In one quivering hand, Cicero held two pieces of clean fabric cloth. In the other, a kettle of water that had been warmed over the fire. He approached his Unholy Matron's coffin, as nervous as the night of his first contract, set the supplies down, and carefully slid the key into the lock. The great stone doors swung open and for the first time, Cicero was able to see his maiden’s physical form. A gasp escaped from his lips as he set eyes upon her. She was not what he had imagined, though he could not have put to words what he had envisioned in his head. Her figure, though decomposed and dusty was more beautiful than any other he had ever seen. He stepped forward for a closer look. He admired the crumbling linen that draped over her shriveled body and the ropes that bound it to her. Cicero had been named Keeper and was ready to begin his inaugural ritual.
He dipped the cloth into the warm water and squeezed it out until it was just damp. He began to dab at the Night Mother’s delicate body, beginning with her exposed clavicle. He washed away the dust that had collected there and moved to her arms where he did the same, dipping the cloth to rinse it and then squeezing it out again before returning it to her exposed and rotting flesh. When he had completed the cleansing of the visible skin, Cicero timorously lifted the linen cloth away from her neck and chest and gently swabbed beneath it. By her feet he pulled up the bottom of the draped fabric and bathed her as far as he was able to reach. He then returned the cloth to the kettle and set it aside. With a second cloth, he patted the Night Mother’s corpse dry before preparing to anoint her with the requisite oils.
From the chest where he had assembled his supplies, Cicero withdrew a vial of oil. He began by uncorking the vial and pouring a small amount into his ungloved hand. After setting the vial down, he dabbed at the oil with his opposite hand, rubbing it between two fingers and his thumb until it was thoroughly warmed to body temperature. Cicero was uncertain what sensations, if any, the Night Mother could still experience in death, but he took care to keep her comfortable regardless. He would not appreciate cold oil on his flesh so he did not subject her to the same.
He was uncertain where exactly to anoint her corpse, as it had not been touched in decades. As far as he could tell, the whole of it needed oiling. Though freshly cleansed, her dry, crumbling flesh, brittle bones and her rotted lips appeared to need desperate attention. Cicero decided to begin at the top. He smoothed the dry, matted hair, the oil on his fingertips giving it a shine as if it were still alive and growing. He worked his way down to her face, pressing his fingers into the leathery flesh, moving in circular motions so as not to cause damage. He plucked away the spiderwebs that had formed in her eye sockets and pulled decayed torchbugs from her gaping mouth. His thumb drew across her lips gently, slowly.
He continued by pouring more oil into his palm and rubbing both hands together. He placed a hand on each of the Night Mother’s shoulders and began massaging the oils into the creases and folds with his thumbs, moving down her arms to her bony hands. Carefully he slid his fingers between hers, spreading the oil over her each of the delicate digits. At her feet he worked the oil between her mummified toes and around her heels. Curious, but also wanting to be fastidious, he attempted to lift one of her feet. Her whole body rose up with little effort, surprising Cicero. Her corpse was lighter than his ebony sword and worried he would certainly ruin her, he carefully lowered her back to the floor of the coffin. Instead he slipped his oily fingers beneath her feet to be sure she was preserved in all of the hard to reach places.
When he had completed the oiling, Cicero returned the vial to the chest, wrapping it carefully in linen to protect it. He then gazed upon the one to whom he’d pledged his life and allegiance and was awestruck by her magnificence. One single soul that served as a conduit between those living on Nirn and their dread father Sithis in the Void. Cicero had always held the Night Mother in high esteem, but in all the years that he had been a part of the Dark Brotherhood family, he had rarely given thought to her physical remains. She had been more of an idea than a tangible thing. With his appointment as Keeper he would surely grow to be quite intimate with his Unholy Matron and his devotion would become more corporeal.
Cicero had unconsciously placed his hand on his mother's cheek, cradling it with tender care. He removed it now and rubbed the residual oil between his index finger and his thumb, the consistency evoking that of the blood he was no longer permitted to spill. Cicero felt wistful knowing he would have to wait until a new Listener was chosen in order to experience that same pleasurable viscosity again. It would be a small sacrifice to make.
Recitation of the ancient incantations was the next task in the ritual. He returned to the chest and retrieved the pages upon which those incantations were scribed. He carried them back to his mother and laid them out at her feet. He knelt down before her and began to read aloud, committing the verse to memory as he did so. Again he placed a hand on her cool and preserved flesh. Deep down he hoped that such congress would prove his worthiness of being her Listener, but as he finished up the incantations, he heard nothing but the sound of his own breathing. It had become rather ragged with anticipation before beginning his tasks and had yet to regulate itself through the process of the ritual. A shiver ran through his body.
Cicero stood and removed a torch from the chamber wall. Carefully, he lowered it to the candles set about the Night Mother's coffin and lit them, one by one, before returning the torch to its bracket. The candles cast a soft glow about the room. The profundity of Cicero's position fell upon him heavily. This ritual, which he was to repeat weekly, was to be his life from henceforth. He had committed himself to the Night Mother's care and preservation, shirking all personal pursuits until the new Listener was chosen. It could very well be a short appointment; Cicero had no reason to suspect a new Listener was not on the horizon already, but for however long he returned to tend to his matron, he would do so with fervor. Cicero gave the Unholy Matron a final inspection to assure there were no missed vermin or pests before closing her coffin once more, sealing her from the destruction that the world seemed bent on dealing to her delicate corpse.
The ritual was complete. Cicero emptied the now-cool water from the kettle and returned to his chamber, feeling honored to provide the service.
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