When he was a young lad, Cicero witnessed an assassination. A neighbor of Cicero’s had been harassing Cicero’s family. Stealing goats, killing their chickens and so on and so forth. Cicero’s family had enough of it. They were done with dealing with this neighbor. So one evening, Cicero’s father brought out a book. A Kiss, Sweet Mother, it was called. He took it to the stable where he crawled into a loft and performed the Black Sacrament, willing the Night Mother to send an assassin to take care of the problem neighbor. Little did he know that small Cicero had followed him up. Cicero bore witness to the whole ordeal. First he watched his father pull a sack from a corner and begin taking out body parts. Blood-drenched flesh, a human heart and bones, even. Finally, a skull was pulled from the sack and placed among the remains. Young Cicero could hardly believe his eyes. From his pocket, Cicero’s father pulled a fistful of Nightshade flowers and began to rub them on a blade. Upon completion of this task, his father began to stab the effigy, repeating, “Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.”
After his father climbed down from the loft, Cicero sat with the effigy and the book. He looked through the book, examining the cover and memorizing the words. Pray, Child, the book said. Cicero just knew it was speaking to him! He stole away to the house with the book under his tunic and each night by the light of the moon, he read it, over and over. He imagined the Night Mother, clothed in robes, her hair flowing long and auburn. He came to love her. She listened to her children and helped them in their desperate times.
Cicero’s own mother was not unlike the Night Mother. She was tender, caring and loving. But Cicero’s mother was a kind soul. She never meant any harm to anyone and most certainly would have been unaware of this Black Sacrament being performed by Cicero’s father. She was content to spend their meager gold on replacement goats and chickens as needed rather than confront the awful neighbor. Cicero’s father only did the Black Sacrament out of pure desperation, Cicero believed. He couldn’t have had nicer parents.
Despite his upbringing, however, Cicero latched onto the incident in the loft. Cicero made sure to be outside as often as possible the following days and even nights anticipating catching the assassination. And all of his planning paid off! A few short weeks later, as the neighbor was closing up his cows in their pen for the evening, a shadow appeared just off to one side of the gate. Cicero’s heart began to beat so hard and loud he feared he would be found out; though he was some distance away, atop a barrel in the shadows cast by the moon. He watched the neighbor shut the gate, and before the latch fell closed, the neighbor had fallen to the ground. The moonlight reflected on the spilling blood. The air began to smell metallic and Cicero’s heart beat faster still. He became dizzy and fell off the barrel with a thud. The next thing Cicero remembered was waking up in the dark.
The darkness in which Cicero awoke turned out to be a Sanctuary for none other than the Dark Brotherhood themselves. A dream come true for a young assassin hopeful, truly. He said nothing as candles were lit and the darkness fell from the room.
“A bit young for the blade, aren’t you?” a calm, low voice asked Cicero.
Cicero, simultaneously struck by fear and awe, remained silent still. The shadow figure raised its chin and then slowly lowered it in a definitive nod.
“Very well, Initiate. I shall show you to your quarters then.”
Cicero silently followed the figure down a hallway to a room with a bed and a dresser. The figure shut the door upon exiting the room, leaving Cicero alone to ruminate on the night’s events.
Cicero had not intended to leave his family that night and for some time, he did miss them. His mother’s kindness, his father’s steady voice. He often wondered what they made of his disappearance. Especially with the coincidence of it occurring the same night of the neighbor’s assassination.
But there was little time to mourn or even think about the past as Cicero quickly began his initiation. There was much training for a young assassin to undergo. Younger than anyone else there, Cicero felt he had to prove himself worthy of being there at all.
Over the following months, Cicero was introduced to the key figures in the Dark Brotherhood. The Speaker of his sanctuary in Bruma, the gorgeous Listener Alisanne Dupre and his fellow brothers and sisters. And on one lucky occasion, Cicero made the trek to the statue of the Lucky Old Lady herself and stood within meters of the Night Mother’s crypt.
Cicero may have been young, but he didn’t let that keep him from accomplishing great things. In fact, he worked it to his advantage. Who would ever believe a young boy would mean harm? It allowed Cicero’s first few kills to be rather satisfying.
The first contract, offered by the Speaker to dear young Cicero, was on a maiden who ran an alchemy shop in the Colovian Highlands. She had apparently sold a man a poison rather than a potion and the man’s wife desired to avenge her husband’s untimely death. She had been left with three children and no way to care for them without their father’s income.
The target was a young woman herself, only a few years Young Cicero’s senior. She had her hair plaited down her back, but Cicero noticed its auburn gleam in the light of the setting sun as soon as he came into the shop.
It was near closing time, but the shopkeeper noticed Cicero browsing her potions and ingredients and offered him help.
“I was hoping for something to help my mom rid our cellar of skeevers,” he told the woman, playing his part as sincerely as he could.
“I have just the thing,” she told him and ventured into the back. While she was out of the room, Cicero brought out a bottle of tainted alto wine. He believed that with the shopkeeper being close to his age, he might convince her to join him for a drink as she closed up shop.
When the woman returned with the poison, Cicero held the alto wine bottle out to her. A sly smile spread across her lips. Cicero knew at that moment that he had her. She pulled two goblets down from a shelf and poured them each half full. Then she carried them out the back door of her shop and under the pergola where a table and chairs sat.
“Kind of you to bring this. You know my father only just now allows me to drink the stuff. Here I am with a shop of my own full of poisons and potions and I’m barely allowed to drink wine1”
Cicero chuckled in response. He tried to think of something witty to say, but the lovely woman lifted her goblet and tossed it back, draining the wine, her other hand clutching the bottle.
“What you abstain from in this life will be withheld from you in the next!” she slurred, pouring another goblet, sloppily overflowing the rim. Cicero had yet to lift his own goblet. The young woman, however, was oblivious to this fact. This target seemed to be doing the job for him.
“To the Night Mother!” he said, finally, raising his glass.
The woman let her hand drop heavily to the table, still holding the goblet. A clang rang out through the evening air. Cicero winced and looked around. The woman’s head tilted and her eyes narrowed somewhat.
“What did you s-say?” she stumbled. Her tongue, swelling, protruded from her lips, causing her to lisp her esses.
“Nothing, dear,” Cicero replied. He touched his goblet to his lips as a show, but never sipped. Placing the goblet back down, he stood up and circled the table to the target’s side. He drew her braid out from behind her back. She swayed into him and her warm breath whispered across Cicero’s hands as he undid the plait.
“Your hair is stunning, Love,” he cooed. The young woman folded her arms on the table and rested her head on them.
“I need a minute, please,” she told him. “I think I….”
Her words faded and Cicero watched as her breath slowed and finally stopped entirely.
“Such a pity,” he exclaimed as he poured his goblet’s contents into hers and placed his goblet in his pouch. He slipped a note under her elbow. Inside it simply said, “Sovngarde awaits.”
Making his way back to the sanctuary, Cicero grinned at having completed his first contract. True, it had not been the bloody slaying he had initially hoped for, but all manner of assassinations were welcome in the Dark Brotherhood and one had to tailor the assassination according to the target, not the assassin’s desires. At least, Cicero told himself, not until he became quite skilled with his blade.
While awaiting another contract, Cicero honed his abilities with his dagger. He learned techniques and poison recipes to dose his blade with if needed. Cicero enjoyed sneaking the most, however. Creeping about in the shadows was something at which a young man could become quite adept. And soon enough, he was awarded another contract.
Contract number two was presented as a challenge for young Cicero. He had proven that he could handle the murder of a young woman with ease, but this target was bound to be more difficult. A much larger target, in fact. An Orc who had been traveling through Bruma to Cheydinhal had wronged someone along the way. Cicero chose not to ask for details of this particular target. The woman from his first contract lingered on his mind for days afterwards and the strands of her auburn hair he had found on his clothing later on smelled faintly of dragon flowers. He didn’t mean to become so attached, and now suffering the consequences of such, he vowed not to ask too many questions on the next contract.
The Orc had set up a camp up a hill off the road and Cicero found it easily in the night as the Orc kept the fire going well into the evening. It would prove to be difficult to sneak up with the forest being so quiet in the evening. Still, Cicero did his best.
Unfortunately the Orc spied young Cicero, but fortunately a young boy in the forest is not as alarming as, say, an assassin might be on a cool night. The Orc coaxed Cicero to come close to the fire for warmth.
“You ought not to be out in this chill, Lad,” the Orc chided. “Was there no room at one of the inns? Is it gold you’re short on?” The Orc tossed a small handful of gold at young Cicero, who nearly fell over from astonishment, but somehow managed to keep his composure.
“Y-yes, that’s it,” he finally replied. “Thank you, oh thank you for that.”
“Don’t mention it. Really, don’t. It isn’t exactly mine to give, if you know what I mean,” the Orc slowly panned his gaze across the camp. Cicero recognized pelts around him. This was not the campsite of a “passer-through”. This Orc was using a Hunter’s camp. And yet, no hunter was in sight.
“Ah,” Cicero nodded understandingly, feigning a look of slight discomfort. The Orc grinned.
“We outsiders have to stick together, you know that?” the Orc said, turning a rabbit leg on a stick over the flames.
Cicero was beginning to lose his courage. This Orc was being so…so personable! Still, Cicero’s job was not to make friends.
“Of course, of course!” Cicero replied, reassuringly.
The two sat in silence as the Orc roasted his rabbit leg and Cicero began to reformulate his plan. He could wait until the Orc slept, maybe. But then, would he sleep with company in camp? What if he decided Cicero had to meet the same fate as the hunter? But no, Cicero reassured himself, he gave me gold! Why would he do that if he had intent of killing me?
The Orc bit into his rabbit leg and shut his eyes with pleasure. A roasted rabbit leg was quite delicious, and this moment afforded Cicero an opportunity. He jumped to his feet and shoved the rabbit leg deeper into the Orc’s mouth. The Orc bit down hard, nearly taking Cicero’s hand off, but the leg had lodged in his throat and his mouth opened once again, making an odd, awful noise. The Orc’s face began to turn red, then purple and finally blue as the Orc’s hands gave up at pulling the bone out of his throat. They were much too large to fit more than a finger or two in and not very deep at that. The Orc slumped to one side. Cicero pulled off his glove to examine his hand. A bruise would certainly form a crescent across three of his fingers, but if that is the worst injury Cicero suffered, he would consider himself lucky. He pulled his glove back on, found an empty sack and began to gather any valuables he could find. The contract was a paid one, of course, but knowing that both previous inhabitants of the campsite would not be making use of it any longer, it seemed a waste to let it all be covered by snow. Then, without disturbing so much as a twig, Cicero fled the campsite.
Back in the sanctuary, Cicero collected his bounty and planned to shop in the market the next morning.
His first stop was the clothiers. After months of living in the sanctuary, he had accumulated a couple of sets of shrouded armor, and he had his original outfit that he was wearing when he fell off the barrel, but that was all he had in his dresser. As he was growing into a young man, his tunic was growing too small. But on the bright side, his shrouded armor was beginning to fit rather well.
Cicero sold some of the items he had collected from the hunter’s camp and from his various outings while practicing sneaking. He was able to purchase some fine boots, a robe, a new tunic and even a hat and gloves. With a portion of his gold, Cicero treated himself to a carrot and a sweetroll. Most people wouldn’t think that those two would go well together, but they would be wrong.
Next Cicero stopped at the general goods store. He hoped to find a dagger. He had been borrowing a sister’s for practice, but had yet to acquire his own. He wasn’t sure that the shopkeeper would sell him a dagger, though he had no reason to worry about that. No one ever questioned anyone for their purchases, and by now Cicero did not look quite so childish.
He stepped to the counter and cleared his throat.
“Everything’s for sale, my friend!” the shopkeeper boomed.
“Do you happen to have an ebony dagger?” Cicero asked somewhat uncertainly.
The shopkeeper tilted his head and Cicero began to panic, believing the shopkeeper to be onto him, but his head shot back up straight again and he raised a finger.
“I do believe I have one! It will need to go to the forge, though, for sharpening if you’re going to use it for cutting anything other than warm cheese. Barely makes it through butter. I wouldn’t feel right charging you my normal rate for this, how about 30 gold?”
“Goodness!” Cicero began, then caught himself. He humbled his voice, “That would work,” he said, more composed this time. The shopkeeper chuckled.
“I remember my first blade,” the shopkeeper reminisced. “I found it in a field! I couldn’t get it to the forge fast enough. Lucky for you, we have a forge in town. I had to work for the coin to hire a wagon to carry me and my blade to town and then had to pay for the sharpening on top of that!”
Cicero flashed a shy but appreciative smile. “I earned my gold,” he promised.
“Oh yeah, and judging by your bags there, it looks like you’ve been working hard! What is it you do to earn coin?”
An innocent question, but once again it sent chills up Cicero’s spine. He had not anticipated needing a whole cover story just to go shopping.
“I….g-gathered the strewn tankards from the fields around my father’s inn the mornings after rowdy nights.” After an awkward pause, the shopkeeper nodded. Cicero exhaled. It could have been a worse lie. The shopkeeper’s face showed that he at least appeared to believe the tale.
“Your father owns an inn, eh? Maybe I’ll find my way to it one day. I like to believe I’ve been to every inn of Cyrodiil, but I always manage to hear of one I haven’t been to yet!”
“Oh, he’s had to shut it down by now. Something about attracting a rough crowd,” Cicero let the lies roll off his tongue. He wasn’t happy to be in this situation, but he was managing well despite it.
“Mhmm,” the shopkeeper’s face looked a little more cynical, but his eyebrows popped up as he wrapped the dagger in a roll of linen. “Well, a boy’s first knife is a memory to behold. I’m honored to have provided it to ya,” he said, handing Cicero the dagger as Cicero placed the gold onto the counter..
“Thank you, honored to…have received it from your fine establishment.”
Cicero turned and quickly made his way out of the shop. Had he broken into a sweat inside? He swiped a sleeve across his forehead but upon examination, it appeared the sweat had contained itself to the insides of his clothing. Cicero had had enough adventure for a day. His trip to the alchemical shop would have to wait. He was eager to see who had replaced the beautiful young shopkeeper, but needed to recover from his stressful interactions of the day.
That evening, Cicero lay in bed trying to sleep. For some reason, the alchemy shop woman kept popping into his head. Her hair, wavy from the plait, dropping down over her shoulders as he undid the braid. It was so soft. Cicero’s own red hair stuck out from under his hat like straw poking from a sack. It was neither soft nor pleasant to look at, in his opinion. Perhaps the alchemical shop had some potion for that, he thought.
Cicero did not return to the city for quite some time. His duties in the sanctuary took up much of his time. He had asked a brother to sharpen his blade, rather than visit the forgemaster in the city. The fewer people who knew he had a blade, the better. The newly sharpened dagger was shiny, gleamy and oh, so deadly. It had not had its first taste of blood, however. All of his practicing had been on dummies in the training room. When he’d challenged a sister to a knife fight, she’d easily knocked his dagger from his hand and pinned him to the ground with her own blade uncomfortably pressed against his throat. Cicero had brushed it off as her being more experienced, but he did worry that he would be easily disarmed and so vowed to train diligently until he could best his opponent. Each brother and sister in the sanctuary took turns in scrimmaging with Cicero. When he finally managed to get his dagger around his opponent’s throat, he had done so with a little too much fervor and had drawn blood. That earned him a reprimand from the Speaker, warning of the costly consequences of harming another member of the Dark Brotherhood, as well as a copy of the 5 tenets to keep in his dresser and read frequently. This bothered Cicero a little, since it was an accident, but, he supposed, he would hope the same would be done to anyone who might hurt him as well. In reparation, Cicero brought his sister a bouquet of Nightshade and Dragon’s tongue flowers. She had glared at him as he handed them to her, the bandage on her neck still soaked through with blood. If he had been ready to return to town yet, he’d have brought her a healing potion, but that was still not in the cards.
Cicero received his third contract a short time later. He intended for this to be his blade’s baptism, its first anointing of blood for the ebony edge. His target was a baker, the maker of Cicero’s favorite sweet rolls. It seemed a shame to kill him, but Matron’s duty called and Cicero took his duty very seriously. The night of its execution, he donned his shrouded armor and lit off into the night to catch his target unaware. The bakery would be closed but humming as the baker prepared the loaves and rolls for the next morning’s market. Cicero had been warned that the baker was aware he had a contract out on him, but it needed to be completed nonetheless. And Mother had chosen Cicero specifically for his vulnerable appearance. This was a great honor, to be chosen by the Night Mother herself and Cicero did not take this lightly. He planned diligently. He knew that most contracts did not have a timeline specific to them and he took the time he had to meticulously pin down every detail. The day before he was to execute his contract, he visited the bakery and purchased a sweet roll. He had meandered around the bakery for a bit, covertly checking windows and doors for weaknesses. He found he was able to hop over a wall around the rear of the bakery and that the baker tended to prop his door open to allow some of the heat from the oven to escape into the cool night air. The barrel below a lower spot on the wall would make the perfect boost for Cicero.
As Cicero approached the bakery, he could hear the sounds of the baker moving around inside. A shiver went through Cicero’s body as he climbed atop the barrel. He peered over the wall to inspect the situation. As he expected, the door was propped open, though only ever so slightly. Cicero knew that this would require some stealth to get inside unnoticed.
The baker was getting ready to load another dozen sweet rolls into the hearthfire oven and Cicero’s mouth watered at the thought of a freshly baked sweet roll. He licked his lips, waited until the baker was close to the roaring fire before quietly pulling the door open just enough to slip inside. The baker was oblivious to Cicero's movements and carried on with his work.
Cicero crouched down below a counter and drew his blade. He turned it in his hand, willing it to be sufficient and act as an extension of Cicero's arm. The gleam, however, reflected the light of the fire onto the wall in front of the baker. The baker spun around, eyes flitting all over as he searched for the source of the light. His eyes finally met Cicero’s. The baker gasped, then grabbed his chest. He fell to the floor, mouth gaping, grunting sounds escaping before finally letting his arms fall limply to his sides. Quite a performance.
Cicero stood and stepped from his hiding spot. He approached the baker cautiously. He watched as the baker’s chest subtly rose and fell. An amused grin spread across Cicero’s face.
“You’re not dead, you’re a faker!” he cried gleefully. He couldn't help but laugh at the fool's attempt to trick Cicero. “But….if that’s your wish, I’ll oblige.”
Cicero plunged his dagger down into the baker’s chest as the baker attempted to rise. The baker’s hands flailed wildly at Cicero as he stabbed over and over, flinging blood across the walls, floor and ceiling of the bakery. Cicero felt warm, though whether that was from the fire, the blood or the feeling swelling in his own heart, he couldn’t be quite certain.
The noises coming from the baker slowed. Little choking gasps and whooshing sounds escaped from his mouth and chest. Blood poured from every wound. Finally, the baker ceased all movement. His eyes stared straight out, appearing to watch the shadows cast onto the ceiling by the flames. Cicero glanced up and took a moment to appreciate the sight. Yellow light, black shadows and a speckling and streaking of blood across the wooden beams and thatched roof. Cicero felt content.
Standing, Cicero cocked his head to peer into the oven. The sweet rolls were ready. He pulled them out with a cloth wrapped around his gloved hand. The smell was intoxicating. He rummaged around in the bakery until he found the sweet roll icing, thankfully prepared already. He glazed a few sweet rolls, smothered the fire and sat for a bit, allowing the rolls to cool before wrapping them and putting them in a sack. He emptied the strongbox contents into the bag as well and quietly slipped out the back door, leaving it propped open as the baker had. He exited through the gate rather than attempt to scale the wall with a full sack. Once he was away from the bakery, he removed his cowl and draped his robe around him to conceal his armor. Should anyone come across him, he would look no more threatening than the mages from the college who occasionally passed through town.
Cicero took his time returning to the sanctuary that evening. The crisp cold air and the glow of the moon were enchanting. He had finally gotten to use the blade and he was feeling like a first-time skooma user. He couldn’t contain his smile. He did hope to not encounter anyone on the slow walk home, knowing they may not judge him for his clothing, but he did, in fact, look like a lunatic with such a large grin on his face.
Cicero made a quick stop by Alisanne Dupre’s room in the sanctuary, where she stayed when visiting from Bravil. He placed one of the sweet rolls on a bench outside her door, with a little folded note. It read, “may we all enjoy the bounty of a job well done”. Cicero had not exactly come to own it yet, but he had developed a small crush on Alisanne. He revered her position as Listener and on top of her most honorable role, he found her exceptionally attractive. The auburn hair, her confidence in every task she set about and he would never forget her blades. Each one stowed in sheaths at her hips, moving gracefully along with her as she strode by. She wielded them with prowess in the practice room and he hoped one day to be present to see her in action with a live target.
When Cicero finally arrived back at the sanctuary, he enjoyed a sweet roll himself as a snack then tucked the remaining contents of the sack into his dresser. He fell asleep dreaming of his next contract assignment.
Contracts were coming steadily and Cicero was mostly completing them with ease. Of course there were some he fumbled, but what’s done was done. He couldn’t dwell on a little more bloodspill being necessary. He had shed the boyish features of his youth and with that came the development of new tactics to employ in his assignments. He no longer relied on the disarming young man byplay. He had sharpened his sneaking skills to match his blade and he became one of the more deadly assassins in the sanctuary, no longer bested by any of his brothers or sisters in the training room. He enjoyed sneaking up on the other members and catching them off guard. They found this endearingly annoying, but came to respect the young assassin. It was the praise from Alisanne Dupre herself, however that kept him focused and driven. As often as he could, he would situate himself around her in the sanctuary as she conversed with the Speaker. He would appear to be busy, so as not to draw attention to himself, but he clung to every word. The way she spoke of the Night Mother, how impressed she was by the sanctuary’s record of successful contract executions. Cicero prided himself on being counted among the brothers and sisters of the Bruma sanctuary.
On Cicero’s eighteenth birthday, his beloved sanctuary in Bruma was raided. Every one of his brothers and sisters were killed. Cicero would have been too, if he were not out doing his own killing. He returned to find a sanctuary in ruins, the bodies of his slain family left scattered about. His stomach turned and he was sick. He went to each of the corpses and tended to them, carefully repositioning them each into a more respectable position. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Uncertain how to proceed, he went to his room and gathered his belongings. He placed Nightshade flowers on each of his brothers’ and sisters’ chests before leaving the sanctuary for good. He knew of one other sanctuary in Cheydinhal that might take in a brother without a home and he hoped they would agree.
First, however, Cicero felt the need to return to his childhood home for a final goodbye, the closing of a chapter he had never meant to write, but felt obligated to complete.
He had left the sanctuary in the middle of the night and arrived at his parents’ home before dawn. As he had as a child, Cicero climbed into the hayloft and rested with the cows lowing below him. The sounds brought him both comfort and anxiety. He had to gather his courage to face his family after so long with no contact. He did not know how they would react and possibly worse, he had no plan for any outcome. He pulled out his journal and quill and thought about writing, but changed his mind as he decided he may not want to remember this visit at all, after morning came.
As the sun rose, he heard movement down below. He rolled off the pile of hay where he had been dozing and peered down. His father, much older looking than he had when Cicero last saw him, had set up with a bucket and a stool to milk their dam. He whistled a bright tune, the notes carrying up to the loft like birdsong. Cicero felt dread building in his chest. He never should have come, what was he thinking? If he had given it more than a moment’s thought, he would have realized that his father would take no pride in seeing who his son had come to be. He would be ashamed, angry and, Cicero thought, more concerned now, he might even turn Cicero over to the guards.
Cicero let a small gasp escape at the thought and despite clamping his hand over his mouth as quickly as he could, his father heard the gasp and looked up.
Cicero met his father’s eyes. His face flitted through a series of expressions; at first a guarded look as he looked up to investigate where the sound had come from. Then, his eyes had widened as they had met Cicero’s. A glimmer of joyful recognition spread, followed by confusion and disbelief. Finally, the farmer stood.
“Ci-Cicero, is that you, son?”
Cicero did not move. He continued to gaze down at his father. He wished so much that he had thought to wear his robe or tunic rather than his shrouded armor.
“We were so lost…” his father began, making his way to the ladder. His voice carried the gravelly timbre of a much older man. Cicero inched backwards, desperate to find something to hide behind or at least cover his clothing. He found nothing.
“Cicero, don’t make your old man climb the ladder after you,” his father laughed uneasily.
“Father,” Cicero began, but found no more words to follow.
“What is it, Cicero? Where have you been? It’s been so long. Are you here to stay?”
“Father,” Cicero started again, “I am not who you want me to be.” He stood and stepped into view of his father, whose eyes immediately set upon the armor.
“Th-that’s the….no, you cant, Cicero!”
Suddenly angry for feeling ashamed, Cicero called down to his father, “I can’t? But you can, I suppose! You are the reason for this!”
The farmer began to shake his head, but slowed as the understanding settled in.
“You were there that night,” the farmer said at last, a look of horror crossing his face.
“I was,” Cicero replied. He stepped toward the ladder, hoping it was safe to climb down. Despite his anger, he yearned for the embrace of his father. To make up for the years of distance.
“You saw me…” Cicero’s father pantomimed the movements of the Black Sacrament. He couldn’t bring himself to even say them aloud.
“I waited for the assassin to come for our neighbor. I was outside on the night they came. I fainted, I suppose, and when I came to, I was in the sanctuary. They couldn’t very well let me go, could they? I had learned so much already and…” Cicero trailed off. He could see his father’s face, sullen. Cicero hadn’t meant to place the blame on him, he accepted his own role in his initiation, but it was true that none of it would have happened if his father had not sought out the Night Mother’s assistance in the matter with the neighbor.
Cicero deftly jumped from the top of the ladder down to a pile of hay in front of the cow, who stepped backwards, unbothered. He stood from his crouched landing position and lowered his head to peer into his father’s face. Cicero had surpassed his father in height since his departure and he saw that his father had not expected to have to look up to his son’s face.
Cicero held his hands out, palms facing upwards. The farmer placed his hands in Cicero’s.
“I cannot condone this,” his father said.
“I never expected you to,” Cicero replied. "That is why I've stayed away." He stepped forward to embrace his father. His father stepped back.
“You aren’t welcome here. Your mother can never know you have returned. She grieved for so long." His face grew dark. "To this day, she still blames herself. She would check on you every night, you know, but once the neighbor began to steal our animals, your mother took to doing a shift at the window in the evenings and stopped coming to your room in the night. She always felt that had she paid more attention to you than the neighbor, she might have intervened in your disappearance.”
“Oh, no.” Cicero felt his cheeks burn red with shame. His poor mother. She did not deserve the heartache with which he had left her.
“If she were to know you had returned as–well, as that,” the farmer gestured at Cicero’s armor. “She would never recover. I can’t let you break her again. She will live to her dying day believing you are gone forever. And I intend to keep it that way, no matter what I have to do to assure it.”
Cicero’s posture slumped. He knew his father was right. He could not ever see his mother again. He felt tears well up in his eyes. He may have been one of the top assassins at his former sanctuary, but he was but an eighteen year old boy. A man, but just barely.
“I blamed myself,” his father told him. “I just knew that calling upon the-the Brotherhood was a bad idea. But we were desperate. We were risking losing our livelihood! I had to do something. But I lived with regret every day following the one on which we awoke to your empty bed. I believed the Nines were punishing me for seeking help from such a dark place.”
Cicero wiped his face furiously, hoping to disguise the wiping away of tears as anything else.
“I’m sorry, Father,” he whispered.
“Go now,” his father replied. “Your mother will be out to collect the eggs soon and you must not be here. I would say ‘Talos guide you,’ but we both know that is not true.”
Cicero turned to reach back up to the loft for his bag. He pulled it down and faced his father once more. He searched for words, but came up with nothing. As an assassin, silence was everything, but now Cicero felt despair in his lacking speech. Nothing he could say would make a difference anyway, he thought. He had paved his path in life and there was no turning back now.
He pulled his robe from his bag and pulled it on, covering his armor. Then Cicero placed a hand on the cow and rubbed her gently between her ears. He squeezed her neck gently close to him and then walked out of the stable. He did not turn around to look at his childhood home. He couldn’t risk his mother seeing him, should she be glancing out a window or exiting the door to collect the eggs. He did not steal a last look at his father, either. He kept his head down, his bag weighing heavy in his hand. He walked briskly at first, but when he was out of sight of his former home, he slowed his pace. Cheydinhal awaited him, but he needed some time to process what had just transpired.
The trip to Cheydinhal was a fairly long one. Cicero had stopped here and there, drawing the trip out a bit. He had rested in stables along the way, left the road to gather flowers. He collected a bouquet and found a large stone protruding from the soil. He laid the flowers by the boulder and cogitated, deciding that this would be the grave of his old life, one to which he could never return. It would be his parents’ grave, one he could feel free to visit without fear of being discovered. He drew his quill and ink from his bag and with some difficulty, inscribed the following onto the rock:
With a heavy heart, a fool I would be to return.
Cicero took note of the location of the boulder, though he wasn’t sure he would ever come back to it, truly. It just felt better knowing it existed, than to have nothing at all to hold close as a memory of his old life.
After leaving the site, his pace once again quickened as he began to look forward to the comfort of a welcoming family at the sanctuary in Cheydinhal. The Night Mother could fill, did fill, the place where his own mother would no longer exist. To protect his own heart, from now on, he would have to consider his parents dead. In death they would cease to haunt him, but in death, the Night Mother could only grow closer with Cicero.
Cheydinhal did welcome Cicero with warmth and Cicero fell right in with the brothers and sisters that resided there. In almost direct opposition to his encounter with his father, the Cheydinhal family overwhelmed Cicero with their welcome. It softened his pain, somewhat, but he understood that they too had gone through suffering and sorrow. He did not speak of his father and they believed his pain was solely from the loss of the Bruma sanctuary members, but the comfort they offered was genuine and consoling nonetheless.
Within a month or so, Cicero had resumed taking contracts. The Speaker Rasha had given him some time to settle in, but eventually they were receiving too many contracts to handle without Cicero’s participation. He had never let his blade sit for too long without practice, so Cicero had no trouble going right back to work. He completed a handful of contracts within his first week and was able to treat himself to his favorite foods, being carrots and sweet rolls, of course. He visited a smithy in Cheydinhal as well and purchased a few more daggers and a fine bow. He did not expect to find it useful in his assassinations, but he enjoyed the practice anyway. Having perfected much of his skills, he found himself drawn to the cloak-dagger style of assassinations and no longer aimed to tailor his slayings to the targets but brought about their deaths with swiftness and ease, silently in the shadows of the night.
One day Cicero found himself heavy with the feeling of sadness after a walk on which he watched a young boy and his father working in their field. That evening, Cicero was sent on a contract to slay a baroness. He snuck into her bedchamber and swiftly jabbed his dagger into her side below the breast. There was no noise, save for the deep sigh that accompanied the passing of the baroness. Cicero had not, however, expected her handmaiden to be resting in the room with the baroness. Though she had been asleep when Cicero came in and had not heard him stab the baroness, she awoke with a start as he was preparing to climb out the window. He was forced to return to the chamber and take care of her as well. It was a messier debacle and Cicero had struggled some as handmaiden’s tended to be a bit stronger from their laboring. Cicero came home despondent, blaming his earlier grief on the botched contract.
With more contracts than he knew what to do with, Cicero was flush with gold. He had already purchased all that he wanted and needed for his life as a Dark Brotherhood assassin; he had no desire to hoard the gold he was earning. His love of his work was what drove him, not the wealth. He began to hand out fistfuls of gold to the beggars in the cities in which he held contracts. He bought flowers from every child with a basket of them which he came across. He brought them to the Night Mother’s crypt and spoke often with the Night Mother. Spoke to her, rather. She never did respond, but Cicero knew not to expect that as Alisanne was the Listener and on the occasion he found himself at the crypt when Alisanne came to visit, he would make small talk with Alisanne and bask in her company. Occasionally she would invite him to deeper conversations. Through these visits, however, he came to learn that the Dark Brotherhood’s foothold in Tamriel was threatened and that the Black Hand was divided on the course of action to take. This concerned Cicero, but he believed that if the illusion of the Dark Brotherhood being everywhere was upheld, it would be of no consequence that there were fewer sanctuaries. They would just have to figure out how to maintain the contracts in places where they no longer had the active sanctuaries.
So much was up in the air, though. Alisanne visited the Cheydinhal sanctuary to discuss some things with Rasha and though they ultimately decided against it, Cicero had heard that there was talk of reopening a Shadowscale training facility. He was disheartened to hear them talk with fettered hope of the future of the Dark Brotherhood, but for the time being, at least, his own sanctuary was well-equipped and safely guarded.
One of Cicero’s proudest contracts made it into his journal entry:
28th of Rain's Hand, 4E 187. Completed the Arena contract. I ultimately decided to pose as a starstruck fan, and immediately got into the Grand Champion's good graces. While escorting the arrogant fool through the Great Forest, I slashed his throat and left the corpse for the bears.
The next year passed rather uneventfully as Cicero grew close with his new sanctuary family. However in Sun’s Height, 4E 188, the sanctuary received word that one of the only four sanctuaries remaining, Wayrest, had fallen to the Corsairs. He feared for the sanctuary there and with good reason, for within a month’s time the sanctuary had been breached. With some hesitation, the Black Hand ordered the Corinthe sanctuary of Elsweyr to close and its members to relocate to the remaining two sanctuaries.
Upon their arrival, Cicero made sure to welcome them as warmly as he had been welcomed in his time of need. His pain had lessened over time, but he often returned to the boulder on his longer trek contracts and grieved the losses he had endured. The brothers and sisters who joined him in Cheydinhal enjoyed Cicero’s company and they shared skill training as part of their bonding. Cicero learned much in the way of archery and was happy to share his tips on sneaking and a swift death by dagger.
Still, Cicero worried for the Listener, Alisanne Dupre. His adored Listener was in danger every moment in her private residence in Bravil. She had taken to hiring armed guards for protection, but it was widely accepted that things would soon come to a head there.
In time, they did just that. Alisanne Dupre fled to the Night Mother’s crypt to do what she could to protect it after the statue of The Lucky Lady was destroyed. Cicero begged Rasha to let him join her there, but was refused with insisting Cicero remain in the sanctuary to guard it. Feeling defeated, but being always loyal, Cicero agreed and stayed behind as his brother Garnag and his sister Andronica were sent to defend the crypt.
Cicero continued taking contracts despite the state of things in the world. He had little choice and killing still brought him such joy. It was a welcome distraction from the tumult. His performance did suffer somewhat by the events occurring around him, however. He botched another contract in which he was meant to assassinate a silk merchant. Through no mistake of his own, he had been forced to kill her daughter as well. Cicero was no fan of harming children, and though the daughter was closer to womanhood than infancy, it left him bitter. He doubled down his efforts to stay sharp both with his blade and his sneaking.
In short time, Garnag returned from Bravil with terrible news as well as the Night Mother’s coffin. Alisanne Dupre was dead. Andronica too. Cicero felt great sorrow for his lost sisters and privately mourned deeply for Alisanne. He knew with her loss the Dark Brotherhood was truly threatened now. With no Listener, no contracts could be taken. His only solace was the proximity of the Night Mother herself now. Cicero hoped that by some stroke of luck he might be chosen as the new Listener, but alas, it was not to be. The Black Sacrament would go unheard. Contracts were coming to a halt. Only the few that Alisanne had delivered before her death remained. Cicero had what he needed to get by and was not so much worried about the gold but of the foothold the Dark Brotherhood would lose with the tragic loss of the Listener.
Each sister and brother in the Cheydinhal sanctuary visited the Night Mother’s stone coffin daily, leaving flowers and speaking to her, hoping to hear anything in reply. At that point, everyone was certain that the Night Mother would choose one of them to be the new Listener. But that would have been too convenient.
Two months passed and Rasha announced that without her crypt in Bravil to shield her from the surface world, the Night Mother would need a Keeper. Someone chosen to care for the Night Mother; to oil her, preserve her and keep her safe. It was put to a vote. Cicero was chosen for the position.
Cicero’s reverence for the Night Mother was only surpassed by his reverence for Sithis himself and so to be chosen as Keeper was a great honor. He rejoiced in the election. However, he also despaired, as the position required him to put down his blade. He could not wield his weapon during his time as Keeper. He would have to focus his efforts on the Night Mother and helping to find a new Listener.
Rasha could see that Cicero was saddened by his sacrifice, so before he was officially appointed to his new position, he promised him a final contract. The contract was to be the assassination of a jester.
Knowing this was his final contract for at least awhile, Cicero put all of his effort into preparation. He wanted to enjoy this last contract and he didn’t want to botch it like he had with the silk merchant. Everything had to go right. He wanted to remember this night while he tended to the Night Mother. He hoped to have a tale to tell her when he returned.
The jester had been abusing his Jester’s Privilege a little too much, apparently. He had mocked the wrong person, or perhaps in the wrong way. Cicero received word that the jester would be on retreat to a cabin in the woods for the week while his crowned employers were tending to business in other lands. Cicero was grateful for the privacy and ease, though it felt almost cheating to have no challenge with this contract.
He made his way to the cabin just after nightfall. Cicero expected to spend some time outside the cabin, watching the jester and learning his foibles and deficiencies before going in for the kill. But as he peered in through the window, he saw the slender jester sitting by the hearth, rather loudly speaking ill to himself about the royal court.
“They call me the fool, but the decisions they’re making for their land would proclaim they are the ones who should be dancing around with bells on their crowns!”
Cicero saw a few bottles of alto wine at the jester’s feet. Though he was off duty, officially, the jester still wore his motley. Cicero found that odd, but recalled that he had worn his shrouded armor to meet his father and ceased judgment on the jester.
Feeling rather bold and hoping to create quite the story to tell, Cicero decided he would go to the door of the cabin and introduce himself. Surely the jester would put up a fight and Cicero needed the release. The walls would be painted with blood by the time he slipped back out into the night, he was certain of that.
Cicero lifted the knocker and let it fall with a clang. The jester’s loud ramblings silenced. Cicero could hear shuffling as the jester moved toward the door. The sound of a wine bottle sent spinning across the wooden planks of the floor by a drunken foot echoed out from the windows of the cabin.
“Your highness, I’m unavailable at the moment, you’ll have to wipe your own ass!” the jester called out, laughing so hard that Cicero heard him stumble into the door.
“But I don’t know where it is!” Cicero cried mockingly. This made the jester swing the door open. His eyes glazed and red from the night’s imbibement, he greeted Cicero warmly.
“And who are you? Company for the utter decimation of (hic) our idiot leaders? (hic)” He wrapped an arm around Cicero’s shoulders, pulling him into the cabin and out of instinct, Cicero placed his hand on his blade. The jester squinted his eyes trying to focus on what Cicero had touched. They widened and narrowed and widened again as the drunken recognition set in.
“You, you’re not here for jokes!” he accused, slurring his words. He didn’t sound worried quite yet, but Cicero was aware the connection would soon be made.
“I’m just here for you,” Cicero murmured. He ducked out of the arm of the jester and drew his blade.
The jester chuckled. He reached for an open bottle of wine on the mantle of the fireplace.
“Am I meant to be scared by that?” he challenged. “You can’t hurt me, you know. I’m protected.” He jingled his bells on the cap on his head and the shaking motion caused him to sway almost to the point of tipping over. He regained his footing and promised, “The high court will have you beheaded.” When Cicero did not reply to this, he followed with, “You’re surely loyal to our high King?”
“I don’t think so, fellow,” Cicero replied, maintaining his low, slow tone. “The only one I am loyal to is the Dread Lord and I have been summoned to bring forth your soul and deliver it to Sithis himself.”
The jester cackled, but seemed to have sobered some with the realization that Cicero was not just joking around with him. He swung the wine bottle, smashing it on the mantle and attempted to wield its ragged edges at Cicero. He laughed as he jabbed the broken bottle in Cicero’s direction. Cicero, with a flick of his wrist, disarmed the drunken fool and had him wrestled to the ground. Cicero held his forearm against the jester’s neck but with not much force as he hoped the jester would put up more of a fight. They were fairly evenly matched in weight and stature. Like a fish to bait, the jester pushed Cicero off of him and scrambled away.
“You’re mad!” the jester shouted. “You truly think that you will get away with this?” He laughed in disbelief. “They’ll have you on the stocks by sunup!” The jester’s voice squeaked and strained as he spoke.
Cicero slowly stood from his kneeling position as the jester braced himself on the wall to stand. When he had steadied himself, he lifted his feet and pranced, singing a little song.
“Of death one should feel no fear, my dear, for death is always near or here and when it is my time to die I hope not to hear my mother cry!”
Cicero lunged forward at the jester and pierced him in the gut with his blade. The jester let out a gasp of shock but remained standing as Cicero withdrew his dagger. The jester looked down at his blood flowing freely from the wound.
“I’m bleeding,” he said. Then he giggled. “That’s my blood!”
Cicero was now thrown off a bit. He had expected the man to at the very least fall to the floor after what he’d done. Instead he was laughing. He was a jester, after all, but it still perplexed Cicero.
“Am I going to die?” the jester asked Cicero, tears forming in his eyes.
“I told you that you would,” Cicero answered. “My duty to the Night Mother calls for it. I would never shirk a command from her.”
“Will it hurt?” the jester asked, staggering to his fireside chair, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. He eased himself onto the cushion and examined his wound.
“If I have my way, yes,” Cicero answered steadily.
Whether from the intoxication or disbelief that this entire night could be real, the jester began to poke his wound. He pushed a finger in and drew it out, looking at the blood. He began sobbing.
“I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die!”
“You may enjoy the Void,” Cicero offered. The jester just looked up at him with eyes red from alcohol and grief. Then he let out a barking laugh.
“Your Dead Lord couldn’t handle me!” he cackled. “I’m dying! I shall perish here in a cabin in the woods at the hand of a half-witted assassin!”
Cicero took offense to the comment, but stayed silent. The jester continued laughing. He had clearly accepted his fate and now only saw humor left in life. He began to sing nonsense tunes to Cicero, mocking his blade, the way he had approached the assassination and how long it was taking for Cicero to finish the job. Cicero took his blade to the jester’s chest and slashed at it, drawing a line down from the jester’s heart towards his waist. More blood spilled.
“Have you ever done anything right in your life?” the jester mocked.
Again Cicero attacked him, this time puncturing his thigh. The jester screamed out in pain but remained seated.
“Damn you, damn you, damn you!” the jester shouted.
“I’m taking my time with you,” Cicero explained, pulling the jester out of the chair by the collar of his motley. He dragged the jester to the bed and threw him onto it. “We have plenty of darkness left before sunup and the only thing that I need to accomplish is your eventual death.”
The jester’s face had fallen pale with the loss of blood. He seemed somewhat weaker, but managed to chuckle still.
“Loyalty means nothing for those willing to order blood spilling and killing” the jester simpered. “I could double your pay for say, letting me live just one more day? What do you say?”
Cicero glared at the fool, sprawled on the bed, blood seeping through the hide and straw, dripping down in the crevices between the wooden planks of the floor. The jester no longer had the energy to fight back. Cicero climbed atop of the little man and began to stab him over and over, the jester laughing all the while, his head rolling this way and that. Soon the laughter became gurgling sounds and with a final sputter, it ceased entirely.
Cicero slid off the jester’s still warm body and wiped his blade on the flap of the motley that hung down the jester’s leg. He held the material and rubbed it between his fingers. A pleasing textile. Cicero decided to keep it.
First he slid the boots off of the jester. They were finely made, leather with gold trim and somehow fit Cicero perfectly. And the matching gloves were nice as well. Cicero loosened the laces of the collar and pulled it over the jester’s head, then set about removing the clothing itself.
The jester had been slightly larger than Cicero; he was almost surprised he hadn’t put up more of a fight. As Cicero stuffed the motley into the bag, he thought he heard a noise outside the cabin. He peered out the window to see a rabbit munching a carrot from the cabin’s garden just outside of the fence.
“Oh, a midnight snack!” Cicero exclaimed, delighted. “Murdering does make me hungry.”
He shuffled the jester’s body fully onto the bed and tucked it in.
“Nighty night,” he whispered sweetly into the unhearing ear.
On his way out of the yard, Cicero pulled up a handful of carrots and carried them to the stream to rinse them off. Then he ate them as he walked, reflecting on the hours he had taken with his final contract. He felt satisfied. He felt ready to begin his position as keeper.
Months passed and Cicero grew to love his role as Keeper. He felt honored to be the one responsible for maintaining her body as a conduit. He was meticulous and thorough with her weekling bathing in oils and recited the ancient incantations with the accuracy of a well-read scholar. He lit candles and removed pests that gathered around her corpse. When he had completed his incantations, he sat quietly, willing the Night Mother to speak to him. He hoped that she could see his dedication to her and Sithis and the Dark Brotherhood through his actions.
From the jester’s death in Morning Star to Mid Year, Cicero grew impatient awaiting the Night Mother to choose a new Listener. He began to feel rejected. If he was worthy enough to be Keeper, why wouldn’t his matron speak to him? He spoke to her often and heard nothing in reply. She wasn’t speaking to him, but she wasn’t speaking to anyone else either!
Cicero revisited his time with the jester during moments of grieving his loss of use of his blade. He thought about how the jester, enduring so much torture, maintained his foolishness, even to the end. Cicero grew fond of the jester and came to honor him. Merry in death as well as in life.
Violence came to Cheydinhal. It was to be expected. Rasha had few contracts left to dispense and the sanctuary was beginning to fail. Cicero spent much of his time sequestered with the Night Mother, hearing only his own voice and the silence. It began to creep into him, slowly driving him mad.
At first, he embraced it, knowing the source was the Void, was his dear mother. But the silence grew. It embodied more emotions. It was hatred. It was rage. It was love.
As the year 189 came to a close, the members of the Cheydinhal sanctuary grew desperate. And suddenly, Rasha declared himself Listener. He claimed to have heard the Night Mother speak to him. The sanctuary rejoiced, but Cicero was suspicious. Rasha could not recite the binding words. It was clear to Cicero that he was a deceiver and as such would have to be eliminated. Sadly, Cicero was not granted that task as his duty to Mother was sacred and he would not betray it. Instead, Cicero confided in Garnag the betrayal of the Night Mother and by nightfall, Rasha was no more.
So many brothers and sisters were forced to flee the sanctuary in order to pursue other means of survival. By Sun’s Dawn of 190, only Cicero, Garnag and Pontius remained.
Cicero had little interaction with the other two as he continued to spend his waking hours doting on the Night Mother. He stared wistfully at her corpse while he anointed her with oils. He longed to hear her voice. The silence was maddening. He was growing more desperate.
Then one day, the silence was broken. A clap of laughter split the silence in two. But though Cicero hoped it had come from the coffin of his maiden, as the laughter continued, it was all too clear that the laughter was in Cicero’s own head.
Cicero grew to appreciate the laughter. He considered it a friend, a gift from the Night Mother. When nearly a year later Pontius was killed by a common bandit while running an errand, Cicero found comfort in the laughter. The thought of the Brotherhood being so close to absolute collapse was too much for Cicero to think about and the laughter was there for him.
Still, he offered Mother the return of the laughter if only he could hear her voice. Nearly three years had passed since Alisanne was killed by Mage fire and the silence from the Night Mother was certain to result in the end of the Dark Brotherhood. Cicero knew that if she could just speak to him, he could put things back together. He could salvage the ruins.
One day Garnag left to gather supplies. Cicero waited patiently, alone with Mother, his thoughts and the ever-present laughter. But time crawled by and the next thing he knew, three months had passed. He had to accept that Garnag was not going to return. It was just Cicero and the Night Mother now.
He continued to stand by her as Keeper, dutifully tending to her, begging silently for her to speak to him. Hearing only laughter in reply.
As the fourth year without a Listener came to a close, something in Cicero broke. He put quill to paper and wrote:
21st of Sun's Dusk, 4E 192. Cicero is dead! Cicero is born! The laughter has filled me, filled me so very completely. I am the laughter. I am the jester. The soul that has served as my constant companion for so long has breached the veil of the Void finally and forever. It is now in me. It is me. The world has seen the last of Cicero the man. Behold Cicero, Fool of hearts - laughter incarnate!
Poor Cicero could no longer maintain even the slightest show of sanity. He abandoned his shrouded armor and donned the jester’s motley. He preferred to appear on the outside how he felt on the inside. A fool through and through. Not that anyone was seeing him. The Night Mother, if she held any judgment of him at all, refused to speak of it. Or of anything.To anyone.
Eight maddening years passed. Cicero made the decision to leave the sanctuary. At first, he just took a walk. Just a stroll to town in order to scope out how things were faring. Not as well as he’d hoped, though he did encounter a lovely maiden. He yearned not for her heart, but her blood. He longed to return to his assassin’s work, but he knew that his duty to the Night Mother was his first priority. And besides, from where would he receive a contract if he never found a Listener?
When he returned to the sanctuary he immediately wrote to the last remaining sanctuary. The Falkreath sanctuary in Skyrim. He requested space be made for him and the Night Mother to join the somehow-thriving sanctuary. He could not fathom how it managed to continue on with its work without a Listener, but the only way to find out would be traveling there.
