabrum. Another goblet. His fist.

But Cicero was done yet. He grasped as much of her suit as he could in his fists before throwing her into the counters. He ran after her before she could recover, picking her up by her collar and shoving her head back down into the counter top. Again, he threw her across the room, running to her where he then started ruthlessly kicking her all over.

But, still, Cicero was not done. He kicked her onto her back and straddled her, unleashing a flurry of punches onto her face. The jester heard it as her nose snapped after some point, and he was pretty sure she had lost a few teeth by now. The top of his gloved fist and most of her face were splotched with her blood by this point, but he did not stop. He scooted back from her face some, enough for him to raise her head and- knowing that she was out cold by now, anyways- slammed it down into the floor once, twice, three times before sitting back on his haunches, finished.

He let out a breath he had been holding and stood, satisfied with the end he had brought to the insufferable wench. The Pretender. He looked down at her still body and found that, after all this time, he had nothing to say to her now. But it felt good to have her gone at last. Real good.

With the content feeling of a good day's work after a long and tiring evening, Cicero stepped over her, exiting the kitchen through the narrow stairway opening into the crafting room.

Drat, there was still the wizard at the door to deal with.

Cicero remembered the blue bottle he had tucked into his belt. Yes, there was that, but he'd need to somehow get it into the coot's nervous system fast enough. Hmm... poison bloom extract fumes where moderately flamable... Perfect.

Cicero stopped, plucking one of the burning candles that mounted the walls of the narrow stairway from it's hook before continuing on. As he entered the crafting room, he pulled the blue bottle from his belt, setting it and the candle on the enchanting table. He pulled another lit candle down from the shelf of them lining the enchanting table, blowing it out and setting it down next to his other items. The jester turned, meaning to make his way over to the alchemy table, when he saw the little monster there. She had both hands on the table, using it to support herself. The calf of the broken foot was pressed up against her thigh to keep the damaged part from any more harm. But it still hung, exposed outside the skirts of her dress, limply from the bulbs of her bruise-black ankle, flopping about unnaturally like it were no longer part of her body.

Cicero was impressed; such an injury would have had any average person immobilized with pain. But the un-child seemed to be fairing awful well. Of course, she wasn't average, though; her unnatural blood likely aiding in her unnatural tolerance to pain.

Naturally, she stood for a moment, glaring at him before speaking.

"That's right! I crawled here!" she spat definiantly, with all her usual fiery sass. How she managed to maintain such an attitude when she was so obviously at a disadvantage was beyond Cicero. She might as well have had her little hands on her hips as she stared him down.

Cicero ignored her as he turned back to his table; still paying her no mind even as she started making her way over to him. It was pretty pathetic actually. Hopping over the floors, using the cave walls for support when she could, throwing herself across the two entry gaps and into the opposite walls when she didn't, grunting and growling the whole way threw.

Meanwhile, Cicero broke the unlit candle clean in-half. He hummed as he wiggled the two halves of the apart where they were connected at the wick. After a little more of that, he yanked the bottom half of the candle off the wick, repeating this with the top half. He picked remianing bits of wax off the wick before setting it back down on the magic table. He spun around, striding over to the alchemy table.

"Ugh!" exclaimed the un-child, now turning herself around and hopping back along the walls she had just traveled over to get to Cicero.

"Just wait 'till I get my hands on you!" she growled as Cicero searched the bottles set on the table. "I'm gonna' wring your damn neck!"

"Don't hurt yourself, half-ling," he threw over his shoulder.

Cicero finished searching the bottles on the alchemy table, instead turning to the shelf which stood between the two entries into the crafting room. The imp huffed, once again being forced to change directions.

"Will you just hold still... for one second," she exclaimed, panting.

Cicero scanned the bottles for another moment before turning to her.

"Do you know where you keep your healing potions? The good ones."

She stopped, looking up at him incredulously before, "Fuck you!"

"Ah! Nevermind. Cicero has found one."

"Hey!" she whined.

He pulled the bottle from the shelf, uncorking it and setting it down on his table. He fished around in a basket of spare clothing underneath, pulling out a blue woman's cap. He tore the old cloth in half, dousing each piece generously with the healing liquid. He quickly stuffed both halves into the entry and exits wounds in his torso and twisted around, testing his handiwork.

It was going to have to do for now. He had a long run to Dawnstar ahead of him and he wouldn't be stopping to rest.

Cicero picked his wick back up, emptying half the bottle of poison bloom and trolls carelessly onto the floor. He put an end of the wick over the flame of his lit candle, waiting a moment for it to catch before carefully sticking the wick into the bottle, and sealing the top of the neck off with his thumb. He examined the bottle, watching the progress inside as the flame of the wick died down to a smolder and the entire vial began to cloud with smoke. He could feel the pressure inside building against his thumb.

Before Cicero left the crafting room, he made sure to smash the remainder of the healing potion against the wall before running out.

"Sithis, confound it- you're like a damn jackrabbit!" the little monster whined after him. Think you could slow the hell down! Come on! I only got one leg, here! Throw me a damn bone!"

He strode out into the lobby, disappearing behind the pillar just across from the dog's forge and sneaking over to the large torch standing beside the stairway into the map and book room.

"Arnbjorn!" the little monster screeched.

"Not my problem," he replied, hammering a piece of plate mail.

Cicero switched the bottle over to his left hand, allowing a little more air into it to keep the fire inside living.

"Grey, if you do not get him now- so help me Sithis- I'll bite your sorry ass so deep, you won't-"

Cicero drew his dagger with his right hand, aiming it carefully...

"Look, pigs-feet, I'm a little busy here, you think you cou-"

"I HAVE ONE LEG! YOU HAVE FOUR!"

"I've already told you: not my problem."

Should Cicero just do it? Nah, the dog was of more use alive than dead at the moment. Besides, after all their good times together, was Cicero really going to leave without giving his proper farewell.

Cicero threw the dagger. It flew through the air as swift as any arrow. The blade grazed the dog's right upper arm, literally grazed. The cut couldn't have been deeper than a hair. But it was just enough.

"Whoops," he giggled as the dog looked down at his cut. "Did Cicero forget that dagger was a silver alloy?"

The lapdog clenched his fist around the plate mail in his hands, ruining the metal piece as it bent under the force.

"Alright," his voice unnaturally deep and guttural. "Now it's my problem!"

The mutt swung around, Cicero just managing to dodge the warped plate mail thrown at him with impressive force. The jester giggled as the real dog come out, his entire anatomy changing as hair sprouted from his every pore.

Cicero dashed up the stairs, not wasting a moment of his head start as the wolf finished his change. He was just passing the Pretender's room when the wise wizard caught sight of him, straightening up and re-charging the tips of his fingers with magic.

"You shall not pass!" he rasped, raising a hand glowing with the energies Cicero knew to be the kind which became fire.

"Stupid head," Cicero muttered as he threw the blue bottle at the git and sucked in a breath.

The bottle shattered before the coot's feet, a cloud of smoke exploding forth and filling the hall with a toxic fog in but a moment. The lumps of troll's fat which had been in the bottle caught fire, spilling a second layer of smoke into the area. The old man knelt to the ground as his whole body became wracked by a fit of coughing.

Poison bloom flumes where always useful for slowing down an enemy, or stoping them altogether when in enclosed areas such as this. When the fumes were ignited correctly they would create a smoke capable of causing the lungs severe iritation, rendering any person who inhaled it weak and unable to do much. The troll fat's smoke, when also ignited, would similarly cause a cloud of smoke that would cause the eyes of all those caught in it to water. It was particularly useful when dealing with mages and archers.

Cicero dashed passed the now-useless mage, knowing the dog was finally done with his transformation.

He heard the little monster's voice shrieking from the lobby, "Rip his neck out!"

A moment later, the sound of a panting wolf and large nails scrapping the floors reached Cicero's ears, coming closer and closer every second. There was a large roar like fire exploding forth and then a howl of fury. From the coot's shout of pain and the loud thud that followed after, the jester had to imagine that the miserable git had mistaken the mutt for him and fired, angering the beast who then barreled through him so hard he was knocked into the air and into a cave wall.

Cicero sniggered, never once stopping to look back as he ran up the halls, the two flights of stairs, and out the door- beginning his mindless flight from home and into the wilderness.

Nothing was too much of an obstacle to cause him to pause, or even hesitate for a moment over. He lept over rocks, stalled carts, barrels, fences, broken walls, tree stumps, kiosks, ruined bridges, bales of hay and spike pits. He ran over roads, roof tops, skeever dens, spriggin plots, ruins, through giant and bandit camps, graveyards, raging rivers and lakes. Through snow and rain, sun and wind, Cicero carried on; never slowing the pace of his mad stride.

For years to come, people would privately wonder over the odd sight that day. Over the man who had ran threw their city or village like sprinting horse, looking just as worn out as the tattered jesters clothes he wore- dashing by or through them without any warning. Many would also wonder if he had anything to do with the werewolf which had ran by moments later, as they still watched the disappearing jester.

Just as Cicero had hoped, the dog's rage kept him so irrational that he was willing to run through the settlements where he'd be attacked on sight. But, like Cicero, this was not enough to stop the mutt, who strode on after the Keeper no matter how many blades, arrows, or rocks were sent his way.

But there were times when Cicero worried the dog was losing interest in his hunt, or that his exhaustion was catching up to him, and that he would quit following him. It was at moments like those that Cicero would put his gift of improvision to good use.

"Was that scratch so bad?" he'd cackle back to him. "Cicero thought the dog did worse to himself when ever he itched his hairy doggy rump! Ha ha!"

That always fanned the flames.

Then at long last, Cicero was finally there; outside the the door of the Dawnstar Sanctuary. He managed to control just enough of his ragged breath to whisper his answer to it, pull the door open and slam it shut just in time on the dog's face.

But he wasn't done just yet. He stumbled through the sanctuary, wasting no opportunity to reset or fix any trap he encountered until his legs finally carried him to a place of rest. There he finally collasped.

His body was suddenly overtaken by a deep and intense aching that burned every inch of him. He had been running for one, two, three- how long? And his chest, oh his chest... Cicero fingered his torso, lifting his head just enough to see the wound in his gut. His entire front was covered with a dark brown and sticky crust, staining a large area of his pretty jester's tunic. And by the feel of it, the same went for his back... The stab wound that Ast- no, he had inflicted... He really shouldn't have ran so much after that. He laid back down. It eased some of the searing pain that was ripping through his gut.

He closed his eyes and prayed.

"Let Cicero live, Sweet Mother... Mother!"

Cicero gasped as cold dread gripped his spirit. Mother! He had left her- in her boogy trapped coffin, but still. She was without protection. And he wasn't sure he could make the same trip back now that he had come down from his high of rage. His rage made him invincible, but it always made him forget what mattered.

The whole remaining family of the Dark Brotherhood was possibly dead. Mother was alone. Cicero was alone. Alone and dying.

Cicero's head started to spin.

He was going to die here, he realized. Alone. At the bottom of a dead sanctuary in the ground, amongst the catacombs. No one was going to miss Cicero.

It felt like only an hour ago that Cicero was still the Pale sanctuary. Safe. With Mother. Not alone. Hated, but not alone. And-

Cicero couldn't think straight anymore. His head... his head was just spinning around too fast.

A laugh escaped him. And then another.

The family was gone. Mother was alone. Cicero was going to die without anyone, under the earth where he'd never be found.

More and more laughs. His echos ringing through the empty space. He laughed and laughed, hysterically.

No matter how much it hurt him.

---

This is one of those chapters that makes you appreciate just how badass a character is. Cicero would have to be- come on, how else could he escape an enclosed area full of skilled assassins with only one exit, then book his sorry, mortally-wounded butt all the way across the country with an angry werewolf chasing after him. Damn!

Nethertheless, I hoped you all enjoyed my version of Cicero's flight from the Sanctuary.

Did I make anyone here hate Astrid? Does anyone feel for Cicero?

I apologize for the change of my narrating style by the way. It's the one that comes naturally to me, and I couldn't supress it any longer in this fic.

As you might have guessed from the quote at the start of this chapter, Foo Fighters song "Pretender" was a big inspiration for this chapter. And not just that, but for the whole dynamic I made between Cicero and Astrid. You know, I'm not sure if it's a coincidence or not, but I wouldn't be surprised if the game-makers actually derived Astrid's nickname from the song. The song just illustrates their relationship so well, even when wholly canon.

Thanks to Julie5 for her many reviews in the days before this update. Normally, I would contact you personally to thank you, but for whatever reason you've chosen to disable the pm system on your account. Oh, well. Anyways, I just wanted to thank you for your kind words. They had meant a lot knowing that, when it comes to critical review, you can be a tough cookie- and that's coming from a place of respect. (By the way, are you some sorta super computer?! It took you 15-20 average to read most of my chapters from what your reviews told me!) You will have your questions answered!

Before I wrap this up, I had an experience last week that has really renewed my appreciation for all of you who have in any way supported and believed in this story. I love you. You're all the best. And from the bottom of my heart: thank you. I can't express it enough. :)

Thanks for reading and please review!