The first thing he did, as John left the gates of Whiterun, was speak to the carriage driver he had spotted when he had first entered. A carriage ride would cut down the travel time by more than half. Of course, when he asked if they had space on the obviously empty carriage, the man had nervously said no.

He expected as much.

Even within Whiterun proper, the merchants who'd been all too willing to shout their wares in the morning had grown quiet when John came by. The former assassin was under no illusions as to why that was. The Ebony Blade's mere presence was enough to make anyone nervous.

He could only imagine the thoughts going through the driver's mind as to what he wanted.

Nevertheless, since none of the shopkeepers inside the city were willing to sell him anything (or if they were willing, they only did so out of a healthy dose of fear, and he didn't exactly enjoy the idea of exploiting that fear), he either had to start hunting for provisions, or find some people that weren't afraid.

Thankfully, a Khajiit-manned caravan had set up near the city, and were all too glad to trade with him. John had to admit, while he'd heard of them before, seeing a walking, talking cat person was another matter entirely.

Not to mention that they had somehow immediately picked up on the fact that he was carrying a Daedric Artifact on his back.

That said, they were fairly easy going about it, and John left their caravan with a thick mammoth coat, and quite a bit of dried food. They'd maybe last a week or so, which did mean that he still needed to hunt, but it was still good to keep them on hand in case he needed them.

All that said, John was as prepared as he could be. Without another word, he headed off to Dawnstar.

There wasn't much to say about traveling on the outskirts of Whiterun. It had been four days since he'd left Whiterun, and on the way, bar the occasional wild animal he hunted down for food, there was no real excitement to be had. Just the way he liked it, honestly.

He had passed through Honningbrew Meadery once more, giving a nod along to Sabjorn, who was busy with what appeared to be giant rat corpses. Skeevers, John recalled. There weren't many around Riverwood, as they were pests that were quickly dealt with, but he'd heard of them.

Must have been the pest problem that Commander Caius spoke of when he'd spent some time here. That said, there were an awful lot of rats for a meadery of that size. John made a mental note not to drink their brand till he could be certain it didn't have any rat droppings in them.

He'd gone along the path to a local farm north of Whiterun, but seeing the way that the woman working there gave a wary glance at the wrapped Ebony Blade, he quickly made it out of sight. He had no intention of putting undue stress on an otherwise uneventful day.

Finally, on the end of the fourth day, he passed into Whitewatch Tower, spotting a handful of bandits trying, and failing, to assault it. It was pitiful, really. Three bandits assaulting a fully stocked Imperial garrison of twelve.

Guess even in Skyrim, some people were stupid like that. Not that he could say much about it, really. He had waged a pseudo one man war against the entire criminal underworld.

Regardless, he passed through with the guards stationed there checking his identity. Thankfully, since he was not a wanted criminal, they just let him pass on through. It would have been awkward if they told him to produce papers that he never had.

It wasn't until he was slightly north of the garrison that the uneventfulness ended. It was night by then, and he had decided to set up camp just off the side of the road, though within distance of both the tower and what looked to be another farm. While it may have looked suspicious, he would rather rest than risk dealing with whatever nocturnal creature there was - he'd had enough of wolves ambushing him after the second night of his little journey.

It was when he was preparing dinner that he heard it. A loud crash followed by annoyed screaming. He paused as he gave a glance to the Ebony Blade. He hadn't used it at all, having used his bare hands. Not because it was easier, but because he wasn't entirely sure what would happen if he held the damned thing and used it.

Now though, hearing a shuffling of feet and muttered curses, John might just be forced to.

He really should have gotten another weapon.

From out of the darkness, coming closer to the fire, John spotted a figure jogging closer and closer. Said figure was still shrouded in darkness when he felt it.

People in his previous line of work usually had some sort of 'aura' about them. Not literally, more of, a feeling of danger that only hardened murderers exuded. John knew that he'd an aura like that. Just from his name, people would think twice.

The person approaching him was exactly like that.

Relentless. Bloodthirsty. Someone who would willingly kill a person without a second thought.

John's hand crept towards the Ebony Blade, reaching it as the person finally stepped into the light.

"Oh, what's this? A stranger, yes, a stranger in black and brown!"

A jester, wearing an outfit that wouldn't be out of place in a Renaissance fair. No matter how ridiculous the man looked, the sheer bloodlust that he exuded was thick enough that he could practically cut it with a knife.

"What do you want?" John kept a hand on the bundled Ebony Blade, while the other hovered near his campfire. There was no way he was going to let his guard down. Not when the jester felt more dangerous than an entire bandit group.

"Poor, poor Cicero only wants your help! Stuck! Stuck here, my mother dearest! My wagon wheel shattered under her, and now she lies motionless!" The jester made a show of throwing his hands in dramatic fashion, miming crying, then pointing into the darkness.

John looked to where the now named Cicero came from. Nothing but silence.

"Your mother?" There was nobody else there. Either this man thought he was stupid, or he was insane. Maybe both, with how he talked.

"Yes, yes! But not alive, no. Mother dearest lies still in her casket! Cicero was only bringing her to a new home, a new crypt! Fortune did not favor dear Cicero and mother, no, no! Dear stranger, would you be kindly enough to offer help?"

Strangely enough, nothing that the man said was a lie. John considered himself a good judge of character, and while the jester was certifiably insane, he was also telling nothing but the truth. Still, better safe than sorry.

"And there's nobody else with you?" As discreetly as he could, John scanned the surrounding area. His eyes had already adjusted to the darkness, and so far, he couldn't see anyone else.

"Of course not! Only Cicero was given the enviable task of transporting mother!"

…Enviable. Right, the man was completely insane. Well, it wasn't like he hadn't helped worse human beings in his life. At least this one was for a genuine cause rather than being a greedy bastard or something along those lines.

"Right," John let go of the Blade, though didn't let go of the tension in case he was wrong. Wouldn't be exactly the first time he was wrong about something.

"Splendid, splendid! This way, good sir, to mother we shall go!"

It was a fairly short walk, maybe a few meters away from where John set up camp. And, looking at the scene with a torch in hand, John could tell that Cicero was more or less telling the truth. A broken wagon wheel, with the wagon carrying a large crate. That said, the jester had definitely understated the damage to the wagon.

The crate had slid off the wagon and had dug itself a good few inches into the mud. Peeking out from the crate was what looked to be a coffin with ornate carvings.

Taking a closer look at the area, John could see just what exactly had happened. He couldn't help but snort. A damn pot hole. Seems like those things were just about universal, and caused just about the same trouble.

Inspecting the wagon wheel, John nodded to himself. The damage was repairable, but it would take some effort.

"Alright, Cicero," John began, turning to the jester. "I can help fix your wheel and get the wagon moving again. But I'll need some tools and maybe some wood to reinforce the wheel."

"Cicero can get the wood, oh yes, oh yes! But the dastardly tools are nowhere to be found!"

John hummed to himself. Well, he didn't necessarily need tools. It would make things just a tad more difficult, true. Then again, he restored a Mustang to near perfect condition. The wheel itself would still work well, the only thing he needed to replace was the axle that had snapped off.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

It was meditative, repairing the wagon. Reminded him of the hours he spent in his garage, working on his car. Relaxing. And a reminder of a home he had left.

John worked diligently, his hands moving with the practiced ease of someone used to fixing things under pressure. Cicero, for his part, had managed to find enough wood to use as reinforcement. It was a rough job, but it would hold until they could get to a proper town for better repairs.

With the wheel repaired and the axle reinforced, John wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped back to admire his work.

"All set, Cicero. Should hold for now," he said, tossing away the rock he'd used as a makeshift hammer.

Cicero's eyes widened with childlike glee. "Oh, thank you, kind stranger! Cicero and mother are forever in your debt!" He made a sweeping bow, nearly toppling over in the process.

"Best to still get it checked out in Whiterun." John warned, "And try to avoid potholes from now on."

"Words of wisdom! More help from this kindly stranger, and yet, foolish Cicero still has not repaid him! Here, here, coin! Shiny, gleaming coin!" The jester pulled a small pouch of gold from his waist and tossed it to John. For his part, the only thing he did was raise an eyebrow as he felt the weight of the pouch. At least two hundred gold? Maybe a bit less. Even then, much more than he expected.

"Thank you, thank you, noble stranger! Cicero knew he could trust such a kindred spirit!" John froze as the other man continued to talk while packing up the crate back onto the wagon. Before he could even reply, the jester was already off into the night, heading further south with one more shout of glee.

John calmed his pounding heart. He had lost himself in the monotony of repairing the wheel. He had almost forgotten that the jester was perhaps the single most dangerous person he'd met so far. Had he wanted to, John would have certainly been a victim of his.

Maybe one day, he'll come to regret what he did here. Maybe he already did. Nothing was set in stone. If John were lucky, maybe Cicero would bury his mother and be off into the sunset, where John would never hear about him ever again.

The former assassin seriously doubted it, but he hoped regardless.

He didn't sleep too much after getting back into camp. He was kept up with the thoughts of whether or not helping that man truly was a good thing.

Commissioned by: brutalcrab

A/N: If you like what I do and want to support me, check out my P-atreon at P-atreon•com(slash)Almistyor.

And a special thanks to: FireRogueWolf25, brutalcrab and Tassimo.