I blink heavily as my blurry vision slowly comes into focus. It takes a long moment of staring, but I recognize the rough, green-tinged stone ceiling above me: I'm back in my quarters in the Dawnstar Sanctuary. The air is still and faintly damp, as usual, but I can also smell the thick, pungent scent Babette's healing paste and a faint undertone of coppery blood. I smack my lips and grimace at the bitter aftertaste of healing potions that lingers on the back of my tongue.

"Ugh," I mutter, wincing at the headache that springs up when I turn my head to the side. Cicero is asleep in a chair beside the raised dais upon which my bed sits, head tilted back as soft snores come from his slack mouth. I smile faintly; a line of drool is slowly working its way past the corner of his lips.

I tentatively move my arm, hissing slightly when my ribs protest at the movement. The breaks are gone, I can tell, but there remains the ubiquitous after-ache that only the strongest healing potions can erase. Still, I work past the throbbing pain and manage to lever myself upright, slumping tiredly against the headboard once I've succeeded. I reach carefully for the rolled-up scroll on the nightstand, recognizing it as a product of Babette's usual neat record keeping. Sure enough, the scroll contains a detailed summary of my injuries and the various potions, pastes, and spells she used to heal them.

"Little Listener!"

I start violently at Cicero's voice, dropping the parchment onto my lap. I stare at the newly-awoken Keeper, surprised that I was engrossed enough in the scroll to miss his return to consciousness. He bounds onto the dais, a joyful and relieved expression on his face. "The Little Listener is awake!" he crows, plopping down onto my bed. Unlike most of the other assassins, Cicero is not shy with his affection, and immediately begins to pepper my face with kisses.

"Gah, Cicero, stop!" I complain, shoving futilely at his chest. "I'm not twelve anymore! I'm too old for this!"

The jester clucks disapprovingly, blithely ignoring my squirming. "Little Listener is never too old for kisses," he declares, learning carefully over my legs to hug me. "Little Listener will always be little Listener compared to Cicero." I scowl and give up on my escape attempts, grudgingly pressing my forehead to his shoulder; I know from experience that nothing stops Cicero when he wants hugs.

"Sithis-sake, clown, let Amara go before you hurt her!"

"Nazir," I sigh in relief as Cicero releases me to pout at the Redguard, who enters my room with a bowl in one hand and a mug in the other. His irritated scowl changes to a smirk at my obvious relief; he pauses to set the bowl and mug down on my desk before mounting the dais.

"Glad to see you awake, Mar," he says, eyeing me seriously. "The ghost's warning was almost too late. You were in pretty rough shape by the time we got to you." His expression quickly morphs into one of irritation and worry-fueled anger. "By the sands, what were you thinking? Running off and playing dungeon-hero like that, you could have been killed!" I cringe under his ire, fiddling with the bedsheets and staring anywhere but at my Speaker.

"I know, I'm sorry," I mumble guiltily, realizing for the first time exactly how worried Nazir was.

"Don't you ever do anything like that again, Amara," he barks in response, apparently not placated. I hear him cross his arms over his chest and it doesn't take much imagination to know what his glare must look like. "Listener or not, I'm not going to let you put yourself in danger like that." Indignation sparks in my chest, but it's quickly smothered.

"That's not going to be a problem," I say, face flushing as I look up. "I, um, Mother… Mother says I'm confined to the Sanctuary for a month."

Cicero's eyes widen. Nazir opens his mouth, then shuts it with an audible click and a faintly stunned air. For a long moment neither make a sound.

"The Nightmother… grounded you?" He asks slowly, almost disbelievingly. "…really?"

My face must be red as a tomato, but I nod in confirmation. A few seconds of silence tick by before Cicero suddenly explodes in laughter, clutching at his stomach and toppling to the ground in an excessive display of mirth. I blush harder and bury my face in the bedsheets as Nazir also begins laughing, albeit in a more restrained manner.

"Yes, go ahead, laugh at your leader," I complain into the sheets, voice muffled. "It's not like she's sitting here or anything."

Nazir regains himself first. "Forgive me, Amara," he gasps, wiping at his eyes, "but, sands, if that isn't the funniest thing I've heard in a long while. Grounded by the Nightmother!" Cicero's howling laughter intensifies at the Redguard's words.

"It's not funny to me," I snap, glaring at the two grown men.

"Are you angering my patient?" Babette's dry voice comes from the doorway, and I experience another surge of relief as I see her standing there, hip cocked and eyebrow raised.

"Oh thank Sithis," I sigh. "Babette, tell them to leave me alone!"

Before she can reply, Cicero manages to choke out "Mother has grounded the Listener" before he resumes cackling. I wince, but the little vampire merely blinks in surprise and stares for a moment before shaking her head.

"That's no reason for you to upset her, Cicero," she says mildly, retrieving the bowl and mug Nazir neglected before joining the other assassins next to my bed. I smile gratefully as she hands me the mug, which is filled with a pain-numbing alcohol she developed herself; the bowl she sets upon the nightstand. I gulp down the bitter drink as Babette soaks some cloth strips in the bowl.

"So tell me what happened to you," she says as she carefully unwraps the bandages around my arms, exposing a few cuts that did not close all the way and confirming my theory that some had been poisoned. I relate my experience in the crypt as she smears paste on the lacerations and covers them with the soaked cloths before wrapping them in fresh, dry dressings. Nazir comments at various points in the story, and even Cicero quiets in order to listen. By the time I finish, my wounds are all freshly dressed and sleep is tugging insistently at my eyelids; Babette's concoctions never do things halfway. The ever-young assassin smirks at me as she dumps the soiled bandages in the bowl and picks it up, along with my empty mug.

"Good job, Amara," she says with the air of a proud older sister. "You're damn lucky it wasn't worse, but good job. Now, I don't want to see you out of bed for the next two days. Some of that poison is still working its way out of your system."

"Whatever you say, Babette." I yawn halfway through the statement, a wave of deep tiredness overwhelming me. Cicero is kind enough to help me lay down before Babette shoos the men from the room. I dimly hear the door close as I drift off; just before I succumb entirely, a new presence appears and settles silently down beside my bed.

I smile faintly as pale blue light shines through my eyelids.