Of Mongrels, Fools and other Riff-Raff

by Kynrael

Formerly Two Girls One Jester - Rated M for later Chapters - Not so much fluffy Romance, but friendship, morbid moments, debauchery and bloodshed - 2X F Dragonborn / M Ingame Characters. Of two mongrel Sisters, Fools and other Riff-Raff trying to make a living or at least finding some entertainment.

4. Whispers in the Dark-A Dance of Silence

Notes:

Finishing this chapter took me longer than I had actually intended. Though, this one got now somewhat over 40 pages (Word A4 Format)

I hope there aren't too many "germanized" sentence structures or typos. My friend and I checked several times until we even found most of the botcher.

I know, I wanted to be finished with chapter 5 around October 2013. Real Life didn't let me.

The first 10 pages are done by now, so I have not dropped my promise to finish this story. I hope to be done around mid/end of april 2014. In totally worst case it can get around mid/end may.

There's a major (stressful and not so nice) change happening in my life, which robs me of my cheerful nature - a vital component to write without flooding the story with my gloomy mood. Working all day and doing evening class doesn't leave much time and energy for anything else than pure real-world survival.

So, please, bear with me :)

All I can do now is to promise you, as I did before, that this story will be finished - and if it is the last I am doing ^^ I just might need some time.

Enjoy! And I hope some people are going to post some reviews finally. It doesn't have to be long or much - though a little hint would be nice ;-) According my Story Stats plenty of people seem to read my story, got between 400 and 500 views and vistors. So it can't be that bad.

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Cicero Falkreath/Dark Brotherhood

Astrid's blazing eyes had him pinned, putting a rather abrupt and unpleasant end to his capering. That blasphemous woman, who named herself leader of the Dark Brotherhood, really had nerves to call him a lunatic and a liar. Not even the dread father himself had ever put a dampener to such an extent on his cheerful mood. How dare that trollop questioning the will of their dark mother?

'Think of the fifth tenet Cicero, think of the fifth tenet.' The thought coursed like a prayer in his mind. "The dark mother has chosen and there is nothing you can do about it."

He stared back at Astrid, his hands twitching with the urge of sheathing his blade in her unworthy flesh. He wouldn't allow her to push him around for too long. If she kept at it, he would lose the last remains of his patience. It had been him who had carried singlehandedly the coffin all way from Cyrodiil to this rotten place, endured the sickening journey across the swaying sea so the dark Brotherhood would have a fair chance of surviving. He wouldn't allow Astrid getting in the way.

Soon, soon he could only hope Myrabeth would come around, accepting her new role as Listener. He would whisper in her ear as he had done before with Garnag. This was no different from the Dark Brotherhood back at Cyrodiil.

"We have no need of your ancient hogwash. Look where it ended the old Brotherhood – close to extinction! No Cicero. This is my last warning. Either you adjust and accept how things are now, or we'll put an end to it and you." Astrid admonished, staring down at him – which made him hate tall woman massively more.

Hogwash? They called the old ways hogwash? Opening his mouth, the words stuck tight in his throat. How dare her! His eyes widened first in exasperation then they narrowed in furious anger. Without losing further words, Cicero shut his mouth tight, balled his fists and left before he angered Sithis by acting out of line.

Teeth clenched he muttered under his breath, "Stupid Listener not being here, leaving poor Cicero alone with those disrespectful retards."

Without Myrabeth, the others won't follow and support his cause. She would be the one rooting out the disease which had infested and weakened the Brotherhood. But until then he had to stay his blade; honoring the fifth tenet.

As long as they kept their mockery directed at him, he couldn't do anything about it no matter how cruel they became. If he killed Astrid it most likely would mean the instant death to the remaining Dark Brotherhood and he couldn't demand a purge as long as the Listener wasn't willing to assume her role as such.

Leaving the huge cavern behind, he walked through the dark corridors until he reached his small shabby room. Not quite what he was used to, but it was better than sleeping outside and right now he needed a quiet place to cool down and sort his frothing thoughts. Where was that laughing jester when he needed him, helping him survive this tedious ordeal?

Lighting up two more candles he reached for his next new journal, a quill and a tiny ink well, but he never got a chance to write down what was on his mind. Strong and sooty hands gripped him by the collar of his attire, tearing him out of his brooding. The ink well clattered to the ground, and Cicero noted with ire that some of the black ink had spilled over his motley.

"What have I told you about annoying my wife you little shit," Arnbjorn roared and smashed Cicero brutally against the cupboard. "You have been warned often enough."

Stars danced before Cicero's eyes as he slid to the ground, joined by the sickening pain as the Nord's kicked him into the soft part of his abdomen. Inhaling sharply, he allowed the pain to sink in until it dissipated into throbbing waves but Arnbjorn didn't allow him the tiniest bit of reprieve. If his hands hadn't been bound by the Keeper's oath, he would have made short work of this painfully primitive creature.

Rendered impotent by his position, Cicero snarled up at Arnbjorn, "If you kill Cicero, our dread father will punish you for this sacrilege! Oh yes. Cicero is the Keeper and my station is sacred. Who else will take care of the Night Mother's corpse if I am not around? Think twice before you murder me you foul baboon!"

Laughing harshly, the Nord kicked at him again. "I give a rat's ass about your 'station'. If you ever get near her again, I'll ask Nazir if he got a recipe for rotten meat."

Howling in pain, Cicero cursed and curled to an enduring ball. He remained like this for endless tormenting moments, counting each time the Nord's boot brutally connected with his body. Cicero would pay him back thrice the agony, make him bleed and kick him in the head until he was dead.

'Teheheee… Kicking him in the head until he is dead. That's good,' his mind teetered and the jester agreed with a shrill giggle.

Finding solace in this thought, his lips peeled back into a fierce grin and Cicero began to chuckle. First it was a low slowly starting sound, rising into shrill hysterical peals of laughter resonating through the Sanctuary, bouncing of the walls and fading out the not ending pain.

"What's going on here?" someone asked, interrupting the cacophony, but Cicero couldn't make out who it was.

The assault on his wrecked body stopped all of a sudden, and Cicero saw how Arnbjorn turned to leave. "I showed this sick piece of mammoth dung who's in charge around here. He needed another reminder! Next time that clown molests Astrid, I'll kill him."

Small hands touched Cicero by his shoulder. "Can you stand up?"

Still laughing madly, he kept his eyes fixed at the rough ground he was lying on while blanking out his surroundings. The sheer brutality and hostility he had experienced over the past weeks chilled him to the bones, and there weren't many things in this world getting to him like the treachery of his own brothers and sisters.

"Cicero, snap out of it. Let me have a look at you." Babette knelt down next to him, carefully groping his arm. "Arnbjorn tenderized you pretty good, you're bleeding all over your face." She said empathically, reaching for his hand. "Take off the tunic, please, or do you require help?"

As she tugged at the right glove, he stopped to laugh instantly and got hold of her tiny wrists. She looked so fragile, a young child – but she wasn't.

"Cicero thanks you for your compassion, but I prefer to tend to my wounds myself." Scrambling away, he got some distance between him and her helping hands.

Babette sighed, her red eyes regarding him sadly. "You really should stop pestering Astrid. As much as we revere the Night Mother, you won't find many friends here as long as you keep reminding us of what we lost and what we have become. Times have changed and the old ways are no longer of use."

That said, she stood up and left him alone in his misery.

'Dear mother… she's right. Your children have lost their way and Cicero doesn't have what it takes to guide them back,' he thought and it was a bitter pill to swallow, admitting his own failure.

Despite the soft light coming from the candles, the room suddenly appeared oppressive and dark. Images of the destroyed and sealed Sanctuary of Cheydinhal came back, and with those memories the dreading loneliness. Drawing his knees against his chest and burying his face in the filthy fabric of his jester's hat, he began to cry silently. The previous pain and laughter had felt almost good compared to the returning merciless silence and shame. Once more, the jester had left a bleak emptiness in his mind.

"Mother… what has poor faithful Cicero done wrong? Have I failed you? Why do you punish me thus?" he sobbed, swaying forth and back.

But there was no comfort in his madness this time, not even the slightest illusion of hope for better days. How could he save the Dark Brotherhood without the Night Mother talking to him? He needed guidance. He couldn't do this alone. All he had at his disposal was s Listener who wasn't willing to listen, brothers and sisters who mocked him for his steadfast belief in the old ways – brothers and sisters who even would prefer him as a rotting corpse buried outside the Sanctuary.

oooooOOOOooooo

The aroma of wet moldy wood hung in the chilly night air, while a gentle swirly mist rose from the damp ground toward the sky. Except for a few weakly glowing street lanterns and candles burning behind small windows, most of the small town was shrouded in darkness. Now and then a lone guard walked the streets, unaware of Cicero watching his every movement.

'Walk little tin-man, walk all you can – because when the Jester comes down taking your pain – you never ever walk again!' Cicero hummed.

For how many hours he had been hiding in the shadows, waiting for Myrabeth to return, Cicero couldn't tell. After the sun had settled behind the mountains he had lost track of time and if luck wasn't with him, he would have to wait another day or more.

Feeling chilled to the bone, he had grown tired and his sitting position hadn't been very good for his still aching body. The roof he had chosen as his vantage point wasn't very comfortable either, but it had been the only house he could hide in the shadows without being seen from the street.

From here he could see Myrabeth's house. Light shone through some of the windows and someone moved around inside, giving away that someone was at home. A few hours ago he had been tempted to approach Myrabeth's house, asking for her. But the given circumstances and her not so friendly attitude towards him, required a more carefully planned strategy. Who knew how the others of her family would react. No he had to catch her face to face, giving her no room to hide behind someone.

With a shudder Cicero crept deeper into his tattered cloak and rested his back against a chimney, enjoying the little hint of warmth seeping through the cloth into his maltreated skin and muscles. It would take days before he could move without pang, and most likely it would take weeks for the bruises to fade away.

He missed Cyrodiil, the comfort he had enjoyed there. Life had been good, back then – less lonely – less frustrating and the old ways still had been held in high esteem. Now, all this dismay, it was only a painful necessity he had to endure until he either perished or the Dark Brotherhood had been returned to its former glory.

Cicero felt a jawn creeping up his lungs toward his throat, forcing him to take in a deep breath which almost caused a coughing fit. He couldn't afford to fall asleep until he hadn't spoken to Myrabeth. She had been gone for too long, and only Sithis knew when she would return. It wasn't unusual that some contracts required more time than others, but the ones the Listener had picked weren't supposed to take longer than one night. How difficult could stabbing an old crone be or some lone lumberjack?

His stomach growled, reminding him of other more mundane needs. When had he eaten the last time? Yesterday? Or maybe two days ago? He couldn't remember, no matter how loud his belly would rumble. Searching through his pouch he found an old carrot. Not the freshest one, but even a floppy carrot was better than none.

'So boring…so hungry' he thought, while his eyes followed the lonely guardsman.

With the carrot in one hand and the dagger in the other he sighed melancholically. Coated in crimson his ebony dagger would look so much better. Just once he wanted to put it to use, again.

Cicero's lips slanted widely as an idea struck him. Maybe he should follow the Listener on her next contract? She wouldn't like it, of that he was certain. But he couldn't care less and if there was a chance to bloody his blade again, the more he would enjoy it.

Would the Night Mother mind, if he followed the Listener? A sudden worry crossed his mind. Neglecting his duty was out of the question. Cicero muttered incoherently, giving his idea some thought. There must be a loophole he could use without breaking the rules.

The body of the night mother had been taken care off, and he doubted any of the rabble residing inside that dank cave they called a Sanctuary, would dare defiling their unholy matron. Not even Arnbjorn had that much balls hidden away in his crab lice ridden pants.

There would be at least a week before he had to return for his dark mother's body, and why shouldn't he make use of this? He had found the Listener, so the night mother wouldn't mind if he went out saving, harvesting souls for Sithis.

Not certain, Cicero sighed and sheathed his dagger with a last disappointed glance at the man. That damn guard still kept walking by, forth and back along the dark street running through Falkreath as if he was meant to test his discipline. Setting his jaw square, Cicero searched for something less tempting to look at.

Somewhere a wooden shingle ached. Pushing the carrot back into his pouch, Cicero tensed and held his breath while straining his ears. Slowly, without producing any noise, he reached for the ebony dagger, unsheathing it while soft subtle footfalls closed in. The surface of the roof wasn't very forgiving, and soon he knew from which side the intruder would come.

When the muffled movement subsided, he went from his sitting position into a crouch, ready to strike or vanish – whatever the situation would require of him. Maybe the Night Mother had sent him someone to kill, finally. And he would embrace this gift with pleasure.

"Ha! I was right about someone being up here! This is my hangout!" a young female voice chirped from behind the chimney. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Whirling around, he moved around the chimney, grabbing hold of the lithe body before the intruder could counter his advances. "Be quiet! This place is taken, so you better leave before Cicero skins you alive and makes nice soft gloves out of your hide!" His blade pressed against her skin, but he nearly fell backwards as a sharp jagged blade flashed upwards, cutting through the front of his motley and only barely missing his jaw.

"I don't think so!" the hooded girl hissed, having now blades in both hands. "You're one of those perverted creeps, watching woman undress, am I right? Maybe I should tell my aunt about you. She will cut you to pieces and feed you to her pet scamp! Or maybe I will do so – would be nice to make use of my new toys, don't you think?"

Her attitude reminded him more of a puffed up kitten trying to impress a much stronger opponent. Cicero looked her over, pondering if he knew that girl. Her voice was familiar, but he couldn't put quite a finger on where he had heard it the last time. No matter. She had disturbed his meager meal, now he would teach her a lesson.

Lifting his chin, he had a hard time not to laugh as he saw her aggressive pose. "How cute. You're certain - you want to play with Cicero?"

Not responding, she quietly moved sideways, like said puffed up kitten, weaving a crude yet lethal pattern which made him realize instantly who was attacking him. Next time he would see Ashlyn he would pick some serious bones with her about neglecting her thoroughness in training her insolent child properly.

Allowing himself a moment to scrutinize her posture, his lips drew into a snarl at what he saw. A Dance in Silence, though the way she executed it – it was more Stumble in Chaos destined to gash her nose. Her movements were painfully unrefined and lacked the grace this technique required to be truly devastating.

Cicero's hand came up in a block, metal bit into metal, as their daggers connected. "Oh please. You really need to work on your footwork, you move like a tipsy cripple!"

"And you smell like a rag used at the outhouse!" she hissed back at him, attempting a flanking attack. "And you look like it, too…"

Not finding her behavior agreeable, he lunged forward despite his protesting muscles, driving her into a defensive stance. "Tsk tsk. No skill, no manners, no brain… Cicero has to wonder what else you are lacking – or might be lacking, soon if you don't stop this idiocy and open your eyes!"

Under pain, Cicero followed each of her evasive attempts – watching with some satisfaction that not all hope was lost. At least she knew how to stay out of harm's way. Lucia whirled, ducked and tumbled past him, yet her blade never came close enough.

His muscles refused the fluid movement he was used to when fighting, turning each step into torture. At the second attempt, he lost his patience and kicked one blade out of her hand and sending it across the roof.

A scant second they both looked down at the street, before Cicero found himself attacked, again. It was a little wonder the guard hadn't noticed them yet. Not looking up even once, the man kept walking his rounds.

If he hadn't been so beaten and aching all over, he would have slapped her across the roof for her sloppiness. "You really don't recognize who is standing in front of you?"

Lucia's arm shot forward, aiming the pointy end of her blade at his left thigh. "Does it matter? You took my spot and assaulted me! If you tried being funny, you failed terribly... liked you more dancing and laughing!"

So she knew who he was, yet she had the nerve to approach him in this more than tactless manner? How insolent and suicidal had the youth gotten these days – especially the females? She should have invited him inside, instead of marking her territory.

"Cry Cicero a river! If you hadn't been so blustering, we wouldn't be wasting our time tottering around," he admonished angrily and limped to the right. He had a real hard time not to shout at her.

Pushing the hood back with her free hand, she grinned widely back at him. "Why? I hadn't that much fun in ages and you at least don't hold back!"

Wagging a finger at her, Cicero scolded softly, "Cocky, aren't we? But you're severely mistaken. Cicero is holding back, oh yes, because if I weren't - you would be as dead as mutton…"

"Lucia! Where are you?" someone called, but no one answered. "Stop playing your silly 'hide and seek' games!"

"By Molag's Balls…" Lucia scowled.

Cicero went motionless as he recognized the voice and nearly ended up with a blade in his guts. "Guess where…" he hollered, and kicked Lucia into the chest.

Now, even the guard was looking their direction. Had taken him long enough, considering the noise their little game had produced. Maybe the poor wretch had taken an arrow to his ear?

"You better get down, before she grounds you…" he whispered sweetly only for Lucia's ears to hear. "She's a mean one, Cicero knows this…"

Still keeping his distance, he watched her scrambling back to her feet. She didn't look too happy how it had ended for her, and if she was anything like Ashlyn, she could still attack for the sake of mending her ego.

Shaking a fist at him, Lucia made a sour face, "Pox on you! Should have known my aunt sent someone after me…"

"Hey! You shouldn't be up there…" the guard shouted up at them, shaking his head. "Damn children – how did you get up there, anyway?"

"Well, how did I do that? I climbed… what else…" Lucia spat back, collecting her daggers. Turning her head at Cicero she groused, "Tell-tale! You're no fun at all for a Jester."

"You're welcome," Cicero sneered back, and bowed deeply. "Maybe, if you ask nicely next time we could repeat this without me humiliating you."

"Cicero?" Myrabeth shouted, tilting her head their direction. "Lucia, get down here before I whip that ass of yours to Oblivion! How often do I have to tell you to stay off that roof!"

"Listener!" Cicero greeted, jumped off the roof without thinking and landed in an elegant crouch in front of Myrabeth which he credited instantly with a wince as pain shot through his bones. "Cicero has been waiting for you all evening, but now you are here and we can talk."

"How did you do that? You should have broken all your bones!" the guard gasped, but Cicero ignored him.

"What have you done with Lucia up there?" Myrabeth asked angrily, walking toward him. "She is limping and I know she wasn't before she ran off."

"They were playing something up there and tossing half of the roof over," the guard mentioned, now taking a very close look at Cicero. "Still don't get it… your legs should be broken. That's a three story house…"

Myrabeth sighed, "Drop it and go back to your patrol Hagen. He is just some jester, trained in acrobatics."

The guard became slack jawed for a brief moment, but nodded. "Still! The roof tops of houses are no playground!" Regarding Cicero with a stern glare, he said. "No more acrobatics, do you understand me?"

Myrabeth returned her attention back at Cicero. "So, explain yourself. What have you been doing with my niece up that roof?"

Before he could answer, the young imperial stormed between them, "We practiced blade combat. You never allow me to use my weapons on a living person and that wooden fencing dummy is dead boring!"

Pulling the young Imperial past her, she said. "No complaints! I allowed you to join me hunting down criminals, not killing them! That's my privilege whelp! Go inside. Aranea has a nice hot bath ready. You smell like an old rotten bone – don't want that in the kitchen or anywhere else in the house."

"But auntie… we just got home!" Lucia whined.

Pointing toward their house, Myrabeth snapped. "Exactly! I am tired and filthy, and want to settle in before I drop here on the street." As Lucia didn't move, Myrabeth shook her fist vehemently in front of her niece's face. "Now go! No discussion or I have you collecting Scamp droppings from the attic!"

Defeated, Lucia spilled a series of foul insults and curses before she vanished inside the house.

Myrabeth eyed Cicero wearily. "Damn. I am too tired for this shit. So… practicing blade combat, huh? Why do I have such a hard time believing you?"

"But Listener! It's true. She asked dear Cicero for help and I obliged." Still beaming at Myrabeth, he began to clap his hands. "Well, all right – seems combat lessons are over and now Cicero would love to have a chat with you."

"What is there to talk about?" Myrabeth said coolly. "I am doing the dread mother's bidding. Why do you hound me this time?"

Not wanting to talk about internal issues regarding the Dark Brotherhood in the open, his face took on a pitiable expression as he spoke. "Could we go somewhere warm and less public?"

Lifting one eyebrow, she stared into his eyes. "First you tell me what this is about? Don't think me stupid. I know you are up to no good. You never are when you come after me and I don't want to shed blood in my house, if you are…."

"Astrid," was all he wheezed through his teeth, folding his arms in front of his chest. He needed to warm his bones, or he would feel much worse tomorrow.

"Not again…" she groaned bitterly. "Come inside and follow me downstairs. No need to involve everyone in this drama of yours!" Then her eyes moved, pinning someone lurking inside the doorframe. "And you go take that bath before the water gets cold!"

"I wish mom would be back. You're such a bitch when she isn't around!" Lucia pointed out.

Myrabeth said briskly, "No discussion! Not here, not now or that bitch will bite you where it hurts!"

"Fine!" Lucia sighed and made room for them to enter.

"If I had known human teenager were that complicated, I would have told Ashlyn to go for a dog instead," Myrabeth complained.

Biting his lower lip, Cicero inwardly shook his head. They hadn't been any better when they had been young – maybe not as vulgar, but insolent all the same. Though, that's something he would keep to himself. He wanted Myrabeth's help and not upset her even more.

"Listener…" he began, but she hushed him.

Myrabeth pushed him inside the entrance hall, "Not here!" Glancing upstairs, she called "Grandma, make sure Lucia takes her bath. I don't want her stinking up the kitchen while I am busy with my guest here!"

An elderly woman came downstairs giving him a warm welcoming smile. "Well well, who have we here? A jester? I had no idea you liked humorous men?"

Before Cicero could answer, Myrabeth cut him off. "You're horrible… He's a colleague and not here for what you think."

Laughing, the older Dunmer woman patted Myrabeth on her back. "Have fun. But don't forget to take a bath yourself. The stench coming from you isn't any better than what your chickens leave behind…"

"Well, the sewers aren't supposed to smell nice. The rats might take offense if they smelled like roses… and I know of at least one more who would be offended if they did. But don't you worry, it won't take long, am I right Cicero?" Myrabeth asked.

He pressed his lips together, nodded and followed Myrabeth downstairs, where they entered a room filled with bookshelves and magical devices of unknown origin. A heavy scent hung in the air, reminding Cicero of the incense he used while cleansing the mummified body of the Night Mother.

In the darkest part of the room he noticed with some discomfort a daedric looking shrine and a construct which resembled a small version of an Oblivion Gate. The images of demons and other foul beasts spilling from those infernal maws were still present.

Pointing at the gate, he asked. "Please, tell Cicero that construct is merely for decoration…"

Myrabeth turned around, giving him one of her annoyed looks. "Don't ask questions if you might not like the answers." Pushing a chair into his direction, she took another one and sat down. "Ever since you showed up everything went down the drain. I blame you for this mess!"

Why was she so angry with him? He hadn't asked her to hide in the coffin. "Of what do you accuse poor Cicero?" He shoved the chair closer toward her, so she could not avoid his gaze.

Myrabeth reached behind her into a slim shelf, getting hold of a small piece of paper. "If you hadn't rambled about the old ways and constantly stepped on Astrid's toes, all this wouldn't have happened. I never wanted to become Listener. I had other plans not involving the Night Mother." She said, while emptying a small vial on the paper and began rolling it.

There was no greater honor than being chosen. Why couldn't she rejoice? Cicero held his breath for a few moments, preventing his eager mouth from asking aloud without rephrasing his thoughts first. Being hungry wasn't good for thinking straight.

"Cicero hasn't chosen you to become the Listener. I would have given everything to become the Listener myself, but the Night Mother chose you and you alone," he replied sternly. "You should consider this a great honor and not a burden."

"Honor? She destroyed the soul bond between me and my sister. She denied me the pleasure of the hunt by commanding me to remove the beast blood from my veins!" Myrabeth stated, setting the rolled paper alight. Closing her eyes, she put it to her lips, inhaled before speaking. "Not being a werewolf anymore I can live with, even if it irks me. But coping with the oppressive silence in my head is an extreme burden, no matter what you claim."

"Silence? You can hear our mother, how can there be silence?" he asked, not understanding her dismay. "Doesn't she speak to you?"

Myrabeth's turned from intense glare to a sad squint. "You really believe she is talking to me all the time? Then you are mistaken… you poor poor silly fool. She only speaks when she wants someone dead. My sister and I could talk as if we were in the same room. What she felt, I felt and the other way around. I am incomplete now, only half of me. Something you probably won't understand…so don't you dare berating me!"

Cicero stared down at his shaking hands. "You think being Keeper is being any better? No one asked Cicero if he wanted the position as Keeper. I have been chosen like you - but I at least embraced my duty and didn't run like a coward!" Deeply disappointed by her lack of loyalty, he pointed a finger at her. "You are lucky, because you still receive contracts. And what does poor Cicero got left? Cleaning and tending the night mother's corpse – an honorable task for sure – but it no more contracts for pitiful Cicero… never ever. But does Cicero complain? Oh no! Cicero is a faithful servant of our unholy matron."

Her angry expression eased up a little, but her voice was filled with a mixture of sadness and bitterness. "I am glad for you if you can live like that, but it won't change how I feel about this. My soul is my own, and I want to be complete again, which I can only be with my sister!"

"Where is your sister, anyways?" Cicero asked. Ashlyn had been gone for a long time, and no one knew what happened and where she was. "Will she return?"

"Doesn't matter… she is where she is and it's good she doesn't see you like this right now!" Myrabeth replied sourly.

Feeling insulted, Cicero's head perked up. "Why is that?"

Blowing smoke through her nose, she snorted. "I have read those books you have hidden in your chamber. She has been right all along, and I still feel bad about doubting her sanity in this matter." Taking a long deep draft, she closed her eyes and exhaled audibly. "She loved you – have you been aware of that?"

She had searched his room? What should he think of that? Next time he would make certain to hide his records.

Holding back his anger about her impudence, Cicero huffed, "She had been a child… how could she have loved me."

Laughing quietly, Myrabeth blew slightly at the gleaming tip. "Even a child can love. But nope, not that kind of love you might think of. We both adored you, we both saw in you our older brother. For Ashlyn you have been a shining paragon – treated her well while others didn't. Then you ran off without losing even one word. She believed you dead, murdered or worse."

Cornered, he pulled down the jester's hat and crumpled in his hands. "Yes, Cicero is the one you knew back at Cyrodiil - but he is no more, because the Fool of Hearts took his place." He leaned back in his chair, releasing a long exhausted sigh. "Mind sharing some of that?" he pointed at the tiny left over in her hand.

Leaning back in her chair, she gave him a long pondering glance. "I am not certain if that's a good idea. It's a special mix not meant for mo… humans…"

He held her gaze. "Cicero needs something to numb down the pain."

"Don't blame me for any side effects," she said with a shrug she pulled out another tiny vial and piece of paper which she threw in his direction. "What pain? In your head? Don't think that's going to help your idiocy…"

Cicero kept his narrowed eyes now on the small paper, while rolling the Skooma into it. "That drooling carpet abused Cicero as practice dummy. Now every muscle and bone hurts."

Shaking her head, she exhaled through her nose. "Let me guess. You stole Astrid's sweetroll?"

His stomach growled, but instead of asking for something to eat, Cicero lighted his smoke. Inhaling first and let the substance take its first effect. Famished as he was, the drug should work very fast.

"She mocks the old ways… and Cicero can't remain silent when she insults everything holy to the Dark Brotherhood, our traditions which gave us purpose. There is no room for pretender, and she is not the Listener yet she claims leadership." Cicero replied quietly.

Myrabeth's eyes turned dark and he could have sworn they were glowing with a bluish hue for a brief moment.

"You want her dead like you wanted Rasha dead and I am supposed to do it? Don't deny it – you wrote it all down in your journal… and I am not certain what to think of your deed," she accused him.

Unsure what she was playing at, he eyed her carefully. "Rasha lied about being the Listener. A sacrilege punishable by death! He left Cicero not much of a choice. I tried to talk sense into him, but in the end he had to die."

Anguish twisted her dunmeri features. "Why does it feel more like vengeance to me? He made you Keeper, didn't he? And you hated him for it! It may not have shown in your journal, but the way you described your loss of freedom made it more than obvious how you truly felt about his choice!"

The accusation hit him like a steel clad fist straight in the guts. Regret about his untidiness reminded him once more to hide personal belongings in much more secure places. Maybe placing a trap wouldn't be such a bad idea, either. Not deadly, but most certainly a painful one.

His hands began to shake visibly now, and all the kneading of his already tattered hat didn't help to cover the signs of exhaustion. "Blame me all you want. But he is dead and nothing will change it. Why do you care about that arrogant cat anyway?"

"If Ashlyn wouldn't care about you I would have had your hide for what you have done." Myrabeth countered. "Rasha had been part of our family. A friend, someone we could trust. You had him killed."

"He lied about being the Listener!" Cicero insisted, unnerved by her stubbornness.

Inhaling some more of the white smoke, she glowered at him for a moment. "The times back then had been horrid, and from what I gathered the Dark Brotherhood had already been decimated drastically." Still glowering, her tone turned a notch darker. "It never occurred to you that his sole intention could have been desperate yet honorable? That he actually tried to save what was left by giving hope to those who believed everything lost? Would it really have mattered if he was the Listener or not, as long as it kept the Dark Brotherhood alive?"

The way she had pointed it out hit another nerve, making it impossible to deny the truth her words carried. Not even the drug helped him to forget that fateful night and the more he recalled of the events, the worse his stomach clenched. When the Khajiit had declared himself Listener, all Cicero perceived was treachery and not some noble motivation.

"Listener… What was done remains done and can't be undone. Like you said; times have been horrid and there was not much room for optimism and reasonable thinking," he said disheartened by her glare.

Myrabeth pressed her palm against her forehead, eyes closed. "You know what's really nagging at me?"

"That you can't kill poor Cicero?" he asked slowly. Looking at his current life, this might be the better fate. His death would end his misery.

"I can't hate you… as much as I want to, I can't," she replied without looking at him. "You have been like a brother to me. I may not have worshiped you as my sister did, but I cared about you, too. Now I am sitting here with you, but you have changed into a mentally deranged fool who derives purpose from cleansing a corpse - which makes me wonder who got the worse fate here. So is it pity I feel, or remnants of old feelings?"

He had no answer to this. Fate had been merely an excuse for him, used by those who didn't feel responsible and blamed a higher power for all the bad things happening to them.

Lost in thoughts he hadn't entirely noticed Myrabeth moving closer towards him. "Since you can't put my mind at ease, the least you could do is being honest why you left us without even one clue? There are a few things which don't add up… your age for example…."

Coming clean hadn't been his idea of convincing Myrabeth to aid him in his task. Though, they had come that far and he couldn't turn away now. "There was a series of incidents, involving Cicero … which forcing me to leave. One of those incidents also included a woman I cared about. Do you remember Nelly?"

Her face took on the expression of mildly shocked disbelief. "That pompous Dibella worshiping whore?"

Nodding, he avoided her stare. "I wouldn't have called her a whore, but yes, that one. Cicero's sharp shiny knife ended up in her belly and there were many who wanted me dead for this deed."

Cicero told her about how he met Nelly, and what had happened to push him over the edge. Patiently, Myrabeth leaned back in her chair, only nodded now and then – yet not interrupting him once. He couldn't tell her everything what he had been up to back then, still Cicero hoped it would be enough to appease her.

As Cicero finished, she smirked sardonically at him. "So that's where your silly little ditty about Nelly comes from." Then she snorted. "You killed her… why the fuss? Many people died in that city, and only Mephala knows how many died by our hands – because I lost track after a while. That doesn't explain why you left without letting us know you're still alive!"

His body began to slacken, tempting him to answer all her questions. But Cicero only sighed. No. He wouldn't talk about it. He had sworn an oath, and struck a deal he wouldn't betray. Not even for Myrabeth - and her being the Listener didn't change anything.

"As Shishero already eshplained, shere were valid reashons – shtill are!" he slurred. His tongue felt so heavy and so did his eyelids.

"And you really want me to accept this," Myrabeth whispered, though he could tell from her now very aggressive posture that she was close slapping him. "I don't get it. Ashlyn mourned you, damn it! Now you treat her like some stranger you just met, and give me this mysterious shit about your past. Why are you still alive? You're human, your kind doesn't live that long! Really! Give me something, before I have to slit your throat for being an ass."

Smiling sadly, he shook his head. "No Lishtener. You got it all wrong. The Shishero she loved is dead and no matter how hard you try, he won't come back! Cut my throat, if it makes you feel any better – but Shishero won't tell you more. You've got a bunsh of shecrets yourshelf..."

"You're a fool and a major asshole!" she barked, throwing him a cantankerous glare.

The room began to sway, some of the walls looked as if they moved towards him. "Shat Shishero ish indeed – eshept for being an asshole," he nodded solemnly and giggled at the funny look on her face. She was too cute when she was angry. "Will you help Shishero wish Ashtrid, and reform she dark Brosherhood?"

"Sithis… shouldn't have shared my stash with you!" she said, kneeling next to him. "Do you feel sick? Can't have you vomiting down here or grandma will kill me."

"Anshwer Shishero's queshion, will you?" he demanded, and nearly fell from the chair as he leaned forward closer to her face. "And no, Shishero doeshn't feel like vomiting. I feel like flying – nishe shtuff!"

"You're impossible! But here we go… I have sworn loyalty to the Dark Brotherhood and even if they don't stick to the five tenets, I do!" she replied testily. "There aren't many left of us and you want me to do your dirty work? Why don't you kill her yourself?"

Cicero grimaced at her, ignoring the numb feeling creeping along his face. "Haven't I told you shat already? Ash a Keeper, Shishero's servishe is to the Night Mosher only. I am only permitted to draw my blade when shomeone shreatens her remains or shlanders her name in my presence…" Then his face lit up as he murmured hopefully into her direction "or if you order me to..."

"That sucks a big one…" Myrabeth noted, her smoldering eyes now thoughtful. "As Listener I am sort of a leader among the Brotherhood, yet I doubt the others will follow us just because I say so." Suddenly, she went silent and smiled back at him. "Wait a second. Don't I outrank you?" she asked, now looking hopeful. "Can I command you to go away?"

Cicero let his head loll back as he chuckled. If he hadn't been so incredibly woozy now, he would have dropped off the chair laughing hysterically. "Trying to be shmart Lishtener? No you cannot! You can command Shishero to shtab someone, carry your burden or…" he looked back at her, eyes as wide as his leering grin, "doing the osher kind of shtabbing…"

The look on her face was priceless, as she scoffed, "Dream on you fool! So when I command you to jump off the next cliff, you won't obey?"

Laughing out loud, he slipped a little to the side, off his chair, into her shoulder. "Oh sweet Lishtener. You're sush an easy target for mockery. But no, Shishero won't jump from any cliff. Why would I want to obey this shtupid command?"

"Because I am the Listener?" she returned.

"Silly Lishtener!" Cicero babbled.

"Why do you need my help, anyway? Why don't you reform somewhere else, and forget about them?" Myrabeth asked, while she pushed him back onto his chair. "Bah. Next time you don't get any of my Skooma…"

"Shishero had shought about shis, before talking to you, more than onshe. But wishout you, as the Lishtener, there is no real shance to regain our foothold," Cicero replied and added "it had taken our unholy mosher many yearsh to find a new Lishtener, you, and Shishero won't push his luck too far. Now pleashe, shtop pestering poor drugged Shishero wish sush difficult queshions…"

Letting out a long groan, Myrabeth stood up from her chair. "You know. If I agree and kill Astrid, someone will have to take her place as Leader. And how can you be certain, that if she has been removed, the others will follow? Arnbjorn will come after you and me. Not that I fear any of them, but I doubt murder will be the right course, here."

"An accident…?" he suggested, not capable of forming more comprehensible words.

Her hand grabbed his chin. "Damn, told you that stuff wasn't meant for you kind… Grandma, need some help down here!"

Not being in control over his body anymore Cicero could only answer with a low hum of sleepy happiness before his eyes rolled back and everything went wonderfully dark.

oooooOOOOooooo

Dreams, not nightmares! Cicero hadn't dreamed well for many years. He couldn't even remember what a normal dream felt like. Now, there was warmth and darkness cradling his scarred mind in its welcoming embrace.

Instead of the dreaded silence or cacophonic hysteria there were soothing whispers in the dark, joined in a sinister song he could have listened to forever. An ebbing and raising melody not meant for the ears of mortals, sweeping him away from all the pain and hardship – away from his sorrow. No shrill laughter, no grotesque grimaces of the dead haunting his nightly respite and for the first time in years he felt at ease.

Cicero sighed in content, drifting forth and back while listening to the voices. What they were saying he couldn't make out, no matter how hard he tried. Some were caressing, others had an encouraging undertone pressing him onward. He could only hope the void would be a place like this, because if it was, he gladly would give his life in service to the Dark Brotherhood without second thought.

Suddenly, the hushed voices turned into sharp commanding hisses followed by a glass shattering shriek which pierced through the calming dark. Something heavy landed on his chest, tugging at his blanket and him back into consciousness where he found himself face to face with large color smeared eyes, row of tiny sharp teeth framed by dark red lips.

It was the most hideous creature he had ever seen in his entire life, and Cicero wasn't so certain anymore if he really was awake. Confused and hampered by a terrible hangover, Cicero began to scream in anger and terror at the ugly thing which sat on him.

In return the creature's ridiculously large eyes went wide with panic, answering his screams with his own screeches as it jumped off the bed and hid inside a laundry basket.

From above he heard Myrabeth shouting warnings, and somewhere a girl complained about wanting to fight, too. A door crashed against the inside of the house, and Cicero could hear every single splinter of wood hitting the ground. Trampling, curses and threats went hand in hand with the sounds of a fight.

"Kill that whore and take the rest for our Master!" a rough male voice ordered.

Myrabeth shouted from above, "Rook! Get Cicero's ass up here!"

Protesting noises came from the basket, giving away who had been meant with Rook. A long rat-like tail, decorated with ribbons and a tawdrily tie, whipped up and followed the rest of the body inside the rattling basket.

Not wasting more time on pondering what kind of beast he had been awakened by, Cicero jumped out of bed. The rumpus upstairs didn't allow him to wait for his mind to catch up with his body. Ignoring the cold ground beneath his feet, he ran upstairs where he found himself in the middle of whirling staves, stabbing blades.

From outside he was a group of leather clad intruders pressing inside the house and from the look Myrabeth had a hard time keeping them outside.

"Catch," Rose shouted from the left, throwing a shimmering blade his direction.

He snatched it out of the air and joined Myrabeth's side. "Forgot to pay the rent, Listener?"

"Shut up and make certain they can't get inside," she panted, kicking one of the assailants straight in the face. "Sithis' arse… there must be a nest of those shits. Where are those nosey guards if you need them!"

"They're on their way," someone called from farther outside.

There were a few villagers around, trying to help fending off the unwelcome guests with everything they got for a weapon. Whoever they were facing, they were well trained fighter and not the usual ragtag band of bandits trying to sack some small town.

"Fire in the hole!" a woman shouted from above and Myrabeth moved back inside the house, yanking Cicero with her.

A large blazing fireball swished downward on their attackers, coating three of of them in liquid golden heat. A crescendo of pained screams tore from their mouths, as clothes and skin melted away. Luckily, it hadn't had a large blast radius, or it would have hit him and Myrabeth – and half of the house, too.

"Can't you just shout them to pulp?" Lucia called from the kitchen, still busy barring the windows. "Damn, you burned the porch Aranea… a bit more careful, please. That were my poppies you fried!"

"Better the poppies then the rest of the town!" came from upstairs, and another fireball burst into the fighting masses. "Rose, how about some help down there?"

"Not enough room to summon anything big enough to fight for us," Rose shouted from behind. "Lucia, stay in the kitchen and put that damn meat hook away!"

"No way!" Lucia laughed, followed by a shrieking pained yelp. "One down! Next?"

"Go for the eyes Lu go for the eyes!" someone croaked with a high pitched voice.

"Shut up Rook and get me some poison vials!" Lucia barked back.

"Fuck yes! Poison Poison!" Rook cawed.

More fire rained down from the sky, filling the sky with the smell of burning flesh and singed hair which reminded Cicero of how awfully hungry he was. Squinting against the bright flash, Cicero took on a defensive stance until he could see clearly again.

How the mage avoided hitting any of the villagers, he didn't know. Though, still feeling like being put through the mill, he was sincerely grateful for the help and even if some of the helpers got burned, it was better than being dead.

"MID VUR SHAAN" Myrabeth bellowed, her skin beginning to glow with a bluish hue. She dashed forward, slashing at throats and wrists. "I'll make so you pay for robbing me of my beauty sleep you damn worms!"

A severed hand flew past Cicero's face, training his face with droplets of blood. Deep inside of him a murderous frenzy came alive, lifting its fanged head like a coiled snake ready to strike. So much blood! And beautiful death! His lips parted into a menacing grin. The Dance of Silence had begun, and everyone was invited to join.

His free hand surged forward, clawing into the chainmail of a much larger opponent, pulling him down with one brutal hitch where death waited. One quick stab and the shimmering blade sank deep inside the bowels of his prey, and Cicero began to hum a dirge as liquid crimson ran down the hilt onto his hand. Pushing the dying man away, he was already searching for the next victim before the last dead corpse hit the ground.

"Watch it Cicero," Myrabeth warned next to him, while she rammed both blades into the eye sockets of her target. "Swing that near me again, and it will never swing again!"

What she meant by that, he didn't know and he didn't care either. He leapt forward, lunged at his next prey – some damn hideous looking Bosmer. Moving swiftly, whirling around the fighting masses his blade became a deadly blur, eliciting screams and groan from dying bodies.

Like an artist he painted the streets with their blood, uncaring if he hit friend or foe. Another corpse ended up in front of his feet, adding more detail to his chosen canvas. Someone called his name, demanding of him to stop. But he didn't answer; there was no time for idle chit chat.

Hadn't Myrabeth and Rose grabbed him by the shoulders, he would have attacked the approaching guards, too, who had their pikes on low point directed at him. Struggling against the two women, they dragged back inside the house where the Listener pushed him angrily against the wall, her black dagger at his throat.

"If you don't rope it down and come back to your senses in an instant…" she hissed, showing him her other dagger, "…I'll make sure that you're going to need a straw to take a piss from now on!"

Taking a deep breath, Cicero's body sagged against the wall. A splinter bit into his bare back, and that was when he became aware of the lack of clothes. Where was his motley? Why was he naked? Blushing deeply, his hands went in a protective position over his manhood. Had he been really that drugged?

"Why is Cicero naked?" he croaked against the menacing edge against his tender skin, afraid she would cut deeper. "What have you done with my motley…"

The blade moved away from his throat, "Can't bathe you with your clothes on..."

Now he was perplexed. "You bathed Cicero… that's a joke, right? I am the one who does the jokes, and you woman - aren't funny at all."

From the corner of his eyes he saw Lucia looking him over, her eyes wide and her smudged cheeks flushed deep red.

"Lu, stop ogling his cock and get me one of my breeches before you begin to drool. Maybe that brown shirt out of the chest, too," Myrabeth sighed, taking a step backward. "Your stench left me no choice and my grandmother wouldn't allow me to drop you in the chicken bawn."

Rose joined her side and whistled. "My my, awake you look far more appetizing than asleep. Don't you worry dearie. If she doesn't want you, in my bed is always room for one more."

Speechless, he gazed from Myrabeth to Rose. A vicious Listener, a lecherous old lady and other weird beings living under this roof. Could his life get any stranger? Shrinking away from the woman, he inched toward the stairs hoping for Lucia to be back soon. The girl might have stared at him, but at least she had some manners – despite her bad choice of words.

Myrabeth's nose wrinkled. "I had no idea you like your meat bloody?"

Rose laughed. "Depends. But you're right. We will have to haul some more water. Can't have you running around like filthy butcher's mutts."

Sighing, Myrabeth turned toward the destroyed door. "I'll see what the guards found out. I doubt those have been bandits looking for loot." On her way out she kicked at a pile of debris. "Aranea, would you be so kind and seek out Lod. We need to repair this mess before Ashlyn returns. Don't need her to see this…"

A robed dunmeri woman walked away from the stairs, nodding. "I'll see if I can find him. He's probably with the others collecting the dead."

Cicero looked around, hoping to find a cover for his male dignity. Being naked made him feel vulnerable and with so many women around, it only increased his discomfort. Shame wasn't natural to him, yet being bare skinned wasn't either. Right now, he very much would prefer being dressed in his smelly jester's suit.

"Here, hope it will fit. Aunt Myra has a real fat arse, for an elf" Lucia said, throwing a pair of dark grey leather pants at him.

"I heard that!" came from outside.

Despite the embarrassing state he was in, he couldn't hide the grin. "Cicero is most grateful for the clothes."

Inwardly he prayed the pants would fit. He was a little taller than Myrabeth, not to mention the male accessories between his legs. So chances were for the pants being too light or too short. Quickly, not caring for the blood covering his skin, he slipped into the breeches and noted with some surprise that it actually had a cod piece, made for a man and not for a woman. He decided not to ask where she got those from.

Tapping her foot, Lucia watched him dressing up. "You can help me with tidying up the place when you are done admiring yourself." Wiping off some of the dirt from her face, she looked around. "Who were they and why have they attacked us? Our house isn't even the wealthiest looking building nor build near the outer walls."

Cicero shrugged. "Maybe it had something to do with your aunt's reputation?"

Her hand went through her hair, pushing stubborn strands out of her eyes. "I hope not. Don't want to move away again, not after having found some nice friends."

This was something he could agree with. Having the Listener moving away from the Dark Brotherhood wasn't a prospect he cherished, either. He needed her nearby, and not finding another loophole. Not that their unholy matron would allow her Listener to run off, though he knew that wench well enough to keep a close eye on her.

After what seemed like an eternity, picking up shards of glass, broken pottery and other vandalized left overs, Myrabeth returned. A dark cloud of doom hung around her, and Cicero could feel the fury radiating from those unnatural blue eyes. Hadn't her eyes been golden, like that of an Altmer, a few moments ago?

"I'll have to get a message to my sister," she said and went down the basement.

Cicero's head turned her direction, his eyebrows drawn up, "Listener, do you think that's a good idea? You told Cicero that she isn't in a good shape for bad news, and this most definitely isn't good news. How do you intend to get it to her, anyway?"

She stopped dead, one hand on the bannister, her voice a deep growl. "What happened here tonight changed everything and Ash needs to know before she returns. Even if it means I have to use a messenger."

A bucket clattered to the ground, as Lucia stood next to Cicero. "Can I come with you, downstairs?"

Looking defeated, Myrabeth nodded faintly, a little hesitant. "You can come, too Cicero. But keep your mouth shut, if you can help it."

"Lead on, Listener." Cicero shrugged, wiped off his hands.

Downstairs, the disgusting creature everyone called Rook jumped Myrabeth and clung to her leg like a sulking child. "Master… Rook was so scared! Are the uglies gone?"

Patting its head, Myrabeth gave him a small smile. "Yes, the uglies are gone." Then she went quiet, her eyebrows returning into an angry furrow as she kept staring down at Rook. "Lucia? Is this your doing?"

Inching away from her, Lucia smiled helplessly. "He wanted to look pretty…so I used some of mum's paint."

"You call that pretty? He's not some darn dolly you can play with!" Myrabeth snapped at her niece. "Rook, go and wipe that off your face. And get rid of whatever she has bound around your tail! You look goony… to say the least."

Rook's smeared lips turned into a sheepish grin. "Yes Mistress! Can Rook have some of the dead uglies when he is all nice and clean, again?"

Cicero's lips twitched in disgust. A scamp? That was Myrabeth's pet scamp? He had hoped Lucia had been joking and referred to something else, and his encounter with this beast had been just some trick of his mind. How could they allow this filthy creature from Oblivion living with them under one roof?

Darkly glowering eyes fixated him. "Rook is part of the family and you will treat my familiar nicely! Are we understood, Cicero?"

"You're in my head again, Listener?" Cicero snarled.

He disliked her ability to snoop around his thoughts. No one had any business to be in there, besides him and his friend. The only other being he would welcome with open arms, was the night mother. But she had chosen not to speak to her Keeper.

Myrabeth snarled back,"…. Are … we … understood?"

Not being in any state to hide his dislike for Rook, Cicero nodded begrudgingly, "But don't expect Cicero being friends with it!"

The black maliciously sparkling eyes stared back at him. "Rook will go now upstairs…Mistress."

A hand came to rest on his arm, tugging at him for attention. "Can we bitch at each other later?"

Throwing her arms into the air, Myrabeth swore under her breath before pointing into the dark room, where Cicero had blacked out yesterday. "Get in there and be quiet while I prepare everything."

Inside the room, he dropped to his haunches where Lucia joined him. Together, they leaned against a crammed shelf, full of books and boxes. Not very comfortable, but by far better than standing. After a few moments of sitting, the earlier surge of adrenaline had evaporated, leaving him drained and feeling very tired.

While he watched Myrabeth unfolding a long staff, his eyes began to droop and he could have sworn to hear the soft whispering voices from his dream each time he drifted off into something that appeared like a daydream. Maybe the drug was still working. Cicero didn't mind. But apparently Lucia didn't like him falling asleep. Her boney elbow brought him back into the here and now.

"You better don't snooze when Myrabeth summons a Dremora," she explained as quietly as possible. "One never knows in what mood they are when they appear…"

That had his attention. "Summoning a Dremora? Where is Ashlyn that it requires a Dremora to deliver a message?"

Lucia sat straight in an attempt to look all smug. "Somewhere in Oblivion."

"You better had kept that to yourself," Myrabeth grumbled, without turning around to face them. "He hates Daedra… which is sort of a pity, considering who he's actually serving."

All blood drained from his face, running downward his spine in icy cold pinpricks. "Are you…" he stammered, but had to swallow a few times before he could speak. "Are you Daedra worshiper – all of you?"

Now, Myrabeth turned around and graced him with one of her evil smirks. "Haven't I told you already not to ask questions you don't want to know the answer to? Now shut up and drop on your ass."

"Listener!" he exclaimed at her heretic notions.

"Drop on your ass, I said!" Myrabeth warned him, and then she turned around facing him. "You have your secrets and my family has its secrets, as well. Now shut the fuck up and let me get over with it!"

Lucia mumbled something incomprehensive about adults and moon bleeding. It was when she reached out for his hand, and looked him deep into his eyes as if she wanted to say something terribly reasonable. However, the twitching corners of her mouth gave away that she was close to a guffaw. Insolent brat! They were all making fun of him. There was no other explanation.

"Does it really have to be a Dremora?" he asked, preparing himself for another verbal attack.

"Well, if our beloved night mother wouldn't have severed the link between me and my sister, I wouldn't have to," Myrabeth snapped. "So the answer is, yes. It has to be a Dremora."

His mouth opened, and closed at her angry glare. What she had said was a simple fact he couldn't deny nor ignore. Unable to come up with an argument against her explanation, he grumbled a curse and crumpled back on his backside.

"Calm down or she will bite your head off!" the young Imperial replied, now showing her amusement. "Auntie, do you always have to be such an ass?"

"What a nice little girl you are," Myrabeth sneered while she scrutinized the rose staff, "First you call me a bitch, then you accuse me of biting people's heads off, telling me that I have a fat ass, now you call me one. Really! Why am I putting up with you, anyway? I could be in my bed, sleeping… instead of taking care of everything."

"Because you love me?" Lucia dared, her lower lip pushed forward.

"Riiight…next time I use you as dragon bait! Let's see he how the big lizards react toward your pout…" Myrabeth's cloud of doom intensified, drenching the room with a heavily bleak mood. "Do you have the slightest shimmer of who might have attacked us tonight, huh?"

Falling silent, Lucia let go of Cicero's hand. "Vigilantes of Stendarr?"

Myrabeth raised her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Unfortunately, no. They are dangerous, but not that dangerous. What we faced tonight was the prelude to something far worse – and well, this just has been a friendly warning from Molag Bal. Next time it won't be that harmless."

Back on his feet, Cicero ignored the piercing pain running through his muscles. "The Night Mother won't tolerate your worship of Daedra!"

Shaking her head, Myrabeth placed the rose staff on a small altar. "First of all, you don't tell me what I can do and cannot do! The Night Mother only asked me to get rid of my wolf blood. Nothing more! " With a glare at Lucia, she walked over to him, getting hold of both his shoulders. "Second. I do not worship Molag Bal. Now get back on your behind and listen carefully, before I make it acquainted with my shit-kicker!"

He went back down into a sitting position. Not certain if he would like what would come next, Cicero kept his eyes at the ground. "I am all ears Listener, but do not expect Cicero to like it."

Sitting down in front of him, she crossed her legs. "Very well, but if you flip, I'll knock you out. I do not care if you like it or not – you will accept it or the deal is off. Are we understood?"

He lifted his chin at her. "Cicero doesn't flip!"

"Good," she replied, pointing at Lucia. "And you keep that pert gap of yours tightly closed, yes?"

Lucia nodded, signaling her aunt with a gesture that she would be as quiet as a grave. So they sat there for a few moments, Cicero regarding the Listener, while the girl toyed with her hair.

"Look Cicero. Ashlyn once told you what and who we are. You had no issues back then, so why now?" Myrabeth asked – he could sense the tension in her body. "Besides, you can't be a common mortal either. Humans don't live over two hundred years and look like mid thirty! So cut me some fucking slack here!"

"I believed it to be to some tall tale of a child craving attention…" he whispered, deeply disturbed by his own ignorance. "And why Cicero lives that long he has no answer to."

"We were hardly children with twenty three! Young, yes, but not children anymore," Myrabeth retorted, but tuned her voice down a notch. "You have no idea why you haven't aged the last two hundred years? Are you kidding me?"

"Cicero doesn't know the why and how. It just… is…," he admitted meekly.

As Myrabeth tilted his face back to her, so she could look him in the eyes. "So tell me. Does it really bother you so much that my sister and I are the descendants of the Mad God and that we have ties to Oblivion? Who knows, maybe you do, too…"

"Does Cicero have a choice? You're the Listener… so even if it bothered the poor Fool of Hearts, I couldn't change it anyway" he replied sourly, having no desire to even think about being the bastard spawn of some demonic creature. "Cicero can't be of demonic origin. No I cannot be. I have mother and father, Cicero knew them both!"

With a brisk nod, Myrabeth rose from the ground. "Very well. Suit yourself. So, I am going to summon a Dremora, he will carry a message back to Oblivion for us. I want you to sit on your backside – only, and by that I mean, only, intervene when you see I am in deep trouble – which I do not believe will happen."

His gaze moved over to Lucia a couple of times. She sat there, all calm and relaxed. Not the slightest hint of fear or panic. It was more the opposite. The way she smiled and twitched enthusiastically, he had to assume the girl knew everything about the two women. Cicero inwardly shook his head. Had he known them at all? Back then he believed them to be freaks of nature, the result of an extremely mixed elven heritage.

"Cicero?" Myrabeth asked, picking up the staff from the altar.

Snapping out of his thoughts, he met her gaze evenly. "Cicero will stay put and not move, even if spiders are going to eat my face…"

"Well, then be happy I am not going to summon one of those Spider-Daedra," she said.

Both her hands gripped the wooden staff. Myrabeth's blue eerie eyes fixed a point in front of her, focusing.

The staff began to glow, emitting a low hum. As she pointed the rose tipped end away from her a dark purplish swirling mass of energy exploded in the center of the small room, revealing a heavily armored and very angry looking Dremora swinging a two handed sword at its conjurer. The blade bit into the ceiling with a painful screech of metal against stone - without reducing the momentum of the attack.

Lucia yelped a warning, and Myrabeth cursed and lifted the staff to block the inexorable cleave. Cicero flinched, the staff groaned under the brutal impact, sending Myrabeth down onto her knees.

This was too much; the spiders could kiss Cicero's behind and eat his face another time. Not willing to wait for the monster to launch another attack at the Listener, he darted from his sitting position toward the Dremora.

"Don't Cicero!" Myrabeth yelled, but it was too late.

The impact with the hulking mass was painful and bone rattling, but not as painful as the armor clad hand closing around his throat, lifting him into the air. "Damn you wench! You really could have warned me before using the staff!" Black eyes so deep and ethereal like Oblivion itself stared at Cicero. "What is this? Some scrawny human trying to fight me? I thought you had better taste when it comes to your fuck-trophies…"

"Let go of him Sanguine. He thought you were going to kill me…" she tried to appease him, putting her hands on his forearm."Please?"

That huge bulking creature was Sanguine, the daedric prince of debauchery? Cicero's stomach began to churn, fighting the huge soggy lump from going upwards. Somehow, he doubted that the infernal being would let him live should he vomit all over its armor.

The demonic face lit up, a little too fast for Cicero's taste, and a low rumbling chuckle came past its lips. "Alright Myrabeth. But just this once and you owe me for that!" The smile turned into a menacing snarl. "Now to you mortal! Consider yourself lucky, today. I don't tend to tolerate any insolence against my person." The hand around his neck opened, and Cicero dropped to the ground like a wet sack. "Next time I am not so lenient…"

"Uncle Sanny, don't be so mean – he just wanted to protect aunt Myra.," Lucia chirped, running past Cicero straight into the demon's arms.

"Awww. You're so sweet, too sweet for this rude world. Don't fret darling. As long as he behaves around me, he stays unharmed," Sanguine said, eying him from the side. "So my pretty prankster, have you missed your uncle Sanny?"

Lucia rubbed her cheek against the fierce looking armor. "Yep. So boring without you…"

Myrabeth groaned and rolled her eyes. "Please! Could we get down to business, yes?"

While he still collected his ego and hurting body, Cicero watched the girl hugging the dark skinned monster's armored chest, as he lifted her up. Sanguine appeared be pleased about her transgression - instead of pushing her away or worse, he began tussling her hair with an affection highly unusual for such an immortal monster. The mere thought made him sick.

"Get over it mortal," Sanguine growled in his direction, hugging the girl close.

Peeved, Cicero scrambled back to his feet. "Stay out of my head stealer of souls!"

Lips curled, Sanguine sneered. "Then stop thinking so loud. In your head is nothing I really want to know - you little stuffy hypocrite. Stealer of souls… pfeh… and that from some puny assassin who enjoys dooming poor mortal souls to a drab existence in the Void."

"Stop it! Both of you!" Myrabeth demanded, her hands propped on her hips. "I haven't summoned you," she pointed at Sanguine and then at Cicero, "and not allowed you in here, so the two of you can insult each other!"

Releasing Lucia from his embrace, Sanguine sighed. "Indeed. And you really have a talent to pick the worst moments for summoning me. Was about to defend my borders against Ebon Arm's bootlicks…so make it quick, what is it you want?"

"I need to talk to Ashlyn and I had no idea it would be you answering the summon," she replied, gesturing Cicero to stay where he was. "Molag Bal sent his lackeys to attack us one or two hours ago and she needs to know before she returns!"

Sanguine's forehead crinkled, and only from the crimson tattoo on his face Cicero could figure that he was creasing his eyebrows into a deep frown. "Told you it would come to this!"

Arms crossed, Myrabeth leaned against the altar. "Spare me your lecture! We had discussed this already back at Markarth. So, can I talk to my sister or not?"

"How do I break this to you…" with a sigh, he propped the large sword against the wall behind him and began to pace. "The thing is. You can't, because your sister isn't at my realm for the time being."

"What?" Myrabeth yelled. "I trusted you with her wellbeing! Where is she now?"

Cicero felt uneasy about her statement. Had the Listener really trusted a daedric prince with her sister's life and soul? How could she, how dare her! Both their heads turned his direction, blue and black eyes narrowed in anger, signaling him to stay out of this.

But before Cicero could retort anything, Sanguine raised his hand for silence. "Myra! Tune it down, will you? I did what I could for her. But the rest is up to your sister, and Azura agreed to guide her through this. My sibling is much better suited for this kind of aid."

Throwing her arms into the air, Myrabeth growled. "Great. Sipping tea, chatting all day about flowers and gardening… petting a Twilight now and then. We both know what a tattle Azura can be!"

"Watch it! I won't tolerate any rude comments about my favorite sister…" Sanguine warned.

"Then get going and tell my sister what happened here!" she exclaimed, ignoring his glare by studying her nails.

Inwardly enjoying the way how she treated the powerful being in front of her, Cicero kept his distance, watching them discussing the next steps. That woman was horrible. Not even a daedric prince was spared her temper and it somehow gave him solace to know this.

Though, at the other hand it would also explain her defiance toward their dark mother. He would have to observe this in the near future. A rebellious Daedra worshiping Listener wasn't such a good asset for the Brotherhood. She had to learn to respect their rules, if not, he would teach her!

Lucia tugged at his arm. "Come, we better leave them to quarrel. Looks like, we won't get to see anything interesting, any time soon."

He followed the girl upstairs, not looking back. Perhaps resuming their cleanup would take off his mind from that unpleasant encounter.

They began picking up more of the rubble. Some of the furniture would have to replaced, as they were beyond repair. Most of the stoneware had been cracked, some of the baskets were ripped. Had he slept through most of the fight? He couldn't remember fighting inside the house.

Lucia must have noticed his brooding silence. Moving closer, she bumped her shoulder into his. "Do you hate aunt Myra and my mom, now?"

He froze, averted his eyes, not willing to meet her questioning eyes. "No."

Apparently unhappy with his curtly answer, she asked. "But why are you so angry about my family being what they are?"

"The Dark Brotherhood frees souls of mortals from their suffering, returning them to the void where they rightfully belong. The Daedra are corrupter, defiler and monster who hunt down and devour the souls that belong to Sithis! That's why!" Cicero said, hoping she would understand.

The girl shrugged. "Not all Daedra are the same, and if you know how to deal with them some of their kind can be really friendly and forthcoming."

"Why Sanguine," he asked. He couldn't help it, but he needed to know why he had appeared instead of some lesser Daedra. Daedric princes just didn't appear like that. "Why this foul corrupter and not any other prince – like Azura?"

Lucia sighed. "Well, he is sort of a friend to the family. My mom likes him very much."

Leaning against the wall behind him, Cicero rubbed his eyes. "Please, at least you explain to Cicero what happened with Ashlyn – why she is … was with him. It's unsettling and confusing at the same time to know only half and the worst of the whole story."

Lucia joined him, sitting down to his left with her legs crossed. "Aunt Myra hasn't told me everything, either. They were at Markarth, and something horrible happened there – nearly killing my Mom. That incident changed her, and bringing her to Oblivion was the only way to help her. More I do not know."

Slightly appeased by this meager scrap of information, he asked "And what is your connection to the Daedra? Is Sanguine your real uncle?"

"He allowed me to call him uncle Sanny or Sam after I did a few tasks for him." Getting back to her feet, she shoved the bucket toward the broken door. "Now stop being such a fraidy-cat. He's really nice, and I doubt my mom would be happy if she found out you hate Daedra. Because, she likes you very much, too – even if she doesn't admit it openly."

A piece of wood fell to the ground with, clattering away. "What makes you say that?"

"She has drawings of you hidden away in her dresser. Found them when I was looking for a book," Lucia explained lightly, not caring about the weird look on his face. "Well, she also has drawings of Sanguine. But those are… erm… "

Not wanting to hear more, Cicero stood up and put his hand over her mouth. "Please, spare Cicero the details. No need to tell the poor jester more."

And he wanted a good night sleep after this, which wouldn't possible if he dreamt about naked black skinned Daedra's swinging swords at him.

A muffled laugh pressed against his hand, and she had to tilt her head to the side so she could speak. "Aww, so you're jealous?"

"Cicero is not jealous!" he said peevishly.

Still laughing, she threw a tattered piece of table cloth at him. "Alright. If you insist! Though I wonder who will get into your pants, first. My grandma or my aunt… you should have seen their eyes as they looked at your… uhm…"

"One more word about this and Cicero will stuff that filthy rag into your mouth," he growled, holding up the cloth she had thrown at him. Enough was enough!

"Molag Ball's." she giggled, though the mirth didn't last. "From what I figured, you're an assassin – you steal souls for Sithis. So why the 'holier than you' attitude. Sanguine isn't at least about killing people – he's about fun!"

"Aren't you a little too young for this kind of conversation?" Cicero asked testily.

"I am almost fourteen years old. Most girls my age are already married and have birthed loads of babies," she replied, now looking very disgruntled. "And before you ask why I know you being an assassin who serves Sithis – and not just some friend. I found my mom's and aunt's leather armor with the Black Hand insignia… they can't hide anything from me so they don't even try anymore!"

Tossing another piece of broken pottery into his bucket, Cicero's gaze turned hard. "You're lucky times have changed. There are things you shouldn't know. You better listen to Cicero, when I tell you that knowledge is not always beneficial to your health."

Now she frowned. "Knowledge is power… and knowledge is what made me accept what my family actually is and does."

"Then let's hope that knowledge won't bite you in the ass one day," Cicero replied, not interested in continuing this discussion.

That girl was impossible, the shining example what happened to children who hadn't experienced proper parenting. Not that he was any better suited than Ashlyn, however, he at least hadn't taken in a fosterling knowing he couldn't offer what a child needed.

Her lips turned to a slim line, as if she was mulling something over. "So, are you really over two hundred years old?"

"Cicero is two hundred and forty six years old. More you don't need to know!" he replied.

"Wow, that's really old for an Imperial. Do you think I can get that old, too?" she asked, her eyes glittering with hope. "Don't want to become a wrinkled old prune."

"Why can't you just drop it? Cicero hates being pestered by imbecile brats!" Severely annoyed by her endless stream of questions, he tugged at her ear. "Let's make a deal. You stop badgering me, and Cicero shows you how to fight with short blades," he offered, hoping she would change the topic.

As smug as a cat, she grabbed for his hand, "Deal!"

Satisfied for now, he nodded yet it was certain she would bug him about his age again someday. And chances were good, if he trained the brat, the Listener would fall in line – if not for the Dark Brotherhood then for Ashlyn. Back at Cyrodiil they had a saying – win the friendship of a child and you win the heart of its mother.

Caging a sigh of content at his final plan, he relaxed a little. The Dark Brotherhood needed a Listener – he needed Myrabeth to be the Listener. Cicero went back to the floor, brooding over the next steps to take, while he helped Lucia reducing the chaos in her wrecked home.

oooooOOOOooooo

The morning began as bad as Myrabeth's mood. Her verbal barrage tore through the early morning hours, chasing Rook out of his basket, straight over Cicero's makeshift bed where the Scamp slipped recklessly under the sheets.

It took a great deal of self-control not to reach for his dagger under his pillow and stabbing that annoying creeper in the face. Couldn't that cowardly scamp pick any other place, why does it always chose Cicero's resting place?

"Get out of my bed!" Cicero seethed, fist balled and ready to deal some serious pain.

Rook's head moved underneath the sheet. "That Rook's bed! You only can have because Mistress said so!"

Lips curled in disgust, Cicero slipped out of bed. "Cicero doesn't want your filthy bed. If Cicero had known, I rather would have slept on the ground!"

"Rook can have bed back?" the creature asked, still hiding under the sheet.

"Whatever…" Cicero replied while getting dressed.

The angry voices were a little calmer now, though from what Cicero could pick up from down here, the entire family had gathered. Lucia complained about wanting to stay here, Rose suggested to wait for Ashlyn before doing anything foolish and Myrabeth groaned in frustration.

As he left the basement behind, he noted with some surprise how clean everything was again. Usually his sleep wasn't that tight and the slightest noise had him alarmed. Entering the kitchen, everyone turned to face him, except for the only male among the women. The Nord looked quite grim, and from what Cicero had been able to gather, he wasn't a bearer of good news.

"Look who is here…," Myrabeth grumbled. "I hope you haven't killed Rook. He was supposed to wake you up."

Grimacing, he sat next to Lucia. "Cicero wasn't aware he was sleeping in that scamp's bed…"

"Next time you can sleep with the chicken. The fresh air might do you some good," Myrabeth replied, turning her attention back to her guest. "Tell Siddgeir he has to make us a much better offer, if he really wants us to leave Falkreath. We did plenty of good for the people here, and now he can't treat us like unwelcome filth!"

"That's Jarl Siddgeir for you, elf! What came of your so called good deeds we could witness last night! Daedra worshiper in our little village – because of you. Good men died!" the Nord barked, having Rose flinch and Cicero narrowing his eyes.

Myrabeth stood with her dagger in her hand, her chair bouncing backwards. "Lower your voice human! This is still my house and next time you yap at me I will butcher you like the dog you are!"

"Calm down dear. I am sure he is only doing his job," Rose said, holding the younger woman back. "But I have to agree with my granddaughter. The jarl will have to come up with a better offer. Four hundred gold pieces aren't exactly enough for a fresh start."

Myrabeth snarled. "Listen Helvard, for all we did for this mud-hole I expect either as much gold as I have paid for this house or a new house in another Hold! I am sure he can arrange something."

Stifling a groan, Cicero resisted the urge to object. Another Hold? He couldn't afford losing her, not now. This would require now some quick thinking. And that was what he did, while they discussed the terms with the angry Nord.

Scratching the stubbles on his head, Helvard eased back into his chair. "I'll talk to the jarl, but he won't like your request."

"I couldn't care less – as long as he pays up," Myrabeth shrugged, sheathing her dagger. "Now go. I want to get over with it before this night can repeat itself."

Disgruntled and obviously glad leaving the house, the Nord left the table without the slightest gesture of courtesy. Everyone went silent, staring in front of them at some non-existing spot on the table.

As the makeshift door banged shut, shuddering under the rough treatment Lucia was the first to speak, and she looked as miserable as her voice sounded. "Can I stay here? I could move in with Shazza. Her parents have a guest room I can sleep in. I really do not want to move again…"

"No!" all three women said in unison – and it was a very final 'no'.

"How about Dawnstar?" Cicero offered.

Myrabeth's eyes turned thoughtful. "Maybe. The place has its charms. Though, I would prefer Markarth for the time being. There we are save at least."

"Save?" Rose looked annoyed. "That's where it started! I suggest Morthal. I have friends there and the climate is not as rough."

"What started in Markarth – is whatever happened there the reason why is Molag Bal after you?" Lucia asked.

"That's the place where we pissed off Molag Bal," Myrabeth replied, her arms crossed. "I doubt he will come looking for us there. The shrine is dead, powerless and the city is heavily guarded. Besides all that, the Jarl there had offered me already to purchase Vlindrel Hall. It's homey and secure enough to be defended easily. Try to kick in a dwarven metal door…"

Another discussion broke loose. Pro Markarth, contra Dawnstar and in-between Morthal. Cicero didn't like where this was going. Even Riften had been mentioned. He liked Riften, a nice city for shady people. Though, it was so awfully far away – and that wasn't good for his plans. Markarth wasn't his first choice either, but the given circumstances it might be as well the best possible pick. Ashlyn wouldn't live there forever – maybe, if he could win them for Dawnstar – he would have the Listener in place, when he reinstated the ancient Sanctuary there.

After a few moments of consideration, weighing, and mulling the said Cicero offered. "Can Cicero be of any help?"

Myrabeth looked him over, her expression pondering. "Maybe. You could go to Whiterun and deliver a message to old friends of mine."

Lucia's eyes lit up. "The Companions?"

Looking very tired now, Myrabeth nodded. "All of the Companions. We'll need all the help we can get – and I don't want to travel the road without proper protection."

"Do you really need the help of the companions?" Cicero blurted, having now four angry pairs of eyes glaring at him. "Sorry…" he winced.

He didn't want the Companions anywhere near Myrabeth nor being involved. They would just get in the way, that's what goodie-two-shoes always did. And having to divide her attention between family and Dark Brotherhood was more than Cicero was willing to tolerate without protest and counter-measures.

Myrabeth took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. "Yes I need their help. They are capable fighters and I trust them with my life. Don't believe me and Ash being invincible. We are mongrels and not daedric princes. We bleed, we become sick and we can die like any other mortal."

Being certain she was leaving out a small yet important detail escaping Cicero's grasp, he nodded in acknowledgement. "Whiterun it is… but Cicero wants his motley back before I leave!"

"That stinky rag?" Aranea asked, her mouth drawn in disgust. "We got rid of it. It was torn and beyond repair…"

Speechless, Cicero stared down in front of him. His motley gone? No more Fool of Hearts?

"What is Cicero supposed to wear?" His voice was low, almost breathless from the shock.

"I'll have plenty of looted armor stashed away at the basement. You're welcome to it," Myrabeth replied.

They didn't understand. His motley was part of his identity. How could they have tossed it away just like that? Stinky or not, it carried memories and history – it was his anchor and reminder of who he was.

"Cicero demands his motley…" he said, anger rising.

Tilting her head to the side, Myrabeth clicked her tongue. "You can't wear it like that! You know what – I'll make you an offer. You get going, and I'll fish that dirty thing from the heap. When you return, it will be clean – even I can't do much about the rips and holes…"

Counting to ten, he reminded himself of her importance. Listener or not, no one touched his motley. "Cicero agrees…." He sniffed, still angry and not yet convinced she really would do so.

oooooOOOOooooo

Alarmed by the scenery of destruction, Cicero searched the ruins of Helgen for bandits or any other ilk who might consider this their new hideout. He had heard about dragon attacks, but never had seen any. Maybe Sithis would like the offering of a dragon soul? He was certain Myrabeth wouldn't mind some help should she hunt down one of those impressive beasts.

Dwelling on that thought, but still watchful of his surroundings he wound his way through the shattered gate, leaving the sacked city behind. A little less than a day and he would reach Riverwood, where he would allow himself the luxury of a real bed.

Maybe some wine and cheese along with fresh bread to celebrate his little temporary freedom. Cicero smiled. Away from the Dark Brotherhood, no one of them would ever know if he took a life. Only the night mother, but she was safe for now.

He had stayed his blade long enough, always served without questioning. He had guarded the corpse with his life, kept his eyes open and ignoring his own desires when temptation crossed his path.

Now he felt the need to reclaim what he had lost when he had been chosen to become Keeper. A dark need, whispering and driving him onward relentlessly and he wanted to oblige, uncaring about any consequences.

It was unlikely the dark mother would begrudge him one more kill and if she did, he would pay penance if the need arose. She wouldn't have her only Keeper punished with death, not when they were so few.

'Maybe Cicero could start with some homeless beggar?' He mused, listening into the silence of his mind.

No answer, neither negative nor positive. Again, he shrugged and took it as a good sign. No one would miss a beggar.

'What if there was no beggar?' Cicero thought, but discarded the unwelcome possibility.

Soon he surrendered his turmoiled mind, fantasizing about the best way of murdering someone in plain daylight, or in the middle of a crowd. Blind to the landscape around him, it kept him entertained for most of the time on his rather uneventful journey.

Not even his stay at the Sleeping Giant Inn had provided him any victim, and in the end only two bottles of wine ensured a good night's rest. At least the overall aches were gone the next day he left Riverwood.

About two days later, when he reached Whiterun in the gloom of dawn, the city was already on its feet. Busy merchants had setup their stands, arranging their wares. One of them already haggling and arguing with an eager customer, who didn't agree on the price. The other chased a dog away from his stall, where he offered all sorts of meat. From somewhere behind, the clanking of metal on metal tore through the early morning, probably a blacksmith beginning his day's work.

The last time he had been here, the city hadn't been so alive and it made him nervous. Children chased past him, squealing at each other in delight while mothers called after them. It had him flinch. He wasn't used being among people anymore. Being social, having conversation with those who weren't his sisters and brothers – a long time ago it had been part of his life, now he avoided it at all costs.

For now, he would stop at the Bannered Mare. Cicero hoped they had a clean bed and some warm food around this time. Feeling into his pouch he counted twenty-six septims between his fingers and decided to go along with his growling stomach.

Sorting his thoughts, he ambled toward the tavern. Barely inside, he heard the wretched whimper of a distressed animal coming from the dense foliage. Though, it was the sadistic laughter of a child which startled him, causing him to shift his intention from a hot meal toward the gruesome noise.

Usually not mincing, nor having much capacity for compassion he snuck inside the dense wall of leaves and twigs. There was the smell of burnt flesh or fur in the air. Slowly, causing as less noise as possible he closed in – the squeaks turned more frantic but weaker.

A girl sat on the ground, her hands covered in dancing flames and in front of her was a small cage, harboring a rather large rodent. The poor animal cowered in the farthest corner in a futile attempt to avoid merciless scorching heat coming from her hands.

First Cicero had believed it to be a skeever, but as he became aware of the ears and snout his heart clenched. It was a rat. He liked rats. Long ago, he had a rat companion accompanying him wherever he went.

"What do you think you're doing, you rotten little cockroach!" he hissed.

The girl flinched, but didn't extinguish the magical fire. "What're you lookin' at? I'm not afraid of you, ya know. Even if you are my elder."

Putting poisoned sweetness into his words, Cicero focused on her hands while he slowly formed a fist with his left hand. "Not afraid you say? Well too bad … for you…" His fist opened, releasing the shimmering green energy.

"Wha…" Barely breathing, her eyes went wide as the words stuck in her throat as her body went rigid, unable to move. He loved that spell.

The last time he had used his magical abilities had been back at Cyrodiil. The time he had been sealed up in the ruined Sanctuary, practicing magical incantations had been the only pastime activity besides tending to the Night Mother.

Pleased about fear radiating off the girl, he moved closer and went down into a crouch. "How does it feel to be trapped, unable to escape?" Cupping her chin, he forced her to look him in the eyes. "Next time you torture an animal, pray I won't catch you – because if I do, you will feel the very same pain on your filthy skin!"

Gently, yet with some cruel finality, he put her to the ground looking down at her with despise. 'And they say children are innocent beings… there is no such thing as innocence – especially not in a child!'

Turning around, he took a closer look at the cage. The rat lay flat on the ground, eyes large in terror. Cicero could have sworn to hear the rapidly beating heart of the poor thing.

"Looks I found myself a new pet rat!" he mumbled while opening cage. "Do not fret my little friend. Cicero will be good with you…" Slowly he reached into the cage.

Squeaking weakly, the rat pressed harder into her corner. But before he could get hold of the animal, it darted forward sinking its sharp teeth into his glove. It had been fortunate that he had listened to Myrabeth and agreed to wear some decent armor. If he hadn't, that finger would be perforated and bleeding now.

Determined to rescue his new little friend, he carefully scooped it up in his hands. Now he needed something to hide the critter in. Most people hated rats, considered them disgusting creatures without a second thought. It didn't take long, and Cicero freed himself of his knapsack one handedly, while he tried to keep the wriggling rat in the other. For now, he would put it in there, and treating its wounds once he had a room where no one could disturb him.

"Braith, breakfast!" a woman, causing Cicero to hasten his endeavor.

He couldn't risk being seen with a paralyzed girl next to him. No matter her crime, no one would consider his actions just. Most would rather applaud her for decimating unwanted critters.

"Braith! I don't have all day and your milk is getting cold," the woman called again, this time much closer.

Cicero held his breath, closing the knapsack. He could only hope no one would want to know what he had hidden in there. The rat tugged away, he moved behind the tavern. With a bit of luck, no one had seen him vanishing inside the green. It was very unlikely that she would tell anyone what had occurred and if she did – she had to admit what she had done, which she probably would prefer to avoid.

Content with the situation and back on the street, he sauntered toward the tavern. The woman who had been calling out for Braith was still at the marketplace, looking for her child. For a brief moment, he stood in the doorway – smiling. If Braith was the little shit inside the bushes, she would get in some serious trouble for not obeying her mother. Served her right!

Inside, he strode toward the tavern wench behind the bar table busy taking away the leftovers from previous guests. "Saadia, wake up dear!" she called, gesturing him to sit down at the center of the tavern. "Come on in. Let me know if you need anything, or take a seat by the fire and I'll send someone over."

"On my way!" came from the kitchen, and a few moments later a young Redguard woman appeared, asking him "You want a drink?"

Cicero sat down on a bench, next to a drunken Nord with a gruff exterior. "What's on the menu?"

She stared at his twitching knapsack "Depends. Are you thirsty, hungry, both?" Then she frowned, her slips turning into slim line. "What have you got in there – I hope nothing vile?"

The knapsack hunched against his chest, he tried a small smile. "It's a gift for the daughter of a dear friend. A mechanical toy. Have no worries dear woman. Cicero carries nothing dangerous!" Inwardly he was annoyed 'Stupid nosey cow, mind your own business…'

"If you say so. Just don't cause any trouble, yes? The tolerance for mischief is very low here," she explained, her arms crossed, eyes still on his wiggling bag. "What shall it be then? Food or drink?"

"A room for two days, and a warm meal with wine," he replied, hoping the rat would finally stop raging inside the knapsack. "Preferably the room, now, and if you had a carrot, Cicero would be grateful for it."

Locking gaze with Hulda, who nodded faintly, she turned her eyes back at him. "You're lucky. The room is free. That makes twenty gold for the room, and another three for the stew. Carrot is for free. Want some bread, too? We have some left-overs from yesterday."

Cicero hesitated a moment, not certain if he it was wise to spend so much money at once. Then again, what he wouldn't eat now he could eat later. He doubted the food at the other taverns would be any cheaper.

That sorted out, he told the barmaid to bring the food to his room, so he could eat without being disturbed. The noise in the main room had increased, and more people streamed in piling up for their early lunch.

Some of the previous guests were already severely drunk, and hooting vulgar songs while others placed bets on a set of dices. Drunk people had a tendency of being brash and overly social. A situation he would prefer to stay clear of before he couldn't pull it together anymore.

Upstairs, he closed the door behind him. Breathed a few times until the tension left his body. The sounds from the lower part of the tavern still crept through the thin wooden walls; however that was as much privacy as he could expect for ten septims per night.

Sitting down on the bed, he carefully unlatched the cover from his knapsack, hoping the rat hadn't crapped the inside too much. Even if rodent excrements weren't as nasty as those of other animals, yet it still wasn't easy to remove the mess once it soaked the leather and linen.

The rat poked its head out of the bag, sniffing at him before resuming its struggle. "Shhhh little friend, Cicero will patch you up. You'll see," he lulled with soft voice.

Over the last thirty years as Keeper he had refined his knowledge about herbs, oils and other useful substances used for preservation, healing – and killing. One of the few benefits the position as Keeper offered - and finally he could use them on a living being other than himself.

Reaching inside his pouch, he drew out a small stone box. Ever so gently, he propped the jerking animal between his legs, taking a closer look at the damage. Most of the fur on its back had been burned down to the skin. With one hand, he began fidgeting with the lid of the box, containing a healing salve. In the meanwhile his patient had found another target to sink its teeth in.

"You're a naughty one!" he scolded softly, laughed a little under his breath and began dabbing the salve onto its skin. "If you keep that up, dear Cicero will end up with pitted breeches!"

The fierce little bugger ignored the sentiment and kept demonstrating its lack of gratitude. After what seemed like an eternity and ending up with an extremely smudgy pants, he prevailed.

Satisfied with his work, he carefully shoved the creature back into his knapsack. "Forgive Cicero, but you need to go back into the bag… or the fair maid bringing us our meal might panic at your sight. We don't want that, yes?"

And it was not one moment too early he had done so. A knock at the door had him jump. The box with the salve rolled from the bed, clattered to the ground and vanished under one of the wardrobes.

Saadia poked her head in. "I hope I am not disturbing - have your meal ready."

He would have to grapple for the salve later, now he had to make sure the woman dropped off her load quickly, so she could leave him alone. "You have Cicero's thanks, please leave it over there."

She snuck into the room, a large tablet in her hand filled with bread, a large steaming bowl and several carrots. Surprised by the amount of food, which he hadn't ordered he threw her an inquiring look. If she wanted more septims, he would tell her to take the food back with her. Cicero would rather go hungry than spending his last reminding scraps of gold.

"We have so many carrots; I doubt Hulda would notice. Most of them usually end up with the pigs" she said, her smile warm.

Mumbling his gratitude, he lowered his eyes. "This is very kind of you…"

The gentle smile reflected in her eyes, as she inclined her head. "Don't mention it. We don't get customers from other provinces very often, and I am glad for every single one who doesn't aim for drunken torpor and turning pot-valiant."

So much kindness, and she didn't even know what he was hiding – she even didn't know him and what he was capable of. When had another human being been so nice to him? Ever since he had been chosen as Keeper, he had been lonely on a social level. As much as he revered the Night Mother; a corpse wasn't a very responsive counterpart.

"Need anything else?" Saadia asked, her hand on the door-handle.

Cicero only managed a short cut 'no' before the knapsack bulged violently in all directions. The latched cover flew open and his hand darted forward. Oily from the salve, the rat slipped through his grasp with a loud protesting squeak and took cover behind a chest.

Saadia's mouth worked hard and so did her temper, before she spoke. "A rat? You had a rat in your traveling bag?"

What should he answer? 'Wonderful… now Cicero will have to sleep under a tree, again…' he thought bitterly. The rat was out of the bag, now and he had to catch her before she got behind any of the wardrobes. "Where else – in Cicero's pants?"

"You're cruel!" she snapped and chased after the rodent. "You can't keep an animal in there all the time!"

That wasn't the tantrum he had expected coming from her. "Would you have allowed Cicero in, if you knew what had been in my bag?"

Most women he had known were afraid of mice, rats and skeever. The way she reacted was not typical, especially not for someone who worked at an inn.

Not losing time with arguments, he went for the chest, moved it aside and carefully scooped the shuddering rat back into both his hands. If that happened more often, Cicero had no doubt the rodent would die from a heart attack.

The Redguard shook her head. "Don't you dare putting the poor dear back in there!"

"And what do you suggest, woman?" he asked, and shoved the squeaking rat into her face. "Some pretty pretty girl did this. If it hadn't for Cicero, it would be dead… burned to crisp!"

For a brief moment her expression softened, but shifted back to angry within the blink of an eye. "That little toad! One day she will pay for this…"

"You know the girl?" he asked

"Everyone knows Braith. She's a monster in disguise," Saadia said and swore under her breath. "That's what happens when one allows magic… only bad can come of it. And her parents always excuse her with being still a child."

"Saadia, don't gossip! I need help down here," the innkeeper called from downstairs.

They exchanged quiet looks, before she turned to leave the room. "I will be back later, with a box. That's much better, than you backpack." She straightened her apron and left with an annoyed grumble about Braith.

Alone with the rat and himself, he sat down on the ground, knees up. "So, what's Cicero supposed to do with you?"

The shiny black button eyes stared back at him, the tiny body shivering in his hands.

"Maybe a name?" he asked, smiled and turned the rat carefully to check what he actually had caught and whistled. "My my, aren't we are virile ratty… well, how about Crazy? Or maybe Snarler?" Cicero mused a moment, "No… not Snarler. Crazy will do fine."

The whiskers twitched as he rat sniffed at him, squeaking at him in weak defiance. The stress must have exhausted the poor critter. Maybe, if he had the promised box for his new pet, the animal would become a little more relaxed. It most certainly would be easier to feed the animal this way – at some point Cicero wanted both his hands free again.

It didn't take long, and he used the chest as temporary box for the rat. It was large enough for the animal to move, and closing the lid only so far that it still got some light and air would have to do for the time being. He was too hungry to wait any longer, and his strength wouldn't come back while his stomach growled like a famished wolf.

After he dropped some of the bread and carrot into the box, he moved over to his bed and began to eat the still warm stew. The carrots he would save for later, shouldn't he have a chance to obtain more coins. After emptying half of the wine bottle and eating most of the old bread, he slowly drifted off into an uneasy slumber – knowing it was too early to truly sleep and he needed to speak with the Companions – but his body was beyond caring. Sleep was what it needed and sleep was what it demanded – all Cicero could do was to oblige

oooooOOOOooooo

By the time Cicero had been roused from his slumber, half of the day had already passed. The sun stood low, painting the afternoon sky in hues of bright blue and gold as he ambled along the path leading behind Jovarrsk.

Hopefully, he could get this over with before it turned dark and most people had locked their houses down for the night. After asking Saadia about any work available, she had pointed him to the Jarl of Whiterun, and he doubted the Jarl would welcome any interruption outside of the scheduled time for audiences.

The high pitched song of clashing swords bounced of the walls in random beats, picking up speed now and then until a male rough voice snapped spicy insults. A flock of scared sparrows exploded from a nearby tree, jolting Cicero out of his treadmill-like mulling.

He halted nearby a row of bushes and small trees, looking through the gaps and holes between the twigs and branches. From here, he could see the reflections of glistening steel highlighting the ongoing movement.

A small group of armor clad individuals stood nearby, hooting and cheering at the combatants – their stances were well placed and he could see the lighter one of the fighting pair executed a perfectly accurate defense, outsmarting the opponent each time an attack was launched.

Move after move, both sides tested each other over and over again until one got the upper hand, forcing the other to surrender. After watching for several long moments in silence, Cicero nodded satisfied. It wasn't exactly how he would fight, but if all the companions fought like that, he had no doubt they would be indeed very handy for what the Listener had in mind.

Now, they only had to be willing to help a former Companion. He could only hope that Myrabeth knew them well enough, otherwise he had no idea how to convince them.

Leaving his concealment of twigs and foliage, he walked toward the small crowd. One of them, a scrawny male Dunmer locked gaze with him but didn't move until Cicero stood in front of them. The rest of the group nodded, some mumbled welcome.

"Have you come to join us?" a woman asked, from behind before he could do the first move.

Curious who had snuck up on him, Cicero turned around with a polite gesture. "The Lis… I mean Myrabeth sends her regards. She's in need of your service."

Her eyes narrowed, assessing him. "And your name is?"

Like most Nords, she was tall yet her build was light and so the choice of her armor. The way she held herself, the war paint on her face and her sharp eyes – it all radiated authority and a predatory elegance which he found most intriguing.

"How impolite of me to forget! My name is Cicero," he replied with a bow, reminding himself that he was not here as Fool of Hearts or Cicero the Jester. Right now he was merely a man, or rather a fool in disguise. "May I ask your name?"

"Well met Cicero," she said, reaching for his hand and arm to perform the traditional greeting among warriors of the Nord. "I am Alea. So, now tell me what our sister needs of us."

'Sister?' he thought and resisted the urge to correct the woman. An assassin was only brother or sister to other assassins of the Dark Brotherhood. Instead he nodded. "She is in need of you, indeed. There has been an incident, an attack on her family."

Alea frowned deeply, her eyes searching his face for the truth. As long as it took her to answer, as short it turned out. "Let's go inside."

She had led him to a richly decorated hall befitting rather a Jarl than a bunch of sellswords. Not even the dark Brotherhood of old had such noble interior – at least not when he had been around.

The large door closed behind, and Alea offered him a seat next to the still glimmering embers at the centre of the room. She told him to wait and left him alone to stare at tapestries, various shields and weapons, which protruded the walls. The companions didn't live too shabby. Not at all what Cicero would have expected.

Waiting for the woman to return with whoever she considered important to inform as well, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander. He reflected on what he would do after the companions had agreed to help their former 'sister'.

The others at the Sanctuary didn't welcome him, and being around them was more of a necessity because of the Night Mother and her needs. And now, there was his new pet. Where could he leave Crazy when he was traveling? He couldn't take the rat with him on every venture as long as the critter kept biting g and hissing at him.

Cicero's lip twitched with humour, into his wide wry grin. His old rat had been a shy one, not as aggressive and nasty as Crazy. A low chuckle rose from his chest and turned into an amused hum. A rat was a rat, aggressive or docile. It didn't matter. All it would require was a caring hand and good food. In that all rats were the same.

"And if I happened to find a cat, I will feed it corpse to my pet rat," he crooned under his breath, finding the very concept very intriguing.

Old wood groaned as a door opened, and Cicero heard the dampened sound of three pair of feet on stone. Slowly he turned his head to the left, keeping his face straight. It never was a smart idea to show his foolish side to those Nords. Skyrim was a place of stern and no nonsense people who went down the basement to laugh.

In his experience, most of their kind were only friendly with strangers, if there was enough gold to pay for it. The less they liked you, the more they charged. Unfortunately, no one here liked jesters, except for the very young children.

Alea was the first to ascend from the lower part of the house; though he directed his attention at the two men he thought to be the other leaders and politely nodded. Dressed for battle, swords attached to their back-harnish and eyes covered with dark warpaint – they threw him a grim gaze as if they had planned to do something else rather than sitting down at a table.

'There we go' Cicero thought. He could only hope Myrabeth had enough gold to pay for their help.

"Well met," the taller one said, his voice deep and rough – surprisingly friendlier than his face would let on. "I am Farkas and this is my brother Vilkas."

Eying the huge mountain of a warrior, Cicero inclined his head "Well met. I am Cicero and I am here on Myrabeth's behalf."

The other warrior, who was of smaller and leaner built regarded him suspiciously. "Alea already told us, so how about telling us something new and what this is about. We don't have all day."

"Calm down Vilkas, he was just doing that…" Farkas said calmly, putting his large hand on his brother's shoulders. "Now sit down before that stick in your backside snaps."

Cicero decided to like the huge Nord. Despite his rugged appearance, he seemed to be a good natured sort and not prone to mockery like his brother. They quietly sat down. Alea chose the head of the table, while Farkas reached for a the fruit bowl from the right side. "Only red apples" he asked, but Alea glared at him

"You can eat later," she scolded him, and turned at Cicero. "So, if Myrabeth is asking for us to help her out it must be something serious. No one messes with the twins and gets out of it with their hides intact."

How much did she know about their true identity? Cicero doubted they knew about Myrabeth and Ashlyn being part of the Dark Brotherhood, nor could he believe they knew about their unnatural heritage. Now he had to treat carefully, not giving away too much and in the end taking the blame should his eager mouth botch everything.

Tilting his head, he regarded the woman seriously "Myrabeth is currently on her own, her sister is gone and before you ask – I do not know more. The attack had been fierce and she fears the first one had only been a test. Next time they will send more or stronger forces."

The one who had been introduced to him as Vilkas cleared his throat. "What kind of forces? What has she gotten herself into this time?"

"Does it really matter? Our sister needs help and she will get it," Alea said – throwing mean glances at Vilkas.

"She is not our sister, anymore. She shunned her calling and left us without any explanation that made sense…" he complained but went silent as Farkas growled.

"She is still one of us Vilkas and always will be – she carries the honour and the strength of us with her," Farkas insisted.

Propped both her hands on the table, Alea shot out of her chair and barked. "Stop it! Both of you. If this is again about who will be the next Harbinger I am going to hunt down your backsides…"

Both men went quiet, looking embarrassed and not of them met her glare. From the corner of the eye, Cicero could see Alea smirking at their retreat. That woman most definitely had something wild and fierce about her, something one shouldn't challenge if he wanted to keep his ego intact. If she was willing to answer Myrabeth's call, the rest of them would follow. Of that Cicero was certain.

"The help she require from us" Vilkas started, then he bent a little forward to grab one of the green apples. "Do I assume correctly these attacks weren't of ordinary or mundane origin more dangerous than dragons?"

"You assume correctly even if Cicero has to admit the attack itself was executed by mundane men," Cicero explained hesitantly. "Also, it's not only the life of the Li… I mean – Myrabeth – at stake. Her fosterling and two more who I do not know much are threatened as much."

Farkas' head whipped in his direction. "Is the little Lu alright?"

"No harm came to her – in fact some of the dead bodies produced by this encounter where her doing," Cicero said with a hint of a smile – a new idea bloomed to life in his mind but that one he would follow up later.

Alea gestured for one of the apples. Farkas shoved the bowl her direction, his voice now severe. "I don't know what you two will decide, but I made mine. If they need our help, I will lend them my sword and bow!"

Feeling the need to explain the whole situation, Cicero fed them the details of what had occurred and who those enemies were Myrabeth needed help with. They all listened intently; sometimes Farkas cracked his knuckles, while Vilkas peeled his apple looking a tat too disinterested.

Alea leaned back in her chair as he finished, and said. "Count me in. Hadn't had a good chase in ages and it looks like our sister got more than she bargained for this time." She directed her attention back at Cicero. "How soon does she need us?"

"I have open contracts and the patrons expect us to deliver in time," Vilkas intervened, looking outraged at the woman. "You can't decide for all of us…"

"You're not going to join us, brother?" Farkas asked slowly.

Pointing at Cicero, Vilkas stood from his chair. "Instead of Myrabeth, he comes here, dropping her request at our feet and now you expect us to ignore our duties for her? You can't be serious Alea. It was her who turned her back on us!"

"Do what you want Vilkas… but we will go and I will ask the others if they join us," Alea replied unshaken by his gruff response. "She had her reasons to leave Whiterun and it's not up to you or us to judge her for it!"

Vilkas snarled, and said something Cicero couldn't understand. Without a word he left the table, went for the door which he tore open violently and hauled it shut behind him with even more brutal force.

Cicero clicked with his tongue and shook his head. "How unsettling. I am certain Myrabeth had no intention of causing any dispute." Uncertain what else to say, he decided to take his leave before they involved him too deeply in their quarrel. "She will need your aid as soon as you can give it. The incident at Falkreath requires her to leave town and find a new place to stay – which means she won't be around her family to protect them from harm."

"Don't worry about Vilkas. He's an old clotpole with the temper of a naggy fishwife," Aela said, her lips twisted in a sardonic smile. "Farkas, make sure he gets back to his place in one piece. Can't have Vilkas chewing Myra's friend…"

"Will do," the huge Nord said, throwing Cicero a friendly smile as they both headed for the large door leading back into the City. "Really a shame they had to leave Whiterun. They would have been much safer here. How have they been so far?"

Once outside, Cicero shrugged. "Aside from the attack they seemed to do just fine," Cicero answered, though he needed to know. "How well do you know the twins – if Cicero may ask?"

Before Farkas could answer, a blurred motion to his right and the pained sound of vibrating metal sinking in weathered wood redirected Cicero's and Farkas eyes attention at Vilkas. The warrior pierced them both with a pair of deepfreeze cold eyes, his lips parted to animalistic gnarl.

Cicero eyed the dagger that plunged half way in the wall of their building. A powerful throw, yet an awful abuse of a good blade. 'A clotpole through and through', he silently agreed with Aela's previous sentiment.

"Vilkas!" Farkas growled, tearing the dagger out of the wood. "Don't you try that again… next time you have to deal with me."

With a sneer, the other warrior turned and left them without any further discussion. Whatever Myrabeth had done, one of the Companions heavily disapproved. Whatever it meant, Cicero could only hope it wouldn't get in the way – or maybe it would be a good thing if he got in the way? Because if it did, Vilkas would be very very sorry. Cicero liked that thought.

"Is he always like that?" Cicero asked slowly, assessing the chances of removing the snappy Nord from the face of the world. "He seems very hateful."

Farkas sighed, his shoulders moved in an awkward shrug. "I have to apologize for my brother. He can be arrogant at times, but … well, how do I explain this." The huge Nord sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I am sorry, I am not good with words and tend to talk too much."

"You can tell me what happened… Cicero won't tell anyone," he assured him.

Visibly uncomfortable Farkas' rubbed his neck. "They have been intimate and he fell for her pretty hard - we all warned him but he rather listened to his dick than us. She's pretty and smart, but not someone who wants to settle down and have pups."

"That she is indeed," Cicero said – biting back the jealous undertone lacing his tongue.

This time Farkas laughed; a deep rough baritone. "The twins are something… but far too wilful and fickle for a Nord like Vilkas." A few seconds later he stopped, chewing on his lower lip. "It's not my business… but are you and Myrabeth…?"

Blinking, Cicero had trouble to sort his thoughts. The twins were beautiful creatures, but he always had regarded them as his little sisters and not potential lovers. Back then, whoever touched his girls, ended up poisoned or stabbed in the darkest corner of the Imperial City.

They have been youngsters and he a grown up man when they met and decided to be friends. If at all, it would rather have been Ashlyn. Sweet calm and kind Ashlyn. Myrabeth always had been and still was far too volatile and erratic – very much like he was now.

"Cicero isn't suicidal…" he replied and patted the huge Nord on the back. "Want to share some tales over cooled ale?"

Farkas stopped at the large door of the Bannered Mare. "Why do you talk like that?"

Cicero frowned "Because…"

"That's not an answer," Farkas complained.

Amused by the Nords puzzled look, Cicero smirked. "Cicero is a Jester in disguise."

Farkas scratched his head. "Do all Jester speak as if they suffer personality disorder?"

Opening the door, Cicero looked inside for a free table before answering. "It's in our job description."

"Sounds more like 'having fallen on your head too often'," Farkas countered.

If anyone else would have lumped his demeanour in one pot with personality disorder he would have cut their throat. Though, Farkas didn't appear the like the mean sort and in a way, he gave the impression of not being the brightest light around, too. So he would show mercy, just this once.

The smell of fresh bread mingled with the thick air inside of the tavern room. Reaching inside his pouch, he let his shoulders slump. He only had three septims left. Not enough to buy more than one tankard, maybe two if he put some more honey into his words.

"Greetings," Saadia chirped from the kitchen, flashing a pearly white at him. "Left you something upstairs." As she saw Farkas, her eyes went wide. "You're with the Companions? Why haven't you told us before?"

"Well, Cicero did…" he started, but found the look on her face too fascinating.

Saadia's hand went to her forehead. "Silly me… you're right. Truly, if I had known I would have charged less."

Farkas snuck into the kitchen, hugging the dark skinned woman against his chest, "Awww Saadia, haven't seen you for ages… did that Bard pester you again?"

"No he didn't. Now let go of me you lumbering oaf," she breathed, laughing hard. "Have a seat. Want the usual?"

Together, they picked a table near the kitchen. The half of a day had passed since he had last eaten, and the smell of stew and fresh bread teasing his nose caused his stomach to complain much harder now.

"Farkas!" Hulda greeted from behind the bar table.

Farkas' head turned her direction, "Oi!"

The woman nodded, grabbed two tankards, filled them with a golden liquid and brought it over to their table very much to Cicero's delight. "How's business? Got many contracts recently?" she asked, propping the tankards in front of each of them.

"The usual – clobbering ," Farkas said and took a deep draft from his ale. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he asked. "Got anything interesting for us to take care of?"

"Have you heard about the Jarl's son," she asked, bending closer - her voice very low. "The jarl is offering a good amount of gold if someone could find out what happened to his son, Nelkir. That boy behaves more than strange. Rumours have it that he's possessed by some demon which turns him evil."

That had Cicero's interest, since there wasn't much else to do. Farkas at the other hand didn't look too happy about the suggested work, which meant he wouldn't be angry if Cicero took a closer look at the boy. Last time he had asked for work, they only had offered him domestic tasks and of that he had enough back at the Sanctuary.

"I don't know Hulda," Farkas said slowly, as if he couldn't decide. "That sounds more mage's work if demons are involved. Didn't anyone complain about trolls or giants, recently? Maybe some marauding bears stealing livestock?"

Hulda shook her head. "That's all I got, besides the usual firewood and wheat deliveries."

Peering at the Nord from the side, Cicero said. "Maybe, we'll look into it if we get a chance to see the jarl."

"Do we?" Farkas looked dumbfounded, but drowned the annoyed look in his tankard. "Hope you know what you're doing. You can have my sword, but don't expect me to do the magic part…"

The heavy doors of the tavern sprang open. "Beer and some wenches!" someone droned, before having even set a foot inside.

"Well boys, let me know when you find out what's going on. Have to go," she said, rolling her eyes and left them to their ale. "Coming…"

"It's about time," the newcomer said, a derelict looking fellow dressed in an even more derelict looking robe.

"Hope you can pay this time, Sam. You still owe me fifteen septims," she said, went behind the bar and returned with a large dark bottle at his table "… this makes now seventeen septims."

"My dearest Hulda," the man drawled, hauling her onto his lap "it hurts me to see so much distrust in your beautiful eyes. Have a little faith in me…"

Cicero's eyes narrowed, but Farkas was too fast and gestured him to stay out of it. "Don't. It's not as bad as it looks and you don't want to get toe to toe with Sam. He once beat the shit out of me and my brother when we interfered for the very same reason."

Seeing his friendly host falling victim to some rude drunk, and not being able to help her made him angry. Severely angry.

"She has been nice to Cicero, I cannot sit here and watch him violating her!" Cicero hissed, not taking his eyes from the Breton who kept curling a lock of her hair around his index. "I'll help her, now!"

Farkas made a face, and pushed him back into his chair and held him there. "Sit down."

"Cicero has seen enough," he snapped, angry at being pinned to his chair.

The drunken Breton glanced over at him, flashed a mean grin and turned his attention back at Hulda. "You know, I missed this place and most of all you."

"My dearest Sam, as sweet as your voice can be – I rather prefer the golden jingle of coins in my purse," Hulda said, lifting her opened hand in front of his face.

A lopsided smirk appeared on the drunken man's face. "Alright my greedy bird. But just this once!"

Appeased by the resolve of Hulda's situation, Cicero allowed his body to relax a little. Next time he would have to be a little less impulsive. Most of the time he didn't care what happened to others around him, they were strangers to him. But not Saadia and Hulda. They had been friendly – especially Saadia. Hadn't Farkas been around, he would have made a total butthead of himself.

"You see? All good!" Farkas hummed into his tankard.

Turning his attention back at the half full tankard, Cicero changed the subject. "How long have Ashlyn and Myrabeth been with the Companions?"

Farkas scratched his chin. "I am not good keeping track of time. I really don't know to be honest. Long enough for me to call them shield sisters and trust them both with my life."

"Have you been close with any of them?" Cicero asked lightly.

Snorting into his tankard, Farkas began to cough. "By Shor, No! I just would break them… they are so – tiny!"

'If you knew who they are consorting with you wouldn't worry about their size…' Cicero thought, but didn't comment on it any further. "Your brother didn't think the same, apparently."

Farkas snorted, then grinned. "He's not as big as me…, besides I prefer women like Saadia. Redguard women have fire in their blood. She's a good bed warmer, that one."

"Do you always talk about women like that?" Cicero noted with some irritation.

Someone laughed softly having Cicero and Farkas jumping out of their chairs, "Yep he does, but doesn't mean it like that." Ashlyn's broad smile greeted, the rest of her face hidden under the hood of her traveling cloak. "Awww my little sister is back," Farkas bellowed and hauled her against his chest. "Let me look at you…" he said and held her a little away from him. "By Shor, you look… good?"

Somewhat timidly, her eyes averted. "Don't ask Farkas. You wouldn't like to hear the story…" Then she lifted the hood a little, revealing metalline golden eyes – unnatural and strange "Haven't expected to find you here… what are you doing in Whiterun Cicero?"

Agape, he lost hold of every thought. Every single word fell to the ground like juggling balls he had failed to catch.

"Spitfire, over here!" the Breton called from behind her.

Ashlyn didn't move, her eyes on Cicero, "Not now, San…"

"You're back?" Cicero asked, not believing his eyes. Carefully he poked her shoulder. "You're back! Yes yes, you're back!" Discarding her strange appearance he wrapped his arms around her small frame and laughed. "Back…" Farkas chuckled, and from the corner of his eyes he could see the Nord retreating – leaving them some room. "Cicero missed you so much."

Patting his back, she said "There there, all will be well! Now tell me what you're doing here. Shouldn't you be with my sister, helping her with our little problem?"

His nose deep in the fabric of her cloak, he noticed that it was the one he had given her ages ago. Relieved she still held him at least in some high regard, he mumbled. "She wants to employ the Companions… that's why Cicero is here. But why she chose me, I can't answer."

Cupping his face, she forced him to look at her. "I am so sorry about all this! It must be hard for you not to be around the Night Mother."

Not being with the Night Mother was the last of his concerns. Taking in her appearance once more, he noticed the deep rings under her eyes and the gaunt features. It was disturbing. Not even the hood could hide the weakened state she was in, and the golden skin was unmistakably not of mortal origin.

Cicero breathed "What happened to you…"

Once more he wished Myrabeth had been at least somewhat more forthcoming about what had happened at Markarth. The little half-eaten scraps of information he had been able to pull out of Lucia and Rose only had made it worse for him.

A deep baritone joined their conversation, arms theatrically spread. "Ladies and Gentlemen - greetings, salutations and merry pleasantries – could we skip the rest of this heart-throbbing welcome-home ceremony? I am hungry and thirsty – and I am considered annoying when I am hungry and thirsty."

Letting go of Cicero's face, she turned at the Breton behind her. "When is there a time you're not hungry and thirsty - and annoying?" Her eyes narrowed, her index pointed at Sam "It has been some time when Cicero and I had a chance to speak. Now, how about a little diplomacy here? It wouldn't hurt you using it more often."

The rugged Breton laughed, not sounding drunk at all, anymore. "Bah! Diplomacy is nothing more than eloquent deception when blatant honesty fails."

"Sithis' ass! Aren't there any spinsters you could pester instead?"

Sam shrugged carelessly. "I find you far more pleasing to the eye and… touch."

"Hey! Show some manners! That's my shield sister you're talking to!" Farkas growled.

Sam graced him with a wide daring grin. "Oh the puppy barks… want me to mop the floor with you, again? Last time was extremely entertaining."

Everyone around Cicero tensed for a split second, and from the corner of his eye he could see Farkas shifting into a subtle defensive stance. Sam's provoking stare wandered between him and the huge Nord, daring one of them to make the first move. If that shitfaced braggart truly had the wish to start a fight, Cicero would be more than happy to oblige.

Ashlyn was the first who broke the uneasy silence with an outraged hiss, meant only for their ears. "Pox on you all! Don't you dare starting a brawl – both you! Because if you do, I will join this time and none of you guys will leave with your skin and balls intact. Is that clear?"

Farkas and Sam exchanged knowing looks, chuckled and dropped their aggressive attitude towards each other as if it had never existed.

'And they call me nuts…' Cicero thought a little disappointed. He would have loved to pummel the arrogant Breton, and if merely for the sake of causing humiliation.

"The Lady's wish is our command, eh?" Sam quipped and was rewarded with a fist in his shoulder. "Hey! Do that again and you end up over my knees."

Saadia came by with a large platter of grilled vegetables and meat chunks. "Get a room or I'll get a bucket with cold water!"

"How about some cold beer or ale instead?" Sam offered in return.

"If you can pay?" Saadia replied crisply, arms crossed. It was obvious she disliked Sam.

Jingling a pouch in front of her face, the Breton flopped on a chair next to Farkas "Certainly. On me! And if you have, some of the best wine – not that watered down berry juice you sell as such."

Despite his grudge against the Breton, Cicero eased back into his chair. "When will you return to your sister? Maybe we could ride together."

Ashlyn shook her head "No. I am afraid not. We'll meet at Falkreath, but San and I will travel a different route, taking care of a few details in Solitude before I can re-join my sister."

Cicero wanted to ask if he could accompany her, though, the way Sam stared him down made it very clear that whatever she meant by her explanation would have to do. Reluctantly and disgruntled, he closed his mouth, and kept his eyes on the table.

Left to hope this unpleasant fellow wouldn't be around too much. That one had an unexplainable daunting aura, radiating power which belied his shabby appearance. A clear and vivid warning he would have to take serious, bringing back an old expression. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

Sam's lips twisted into a crooked smile as he held out his hand "Let's drop all that hostility have some friendly drinking competition?"

Farkas grunted his satisfaction, returning to his chair. "That's more to my liking. How about some cozy and willing wenches?"

"Cozy and willing wenches are out, I fear," Sam replied and laughed as Ashlyn groaned.

She drew the hood of her cloak deeper into her face. "I don't believe this…. Nope. I do not belong to this idiot…. Really."

Cicero agreed silently. Maybe now was the right moment to have a little chat with his friend. Since her sister hadn't been entirely open about their situation, maybe Ashlyn would at least explain a few details important to him. She owed him at least that much.

Placing a hand on her forearm, he gently tugged at her for attention. "Could Cicero have a word with you?" glancing over at Farkas and Sam. "Alone?"

Her right eyebrow cocked. "You can trust them. Farkas knows what we are…"

That fact was surprising and it disturbed him. The Nord didn't know the twins as long has he had known them. Why have they shared their secrets with a Nord, prone to superstition and never really told him – their friend and former trainer.

"It's personal…and who knows when Cicero will have another chance to talk to you," Cicero replied and drew her with him upstairs before the Breton could protest. "Please? For old time's sake?"

"Can't we…" She said, but shut her mouth as he put his index on her mouth.

"Please sweet Ash… do Cicero this one favour. I never asked for much, but this I ask of you" he said, ignoring Sam's intense glare.

She locked gaze with the Breton, whose features had darkened in the meanwhile. The silent conversation between them ended with a short nod from Sam, but the sinister expression remained on his face. It was obvious that Sam was controlling his temper. Cicero smiled inwardly. He had won.

Taking the stairs to his room, he hoped Crazy was still in his box and hadn't eaten through the wood. Most rodents discovered rather quickly when their prison wasn't as sturdy as their teeth.

Closing the door of his room behind him, he leaned against it while watching his friend taking off her cloak. A few long moments they just stood there, face to face not saying a word. Suddenly there was a soft tingling sensation brushing against his mind,

His eyes snapped wide open in shocked awe. "What? Mother? Is that your voice I hear?" There was only silence, and the nice presence in his head was gone replaced by the shrill cackle of the jester. Disappointed, he walked toward the bed where he slumped down. "Hmm... No, no... Just my head playing tricks... Foolish Cicero. I am sorry Ashlyn. My mind isn't what it used to be…"

"I can see that," she replied quietly and sat down next to him. "Hm. Seems you and I have to talk about much more than just about what happened to me. Don't you agree?" she chirped, and smiled sweetly even if only for a brief moment. "Want to make a deal?"

Drawing a pillow over his face, he muttered, "What is it with you and always asking for a deal. Is that some Daedra thing?"

She pulled the pillow from his face and cooed, her voice lilting and light as Cicero remembered it. "I could offer you something else… but you wanted me up here to talk. So…."

"If Cicero had no manners, I would call you an asshole…" he huffed, reclaiming the pillow.

Ashlyn laughed. "Well, that's still better than having Cicero ignoring and avoiding me."

"Not avoiding, saving us both the pain…" he muttered and averted his eyes.

"Not good enough. Now spill it. Why do you want me up here," she said, her eyes darting over to the door. "San doesn't trust you and I don't know how long he will stay put before he blunders in here."

Cicero snorted into his pillow. "Well, Cicero doesn't trust that drunken mud brain, either." Lifting the pillow a little he ogled at her. "Now my dear friend, tell me something. Do you merely pronounce his name the wrong way, or does San actually mean Sanguine?"

She went quiet and he had to put the pillow aside to see what she was doing. Her eyes stared off, fixing a non-existing spot at the wall. "Nothing escapes you… Myrabeth couldn't keep her potty mouth shut, couldn't she?"

"Actually, it was Lucia," he said carefully, balancing his weight now on his elbows. "Why him?"

"Oath Bond," she said, but didn't elaborate

Cicero sat up straight, "Oath Bond? You haven't sold your soul to him, haven't you?"

Now she laughed sharply. "No. It's not what you think and don't let his attitude towards me fool you. I trust him with my very life and soul – and if he truly had wanted to enslave me he could have done so on more than one occasion. That Oath Bond is between him and my father…a promise of protection. Sort of a favour if I remember it correctly."

"He's a daedric prince," Cicero insisted. "Daedra can't be trusted! How could your father trust him!" he burst out, and shut his mouth at her hurt look.

"Thank you very much…considering my heritage that would make me untrustworthy as well…" she replied with a sour undertone. "Why does it bother you so much? Even the companions accept me for what I am. The only detail they don't know is that I actually joined the Dark Brotherhood – which I have to admit wasn't my smarted choice in life so far." She pointed a finger at him. "Is that why you wanted me up here? Lecturing me about being a mongrel?"

Ignoring the last bit she said, he scrambled from the bed and walked next to her. "Everyone knew, except for Cicero. Even that pea brained shaggy downstairs?"

"Careful! Don't underestimate Farkas. Just because he acts simple doesn't mean he is," she warned and walked over to the box where he had hidden Crazy in. "I told you more than often enough about our heritage and the only reaction you gave me was a pat on the head as if I was just some retard."

"Cicero never believed you, indeed," he admitted a little hesitant about his own forgetfulness.

Ashlyn returned to the bed and sat down right next to him. "You know what's ironic?"

"Hmm?" he hummed, meeting her gaze.

"The Daedra may be fickle creatures, immature at times and highly volatile when it comes to their mood," she began with a small smile which turned sad as she continued "But they have been far better friends and loyal allies than any mortal we encountered so far – except for you and Rose."

"Have they never tried tricking you?" he asked with disbelief. Daedra enjoyed nothing more than dragging mortals into misery and humiliation.

Staring at the ceiling, his friend smirked. "You have to be on your toes and know who you are dealing with. In that, they are so very different to mortals. Each of the daedric princes embodies one or more aspects, which makes it almost impossible for them to break habit. This makes them extremely predictable."

"Sounds awfully complicated to figure out," Cicero sighed.

Ashlyn shifted, rolling her body onto her side, facing him with her head propped on a hand. "It's really simple. Always expect a Daedra to entirely act within the limit of its aspects, and do not even try to make it understand anything not covered by these. For example - Boethia will never grasp the meaning of friendship and loyalty. Family ties mean nothing to her. But you have to expect a dagger in your back if you allow your guard to drop."

Still not at peace with that explanation he sat up, looking down at her. "I see. Forgive an old fool for not being comfortable with these things. My loyalty lies with the dread father and our unholy matron. Daedra don't have a place in my world." Then he grinned. "So what do you expect of Sanguine? Getting drunken real bad or getting laid often? Maybe both?"

Her eyes widened, her lips pressed together until the treacherous twitching set in and she ended in a guffaw. "You really had to ask that, right? That's the Cicero I remember…"

Curling back his upper lip, he grinned naughtily at her. "And you haven't changed. Always evading my questions."

Rolling her eyes, she huffed "None of your business what I do for what reason with him. He's different from the rest of the bunch…" She poked her index into his shoulder. "You're horrible!"

Biting at her finger he chuckled. "Lucia told me what she found in your wardrobe… is that what makes him so different for you?"

"What? That little…" she exclaimed but went quiet at once as her face darkened.

"You have drawings of Cicero, too?" he asked teasingly.

"Don't tell me she showed you those," Ashlyn sighed weakly.

"Would it matter?" he asked.

She never had been ashamed of anything, spoke out things other whispered behind closed doors. Seeing her all flustered about some little dirty secret hidden away in her room had its own charm, and he would be damned to let this chance slip through his fingers.

Growling she buried her face in the blanked beneath her. "I kill that little brat…"

"Oh please, don't be so shy. We both know you have always been a bashful one," Cicero kept teasing. "So, have you drawn me nude, too?"

"No!" her growl muffled by the blanket, she shook her head.

Enjoying himself, he poked her shoulder. "But you have kinky drawings of Sanguine?"

"Pox on you Cicero!" she growled now louder. "Keep your mouth shut about that when San is around. Don't need his ego to bloat even further."

His expression shifted from mischievous to mean. "You wanted to make a deal. How about this? Cicero keeps his mouth shut when your ever-drunken horndog is around and you give your Fool of Hearts a kiss."

Cicero had to bite the inside of his cheek, swallowing the upwelling laughter has she crossed her arms in defiance. Flashing his eyebrows at her, he waited for an answer. In the past he had loved joshing her, even if it had been difficult because she looked through most of his ruses.

"You want me to kiss you," she asked, when he nodded shamelessly she was over him and straddled his hips. "You didn't want me to at the Imperial City, remember?"

"You had been a child back then. If you had been a little older, Cicero would have done much more to you…" he chuckled darkly, pushing his hips against her.

Her lips stretched into a nasty grin as she squeezed her legs tighter. "Oh really? Instead you went with Nelly. I am not certain what to make of that? If I had known back then I would have cut her throat myself."

"Pity you didn't, because Cicero would have loved to witness you killing her." Wrapping his arms around her waist he drew her closer against his codpiece. "Maybe we should do some stabbing together, anytime soon?"

"Careful that you don't get too excited," Ashlyn wagged a finger at him and moved her hip a little, provoking the already growing bulge between his legs. "Or we have a heavily jealous Daedra pounding you with an empty bottle."

Unwilling to let her off the hook, he drawled "A deal is a deal… besides, isn't he more about whoring than violence?"

"I haven't agreed to that deal, yet," she purred, but bent down close to his face. "I'll ask you again. You sure you want to kiss me? If I told you where that mouth had been, you might want to reconsider - if the possibility of getting beaten up doesn't do that already?" Her lips twitched with amusement and Cicero knew he had gone too far with his intended joke. "You said it yourself... whoring... so what shall it be?"

She stared down at him expectantly and all he could do was staring back at her.

"You're a terrible faker!" he finally concluded, ignoring the throbbing arousal between their bodies. "And an asshole…I wanted to make fun of you! Now look what you did - you made fun of Cicero…"

Ashlyn immediately fixed a blank expression on her face. Not even her eyes betrayed what she was thinking. Slowly she slid off him, turning her face away. Worried, Cicero sat up. As crude as this joke had been, he hadn't intended to insult or hurt his old friend.

Quietly, he went on his knees and inched closer. "Ash?" He touched her back. ".. so sorry…"

She didn't answer. Instead a slight tremor went through her body. Ashlyn hid her face in both hands, which made it impossible for him to see her face. Cicero's heart sank and he suddenly felt terribly ill. His intended pun had backfired straight in his face. He should have known better.

Her shoulders trembled and a guttural chortle rose from her throat, growing louder. "Got ya!" she cawed, peeking at him from under her white hair. "Sithis! You should see that look on your face. Priceless!"

"That will teach me…" he said disgruntled, dropped back and growled as she pecked his cheek. "Should have known. A faker through and through… as Cicero said!"

Ashlyn laughed harder, slapping her hand on her knee. "You forgot the 'asshole' part."

"Makes me wonder from whom you got that attitude." Annoyed by his still throbbing groin, he inched away from her, before any stupid idea could convince him to do something utterly foolish.

"Sanguine is a good teacher… went through a hard school," she said.

Even more annoyed, he made a face. "Spare me the details."

"Don't worry. What happens between him and me is no one's business. I prefer to leave that to people's fantasies," she said and giggled. "I love being an inspiration, you know."

Sticking out his tongue, he pushed himself off the back. "Don't need that kind of inspiration."

"Are you mad at me?" she asked, still laughing.

"Cicero is miffed. But not with you. I am angry at myself for being fooled so easily…" he grunted, moving over to the box with Crazy. "I want to introduce you to someone." Beckoning her closer, he was grateful to change the subject. "Look what Cicero found. Maybe you could help healing the poor little fella." It was better to change the subject than dwelling on old hopes and current needs.

Next to him, she went down on her knees. "What happened to the poor furry?"

"Burned by magical fire…" he growled, evading Crazy's attack on his fingers. "Some brat practiced her spells on him."

"Sounds like Braith," Ashlyn sighed.

"You know the cruel child?" Cicero asked, wondering if there was someone who didn't know the girl.

Ashlyn reached inside the box and carefully scooped up the rat. "I lived here for a while. Now let me have a look at your friend."

Amazed and a little jealous Cicero watched her handling the rodent without getting bitten even once. The rat was calm, even sniffed at her curiously. "How do you do that?"

Ashlyn turned to face him. "Do what?"

"He's a little snarler. Always biting poor gentle Cicero's finger! Why doesn't he bite you?" he asked, perplexed.

Placing the rat on her lap, she smiled at him in an adoring fashion which flooded him with warmth and a relaxing confidence. "Like that," she whispered, her hand reaching out for his face. "And that's only a fraction of what I can do…" she added with a wicked smile.

Sucking in a breath at the heat of his returning arousal. "Don't!"

The door sprang open. "Enough!"

They both jumped, and Crazy almost fell to the ground if Cicero wouldn't have been on his toes already. Ashlyn had warned him in advance, and it had only been a matter of time her companion would intrude. It was a wonder the Daedra hadn't done so much earlier.

"Out with you! I have a patient which requires my aid," his friend barked at the lumbering Breton. "You'll just get in the way…."

Sanguine's mortal features twisted with disgust, "And that does involve enticing some mortal clown? He would have jumped you if I hadn't intervened. I doubt that's what you wanted."

"I am a jester not a clown!" Cicero seethed.

Ashlyn took the rat from his grasp. "Calm down. Both of you, I am warning you…" Making chirping sounds, Cicero watched her carrying the rat over to the bed. "Now let's clean you up sweetie. Can't have you looking like a buttered rat roast, can't we?"

"When that walking sausage is treated, are we done here then?" the disguised Daedra asked impatiently, glaring over at Cicero. "Or do you have anything else you want to talk with her in privacy?"

"Stop throwing him that stink-eye of doom!" Ashlyn said without looking up. "Sanguine! I mean it…"

"Then get done with it." Sanguine growled. "Damn wench…next time you use that ability of yours while I am close you better prepare yourself for retribution."

Helplessly, Cicero shook his head. His world was upside down. Wasn't a daedric prince supposed to be fierce and merciless? Ashlyn apparently didn't fear the infernal entity, even had the audacity to backtalk at him like an equal - like Myrabeth did. That was too much.

Still aroused he fled the room, leaving the two alone to quarrel. Crazy was in good hands, of that he was certain. Ashlyn always had been kind with animals. Regardless, he couldn't stay. Not while that debauching drunkard was around.

'Find me' the familiar soft voice fluttered against the shuddering walls of his mind.

'Mother?' he thought, half relieved half crazed.

'Find the boy…find me' came the reply, before silence returned.

No it couldn't be. The Night Mother didn't talk to anyone except the Listener. And he was merely the Keeper, damned to silence. Blinded by the overwhelming need for solitude, he fled the inn and bound into the streets of Whiterun until he reached the city walls. He climbed up the rocks, and sat down pondering his options until the sun vanished behind a chain of mountains.

oooooOOOOooooo