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Chapter Text

When their lives changed, it was almost the end of Sun’s Dusk. I cannot tell the year. I never know the years. I only know it was cold, and one of them suffered more than the other. I know it was snowing, it seemed to never stop. I know that the trees had long since stripped of their leaves, remaining dark and thin, like the skeletons that inhabit the crypts and scream their lamentations, not aware of being dead. I know that, at times, the northern lights lit up the night. I know he saw them, he liked the red ones, and she didn’t see them at all. I know what was happening in the world, in short. Not because I was there, but because thus I wanted to happen. It was the moment I had designated. It was right.

It was on a similar night that they met the first time. The wind was lashing cold, moving away from the ground, in a thousand volutes, the snow just fallen. The northern lights were gleaming over the plains, reflecting on the snow, and on the two moons of Nirn, Masser and Secunda. One of the brightest nights of the last eras, which was later remembered as The Sunny Night.

Cicero, lurking outside the hut, clutched in his clothes, trembling. He wasn’t in a good mood, and it was rare for him.

"Horrible… horrible… cold! Yes, yes, horrible cold! Cicero wants to return to Cyrodiil. Or… Cicero wants to go to Elsweyr! Die burned in the desert. He’d bear staying with cats just to not get colder!"

He realized just in that moment he had spoken out loud.

"Well..." he began, to justify himself, "well, this isn’t the best night, anyway. It’s not a murderer's night. No! Cicero... Cicero can speak as much as he wants. Nothing can be done tonight. What a place, Skyrim!"

He had already decided he would’ve given up a quick killing. The contract would’ve had to wait, at least another day. Even if it was a simple job, killing a lonely girl, he didn’t want to run the risk of making a mistake. After all, it was the first contract since... how long? Twenty years? He couldn’t afford to make mistakes, or else the Dark Brotherhood could’ve stopped giving him contracts. The Night Mother would’ve no longer trusted him. No, it was better to wait. No matter how easy it was, and no matter how much he wanted to kill someone... it was better to wait. Better.

He even decided to come out and wait more comfortably, instead of huddling up behind the branches. He sat down on a boulder, on the side of the road, and crossed his legs. He thought of the joke of the horker, and that was enough to make him laugh, cheering him up.

He didn’t have to wait long, anyway. Soon, in fact, something started moving inside the farm. Noises, laughter. Then, suddenly, the front door opened, dividing the porch in half with a beam of light.

Two people came out, whom from that distance Cicero couldn’t see well. Surely they were a man and a woman, though.

"Are you sure?" he was saying, in a deep, gentle voice, "it's late, I don’t trust you to go alone."

"Don’t worry, it's just a few minutes walk. Garulf knows the way."

"Eh, yes, dont’ worry... just a few minutes... hm... what could ever happen?" thought Cicero, this time careful to express only in his mind. He laughed at the naivety of people, but restrained himself. Only a few minutes walk, the usual road... those were the little details that cheated them. If people had always done different and longer ways, the Brotherhood would’ve had very little to live with. And yet, those things, the same things that ended up killing them, reassured the victims. He wondered why.

"Ok, as you prefer. Be careful."

"Aye, Loreius. Meet me on Fridas at the inn."

Oh no, they probably wouldn’t have met each other in two days at the inn. The next night, at most, Cicero would’ve done his job. A bright night could stop him for a few hours, but not forever. Time to stalk her, understand who she was, what time schedules she had, find her alone once in the dark, and then the end. Welcome, Void. Welcome, Sithis.

"Wait, I'll help you up."

The man lended her his horse, a sturdy, dark stallion. It was similar to Shadowmere, except for the eyes, far less demonic and more common.

When the girl was on the back of the horse, she finally left, and spurred her mount towards Whiterun. The stallion seemed to go by itself. She didn’t even hold the reins, her hands wearily resting on the saddle, close to her own lower abdomen.

Wrapped in a cloak, on her dark horse, she approached, and Cicero stood still. He would’ve let her pass. He would’ve walked behind her, far enough to not arouse suspicion. He would’ve followed her at home, and there he would’ve...

Cicero's thoughts suddenly stopped. The girl, now that she was close enough, looked nothing like a normal, young Nord. Indeed, she was like Cicero had always imagined... another person.

"Mother? Is it… is it you?"

The girl, with a feline snap, stiffened, and turned to the source of the voice. She grabbed the reins and blocked the horse. Now, the more he looked at her, the more breathless he was. A vision. She couldn’t be real.

A young girl, dark, severe and melancholic. Cloaked in black, the hair, long, of the same non-color. The light skin, brighter than usual, perhaps, only thanks to the orange reflection of the northern lights. But above all, the eyes... the white eyes, without irises, without pupils. Flat, without expressiveness. What could those be, if not the earthly representation of the Void? If not the eyes of the Mother?

"Who’s there?" the young woman asked, in a tone halfway between alarmed and menacing. She clearly wanted to look braver than she was. Actually, her breath was trembling.

"Oh... no one..." Cicero tried to compose himself, understanding that she was just a blind woman. He knew it, he knew he had to look for a blind girl, but… he hadn’t expected such eyes.

The girl's thin, clear lips widened, undecided, in a broken smile.

"No one? It seems to me that there’s someone, down there. On the roadside. A man."

Cicero laughed. That crazy laugh, however, surrounded by a sarcastic accent.

"A man, um? What a great intuition! It takes more to amaze Cicero..."

"All right, then. A few more details, perhaps? A man. An Imperial, judging from the name. You speak in the third person, some bards do it. Are you a bard, then? And I smell alchemy, oils. An Imperial bard dealing with magic, who probably enchants his instruments. Were I close?"

Cicero remained with a frozen smile, without knowing what to say. Partly he was amazed by the intuition of the blind girl, and partly he was wondering why the hell did she stop to talk with him. Shouldn’t she have gone straight home? Being careful? Which sane young woman stops talking at night with strangers out of town? Well, maybe she wasn’t sane at all... a quality that Cicero would’ve appreciated. In any case, the killer couldn’t understand how she could still be alive. Or untainted. Apparently she didn’t care much about life or virginity.

"Well, you were close. But never call Cicero a bard!" he pronounced cheerfully, trying to take up the reins of the situation. Perhaps she trusted him for his playful manners. He had that effect on many people. Women trusted him, men underestimated him, everyone thought he was nice and crazy, and the result was always the same: easy victims.

"Aren’t you a bard?"

"Cicero is a jester, he hates bards, they’re a sort of low grade competition. All day long strumming, singing out of tune, and when asked to give a speech they can’t even say their names. They learn by heart, they have nothing original. They don’t know the art of improvisation and have no sense of humor, they take everything personal. Don’t you agree?"

She shrugged.

"Aye, it's true, they're almost all idiots. But I like to hear their ballads."

"Cicero instead likes to split lutes, and maybe even the noses of their masters. This is all that he has to do with bards."

The young girl laughed. She leaned her head back slightly, and her empty eyes reflected the red of the sky. Cicero could have sworn to see even the two moons in there, well outlined. Those eyes looked like the painting of the world.

"Did you confuse me with your mother, before?" the young woman asked, once she had finished laughing.

"Oh... no... not the mother of Cicero... maybe... the cold is making him crazy. Well... more than he already is."

The girl laughed again, shaking her head in denial.

"Well, you must excuse me, Cicero-who-hates-bards. Now I have to go. I wish you to find your mother, or whoever you were looking for out here. Goodbye."

She smiled one last time and, with a heel, spurred on her horse to resume the path.

"Oh... goodbye..." Cicero murmured, thinking only for a moment that, when he would’ve had gone into the Void, he would’ve liked to see her again.

Chapter Text

When the sun, the real sun, appeared through the rooftops of Whiterun, Cicero was still lurking outside the house of the nameless girl. Nothing more than a hut, poor, shabby. Cicero thought that blindness prevented her from seeing how neglected it was. The windows and the doors were unhinged, they needed to be oiled, sprinkled with pitch, polished. There were holes in the roof, some tiles had flown away, maybe because of the wind of the night before. Nobody seemed to care about that falling home. Did nobody help her? Cicero would’ve done it. If she had been a Sister, of course... and the fellow citizens weren’t like Brothers and Sisters after all? How could they leave her there to rot? There had to be very little loyalty among ordinary people. Paradoxically, killers proved once again to be more empathetic.

Then, suddenly, not requested, a dangerous thought: what was the name of the girl?

Cicero shook his head violently, to punish himself. No, he must not name the victims. Not that it was forbidden, but then the whole murder process would’ve become too... personal. It’s not good to call the victims by their name while stabbing them, or otherwise they could think that the killer is also the one who wants them dead, and they may start to ask why... no, it’s not right, it’s not professional.

The girl left the house that dawn was just passed. She was still dressed in black, a poor clothing, with a ruined leather corset. It had been mended in several places. Mended badly.

Just outside, the wind, still persistent, lashed her hair. This, loose, very long, dark as the kingdom of Sithis, danced angrily. She then tied it in two tails to the sides of her face and pulled the hood of the cloak over her head. Once ready to go, she groped for a basket, leaning against the door. She took it, put it on her arm, and set off with uncertain steps, shaky. She walked as if she knew the way, but before moving the weight on her next footstep, she acted like she was feeling the air and the ground. She did it to make sure there wasn’t someone to bump into, or a new, unknown hole in the cobblestones.

Cicero, sitting on a low wall, got up, and was grateful because a guard had been staring at him suspiciously for more than an hour. He walked behind her, like the night before, at a safe distance. The slow pace annoyed him. He was almost tempted to go there, to laugh at her and force her to where she had to go.

After a frighteningly long time, it was clear that the young woman's destination was the market. Once she arrived at the square, she paused for a moment, as if she was updating a mental map in her head. Then she turned with her whole body to her left, as if she had calculated the angle with geometric precision, to walk and get straight to the first stand.

She reached it, slowly, holding one arm slightly forward, to avoid hitting someone or something, like the stand itself. She was cautious, yes, but with grace. She didn’t move like a sleepwalker, she held a hand slightly forward near the lower abdomen, and justified it with the basket, as if she were holding it. Cicero liked to notice those details. Well, he liked it on all occasions to tell the truth, to sharpen his intuition. But he had never had to deal with a blind person, and he was fascinated by how the girl had adapted her way of moving to make up for that serious lack.

She arrived at the stall and the seller greeted her first, as if it were an unwritten agreement, to make the girl understand who she was talking to.

"Oh, hi, Carlotta! I need tomatoes. Can I?"

"Sure. They’re on your left. "

The girl extended the arm not occupied by the basket and looked for the tomatoes. When she found them, she began to touch them, only with her fingertips. A graceful, soft delicacy, not hasty.

Cicero moved to see her face. As soon as the view opened, he noticed that the girl had a guilty expression, as if she didn’t want to touch those tomatoes but was forced to do so.

"They’re mature." she commented.

"Picked this morning."

"I'll take ten."

The seller, counting the tomatoes, put them in the basket.

"Who's at the fruit stand? I'd like an apple, but... " the young woman asked, cautiously, in a low voice. The other, evidently her friend, spoke to her in an equally low voice.

"There’s Nazeem. Forget it, he's an idiot, if you touch his apples he's able to report you to the Jarl. I'll buy one for you and bring it to the inn, all right?"

"Thank you very much."

Cicero saw the contrite and guilty look of the young woman. He felt a little bad for her. Poor, little crow... yes, she resembled a crow. What a great, beautiful animal. Undervalued, hated, hunted. Yet it knows how to fly, and this makes it immensely better than any human, Elf, Orc or Khajiit. Everyone detest it and it flies anyway, unconcerned.

The girl paied and walked away. She went around the market, avoiding the fruit stall, and Cicero saw the idiot Nazeem heartened. After some other shopping, the little crow went to the inn, The Bannered Mare, and carefully began to climb the long staircase. It took her a frighteningly long time, and she even risked falling, just as she was on top.

She didn’t fall, anyway. She kept her balance and, once arrived, clung to the front door with a sigh of relief. How much effort could ten steps require?

Cicero understood that it would’ve been a long day, and he began to feel the weight of deprived sleep. He could’ve slept a little at the inn, maybe. At least the evening would’ve come faster. And he didn’t really believe that the victim would’ve moved too much, considering her agility. Even if she had thought of escaping to Hammerfell, he would’ve reached her immediately outside the city walls, while in all likelihood she was giving incoherent directions to the horse.

He crossed the market, laughing softly at the idea of a blind woman trying to escape. Such an easy contract! Perhaps they had chosen Cicero to get him back to the action. Didn’t they know that Cicero was still the most deadly of Tamriel's killers? Time hadn’t made him more innocuous. There was no need to give him a blind, young, poor, lonely girl.

For a moment, he got sorry for her. A little crow that in a few hours would’ve no longer flown... maybe something could’ve been done to make that last day a little less horrible for her. One last apple before the Void.

He decided to please the little crow. He approached the stall of Nazeem and, whistling, passed in front of it. Nazeem looked at him strangely.

"Do you want to buy something? Or do you wish to just stand there, jester?"

Yes, yes, he actually wanted to take something: his life! He would’ve much liked to stick his dagger in his throat, feeling the windpipe and the carotid artery breaking, and Nazeem dying drowned in his own blood, gurgling. Then he would’ve liked to gut him, making a necklace with his intestines. This he would’ve liked. But by day, in the middle of a crowd, it was better to settle for an apple.

"No, no, no, no, Cicero is sorry. He has no money right now."

"Then leave the way clear to other customers."

Cicero didn’t understand thieves, really. But he neither did understand why he would’ve had to pay for an apple. It was a fruit of the earth, he could’ve found millions around Skyrim without paying a septim. He had to be grateful for the existence of apples only to the Divines, especially to Sithis who allowed their existence, without incorporating them all into the Void. It was certainly not thanks to Nazeem the idiot if apples did exist.

"Oh! Oh oh oh! A... A DRAGON!" Cicero cried, pointing to the sky and shouting, terrified.

The crowd immediately alarmed, including the idiot. They turned to look at the sky, already desperate for a dragon to attack them for the second time.

Cicero, furtively, silently, took an apple from the stall and quickly put it in the bag he had under his belt. Nobody had noticed anything. He was still good, as expected... maybe he could’ve even killed Nazeem without being noticed, if he wanted to.

"There is no dragon, idiot!" Nazeem reproached him, annoyed.

Cicero exaggerated a surprised expression, widening his eyes.

"Oh! Oh... oh oh oh... it was just... a crow... Cicero's head plays tricks!"

"You must be crazy."

"Cicero? Crazy? Ha... this is madness!"

Nazeem shook his head, ignoring him. Cicero, happy with the result, jumped away.

He went to the inn and entered it. The first thing he did, after getting used to the soft light given by the fire, was to look for the little crow.

He saw her at the counter, cleaning up some cups. She was cautious but precise: she was taking them one at a time, studying their shape, drying them with a rag, and then putting them on the opposite side. Incredibly, she had put them in precise order, it seemed like she was drawing a perfect rectangle, every cup at the same distance.

Cicero decided to make her know that he had arrived, so he began to hum, mouth closed. As expected, she immediately raised her head from her work. She turned it a little to one side, to bring the ear in the best direction.

"Mmmh... mmmh... mh mh..." the theme of a ballad.

She spread a smile.

"Is it the man of the last night?" she asked, without shame. Evidently, she was used to asking for the identity of those who came in.

Cicero approached the counter with a light step, almost dancing. He was surprised to be happy to be able to see her more closely, but he didn’t give importance to that feeling.

Arrived at the counter, he leaned on it, holding on one elbow.

"Oh, Cicero was wrong with you, nice girl. You have a great intuition!"

She smiled, embarrassed. Her lips were too light, almost as if she was already dying. But she didn’t look sick, on the contrary, she was quick and full of life, for what blindness allowed her, of course.

She blushed, giving a little color to her waxy face.

"I just recognized the voice, it's very peculiar. I would’ve heard you earlier, but it seems you’re out of the ordinary to be a jester: no bells, no music... it’s impossible to hear you."

"Oh, that’s because he’s not just a jester."

"Do you have another job? We have already established that you’re not a bard."

Cicero smiled, sighing. When he spoke, he uttered only a hiss, full of unspoken things.

"Oh, Cicero is a… messenger. He puts some people in contact with his Lord. He shows them the way to reach him where he lives..."

"Ah, I understand…”

Actually she didn’t understand at all, and Cicero was pleased to see her confused. He slightly laughed at her, but she didn’t notice.

"Are you here for work, then?"

"Not today. Cicero is here to see you, if he must be completely honest. But Cicero will never admit it, and as an excuse he’ll rent a room. Do you have a free room, little crow?"

She blushed again, more violently this time. She brushed a lock of hair from her face, visibly embarrassed.

"Aye... I mean, yes, there’s a room... but you have to ask the mistress, I'm only..."

"Shh... only... what a mortifying word. Cicero bets that you know perfectly which rooms are free, that you know how much he has to pay to get one, and that you also know how to take him there, in spite of your milky eyes. Is Cicero right?"

She laughed, awkward.

"Yes, yes... I think so."

"Well then. Make your way, little crow."

The girl put down the glass she was drying and, carefully, following the counter with one hand, moved and joined him on his side.

"Maybe I need a hand..."

Cicero didn’t understand if it was for real fear of not finding the way, or if she was using an excuse to be taken by the hand. He opted for the first option, however, he found it more likely for such a shy person.

"Oh, Cicero would gladly help you. It's not for rudeness, really. But he believes you can do it alone. Don’t be afraid: he stops you, if he sees you aiming at a wall."

She smiled again and began to walk towards the corridor to her right. Cicero followed her, studying her with his head tilted. He noticed how she walked, always keeping her fingers close to the wall, brushing it. She moved in the world with a veiled grace; but that grace was definitly there, and it was in her hands, even if it went unnoticed, hidden by the more awkward moving of her legs. A pleasant detail reserved for the few who could notice it. Like a precious sapphire still to be extracted and polished. The fool throws it away, thinking it's only a stone. Only…

When she reached the door and touched it with her fingers, she stopped suddenly.

"Here, this is your room. Do you stay long?"

"Oh, no, just a few hours. Just enough to rest a tired mind."

"All right, if it's only for a day, it's ten septims."

Cicero took the money out of the bag, the same money he had pretended not to have at the market.

"Here, ten septims!" he said, making them fall on her hands one by one.

"Good. If you need something, you can find me over there."

"Seen? You were perfect, little crow. Very professional."

She could no longer even try to hide the purple blush of her cheeks. Perhaps she wasn’t used to being courted by patrons? Strange, she was pretty. Could her blindness be enough to make blind even the men who looked at her?

Since she said nothing, Cicero took up the conversation, just a little more, for the pleasure of seeing her awkward. He took the apple out of the bag and offered it to her, with a theatrical gesture, even though she couldn’t see it.

"Since you've been so good, Cicero thinks you deserve a little gift."

She reached out a hand. She didn’t immediately get the apple, so Cicero helped her and brought it close to her fingers.

"An Apple? Thank you..."

Maybe she thought it was poisoned, or something like that. She was happy with the surprise but reluctant to accept it. Oh, poor, little crow! Did she believe that Cicero could adopt a killing method so... disrespectful? Detached? Frigid? She didn’t have to fear apples, she had to fear knives. Too bad she couldn’t know it.

"Cicero has taken it at the market, just now" he reassured her, "he has heard you talking to your friend. Cicero just cannot understand how a man could ever refuse a girl to touch something, especially with fingers like yours."

She, if possible even more embarrassed, murmured something that had to be thanks.

"Come on, eat. Tell your Cicero it was worth it."

She bit the apple, slowly, uncertainly. Cicero watched the movements of her sharp mouth as she chewed. When she swallowed, he saw the movements of her throat. How nice, the neck of women. He adored it. Perfect to be strangled.

"It's good. Thank you. A red apple."

"Do you recognize the color from the taste?"

"Yeah, they’re different. Not that I really know what red is, actually."

Cicero looked into her eyes. He searched for at least a shadow of irises or pupils, but he saw nothing. They were homogeneous, candid. Such a perfect imperfection!

"What a pity, not being able to know colors. Cicero's favorite is red."

He reached out a gloved hand and touched her cheek. But it wasn’t for real interest in her, those were all moves meant to study her, to understand what kind of reaction she had depending on the context and the stimulus. As expected, she noticed the impending caress almost before he touched her. Trembling, she turned away.

"Shy shy, little crow. Unusual, for someone who works in an inn frequented by hunters and mercenaries."

She was uncomfortable now. But she was sincere in speaking and Cicero appreciated it.

"Oh, it's for the eyes. Usually men leave me alone, they prefer the other waitresses. They say I have strange eyes, that they’re scary. I don’t know why, I don’t know how they should be. But I’d like them to be prettier. Even without seeing, anyway... just prettier."

So that was the reason. Men didn’t like completely veiled eyes. It wasn’t even for the handicap itself, it was just for an aesthetic factor. A bunch of idiots.

"Well, if it can cheer you up, you have to know that Cicero finds them anything but ugly, or disturbing. Your milky eyes are like the Void. As if you knew how it is, and you already lived there. Cicero envies you a lot."

Again, she didn’t understand, and she didn’t even try to hide it. She was looking foreword to leave, but she didn’t go away... Cicero couldn’t tell if it was just to be good at her job and accommodate the client, or if by any chance, after all, that conversation was pleasing her.

"Thank you, um... thank you. You're the first to tell me."

"Then Whiterun must really be a city full of idiots. Cicero bets they’re all bards!"

This time, she laughed at the joke. Cicero was pleasantly surprised. It was rare for people to laugh. Most often they didn’t understand his humor. She, on the other hand, seemed to stroll lightly on the edge of irony, at ease there more than to walk in the real world.

"Why do you speak in the third person?" she asked, obviously unable to hold herself back.

"Oh, an old habit. It’s to... never be completely sincere. And then it makes Cicero more interesting!"

"Well, yes, this is beyond doubt. Now... now I let you rest."

"A thousand thanks again, little crow."

She, who had already walked towards the main hall, stopped and sharpened her hearing.

"Why little crow?" she asked, intrigued.

"You look like a crow."

"Is it my appearence?"

"Oh no, no, no, Cicero doesn’t reduce everything to mere appearance. It’s more your way of living with others. A little on the sidelines, not included, nor understood. You're not a pack animal, are you?"

She gasped for a moment. Cicero understood that this time she knew very well what he was talking about. She didn’t say anything about it, though. She simply dismissed it:

"... as you believe. Have a nice rest."

And she left, faster than she would’ve normally done, risking to crash into a column.

Cicero looked at her until she disappeared from his sight, then he retired to his room, smiling.

Poor, little crow. Seriously, he felt sorry for her. If she hadn’t been a contract, maybe... well, no, he would’ve liked to kill her anyway. But not because he hated her, on the contrary, far from it. It was because he liked her neck, soft, easy to grasp. Because he liked to kill. Because, in the end, he was just sending her into the Void, where he would’ve gone too, one day. Because he respected her. Doing it for money, instead... that, yes, was a lack of respect. It was a little better if he thought he was doing it for Sithis, or for the Mother... but the reality couldn’t change: she was a contract and that was the worst way to be a victim.

Cicero laid down on the straw bed, without undressing, not even of his hat or gloves. He folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. And there, just before falling asleep, another dangerous thought, more dangerous than the curiosity about the name of the little crow: a why.

Why? Why the hell was someone supposed to want her dead?

He wanted her dead because he wanted everyone dead, because taking away life was often a casual outburst, or a show of affection, as in that case. But the others? Those normal people? Why should they want her dead? He couldn’t think of anyone less suitable to be hated than her, honestly.

Why? Why, why, why, why?

Chapter Text

He woke up that it was exactly the sunset. He had overslept. Not that he was in a hurry, he couldn’t complete the contract before the night. But he would’ve liked to spend more time with her, it made no sense to deny it. She was interesting, Sithis only could know how interesting people were missing in the world. A stimulating contract, perhaps the most stimulating of all, inferior, for now, only to the one of the jester.

Cicero got up, fast, snappy. He approached the window and mirrored, just for a moment, just to see a new wrinkle. He wasn’t what he used to be, and he didn’t even know when it had happened. One day the Cheydinhal Sactuary had emptied, and suddenly Cicero had awakened in Dawnstar, fifteen more years on his shoulders. Fortunately it was time to kill. It made him feel younger.

Suddenly, he remembered: he had dreamed of her. He had dreamed of the little crow. But in the dream she wasn’t little at all, indeed. She was in the Void, seating on a stone throne, with an apple in her hand, which then had become a skull. With empty eyes she stared at nothing, severe. She had four huge black wings, but ruined, as if she hadn’t used them in decades.

A little crow that had turned into a great scourge for mortals.

Cicero chuckled.

"Oh, little crow, if only you could’ve seen yourself! You looked like the Princess of the Void!"

He was beginning to understand why Sithis and the Mother wanted her in their kingdom. Perhaps it was from this that the contract had started. Maybe nobody hated her, maybe the Mother had requested her Princess by her own. She could do it, right? Otherwise there would’ve been no other explanation.

Cicero sighed, proud and rested. He left the room, almost trotting, aware that thanks to him that night a princess would’ve risen into the Void.

When he arrived in the main salon, she was there, like in the morning, with the only difference that she was visibly more tired. She was trying to clean the tables, but it was hard for her to figure out where they were and how big their surface was. Some crumbs had escaped her rag.

Poor, little crow, unaware... soon she wouldn’t have had to work anymore. Soon she would’ve gone where she deserved, where there were those who could appreciate her qualities. Daughter of the night, heir to the Void, no longer a humble servant for rough men.

"Still at work. You really are... " Cicero waved a hand in the air, as if searching for the right word, "indefatigable. Hm?"

The inn was still empty for now. It wasn’t time of revelry yet. Soon, perhaps, the first customers would’ve started the procession, but in that very moment the salon was just for them.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Divinely!"

"So much divinely to expand your vocabulary?"

Cicero let out a high-pitched laugh.

"Ah! Then even the little crow can make jokes!"

She frowned.

"Who tells you it was a joke?"

"It must be a joke, Cicero always speaks well!"

The girl tried to dissimulate a serious attitude, but couldn’t. One corner of her mouth rose, slightly, but enough for her interlocutor to notice.

"Ah, nah, nah, nah" began Cicero, playful, making his tongue snap in a fake sound of disappointment, "you’re adventuring in a hazardous land. You can be good at savoring colors, but the only master of jokes here is Cicero, my dear."

She shook her head. She left the smile free, no longer holding it back.

"All right, it was a joke. You’re strange, but I can’t say you don’t speak well."

"Good. But you did well to try. Who knows, one day you could even defeat Cicero!"

"I don’t think so, there's not much training here, only dirty jokes. They’re not funny, but I know a lot of them, I bet I'd beat you."

"Even of those Cicero has a good repertoire. Have you ever heard of the juggling balls?"

She was about to say no, smile on her lips and redness on her cheeks, but just then the first client of the evening entered brutally. Big, covered in armor from head to toe, heavy, clumsy, smelly. The kind of man who probably could only count up to four, just enough to understand that he still had all his limbs in the right place, after a battle.

Cicero approached the girl, hissing in her ear, anxious to share the joke.

"If he could count to five, he would understand he has a head."

She didn’t understand it right away, she made a confused expression.

"Think about it, it will come to your mind. A small exercise to sharpen the sense of humor."

Meanwhile, the man had arrived at the counter, and Cicero, unable to hold back his disgust, had to move away a little, trying to endure the stench.

"Cicero lets you work now. He takes the Alto wine and goes to the corner, over there."

He walked away, then, happy to be as far away from the client as possible and at the same time regretful that she couldn’t ignore him the same way.

Unfortunately, there was no more time to go back to the young girl: after the first customer, another came, then another, and then a swarm.

Cicero styed aside, patient, waiting for the designated hour. What a pity, though... really a pity. He would’ve liked to have the time to tell her more jokes. He knew a lot of them, at least... at least five. Killing someone before telling five jokes is another of those things that are not good. But he had made a joke about the number five, maybe it was all the same.

But the night ran fast, faster than usual. Midnight came that there were still a lot of people, and the girl didn’t seem to stop working. She was bringing drinks to the tables, moving more awkwardly than ever, trying to make her way among the men. A crow trying to fly among mammoths.

Cicero kept staying aside, watching her, hoping she would leave quickly, so that he could be alone with her. He also noticed a group of drunk men who were teasing her, but he didn’t intervene: she hadn’t noticed, and he had to keep a low profile. But he despised them in silence, and thought that it would’ve soon been the Void for the little crow, and in the Void no one could’ve laughed at her.

It was the first hour of the new day, when she understood: Cicero saw her brighten from afar, and laugh, alone, without anyone following her. She had understood the joke about the number five.

Cicero laughed with her, away from her. It hadn’t taken so much, after all. It was a difficult joke to understand, without knowing the first part. She was an intelligent crow. Crows are often intelligent.

Finally, when almost Cicero was no longer hoping for it, the girl decided to leave. She left her apron, passed the baton to another waitress, and she began to walk toward the door, with her void-colored cloak.

Cicero remained motionless, watching her. He was impressed, however, when she was reluctant to leave. She was still in the doorway, without going out. She kept turning her head to the right and left, perhaps trying to pick up some specific noise.

Cicero understood that she was looking for him, in one of the two corners far from the counter. He felt sorry for her.

"What are you doing, little crow? Give up. Do not look for Cicero. Do not further shorten the thread of your existence."

But she didn’t seem to be leaving.

Cicero stayed still, silent, almost without breathing, as he used to do when he had to kill. He made her believe he had left without saying goodbye. He wanted her to spend her last hour on Nirn on her own. No illusions, right? One last moment to say goodbye. It’s not good to interrupt a victim's farewell.

The girl remained just a little longer, then seemed to give up. Disappointed, she opened the door and left the inn, in the icy cold of Whiterun.

"Don’t worry, little crow," said Cicero in a low voice, covered by the noises of the other diners, "we'll see each other very soon."

And he too got up, for the first time not very enthusiastic. It's not good to kill someone who has a crush on you. No, it's not good at all.

He went out, and the winter wind wiped his face like a cat o’ nine tails. He moved furtively when he noticed she was still at the bottom of the stairs, descending slowly and staggering. It seemed that she couldn’t get used to the constants of the environment at all. Every action took her every time more and more effort, no matter how much she was trained.  

"Don’t worry, it's your last staircase."

When she reached the bottom, she stumbled over a cobblestone, and Cicero had to hold back to not burst out laughing.

"Don’t worry... pfff... ha ha ha ha! Don’t worry. They’re your last cobbles!"

And so up to her house, through the last wind, the last alley accidentally taken, the last door opened, the last fire lit.

Cicero, crouched outside the hut, waited another hour to make sure she was asleep. He had decided he wanted to do it as quietly as possible. He didn’t even want to wake her up: let her dreams be a prelude to the Void, let they merge with it, and let they become one. She wouldn’t have even noticed it. It wasn’t a favor Cicero allowed to everyone.

When, finally, he felt that it was time, Cicero started moving. He reached the door, and he got rid of the lock in a very short time, because maybe it was already broken. He entered, furtive, predatory, assisted by darkness. He closed the door behind him, he didn’t want to be disturbed at the best part.

The hovel was essentially two little rooms: the main living room and bedroom, without a door. Cicero could see the final part of the bed, hidden by the wall, as well as her feet.

He came up with the dagger unlined, calm, balanced, without emitting the most imperceptible noise. He arrived at the foot of the bed and saw her sleeping. He wondered if she was already dreaming of the Void. He wondered if they were already welcoming her on the other side... what a pity that Cicero could’ve never talked to her again. Such a pity.

Then, suddenly, without any warning, everything changed.

What was it? Not him, impossible, not Cicero! It wasn’t Cicero's fault! She must had heard something else, something else!

The girl, in fact, moved suddenly, with her eyes wide open. She was trembling.

"Is there anyone?" she asked, scared.

At that point, he had few choices. First: go out in a hurry, sure he hadn’t been recognized, and try again the next night. Second: jump on her and silence her.

That contract had taken too much time already, so, without thinking about it a second longer, he opted for the second choice: with an agile, light, feline leap, he straddled her, pointing the dagger at her throat.

She groaned, the cry of a voiceless person. Cicero pressed the blade more to her neck, so that she could feel the cold metal, and understand that she must not scream.

Well then, it was time. It was enough to plunge the blade. It hadn’t gone according to plans, but still she wouldn’t even have noticed. She was there, under him, it was enough to press a little. Just a little bit. A soft neck, small, it wouldn’t have taken much effort even to behead her.

And yet, now that Cicero was there... he had the feeling that everything was ruined. He couldn’t say why, maybe for the more animated aggression of what he had foreseen, or only for his excess of punctiliousness on the form. The situation reminded him of the time when the daughter of the contract had seen him coming out of the window... some jobs start badly and are destined to end badly.

"Are you... are you Cicero?" asked the girl, surprising him. She must have smelled him, somehow, or there was no other explenation. He hadn’t made a sound, he had never even touched her, it was impossible that she had recognized him in any other way.

He felt that lying over would’ve been useless.

"Hi, little crow."

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, nothing personal, dear. It's just work."

She stammered something incomprehensible, her voice choked. The opalescent eyes filled with tears in an instant.

"Ah... blind people can cry?" commented Cicero, genuinely curious.

"I... I don’t understand..."

"There's nothing to understand, little crow, it's just like that. They told Cicero to kill you and he has to kill you."

"But... but why?"

"Cicero doesn’t know, he never asks questions."

The girl swallowed, silently weeping, despairing.

"If it can be of some comfort, it wasn’t meant to be like that. Cicero wanted to give you the grace of an unconscious death. Why did you have to wake up? You made the evening worse for us both, little crow."

She cried louder, now unable to speak.

Cicero had already explained enough, it was time to end it. He pressed the knife a little more and a red line opened on the delicate skin. Yet... and yet the more he looked at her, lying under him, unable to move, with her hands over her head and palms facing up, the more difficult it was.

In his head, clouded by madness, the same questions were crowding: why? Why her? Who could’ve ever hated her so much? And above all, what was the name of the little crow?

Cicero put less force on the dagger, just enough to not hurt her further.

"Although this is not the most suitable moment, Cicero has remembered that we haven’t  presented properly. What's your name, little crow?" he was violating the killer's bon ton, he knew it.

She closed her eyelids, expecting to be slaughtered at any moment. She seemed not to have the strength to speak, but anyway a strangled murmur managed to come out of her lips.

"Morrigan."

"Um, Morrigan. A beautiful name for a crow. A beautiful name for a Princess of the Void."

"What... what are you talking about?"

"That you should be happy to go there, in the Void. What holds you back here? People treat you horribly, you're poor, you live in this revolting… let’s call it house, and you can’t  even see your killer in the face. Why are you crying?"

"I... I... I'm afraid."

"Fear is a cage, Morrigan. Don’t be afraid, and you won’t have cages. You’ll be able to fly free."

She didn’t understand, he could read it in her face. On the contrary, now she was beginning to breathe hard, her lungs gathering air too quickly, and just as quickly expelling it. She looked like a nervous she-wolf.

"No, no, on, don’t do that" he tried to console her, sincere, resting a hand on her small, bony chest, "a panic attack? It's not worth it my dear, believe me."

She forced herself to breathe more calmly, but Cicero had the feeling that she was doing it only to be condescending. And still she was keeping her eyes stubbornly closed, and for some reason it wasn’t good.

"Open your eyes, come on, it's time to finish."

She shook her head, running the risk of cutting herself.

"Just tell me what I did to you!"

There it was. There! There is what happens to call the victims by name! That's why you shouldn’t kill before five jokes! There's what happens to kill a lover, you can read the disappointment in the victim’s face! That's why you should never violate the bon ton. Basics! Basics!

"Ah, so you’re also hard of hearing, as well as blind. Cicero said it isn’t personal. You didn’t do anything, you're just the object of a contract. Do not take this pain into the Void with you, do it for yourself! Do not become a phantom without rest. Take a deep breath and get rid of everything, alright?"

Unexpectedly, she nodded. Suddenly, she had become collaborative. She kept crying but no longer protested.

"Ah, it was easy. Before killing you, Cicero asks you a question, an academic curiosity: what did he say to make you feel so good? Cicero could avoid so many nervous victims if he understood it."

"Nothing."

A disappointing answer, to be honest, not very helpful.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. I don’t want to die, but what can I do? Just... let it be fast. Please."

"And don’t you beg? Don’t you even try? "

"Would it work?"

Cicero laughed softly.

"Touché." he hissed, touching the tip of her nose with his forefinger, in a playful, almost paternal way.

Morrigan said nothing more, her eyes still tight.

"Come on, open your eyes, Cicero wants to see them one last time. Who knows if you can see life slipping away even if they’re flat, um? "

She obeyed, completely vanquished, and as soon as she did, Cicero realized it hadn’t been a good idea. Like the first time he had seen them, he lost himself in the Void of those milky eyes. He swore he could mirror himself in them.

And then, not requested, the memory of the dream arrived. The girl, with her four wings and the skull crown on her hand, rising from her throne and pointing a finger at him. A warning. Do not kill the bearer of the Mortal Void.

From that thought another thousand came out, especially concerning Sithis and the Mother. Why should they have prematurely wanted an earthly ambassador of the Void to die? Why create her and then kill her in her twenties? Why did they send Cicero for that contract? Why was the Mother restraining his hand for the first time in his life? Maybe he didn’t have to kill her. Or maybe... it was just Cicero's egoism. Old age. Maybe he was no longer capable.

"Foolish, foolish Cicero!" he reproached himself, not even knowing how to separate the will of the Mother from his own.

"You talk a lot to be an assassin." Morrigan said suddenly.

It wasn’t really her to say it, it was fear. At the point of death, victims came out with the strangest phrases. Cicero had killed one who was repeating the ingredients of the potage le magnifique. Despite this awareness, however, Cicero couldn’t help but laughing and thinking at the same time that killing one of the few people in the world with a minimum sense of humor would’ve been a sacrilege, almost as much as killing a daughter of the Void.

"Are you trying to save yourself with humor, eh? Cicero warns you that... well..." he paused, then had to admit it, "actually, it could work."

But Morrigan said nothing more. She stood still, looking through the Void without her eyes.

"Cicero cannot let you live, do you understand that? Cicero doesn’t want to let you live. Cicero... wants to kill someone. Someone... maybe not you, not today. But sooner or later... sooner or later..."

"I’ll die anyway." she let out, all in one breath.

"What? Explain, little crow, explain for Cicero!"

"I... I... have a disease. Little time is left. Let me live my last months, and then... then you can kill me, if you still have to. I swear I'll do whatever you want in the meantime."

"Ah, no, no!" he exploded, disappointed, "you were doing so great! This thing of doing whatever I want, everyone says it, literally everyone. And anyway, there’s nothing Cicero wants from you. Not as a claim, at least."

He touched her breast, soft, warm, and felt the nipple in relief under her nightgowns. Perhaps more out of terror than excitement. Almost surely.

"All right, little crow. Cicero postpones. But don’t you believe he’ll make an exception for you, Morrigan, at least until he has a valid reason. Until then... relax, Cicero asks you as a personal favor. You're too nervous, your corpse will end up getting tense like a hurdy-gurdy's rope. It takes a bit of elegance even in death, do you agree? So, don’t worry. I'll warn you, when the time comes."

She nodded, anxious. Cicero felt her body coming to life, invigorated, nourished by the hope of salvation.

Cicero sheathed his dagger and stood up, leaving her free. Morrigan didn’t move, remaining motionless on the bed, stiff.

"You don’t really care about your nerves after death, eh? Your choice. Thank Sithis you're not the one I have to oil!"

She didn’t move even with the incentive of a joke, so Cicero rolled his eyes and let it go. He started to walk out of the shack.

"Good night, little crow! Be happy, at this time Cicero should’ve wished you good Void!"

Chapter Text

She tried to escape, obviously.

Cicero, lurking again in the street, watched over the shabby house, timing how much it would’ve taken her to flee. The answer was: definitely too much. She went out in a few hours, it was already morning. Why hadn’t she fled before? Why hadn’t she reported him to the guards?

"For Sithis’ sake, you don’t really care about your life!" he thought as he watched her leave through the city gates, saying nothing to anyone.

Yes, of course, she cried if threatened, but it wasn’t true she wanted to live. If she had wanted, she could’ve saved herself. Cicero had almost hoped that she would’ve made his task impossible. He was sure he would’ve never seen her again.

But no, there she was, more defenseless than ever, fleeing alone, without a horse, without accompaniment, without asking for help.

Cicero was sorry. If he hadn’t been her biggest threat, he would’ve sworn he had to protect her even from skeevers.

He followed her, curious to understand what plan she had decided to set up. And he knew immediately that she really didn’t have a plan, she didn’t even know which way to go, once she had left Whiterun. She could’ve asked for help to her friend, the farmer, why hadn’t she?

He followed her to a safe distance, and soon grew tired of her slow and uncertain pace. Just half an hour later, he decided to stop her, partly because she was heading in the middle of a pack of saber-toothed tigers.

He reached her, fast, and did nothing but put a hand on her shoulder. She, not at all surprised, did nothing but stop.

"Out of curiosity, where did you think to go, little crow?"

"I don’t know..." she gasped, "Morrowind?"

"Morrowind? That sooty place is on the other side. Unless you thought about walking around the whole Nirn to get there."

Morrigan sighed, disappointed. She remained still, sad, her eyes facing the prairie. She seemed to be looking at it, but she was actually dreaming of it. Cicero could almost see the cage that was holding her back. The bars in front of her, and she dreaming of being able to fly away, escape from her captivity.

"I can’t even escape..."

Cicero saw that she was about to cry. He laughed.

"Hey, hey, hey! Self-pity won’t help you. Neither with Cicero, nor with all the other dangers of the world."

"It's not self-pity, it's realism. I'm so... useless. I hate these eyes. Why can’t I be like everyone else?"

"Because some people have the blessing of having a window on the Void."

She started crying, angry. She moved away, to avoid physical contact.

"Stop talking about this Void! The void is disgusting!"

Cicero grabbed her chin violently, turning her head to him. He spoke to her in a hiss, their faces close together. He felt that she was frightened, and her legs were beginning to yield. But he didn’t take pity and manteined his grip, to prevent her from collapsing to the ground.

"Cicero has already told you what your cage is, little crow, and it’s not blindness."

She began to stutter, eyebrows slanting, as if to ask for mercy.

"How... how do you know? You don’t know me."

"Cicero knows everyone, all human types, and knows that everyone has a cage. Until you open it you cannot live. And right now you can’t open it, because you don’t even know it's there. You keep flying in circles, in circles, in circles, and you don’t understand that you’re chained."

"What... what are you trying to say?"

"That your cage is fear, little crow. You’re so afraid of not being able to do something that you don't do it. Like the stairs. Those damn stairs! Ah! You've been doing them all your life, they've always been those for decades. Why the hell you go so slow?"

"Because I can’t see them..."

"YOU DO NOT NEED TO SEE THEM, YOU KNOW WHERE THEY ARE!" he cried, "even Cicero will never hear the Mother, but he knows she exists!"

Now she was crying desperately, intimidated, humiliated, suddenly aware that she was talking to her killer, as if she hadn’t realized it before.

Cicero thought he had been too hard and let go of her chin. Before he withdrew his hand, he stroked her cheek. He didn’t feel her skin, instead he felt the cold of her body even through his gloves. As if she weren’t really made of flesh, but of ice, of northern winds.

"Cicero knows you very well, little crow. He knows you're afraid of everything. You’re afraid of the stairs, so you stop thirty seconds on each step, praying that the next one is still there. You’re afraid of the merchant and so you don’t eat apples. You're afraid of Cicero and you run away. You’re afraid of all the other people, and you don’t ask for help. You just can’t understand you could do everything. Cicero isn’t saying you could run and go to Morrowind straight away... Cicero, however, certainly is saying that you did half an hour of walk. Perhaps you would’ve arrived in Hammerfell, not where you wanted. But if you had continued, instead of stopping as soon as your killer told you so, you would... you would’ve arrived somewhere. Do you understand, hm?"

She nodded, saying nothing, still stuck in terror.

"You could’ve saved yourself. You could’ve had Cicero arrested, or executed! But you didn’t, so here we are, talking about how Cicero looked for a way to justify his incapability of killing you, and how you didn’t even dare to try to save yourself."

She nodded slightly. She wiped her tears, and finally she seemed to have regained some dignity. She had dignity in abundance, Cicero couldn’t understand why she didn’t use it. She could’ve walked around with her head held high, with the most disquieting eyes of Skyrim, announcing the Void, the whole world at her feet. Instead, she preferred to be treated as a poor, useless, blind girl.

"Did you want me to stop you? Don’t you want to kill me?"

Ah, how quickly she had changed the subject, now that she was interested!

"Well, that was pretty obvious, dear. As much as Cicero is obliged to say and think otherwise, if he wanted to kill you, you would’ve died on the night of the northern lights."

"Can’t you let me go, then?"

"Oh, Cicero has many faults, but among these there isn’t betrayal. There are principles that he doesn’t intend to disobey. The Mother is testing him and he doesn’t understand why. For this it would’ve been infinitely better if you had put at least a little obstacle between the knife of Cicero and your neck, little crow. It is also true, however, that these are problems of the executioner, not the victim’s. Cicero will come to terms with it. He cannot ask you to decide for him, right?"

She didn’t know what to say. She shrugged and nodded confusedly.

"Aye, I suppose..."

Cicero chuckled.

"Ah, the light soul of those who have no responsibility! Really Cicero envies you, you know?"

A break. Cicero took her hand gently. He cuddled it and felt it was icy, even through his gloves.

"If we don’t want the cold to do the job instead of Cicero, it will be better if the little crow comes back to the nest."

This time she seemed invigorated, determined. She made a smile, light but self-confident. As if, suddenly, she had understood everything, all the secrets of the world, of her soul and of hes interlocutor.

"We could stay around a little" she proposed, with a surge of courage, and perhaps unconsciousness that Cicero wouldn’t have expected.

"Here in the middle of nowhere?"

"No, let's take a walk. I'm a Nord, I'm not cold. I don’t want to go back to the city, there everything is so... tight."

"You're short to be a Nord, you know?"

"A little hypocritical, said by you."

She laughed, and Cicero felt better with her. She had changed her attitude in such a short time... Cicero was curious to see if she was trying to pull him into a trap. He hoped for it, actually, but maybe not, maybe she just wanted to talk. Perhaps she had remembered the reasons why she had a sort of crush on him.

"Short or not, it's not very wise being around with Cicero. You know, don’t you?" he tried to dissuade her, "he killed the Grand Champion of Cyrodiil pretending to be an adoring fan and then cutting his throat from behind him. It was in a wood, he remembers well. A forest similar to this, near us. A good place to hide a victim, if you know I mean… Morrigan. Be careful."

She nodded, delicate, and there it reappeared: the grace with which she could move. When she wasn’t afraid, when she became herself, when she turned from a clumsy little girl to a woman who can’t see in front of her only because she can see farther than anyone else.

"I know, but I have the feeling that Cicero will follow me anyway, for the days to come. We might as well keep company to each other, right?"

There she was. There was the Princess of the Void! She who is not afraid of death because she is death. The one he had seen on horseback, on the evening of the northern lights. Perhaps she was a daedric princess who was making fun of Cicero.

"Are you starting to open the cage, hm?"

"Or maybe" she commented mysteriously, "I'm starting to understand how to open yours."

They walked for a long time, accompanied by the sounds of the animals disturbed by their passage. They weren’t walking at random, however, as she would’ve liked. Cicero was leading her away from the tigers pack and closer to Whiterun. He led her by deception, as it is done with a lost sheep, to bring it back to the fold. Or... to the slaughterhouse, depending on the case.

She, however, was calm, as if she had convinced herself that he wouldn’t have killed her. Cicero probably didn’t want to, no, but his personal preference was one thing, and another one was the contract. If it were just up to him, perhaps, he would’ve let her go. He could also have glossed over the Brotherhood, perhaps, with great effort. But not over the Mother... not the Mother! The contract came from her, not carrying it out would have been like disobeying her.

"Is the landscape beautiful?" asked Morrigan, after a long pause.

"As usual: dead."

She pretended to be resentful.

"You people are so used to seeing it that you don’t know how to appreciate it."

"Nothing more wrong, little crow! Cicero appreciates nature. But he preferred Cyrodiil. That’s his home."

He described his native region in the most poetic way possible, with metaphors, rhetorical figures of all kinds. She was quietly absorbed, evidently trying, in vain, to make herself a mental image of that distant and warm place, warmer than Skyrim.

It was at that moment that Cicero noticed the state of her hands.

"You have purple fingers, little crow. It's time to come back."

"How it is purple?"

Cicero took off his gloves and gave them to her.

"Purple means no good. Fortunately you're a Nord, eh? Cicero the Imperial seems to tolerate this cold better."

Morrigan denied with a nod. She slowed her pace, until she stopped. She touched a snowdrop plant, studying it. Then she got up and returned the gloves to the owner.

"It's not the cold, it's the disease. My fingers are losing sensitivity and... soon... that's why I don’t like wearing gloves. As long as I can, I want to be able to read the objects."

"So it was true, the story of the disease?"

She nodded. She smiled melancholy and sighed, then released her breath in a whirlwind of condensation.

"A bad disease, it’s taking my senses away. I immediately gave up the sight, and the touch is starting now. It’s typical of my mother's family. I don’t... I don’t think I'll touch thirty, none of my family has lived that long. I should commit suicide, you know... I don’t want to end up in a voidy life. That's why if you kill me it doesn’t make much difference."

Cicero nodded thoughtfully, and realized that perhaps he had been too strict in judging her. She was drowning in fear, but it was justified, at least.

"Should it be a license to kill you?" he asked, chuckling.

"I’d still prefer not. Not so much for death, it’s that... I thought I was fine with you. A great disappointment."

Cicero snorted.

"Morrigan cannot be serious, people generally don’t like Cicero. Children usually like him. Not much women. Not at all men. You surrendered just for the attention I gave you, because you're not used to it."

He thought she would be offended, but she said nothing, continuing to walk straight.

"Aye, maybe."

Cicero was silent, meditative. In the end, he decided it was time to lighten the atmosphere with a joke and a compliment.

"However, if you still have until the age of thirty, you must have a lot of time left!"

She laughed, pretending not to be flattered. But she was. She totally was.

Chapter Text

They returned to the city that was almost lunchtime. The streets were crowded with people moving from one building to another for the upcoming meal. When people crossed them, they looked at them badly. Cicero knew it was because of his presence, which certainly had to be peculiar for those villagers. The word was spreading, perhaps. It wasn’t a good thing.

"I'm hungry." said Morrigan, who was now walking a little more confident. Perhaps it was because she was making an effort not to be afraid, or perhaps because there was Cicero showing her the direction. She was always near him, in fact: she didn’t hold his hand, probably more as a matter of principle than for lack of necessity; but she was a few inches from him, at his side, and occasionally brushed him with her fingers to identify where he was. Cicero pretended not to have noticed.

"Go to the nest, eat and rest, little crow. Cicero will stay around here."

They had arrived at the shabby house, finally. They had stopped outside the door to talk.

"Do you want something to eat?" she asked, in an impulse of divine charity that wouldn’t have brought her any good.

"Let's recap. First, you try to bribe Cicero proposing to become his slave, perhaps sexual, Cicero hasn’t understand quite well that part. Then you try again with nice words. And now you’re trying again with food? Haven’t you understand that Cicero is incorruptible?"

She corrugated the corners of her mouth, in an expression of annoyance, made vaguely disturbing by the expressionless eyes. It was as if she had two chasms instead of the eyes. The rest of her face could move, laugh, become angry, become frightened. But the eyes were always the same, they didn’t seem to be hers.

"Maybe it depends on what food I offer you..." she nodded jokingly.

"And now you’re trying with humor? It won’t work. No, no, no, no. However..."

"Yes?" she asked impatiently.

Cicero decided to take advantage of it.

"However, Cicero would appreciate a carrot, if you really want to bribe him. We’ll detract it from your long stay in the Void, um? How much life is a carrot worth?"

"Oh, bankers are quoting it about twenty years."

"Twenty years? Nay. Maybe a sweetroll, at most, not a carrot."

She, trying not to laugh, played the game.

"I have no sweetrolls, I'm afraid."

"And then go for the carrot. It's... a week, okay?"

"Then I could give you a lot of carrots."

"Sorry, they’re not cumulative."

At that point she let go of the soft laughter she was holding between her lips. Cicero followed her, then began to compliment, gently beating her shoulder in a proud gesture.

"See? Even crows know how to support a completly crazy conversation!"

She became red in the face, Cicero didn’t know why. She was ashamed of everything. Even madness?

"But now, Cicero wants the carrot."

She was surprised. She scratched her chin, embarrassed.

"Oh... were you serious?"

"Cicero’s always ser... well... no, it sounds rather false. Let's say that Cicero always jokes, but talking about serious matters, nevertheless."

"So you... you want a carrot and in return I’ll have a whole week of guaranteed life?"

"Cicero's word is a commitment."

Morrigan smiled, shook her head, trying to figure out if she really had understood.

"I can’t understand if you're kidding me, Cicero."

"Oh, Cicero never ki... no, that's false too. Let's say that Cicero would never dare to make fun of a Princess of the Void. Acceptable?"

She began to nod, and at that moment Cicero thought that she knew how to use bodily gestures, even though she was blind. Perhaps someone had taught her.

"Why should you trade my life for a carrot?"

"Oh, Cicero thought he was clear. He couldn’t wait to find an excuse to postpone! Even the Mother knows how important carrots are to him."

Morrigan, still incredulous, opened the door, groping. Once in the house, she looked for a bag and took out the vegetable, while Cicero remained at the door, without entering: he didn’t like to violate the property of others, if it wasn’t to kill someone.

Morrigan returned to him with the carrot in her hand.

"A carrot for a week, confirmed?"

"Yup."

"Only one? Raw?"

"Yup."

"Er... okay. Enjoy your meal."

Cicero took it, thanking, and chewed it vigorously.

"Cicero likes carrots. They match with his hair! "

"Why? What color are carrots?" asked Morrigan, confused.

"They’re of the color of Cicero's hair."

"And your hair, then what color is it?"

"Of the color of carrots. Easy."

She seemed exasperated, weary, no longer able to stand over the conversation, and Cicero laughed at that. Maybe she thought he was making fun of her, but it wasn’t like that. If colors didn’t exist for her, it wasn’t fair to name them in her presence. Talking about colors with a blind woman is unrespectful: it’s like using sarcasm with a fool, with the difference that it isn’t so funny. If Cicero had simply talked about reds, greens, purples, she would’ve been more confused than before and without any additional information.

"Let’s be clear, Cicero doesn’t intend to lose sight of you in the meantime. He’ll think of a solution, but he’ll have to follow you very closely. It’s work, do you understand?"

"I have to go to the inn tonight. You're going to stalk me even while I'm working, aren’t you?"

"Hey, hey, hey! Don’t get smart, little crow! You were the one who proposed to benefit of each other’s company. If you don’t want Cicero anymore, well, just a sign from you and..."

"... will he leave me alone?"

Cicero exploded in a loud, coarse laugh.

"No, Cicero doesn’t leave anyone alone. A week passes quickly, little crow. Let's say he’ll continue to follow you without you noticing. You’ll live normally and Cicero will stay here looking at you, whatever you do. You won’t even hear him, if that's what you want."

He winked at her, not immediately realizing that she couldn’t see it. Then he decided to replace the gesture by touching her nose, with a quick, impertinent gesture.

"Well, aye, that's what I want. A little peace, please."

Cicero raised his hands in surrender.

"As you command, Princess of the Void!"

And he left, snappy, fast and silent. Morrigan was stunned not to hear his near presence anymore. Cicero, from a distance, saw her feel the air in front of herself, looking for him. When she didn’t find him, she stood for a moment on the door, thoughtful. Finally, she returned to the house and closed the door, retreating to her nest.

In the evening he saw her leaving the house, as she had said. She stayed still for a moment, before walking on the street, sharpening her hearing. She tried to hear something from him. She wouldn’t have succeeded. The first time she could even cheat, but now Cicero knew how much he could dare to get close without her noticing. He wouldn’t have given her the satisfaction of catching him. Hadn’t she asked for solitude? And solitude she would’ve had. Cicero was good at waiting, at remaining alone. He was used to it.

Morrigan started walking and, slowly, reached the inn's stairs. Once there, she had a moment of hesitation. It was as if she knew that Cicero was looking at her, and therefore she didn’t want to disappoint him. She only studied the first step with her foot. Then, with an outburst of courage, she did all the others in a rhythmic, fast, fluid way. At the top, she stopped for a moment. Even if he couldn’t see her face, Cicero could’ve sworn she was smiling.

"See, little crow? You’re can do everything." he murmured from a distance, in the shadows.

Then, just as it had arrived, the moment of joy ended. She raised her head, more proud than usual, and entered the building.

Cicero followed her after about an hour, to give time to the patrons to crowd the place, so as to blend in with them. As expected, when he entered the confusion was such that she didn’t even notice the noise of the door.

Cicero snaked among the clientele, occasionally attracting glances of hatred or mockery. He didn’t care: he never cared when he was at work. Without attacking anyone, he returned to the corner of the previous evening, aloof, hidden in the shadows.

He ate, but he took care to be always served by the other waitress, not by Morrigan.

Then, around mid-evening, the situation got out of hand.

First: bards arrived. They were three, with hurdy-gurdy, flute and tambourine. They began to sing in chorus and Cicero suddenly felt the urge to open his stomach and hang himself on the supporting beam with his own guts.

Second: the little crow tried to cheat.

Cicero noticed immediately. He saw her approaching her colleague and talking to her in the ear. The other, listening, had begun to look around. Evidently she had asked her if she could see a jester in the hall.

"Oh, no, trickster little crow!" he said aloud to be heard by both of them while being on the other side of the room. He didn’t want to give Morrigan the pleasure of finding him out first.

"Cicero!" she exclaimed, amazed.

What was it, did she expect him to give up? He had said he would’ve followed her and so it had been. As he had said, Cicero's word was a commitment.

"Cicero is very disappointed, very!"

"Sorry, it's just... I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t left you behind!"

Cicero laughed as he reached her at the counter.

"Well, actually, Cicero saw that you were quick on those stairs. Maybe within a week you could even run, and at that point, well..." he didn’t finish the sentence, fearing to be heard by the others.

He leaned toward her ear, brushed her raven-black hair gently. He felt her tremble as he hissed in her ear:

"... at that point you could even try to escape me, little crow. Cicero isn’t sure he has done a good deal with that carrot."

"It was my plan." she shuddered, embarrassed.

Cicero moved away and waited for her to recover. He changed tone and subject.

"These bards are disgusting" he began, immediately followed by the icy gaze of one of the three musicians, "since you had to unmask this Cicero in disguise, however, it would be correct at least to offer him a dance. Hm?"

"A dance? With me? Have you noticed I'm not really the most graceful woman in the pub, haven’t you?"

"Cicero has noticed a woman who knows how to climb stairs perfectly, and who would be able to do anything, if she wanted to."

She smiled, tempted to accept. Then her colleague encouraged her, and eventually she had to give up.

She put down the mug she was cleaning and reluctantly undid her apron. Holding one hand on the counter, she got around it, up to the side of Cicero.

He took her hand, without her offering it.

"Don’t worry, little crow, Cicero can lead."

"Don’t make me hit something..." she said as a supplication, evidently convinced that he would’ve certainly done it, just for fun.

"Morrigan really has a very bad image of poor Cicero. Has he ever given you a good reason to not trust him?"

She raised her eyebrows, and her milky eyes widened in disbelief.

"Seriously? You literally tried to ki…"

Cicero stopped her immediately and waved a hand in the air, theatrically, nonchalant.

"Well... except for... work."

She shrugged.

"Well, I have to admit it, except that, no you haven’t."

"So enough, it's not good to talk about work on a date!" he turned to the three bards, "a Danse Macabre, can you do it or not?"

The three looked at each other, exasperated. Then, in unison, as if they had read their thought, they began to play.

And, suddenly, the inn became soft, almost blurred, silent. Actually none of the patrons had decided to be less rowdy or invasive than usual, but both Cicero and Morrigan perceived it that way. He saw her, in fact, being particularly moved in that moment: she who made of her hearing essential use, she who knew how to grasp the beauty even in the most insignificant noises, such as the trot of horses or a sack of wheat emptied on a millstone. Now that she was in the presence of real music, however, the true ecstasy of hearing, she had stretched her neck, as if she wanted to bring the ears closer to the instruments, even just a few inches.

Cicero pulled her lightly, to show her the way. They went in the center of the room, at a slow pace, until reaching a less crowded spot, near the door.

He put his hands on her hips and she did the same on his shoulders.

"And now... calmly. Light!"

Morrigan released the muscles of her body and Cicero felt her arms resting heavily on him.

"Good, my dear. And now let's do the same with the legs, hm?"

Actually she didn’t make it, those were her weak point. Although she had begun to move, slowly, accompanied by Cicero, and with as much elegance as possible, it was still easy to notice how careful she was every time she had to put her weight on one foot.

But Cicero didn’t complain, because with everything else she was almost another person. Her face was calm. She wasn’t afraid, nor of him, nor of falling. With her facial muscles so relaxed, so neutral, her eyes stood out even more, and Cicero feared he could’ve died, died in that very moment for crossing the gates of the Void through her.

But he didn’t die, in fact, he felt more alive than usual, almost like when he was killing. And he stayed alive, then, looking at her, seeing her long hair fluttering and mingling with the shadows of the night. He saw her arms, her hands, again filled with the grace she put only in small things, or in special occasions.

"This music is beautiful and... disturbing" she murmured softly.

"It's a Danse Macabre. A Dance of Death. When skeletons dance with livings, Death is pleased and plays this melody."

"Then it's right for you."

"Oh, no, Morrigan. It's right for you."

And it seemed to Cicero that she had truly understood him for the first time. She hadn’t interpreted it as a threat, because it wasn’t. She had interpreted it lightly, as an observation. As a compliment, indeed. As the truth of her way of being, from her name to her appearance, from her melancholy to her loneliness. Like a crow that brings bad news, but without rancor. Like death. As was right for a Void Princess.

Little by little, Morrigan gained confidence, and began to dance in larger swirls. Cicero made her spin slowly. She began to dance with arms wide open, perhaps even to make sure of the space around her. But she moved them so gently, with soft and light fingers, that Cicero thought she could’ve flown away at any moment, to go on a battlefield, land on the victims, and reap them, taking them with her into the nothing that was the non-life.

Cicero felt ecstatic, excited, seduced. If he knew how to love someone, it could have been her.

For the first time, he understood that he respected her. It was no longer just a vague feeling of injustice in killing her. It was devotion. He wanted to lie with her, and serve her until death, into the Void. All he could think of was that she must be a reincarnated daughter of the Night Mother. Mother had sent her there. Mother had sent him to kill her, knowing that he would’ve recognized her for what she really was.

More and more fascinated by the dance, he brought an arm to the base of her back and, pushing her slightly with his body, he made her lean backwards, slowly. She didn’t oppose, and indeed accompanied the movement with her arms, letting them fall backwards like the wings of a dying crow.

Cicero, without haste, gently and allusive, ran and index across her breastbone: he left the stomach, headed up, in the center of the neckline, without ever changing direction, without distractions. He felt the waves of her ribs on her skinny body, then he reached her neck, her throat, felt her nerves tense with exertion. He wanted to grasp that neck. Without killing her. Just tighten it a little.

He didn’t, and not because he was in public, and he felt everyone's eyes on him. He didn’t because he knew that she wanted it too and he would’ve made her wait. Cicero was good at waiting. He was patient. He wanted all her attention and all her consent. It wasn’t the right moment. He had to first make sure she trusted him. Always, not just in the middle of a crowded inn, not just during a dance.

He touched her chin, then, and her jaw, and her ear, until he reached her hair.

"Everyone’s looking at you, Princess of the Void." he whispered against her chest.

Suddenly aware of what was happening, she straightened up, imposing herself, even pushing Cicero. She smiled, blushing, and stopped dancing. She arranged her dress, checking that her chest was well hidden. She brushed her hair away from her face and brought it behind her ears, in a gesture that made her look too young.

"Excuse us..." she mumbled, but with such a light tone that no one could hear her.

Cicero waited a moment, so that everyone calmed down, both Morrigan and the other customers, surprised by their way of dancing. When they returned to their beers, wine, gambling and dirty jokes, Cicero took the girl by the hand, leading her back to the counter.

Once arrived, however, before letting her go back to work, he positioned himself behind her, taking her by the shoulders and talking to her ear.

"You gave a good show, congrats! The program of the evening was exactly to teach a little healthy eroticism to these rough shepherds. Cicero returns to the shadows, now, and hopes that you have understood you have not to cheat anymore."

He felt her trembling along the spine. She tried to turn around to talk, but he didn’t allow her to say anything, disappearing. He had to leave the inn, to be sure he couldn’t be seen by the little crow's fellow sentinels. He climbed the inn and went on the roof, therefore, stealthy and unseen. He kept watching his victim, thinking however that it was no longer a suitable term. The reason for the hunt was changed. No, she wouldn’t have been a victim. She would’ve been a goal.

The difference between the two terms was that, from then on, she would’ve had to look for him, not the contrary.

Chapter Text

The plan, actually, wasn’t successful, not for reasons due to Cicero or Morrigan. He wanted to stay on the roof, watch over her as she worked and meditated, meditated and worked. He would’ve been waiting for days, if necessary, and he knew it wouldn’t have been. She would’ve surrendered first, she would’ve called him, even shouting in the middle of the square. And Cicero knew it, but not because he was so self-assured, or was particularly wise in understanding infatuation. He wasn’t so presumptuous to confidently assert to understand women, actually. It was just mere cognitive ability. The same one that he used in order to follow the victims, to notice their details, to approach them, to manipulate them. It was intelligence. It was intuition.

It happened that it was one hour before dawn, more or less. Cicero understood it from the position of the moons; from the very thin, pale, pink line to the east; and finally from the fact that Morrigan's colleague had left at the end of her working shift.

Cicero, lying on the roof, was looking at th night sky, which reminded him of the Void… except for the stars, which almost ruined it. He thought he was cold and that he would’ve had to find a more convenient solution to follow Morrigan without being in contact with her and also without freezing outside.

Then, suddenly, an unusual noise, too strong for that time of the morning. The inn was empty, it didn’t even have overnight customers. Morrigan must have been the only one in there, not even the owner had stayed.

Cicero, rising slightly from the thatched roof, leaned toward the skylight to check the inside. There was a pot on the ground, and Morrigan standing still. She must have dropped it, nothing serious.

Cicero, however, didn’t even have time to lie down, that something else hit his ears, a sound much more disturbing than an pot fallen on the ground.

"Stay back!"

Cicero, this time, snapped very fast. It was her, Morrigan. She had almost shouted. Not much to be heard by the rest of the city, but enough to reach him, loud and clear.

He looked again through the skylight and understood: there was someone else with her. A man.

Cicero couldn’t see him very well, he could only see one arm, and that was enough to understand what kind of person he was: stupid, huge and probably drunk. Just a bit above the little crow, as ease of elimination.

What was he doing? He was making trouble, of course. Being all day among sheep and cows must have made him unable to distinguish between a courtship and a milking.

Cicero rolled his eyes, annoyed, both for Morrigan and for himself. He didn’t want to interrupt the plan to intervene.

He kept looking: there was the possibility that he was just a drunken idiot, maybe Morrigan would’ve handled the situation. If he hadn’t become violent, maybe...

He didn’t have time to think that the man raised his hands on the girl. He gave her a slap, and she, unable even to try to dodge it, received it strong on the whole cheek. The violence was such that she fell sideways, against the counter. She clung to it, but a trickle of blood ran down the side of her face, coming from the forehead.

Cicero, enraged, hissed between his teeth. He couldn’t pass through the skylight, reinforced with metal, or else he would’ve done it, descending from above like a predatory raptor. So, nervous, he had to get off the roof and go around the main door. And the journey, albeit short, forced him to take his eyes off the situation.

In fact, when he entered, things had already evolved: Morrigan was on the ground, waving her arms and legs, in the useless attempt to defend herself, shouting. She had also tried to use her fingernails, and she had managed to scratch her assailant's face. Although it had been useless, Cicero was proud of her courage. She hadn’t gave up, as she had done with him the day before. Maybe... maybe he had underestimated her. Perhaps she wasn’t the kind of person blocked by fear in general. Perhaps she hadn’t rebelled because, like him, she had also felt something different. As if she had never believed he wanted to kill her.

The man was on top of her, holding her on the ground, grunting. He was trying to undress her and reach her breasts, but her clothes were still all intact, fortunately.

Once inside and studied the scene for a fraction of a second, Cicero flung himself on that pig. He didn’t even hear him coming, Cicero was too stealthy, even when he ran. It was easy to move the assailant and free Morrigan, thanks to the element of surprise. He hit him and this time, as if in a devine justice, it was Cicero who was above him, with his dagger against his throat.

"Aaaand we interrupt the show due to problems on the stage: we have an intruder on the scene!" he laughed, sincerely amused.

Morrigan was still on the ground, shaking and confused. The assailant, on the other hand, had the stupidest gaze that Cicero had ever had the pleasure to see on a fool's face.

"Who are you? Go away or I’ll kill you, jester!" he threatened, terrified, astonished by the fact that a man smaller than him could hide so much strength.

"Oh, Cicero is just a poor, jealous jester!" he said in a high voice, even more than normal, putting a hand to his head in a gesture of despair and unrequited love "how could you prefer her over me! Unjust world!"

"Go away, sodomite!"

The man tried to free himself, using a knife from the counter. But Cicero didn’t even let him charge his arm. He grabbed the knife from the side of the blade, without even thinking about it, and tore it from his enemy’s hands, hurting himself. Cicero watched the palm of his hand, which was bleeding, through the glove, flooding his forearm.

He burst out laughing.

"Ha ha! Cicero is bleeding! It's time to return the favor!"

And he used his dagger on his victim's eyes. Holding him still, using the tip of the weapon, he sank it into the right eye, to the side, with surgical precision. As the blood began to spurt out of his orbit, the man tried to wriggle out, screaming.

"Aren’t you a real man? Face the pain! Stay still, you’re ruining my work!"

He pulled out the right eyeball. Cicero put his first eye aside, on the counter, near the apples, as the blood flooded him, the victim, the floor and even Morrigan

"Look, the first one didn’t come out so well. I’d like them intact, clear? Let's try to do better with the other one."

He also sank the blade in the second, and it was easier, because the man was weakened by the loss of blood, the pain, and the sudden lack of sight. Cicero passed the tip of the ebony dagger around the bulb, cut the retina, and got it out of the cavity.

"Ah, yes, that's good! Bravo, big man! An excellent patient, excellent!"

Cicero got up, having now made his enemy harmless. He walked, lightheartedly, smiling. He kept the bulbs in his hand while their late possessor was groaning on the ground.

"Shut up, or Cicero will cut your tongue. Actually, it's a bit disgusting, Cicero would be grateful if we could avoid it."

The man, who was now holding his hands in his own face, became immediately silent. Maybe it was just out of fear. Poor thing. Did he really think that Cicero would’ve been satisfied with just his eyes?

Cicero looked at them carefully. Finally, he commented:

"Sorry little crow, one is ruined and the other seems to have an ugly cataract. Cicero wished to gift them to you, but it's not a good deal. Ah, too bad."

Only then Cicero looked at Morrigan. She had moved, crouched in a corner, covered with blood in her face. Her milky eyes were moving fast, to the right and left. She was breathing heavily, agitated.

"Oh, sorry, Cicero hasn’t thought about it: does the situation make you uncomfortable? Oh, really, the poor, naive jester invokes forgiveness. He finds this scene so funny, and then he forgets that for others it is not! Ha ha!"

He threw the eyeballs to the groud, disinterested, and headed to Morrigan. He grabbed her hand and pulled her up.

"Can you stand up?"

She nodded, saying nothing, still trembling and swirling her eyes.

"Maybe it's better for you to relax in a room, um? Cicero has a work to do. A work that involves, well... to dirty the kitchen" he began to lead her to one of the bedrooms, "don’t worry, you'll find everything tidy! Cicero is used to cleaning. We don’t want to make you lose your job, um?"

She nodded again, evidently in shock. Cicero made sure she got to her room, then he closed the door, and finally he could come back to his amusement. When he arrived in the hall, he saw that the man, leaving on the floor a trail of blood, had tried to reach the door. The wrong door. He didn’t even know where he was.

"Ah, now you would play on equal terms with the little crow! How it is to not see anything, um? Are you already in the Void too?"

He didn’t answer and Cicero took it as a personal offence.

"Ehy, manners! Good people always answer questions. Now, you have two options: either participate in a civil and constructive conversation, and die in about... seven minutes... or refuse and die now. Choose wisely."

A moan.

"Well, I’ll take that as an incentive to the conversation. See, the fact is that Cicero is very curious. He doesn’t understand rapists. You know, Cicero attacks people because... well... because he's forced, he can’t do otherwise. Murder is both his passion and his work, and it’s a little difficult to cultivate this noble art with the consent of the victim. Normal men, on the other hand, have simpler passions, and simpler ways should be used to satisfy them. Sex is such a common good! It's much easier to get. Listen to Cicero: you shouldn’t underestimate yourself! You could wash yourself, for example, and do something for this dead goat smell. At that point, it will amaze you, but women may start thinking of having sex you spontaneously! If you really don’t want to... be less disgusting... you could still pay a professional and enjoy some easy and assured carnal pleasure. So I have to ask you: why did you choose such a demanding method? You could get out of it hurt, dead, or... Sithis forbid... emasculated! Honestly, Cicero would never put his exposed merchandise at risk by bothering a kicking woman. In short, no, Cicero doesn’t understand you. Explain! Cicero is genuinely curious!"

But the man didn’t say anything. Cicero waited expectantly for an answer, but nothing came, only choked laments.

"Well… Cicero didn’t cut your tongue, did he? He is in doubt."

"You ba... bastard..."

"Oh, no, he didn’t cut it, he remembered well!"

The man sighed, breathing hard. He was losing a lot of blood.

"I’ll kill you…"

"Well, in all honesty, Cicero thinks it’s quite far-fetched. Cicero killed the Grand Champion of Cyrodiil! No offense, but a blind peasant who’s about to bleed to death doesn’t even come close to the quality of his first recruit contract. No, no, hm."

Cicero looked at him amused, walking around him. The man, still on the ground, turned his head following the sound of his steps, and Cicero found it very funny.

"Cicero must admit it, he let himself be taken a little by passion! You know, he would normally say it's a matter of respect for his work: the victim must be unharmed and... intact in every part of the body, if you understand what I mean. Cicero doesn’t like being preceded by someone, it's a bit disturbing, like eating from a stranger's soup. Also because it’s not good to kill a woman who was recently raped! Even Cicero has a heart!"

Cicero went to the wall. He contemplated the hanging weapons and decided to play a game: he grabbed an axe and returned to his victim.

"However it would be foolish to deny it: for this contract Cicero feels a certain sympathy. For this reason, it’s not so much a matter of protecting working interests. No, no, you know, Cicero is really pissed off! And this, well, as you can imagine, doesn’t mean anything good for you."

He threw the war axe at him, straight in the face. The man cut himself off, trying to grab it in the right direction.

"Now Cicero offers you a game, hm? Let's get up and fight loyally now. Can’t say Cicero is unfair, he’s giving you all the chance to defend yourself! You're bigger and you have a more deadly weapon, you're fine! Think: she didn’t even have these two advantages. Cicero’s really too kind."

He almost didn’t stop talking, and with the dagger scratched his shoulder.

"Oh sorry! Ha ha! The game has started, Cicero forgot to kick off!"

The man got up difficultly. He held the axe in front of himself and dangled his head, trying to intercept his opponent's position. But Cicero was as light as a Khajiit. It seemed all too simple, so he jumped up onto a table. He began to walk over it, whistling.

The man, identifying the enemy, tried to pounce on him with the axe. For Cicero it was enough to keep walking, undaunted.

"Ah, sorry again, Cicero forgot to explain the rules! With each hit not scored, Cicero will punish you by cutting one limb! Have you ever heard of the Butcher of Windhelm? We will study his technique together, do you agree? Cicero would like to make a finger at a time, but the light outside the window tells him we have little time left to have fun. With the limbs you will only have four strokes: a short game!"

The victim immediately lost his grip on the axe, too confused and in pain even just to react. Cicero then cut off his hand. He had a dagger and it wasn’t really suitable to break bones: he had to saw for a good while before he could take his hand off. Meanwhile, the man was trying to wriggle, but he was tired cause of the lack of blood. He would’ve died quickly. Cicero, then, decided to speed up the game.

"Sorry, Cicero has to leave the game. Even because he’s starting to think about the poor, little crow, over there, and it's time to check on her."

Then he gave up the limbs, even in order to have fewer pieces to pick up when cleaning, and decided to immediately put the dagger in his neck.

He sank it with great pleasure, feeling the tendons tearing, the jugular opening, the trachea flooding.

"Thanks, anyway" he said, tight-lipped for the ecstasy of the murder, "if it weren’t for you, Cicero would be in withdrawal at this time!"

He died in a few seconds. After he had died, Cicero drew his dagger, sighing satisfied. He wiped it on his already soiled clothes and put it back in its scabbard.

When he looked up, he stood still, petrified. He was in the middle of the hall and saw nothing but blood, everywhere, pieces of human bodies, food and things thrown to the ground. He looked up and saw that there was blood even on the ceiling. He frowned, wondering how it got up there.

"All right, all right..." he nodded guilty, "Cicero may have made more mess than foreseen."

Chapter Text

Cicero, with a vague but persistent feeling of guilt, walked towards the room where he had left Morrigan, his steps producing a liquid noise because of the floor wet of blood. When he reached the door, he opened it. That, creaking, revealed to him the vision of the girl, sitting on the bed. She was still, petrified, her face pointing the floor and her eyes wide, as if she could really see something. She still had blood all over her face.

"Hey, little crow... how are you?"

She nodded slightly, but her expression remained empty and terrified.

"Good." she murmured, moving her lips just a little.

"You're hurt and dirty, little crow. And Cicero is more than you. He means, dirty. Oh, even hurt, the hand, he had forgotten. Anyway…"

But she seemed to hear nothing of what was being told. Cicero, then, worried and approached her. At her near presence, he crouched down to see her face better.

"Morrigan?" he called cautiously.

"You... saved my life..."

Cicero laughed nervously.

"Don’t overestimate him, Cicero has saved your virginity only. It's less binding, isn’t it?"

He didn’t want to admit that he probably even prevented her death. After all, his work would’ve been exactly the opposite: to kill her, not to save her. This gave him a sense of inadequacy, as well as guilt towards the Brotherhood, the Mother and Sithis.

"I... thank y..."

She started to cry. The tears, suddenly bursting out of her white eyes, began to dig paths on the blood on her face.

Cicero, for the first time, was almost embarrassed, both towards her and towards himself. He decided to get up and walk away, but as soon as he tried to do so, she jumped and got her arms strong around his shoulders. Cicero was almost scared. She really was hugging him!

"Thank you! Thank you!" she kept saying, as if she no longer knew any other words.

Cicero remained motionless, allowing her that excess of affection. He decided to smile in response.

"Ah, that's what it's like to save people instead of slaughtering them. Nice."

She, despite the macabre situation, laughed in between sobs. Then, for she wasn’t showing signs of detachment, Cicero turned her away to look at her. It was the first time that he was so close to her face and long enough to look at it in detail. He noticed particulars that he hadn’t noticed before: she had freckles, for instance, very pale, confused with the rest of the equally pale complexion. Again, he tried to look for the shadow of the irises, but he couldn’t find it. It was as if she really didn’t have them, and not as if they were veiled. Cicero didn’t know if such eyes were common among blind people, but he couldn’t believe it possible, it couldn’t be the work of a normal disease. It seemed more like a curse, a malediction from a witch who hated her, and who had turned her eyes backwards.

"That man... is... is he dead?" she asked, in a breath without a voice.

"Of course, my dear. Do you disapprove?"

She made a little, almost hidden smile. She seemed sincere and... disturbing. The smile suited to a handmaid of the Void.

"No. He deserved it."

Cicero was pleasantly impressed by that attitude. He had believed she was… a good person. More attached to the civil idea of goodness, in short. But no: she was able to embrace her hatred and selfishness, without regretting it. Not always: most of the time she was a simple woman with a good heart, falsely cheerful, like everyone else. But every now and then she let out that most melancholic, mad and dark part of her soul. Which was also her true essence, her true personality, buried under years of terror and submission to the whole world.

"If only you were born a few centuries ago, what a great bride for Sithis you would’ve been!"

There was no greater compliment than he could possibly think of. It wasn’t to disrespect the Mother, indeed... it was an honor to find one of the few people in the world who could have the respect of the Unholy Matron. He was sure She, the Mother, would’ve said the same things about Morrigan too.

"I don’t know who Sithis is..."

"Oh, Cicero will let you know. In good time."

Cicero touched her lips with his index finger, staining her more with blood. She, without giving a breath, without hesitation, wiped her lips with her tongue, in a slow and sensual gesture.

Cicero smiled, pleased, but walked away, allowing neither her nor himself to give in any further. He got up and began to speak as usual, with bold cheer.

"Now it's better for the little crow to clean up. As a professional, Cicero guarantees that it’s better not to be caught with the blood of a victim on yourself."

She nodded, getting up.

"What’s the situation over there?"

"Well, on this subject... Cicero realized that erasing the tracks will be... more difficult than expected."

"But it's almost morning!" she exclaimed, alarmed.

Cicero, calmer, touched her nose jokingly.

"Exactly, little crow! You’re so smart!"

She drew back, terrified, again in the role of the common woman.

"What are you going to do? Are you going to leave it like this?"

"Well, Cicero doesn’t have many alternatives, he certainly doesn’t want to be found while trying to erase the evidences of a crime. Usually at this point he just runs away."

"And what about me? What do I do?"

"You don’t really do anything little crow. Go home, cleanse, come back here and play out all your acting skills" he put a hand on his forehead, effeminate, "oh my Sovngarde, what happened here? Help! Help! Someone come to help this blind, defenseless, pretty girl!"

She gasped, again on the verge of panic.

"But what if... if they think I have something to do with it?"

Cicero laughed. He put his hand on her shoulder, fatherly.

"No offense, little crow, but no one in the world, never, in any age, could possibly think it was you."

She challenged him with anger, impertinent.

"Didn’t you say that if I wanted I could do everything?"

"Yup. Everything. But not what's over there right now, trust Cicero. If you could see it, you would agree."

She remained silent, agitated. She moved a little towards the door, as if she wanted to go and see for herself the conditions of the salon. Then, as if suddenly remembering that she couldn’t see anything, she let it go. She remained in the room with a confused and undecided expression.

"Listen to Cicero, little crow. Calmly. When are the others coming here?"

"The mistress in at least two hours. Customers usually before, but I can close the inn for a moment, and maybe we can fix it, and..."

Cicero shook his head and shut her up.

"Shh. Don’t think about the inn. Obey the good Cicero: now let's go out, let's go to your house. We’ll take a bath, we'll heal that cut on your forehead, and then we can talk about how to organize all the rest. You have to relax, little crow. What did Cicero tell you about tension? It's not good for your nerves."

She gasped.

"We’ll take a bath, did you say?"

"Oh, Cicero knows you'd like it, but he's a gentleman, he would never dare!"

She hid her face, embarrassed.

"It was just to know if I had to prepare for you..."

"You only think about getting out of here, hm?"

Then, finally convinced, she awkwardly began to walk along the corridor. She decided to leave through the back door. Cicero, on the other hand, took one last look at the inn. The blood was drying and it was now difficult to clean, even if he wanted to. No, it was confirmed: better to leave. Before leaving, however, he took an apple from the counter.

There was no one outside, yet. Dawn was no more than a promise still far away. Houses still closed, people still asleep. They would all have woken up in a few minutes, noticing the extinguished hearthfire and the looming cold.

"Do you think someone could’ve heard the screams?" Morrigan asked, unable to restrain herself.

"Well, maybe we shouldn’t talk about it right now, eh?"

Morrigan put her hands to her mouth. She was completely shocked and out of context. Cicero was almost annoyed, but mostly amused that she was taking it so worryingly. It was just a murder!

"Anyway, no, there are just shops around here, there was nobody close. Even if it were, they would’ve intervened earlier. Relax, Cicero is imploring you!"

She nodded and began to get around the inn. When she reached the stairs, she went down the steps very fast, as if she had forgotten to be blind. When she reached the road, she was the first to be amazed at herself.

For a moment she was free of all worries, and she stopped in the middle of the street. She breathed at the top of her lungs, and when she exhaled, her breath was clear in the cold morning.

Cicero reached her on the road, calm and carefree.

"Nice feeling, right? The first blood frees you from everything."

She smiled and said nothing, pacified with the world, with the universe, with the Void. Cicero had to take her home, holding her by the hand, forcing her to move.

Once home, Morrigan put the key in and turned it with incredible confidence. She had found the lock with no hesitation.

She opened the door and entered. It was dark, but she moved as if nothing could stop her. Cicero, suddenly, realized she didn’t need light, for some unkown reason he hadn’t thought about it before. And he understood that blindness could be a colossal advantage in his night work, except, well... it was a disadvantage in everything else.

Cicero entered and closed the door behind him, remaining in complete darkness. He had to wait for his eyes to get used to it, while Morrigan was already at work to light the fireplace and warm up the room.

"Can Cicero help somehow?"

"Take the water, there's a well outside."

Cicero started up and together they prepared a basin to clean themselves. It didn’t take long, because Morrigan had decided to heat a single pot of water, she had poured the rest cold. She was a Nord, she said. She didn’t care. She was comfortable in the cold.

Cicero tried to find out how much his clothes were stained. The blood was dirtying them almost from head to toe; but red on red, at least, made the slaughter not very contrasting. He decided to clean his gloves, so he took them off, along with his hat and jacket. He wiped his face, neck, and arms in the tripod. He didn’t want to be perfect, it was enough for him to not look like Butcher of Windhelm.

After cleaning the body, he rinsed his gloves and hat and soaked his jacket. He looked at his left hand: a deep, jagged cut was hurting in his palm. He had to sew it, so he took the necessary from the bag. Occupational hazards.

When he turned toward the center of the room, however, he stopped. He saw Morrigan standing next to the basin, ready with her bath. She was still, dressed, her lips pressed together in a grip of embarrassment.

Cicero thought about going out, since there were no other rooms to go. He didn’t make jokes for that time. He headed for the door, borrowing her night-colored cloak.

As soon as Morrigan heard the sound of the door, however, she stopped him.

"Where are you going?"

"Uh... Cicero... around. He’ll come back later."

"But…"

There it was, the request. Cicero said nothing, he didn’t tried to dissuade her or to conquer her. He wanted her to decide.

"I don’t want them to see you around, you can stay here" she said at last, "and then... I'm afraid of being alone."

Cicero laughed in a feeble whisper, happily making fun of her.

"Having Cicero around is useful, isn’t it, when he's on your own side?"

She smiled back. For a moment, Cicero wondered how she knew how to smile. He thought it was something you learn, and instead it seemed to be an innate behavior.

"Well, you'll admit that... there's really no one around worse than you. You swore to give me a week of life, didn’t you? This also means to protect me actively, I guess."

This time, Cicero laughed loudly. He pointed a finger at her, in a joking charge.

"Ha! The little crow can use dialectics when she wants, hm?"

"No dialectics. You protected me without me asking you, so you had already taken care of my life by yourself."

"Don’t try to put the blame on Cicero, little crow! Poor, ingenuous Cicero doesn’t like to be manipulated at all! If he hadn’t promised not to do it, now he’d punish you."

Suddenly, his voice had become disturbing, profound, completely different from the tone he normally used. Morrigan, confused, held her breath. Cicero thought that her inability to see facial expressions made her by nature more prone to be victim of heavy jokes.

"Cicero’s joking, little crow, relax! You should see the look on your face!"

Morrigan blushed, shaking her head and probably calling herself stupid internally. Cicero could almost read in her mind as she mortified herself. He didn’t like it.

"Morrigan" he admonished her, this time actually severe, "Cicero doesn’t like at all that you believe you’re stupid. Stop it. Living half in the Void makes you less aware of what is happening around you, and that's okay. Don’t underestimate the privilege that has been granted to you."

"Sorry…"

"And don’t apologize, ever, when it's about your blindness."

"What do you want me to do then?"

"Cicero has already told you a thousand times: I want you to relax, by Sithis!"

Again, he thought he had been too strict. He forced a laugh, changing his tone.

"Forgive Cicero. Sometimes he gets caught up in emotions. He shouldn’t talk like that to a Princess of the Void."

He approached her, trying at least to remedy the physical distance, even though he knew that the emotional one would’ve taken more time. He stopped a step away from her, he didn’t go any further. He stretched his neck to speak to her near the ear, in a whisper.

"Anyway, even if Cicero wanted to punish you, he can assure you it would be pleasurable... for both of us."

He could almost see the exact moment when she seemed to melt internally. She became red in the face, and Cicero thought it must be a great misfortune for a woman so shy to be so pale.

She, evidently feeling threatened in her safe zone, stretched out a hand to drive Cicero away from her, or herself away from him. This, however, only further worsened the situation, because touching him on the chest she had become aware of the lack of the jacket. She was afraid, now, and Cicero couldn’t help laughing.

"What do you think, little crow? Do you think that Cicero saved you from a rape just to make experience another one right now? Cicero would never dare! Even if it may not seem, he always follows a rigid moral code. Relax, Cicero has only approached to give you an apple!"

She exhaled, as if until then she had held her breath, as if she hadn’t emptied her lungs for centuries.

Cicero pulled the apple out of the bag and handed it to her, as usual, placing it directly in her hand so as not to force her to grope in the air.

She grabbed it with both hands, then she studied the surface, as if to check that it was clean from the blood. Then she took a bite.

"Now be a good girl and do this bloody bath, while Cicero takes care of the wound on your head. No punishments. For now."

Those last words made her chill along the spine, but from that moment she was calmer and said nothing. With hesitation, she let go of the apple and began to undo the leather corset. Cicero moved away, to give her more confidence.

Once her vody was free from the corset, she remained motionless for a moment, trying to gather some courage. When she managed to accumulate self-assurance, she took off her robe and stood completely naked, with her usual gaze, lost in another dimension.

Cicero saw that she was skinny, too skinny. Shoulders, ribs and hips were peeping out from under the milky skin. But she was beautiful. She was, as a Princess of the Void should be: a lifeless beauty, almost dead, which reminds mortals that their body will eventually decay.

"You don’t eat much, eh, little crow?" asked Cicero, genuinely curious, even to put her at ease.

"I don’t always have something to eat..." she confessed.

"So it’s good that Cicero gives you apples, from time to time."

Cicero continued to look at her. He saw her breasts, small, with nipples turgid in the cold. He saw the thighs, the only parts of her body with a hint of softness. Her legs surrounded a dark triangle, of the same color of the hair. Finally, he saw the long raven-like hair, slightly wavy, which were so long to brush her hips, framing her entire figure like a funeral veil.

Morrigan leaned over and looked for the tub. When she found it, she grabbed the edge of it and cautiously climbed over it. The water, barely warm, touched her shapes, and she didn’t give a moan.

When she was lying down, immersed in water, Cicero went to sit on the edge, next to her. He had the necessary to close the wound.

"So, little crow, will you allow Cicero to heal you?"

She nodded, quiet, with only a very vague hint of anxiety. Positive anxiety, in all likelihood.

Cicero cleaned her wound, collecting some water from the basin. Then he dabbed the cut with gauze. He also wiped her face, still stained of blood, and she never protested.

"Sorry to inform you, little crow, but you need some stitches."

He extracted needle and thread. He studied the wound for a second, then slid the needle into the skin.

Morrigan winced, making the water to overflow. Cicero warned her.

"Careful, little crow, you don’t want me to snatch out your eye!"

"It wouldn’t be such a serious damage." she joked, and Cicero appreciated: it meant that she was relaxing, finally.

"Aesthetically, it would be. You wouldn’t be so pretty with a pirate bandage."

She laughed and promised to stay still. She did so when Cicero began sewing again, but she continued all the time to squeeze her eyes and lips, trying not to succumb to the pain.

"The little crow is very delicate, um? Does Cicero hurt her so much?"

"No, sorry, go ahead. You're... you're good."

"The job of Cicero is to take care of a woman, it would really be funny if he wasn’t good. It must also be said that the woman he takes care of is quite dead, while you’re not. A bit higher at stake."

She frowned.

"What do you mean? Aren’t you an assassin?"

"Oh yes, Cicero was and then he came back to be. But in the meantime he had the honor of guarding the Night Mother. It is our matron, our messiah. Her body is a relic for us."

"You?"

"The Brotherhood. But Cicero isn’t going to talk about this now, awakens bad memories."

Morrigan, therefore, didn’t ask any more questions. She remained silent and peaceful until he had finished with her wound, cutting the thread.

"Perfect, little crow, you’re brand new! Now, if it doesn’t bother you, you should help Cicero with his hand."

She seemed to remember only at that moment that he too was hurt. She was regretting the forgetfulness.

"Oh, is it serious?"

"It’s perfectly the average of what we risk in this work." replied Cicero.

Morrigan, to understand the extent of the damage by her own, asked to touch his hand. He gave it to her, and the girl brought a finger to the concerned palm. She touched the deep wound, still slimy and dripping blood.

"But it's very deep!"

She stopped touching him, maybe thinking she was hurting him.

"It's nothing. Hold the thread."

Cicero handed it to her, to make her help during the process. He inserted the needle without making a moan and without even changing his neutral expression, even if Morrigan couldn’t see it. When it was over, a few minutes later, she was amazed that he was already done.

"You didn’t say anything... and I remember that you laughed when that man cut your hand" she explained, amazed, "doesn’t it hurt you?"

Cicero put the tools back and smiled at her simplicity.

"Of course it hurts, little crow. But it is life itself that hurts. Pain is just one of the many things we have to embrace and love, to avoid having it as an enemy."

She opened a sideways smile.

"I’m not that good, I can’t tolerate it."

"Oh, but you can learn. Cicero would be very, very, very happy to give you lessons."

Again the deep tone, vaguely erotic, but more than anything else disturbing. However Morrigan, this time, didn’t get too intimidated. Cicero was happy to see how quickly she could learn.

"Cicero had said no punishment for now."

"No, not now. Cicero doesn’t like to force you."

She swallowed. She sighed deeply, and Cicero saw her chest coming out of the water for a moment.

"So... you wouldn’t have me... I mean... kill me, yes, but you wouldn’t..."

"Do you mean if Cicero would’ve raped you? No, absolutely not! Cicero likes consenting women. Maybe dead, after; but in the meanwhile consenting, always. It seems like the possibility of violence worries you more than death, little crow."

"I’ll have to face death anyway, and even faster than I’d like" she explained, honest, "violence... I can avoid it and I’d like to keep doing it."

"You can’t convince yourself to avoid what isn’t in your control at all."

She nodded, and her chin touched the water. She didn’t reply.

Cicero, then, to dampen the silence, returned to rely on his constant humor.

"Now that I think of it, what a bad week for you, little crow! An almost murder and almost rape! Is your life always so busy or is it just bad luck?"

"On the contrary, I’m very lucky: I’ve avoided them both!"

They laughed together, and Cicero knew that he would’ve always appreciated that quality of her. She was a timid, shy person, she hated her eyes, her body, her life, and yet most of the time she was willing to laugh about it. It wasn’t for everyone.

Then, all of a sudden, Morrigan surprised him again: with a wave of courage that Cicero wouldn’t have thought of attributing to her, not at that moment at least, she reached out to his face. She asked permission before touching him.

"Can I? I'd like... I'd just like to feel how your face looks."

Cicero didn’t answer with words and, approaching slightly, he made sure that her hand touched him. She smiled, brushing the side of his head.

"You have long hair..." she stated, vaguely amazed.

She kept touching it, smoothing it.

"What color is it?"

"Red."

"Ah, aye, like carrots."

"A little darker. More like... fresh blood."

Cicero looked down and saw that the water had turned red too, cleaning their wounds and Morrigan's body. Now she was there, lying, pale and with her breasts touching the surface of the water. A blood-colored water, as if she were taking a bath in the evidence of his attacker's death. Once again, Cicero saw her stupendously macabre.

She lowered her hand, coming down his neck and shoulders. She was a little surprised, now, perhaps because he didn’t expect to meet a sculpted chest. Cicero wasn’t among the tallest, most intimidating or strong men. But he was agile, and above all trained. The job required it.

Cicero, to return the contact, sank his arm in the vermilion water. With his healthy hand touched her side, then grabbed her with a little more decision. She gave a soft sigh. And Cicero, in response, pinched hard her hip’s skin.

Morrigan winced, making a surprise sound. She withdrew her hand and stopped studying his face, and he did the same, restoring the distance between them.

"See?" he told her, impertinently, "Pain isn’t that bad, after all."

Chapter Text

Cicero didn’t insist that time. After that surprise move, he did nothing but stroke her knee while she was taking the bath. Then he also stopped with that and restored the usual distance.

Morrigan, still immersed in the water, now cold, aimed her milky gaze upward. She sighed, worried.

"What do we do now?"

Even Cicero looked up, at the same point, wondering if by any chance she could see something.

"You can stay. Cicero has already told you, as long as you play a little upset. Soon they’ll forget the accident. And Cicero instead... Cicero must leave."

She was surprised.

"What?"

"A stranger face is always a bad business card in a city. It would take them only half a second to blame Cicero."

She, who until then had lain in the tub, sat upright, scandalized.

"And so? It’s all over? All your idiocies on the Void, Sithis, the Mother, the little crow... all over?"

"Well, you should be happy!"

"Aye, aye, but..." she stopped, shook her head, looking for the right words, "yes, but somehow I’m not. It was... it was years since I came down the stairs so well. I know it sounds stupid, but..."

Cicero didn’t think it was stupid, far from it. Perhaps having almost touched death had unlocked her from apathy.

"Cicero knows what you mean, but he also knows that it's not thanks to him. The little crow has only... she only saw the face of death, the real death, and she decided to change. For herself. Not for Cicero. As it should be."

She didn’t reply. She tightened her lips, annoyed, but nodded and went back to settle slightly in the tub. She closed her eyelids, as if doing so she could’ve estranged more than she already had.

"Oh, no, no, no, no. Faithful Cicero doesn’t want Morrigan to be sad for him."

He moved behind her, sitting cross-legged on the ground. He moved her hair, so that it fell over the edge of the tub, dry. There, he began to comb it, slowly, throughout its conspicuous length.

They both remained silent for the whole process. Cicero couldn’t tell if she was sad, angry, or simply had nothing to say. So he leaned over a moment, above her, to check her face. He saw her relaxed. Peaceful. She probably liked to have her hair touched.

Cicero divided her hair into three strands and made a soft braid, which was so long that could even touch the floor. Morrigan, to check the work, brought a hand behind herself and stroked the braid.

"Thanks." she said simply, melancholy.

Cicero got up, reluctantly. He checked the state of his clothes and saw that they were almost dry. Then he put them on fast, with little care, and in a few minutes he was ready to go. He was already thinking about what an excuse to invent for the Brotherhood.

He walked towards the door, thoughtful.

"Cicero?"

He turned and saw that she was looking at him, lying down, her flat eyes reflecting the water.

"Tell me what to do…"

"The little crow already knows what to do. You get ready, go to the inn, raise the alarm. If there is already someone, you can tell you were out to get some water. Morrigan knows nothing and above all she saw nothing. Well... how could she?"

She smiled, sad.

"And then? With you, I mean. Do I have to expect that eventually you’ll come back and slaughter me in my sleep? Should I be here waiting for you, doing nothing?"

Cicero sighed. He decided to be honest. It was an important moment, he knew it, and he also knew how to be serious when he wanted to.

"No, Morrigan. Not Cicero, at least. It's never a good thing, when a contract becomes so personal. Honestly, Cicero expects to never see you again."

She didn’t say anything. Cicero, however, opened the door, and prepared for the return trip to Dawnstar. The cold already gripped him, and shouted to him to stay where he was. But he had to go.

"Goodbye, little crow."

He was walking quietly, towards the city entrance. There were guards but no movements, evidently the crime hadn’t yet been discovered.

He sighed, keeping a peaceful attitude without difficulty. He whistled, too. He hummed.

"We’ll have fun you and I, Cicero will gladly pop your eye; and don’t worry about your sister, ‘cause now she’s here with the jester…"

He laughed at his own ability to improvise. Then, seeing that he had arrived at the main gate, he started to open it up to leave permanently.

"CICERO!"

Cicero stopped, feeling vaguely involved. It was a female voice, far away, she had shouted without any brakes.

"Morrigan?" he turned, wondering what the hell was going on. For a moment he thought something serious had happened, that somehow they had caught her and she was in panic. She really couldn’t be left alone for five straight minutes!

Observing the city, however, Cicero understood that nothing had happened yet. The sun lit the rooftops of a peaceful Whiterun with gold. Two people were tiredly walking up to the inn, and there was no rush in the streets.

Then suddenly Morrigan appeared from the right, on the main road. She turned and started running towards the city gate, to reach him.

Cicero almost couldn’t believe it: she was running! The little crow was running!

She was uncoordinated. She was holding her hands in front of herself, trying to figure out where to go, and her legs were moving awkwardly. She wasn’t even completely dressed up: she had put only her shoes and her dress, the black one, without a petticoat, without a corset, without a cloak. For that reason, the neckline was wide, leaving a shoulder uncovered in the cold of winter.

"CICERO! ARE YOU STILL THERE?"

He didn’t answer. Not out of malice, but because he was so amazed that he was stuck. Morrigan, on the other hand, didn’t seem to want to stop ever again. It was as if she didn’t care about blindness anymore.

At one point, as she continued to run coarsely, she stumbled into a cobblestone. She fell to the ground on her knees, with a groan and a painful look. Her hands were wounded.

Cicero, unconsciously, had leaped forward.

"Watch out!"

As soon as she heard his voice, she suddenly raised her head, and her nonexistent gaze turned toward him.

"Cicero!"

She stood up, not even caring about the wounds, and started running again. She was now just a few steps away.

When she was close, she began to look for her interlocutor in a grope. Cicero approached, to let her found him.

As soon as she touched the jacket with her fingertips, Morrigan hugged him. She squeezed hard, almost too strong, as if she were about to fall into a black chasm and had to struggle to hold on.

She rested her chin on his shoulder and, turning slightly, began to whisper in his ear.

"Please, get me out of here!"

Cicero could feel her thin, cold lips moving against him. She was speaking in supplication, with the high and choked tone of someone who begs to have their lives saved.

"Please, get me out of here! I’m dying. My soul is rotting here. I don’t care about who you are or what you do, I don’t want to be stuck here forever!"

Cicero, still looking at the center of the city, saw that the inn was now crowded. Someone had entered and had stopped at the door. Other people were gathering.

"You're still in time, hurry up, little cr..."

But she tightened her grip.

"Don’t leave me here! Don’t do it. Please."

Cicero still didn’t return the hug, he didn’t know what to do. Now the inn was in turmoil, and the guards, not far from Cicero and Morrigan, were lengthening their necks to better see the square, suspicious. There was no time.

Cicero took a decision: he returned the hug, and Morrigan let out a sigh of relief and a nervous laugh.

"Thank you! Thanks, thanks, thanks!"

Cicero sniffed at her hair. She still had his braid.

"Cicero is crazy, yes. But Morrigan must be crazier."

The girl didn’t even try to deny it, still laughing, breathing heavily.

Just then, the cry of a woman, and the guards next to the city gate began to run towards the square. Cicero understood that they couldn’t stay a second longer: he detached himself from the embrace. He spoke to her calmly, to keep the cover, as if they were discussing the weather or the grain harvest.

"Listen well, little crow. Cicero wants you to lie, hm? Now let's go out. Don’t get distracted for any reason in the world."

She nodded, determined. For Cicero it was enough.

They proceeded along the road towards the stables. Cicero held her by the hand, to lead her. They walked briskly, enough to leave quickly but not enough to arouse suspicion. Cicero, meanwhile, checked on the walls and on the lookout towers, and noticed a certain ferment. If it was only up to him, he would’ve escaped furtively. But he couldn’t with Morrigan.

She was nervous, but it was impossible to tell without looking at her closely: heavy breath, sweaty hand. Other than that, she was well behaving. It looked like she was about to explode. She wanted to ask if they were safe already, but she stayed quiet, fearing of being heard by someone she couldn’t see. She waited for Cicero to give her the chance to speak.

Just to make sure, he didn’t until they reached the stables.

"Better to take a horse." he informed her.

"Do we have money?"

"Sure. Cicero is provident."

And they entered the groom's building. The atmosphere was heavy, warm, stale. There was stink of straw and feces. Morrigan, with the more developed remaining senses, couldn’t hide her disgust for the smell.

When the groom came, he appeared as a fat, dirty man. He was kind, though. He lacked the typical rudeness of grooms.

"Oh, good morning. Sorry for the delay, I was watching what’s happening... have you seen something? I heard people screaming in the city."

"No, we come from the Loreius' farm." Morrigan answered firmly.

Cicero remained silent, looking at her, amazed.

"Something bad must have happened."

The man stayed still for a moment, as if stuck, thinking. Then he recovered and looked at them with more interest.

"What can I do for you?"

"We would like a horse."

Morrigan was calm, controlled. But now the man had focused on them, and was looking at Cicero insistently. Cicero knew why.

"Oh aye, no problem. It’s one thousand septims. Renting the carriage would be cheaper."

"Oh, no, we prefer a horse."

The man, with his small eyes set in a bald skull, kept on staring at Cicero suspiciously, never breaking away, not even when he addressed the girl.

"Tell me, Lady Morrigan, who’s your friend?"

She smiled.

"He’s not my friend, he is my… cousin."

Cicero thought that maybe she was putting little too much effort in that lie.

"Oh... he’s old, no offense."

"He’s son of my uncle."

"You don’t look similar at all."

Morrigan was starting to get nervous: she shrugged.

"Cicero is a half imperial" the jester intervened to help her.

"Why do you speak in the third person?"

"Why not?"

Morrigan resumed the situation, trying to dampen the tension.

"My cousin is a jester. I know he's strange, I always tell him!"

Finally, the groom decided to give up.

"Well, who’s not, after all?"

And he laughed, not with much emphasis, nervously. He was still not convinced, but it didn’t matter.

"Anyway, the black horse, out, is all for you, if you want it. You can saddle it by yourself, you can find the harnesses in the stable."

The man sat down at a table, sighed and smoothed his baldness with one hand. He gathered sweat, and Cicero he was about to throw up.

"Why don’t you go outside and start, lil’ one? Cicero pays and reaches you immediately."

She nodded and nervously began to study the room, arms half-open. When she found a way to go around and get out of the hut, at last, Cicero and the groom remained alone.

Cicero, moving, quickly checked that there was no one in the next room.

"Are you letting her work instead of you?" asked the groom, indignant.

"No, on the contrary. Cicero is exempting her from work, and... from grief."

The interlocutor frowned.

"What do you mean..."

He didn’t have the time to finish the sentence that Cicero had jumped on him, with the dagger unlined. He cut his throat with a single, precise gesture. The man didn’t even shout, he almost didn’t notice it.

"So sorry, Cicero didn’t really want to spend one thousand septims. Oh, avarice!" he chuckled, ferocious, disturbing, cleaning the dagger on the groom's shirt, "and on the other hand Cicero would never dare to steal something so valuable without first having put the victim in the condition of not needing it anymore."

The man, without a breath, fell from the chair to the floor, which bent over him.

"Bye bye! Greet the Mother for me!"

He walked quietly towards the exit. When he reached the door, he noticed that there was a cloak hanging from a hook on the wall. He took it, along with some food.

Once outside, he saw that Morrigan was actually trying to saddle the horse. He laughed at her naivety.

"Can we go?" she asked, hearing him coming.

"Of course. All arranged. The groom was kind, he gave you this."

He put the cloak over her shoulders. She took it as the most beautiful gift in the world, gripping it greedily.

"And the next time don’t run away naked and wet, if you don’t want Skyrim to kill you instead of Cicero."

Morrigan smiled, interpreting those words like the kindness they were meant to be.

Chapter Text

They rode fast, without looking back. Their dark horse was crossing the prairie without rest, obedient, tireless. Light wisps of wind came out from its nostrils, to the rhythm of the breath of its mighty chest.

They hadn’t immediately decided where to go, at the beginning all they knew was that they had to leave the Whiterun Hold, and Cicero knew that sooner or later he would’ve had to go back to the Sanctuary. Not only for his brothers and sisters, but also for the Mother: although in her new house she required less attention, Cicero was still the Keeper. However, he couldn’t take Morrigan to the Sanctuary, not only because they would’ve killed her as soon as they discovered the truth, but also because she wasn’t an assassin. It was neither fair to the Brotherhood, nor to Morrigan herself, who wasn’t ready and, perhaps, never would’ve been. He had to leave her somewhere: not even in Dawnstar, he didn’t want her near his brethren, they would’ve killed her without giving him time to explain. They needed a smaller village. So, in the end, they had decided for an isolated inn in the Pale, far from everything and everyone, a safe place: The Nightgate Inn. She could’ve stayed there until they found a more congenial solution.

As they rode, leaving Whiterun behind, Cicero also thought about what he could’ve said to his brethren. An excuse? No, he didn’t like to lie to them. He didn’t want to, he was loyal. So he had to tell the truth, but what was the truth? Cicero had let himself to feel pity for a blind girl and so he had disobeyed the whole hierarchy?

Cicero sighed, restless. No, that wasn’t true. The reality was that... she was a Princess of the Void. Yes, it could sound strange, but he felt it. Perhaps now personal interests had also taken over, but at first they weren’t there and wouldn’t have been enough to justify his piety. He hadn’t killed her because he felt that the Mother didn’t want him to. That was it. If they hadn’t understood it, then it would’ve been the end of poor Cicero. He didn’t care.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Morrigan, behind him, leaning on his back with her head and clasping to his sides with her arms.

Cicero decided at that moment to slow down the pace: they were far from the city now, and as much as he wanted to escape from prison and public pillory, he didn’t even want the journey to be too short.

"Oh, nothing..."

She leaned a little over his shoulder, and at Cicero liked to feel her against him, warm and happy.

"Come on, you can tell me!"

"Ah, well..." he paused, trying to gather his ideas, "Cicero was just thinking that the bear which is following us could catch us at any moment!"

He heard Morrigan stiffen and couldn’t help but smile.

"A bear?" she asked, alarmed.

"Oh, sorry, Cicero must’ve seen wrong. It's not a bear, it's... maybe a duck."

"You’re kidding me!"

"Cicero would never dare!"

"And instead you always dare!"

Unexpectedly, she tickled his armpits, just for a moment. Cicero laughed and wriggled, and the horse grumbled, annoyed.

"You’re getting bold, aren’t you, little crow?"

"It's not my fault, it’s just... freedom."

Yes, freedom’s fault. Not being in the city, watched by everyone while she couldn’t watch anyone, allowed her to be herself. In some respects she was like a fish out of water, to be honest, but for many others she was a new person.

"And you? What are you thinking about?" asked Cicero, serious for once in his life, both as intentions and as a tone.

She sighed deeply, resting on his back.

"I don’t know. It's so different out here. I had never been so far. There isn’t... there isn’t even a sound I know. But it's beautiful!"

"You're scared." Cicero corrected her, merciless.

"Just a little. A healthy fear, not like before."

Cicero believed her. He always believed her because she couldn’t lie about her feelings. She had been good at acting with the groom, but she wasn’t good at hiding something she felt, just as she hadn’t restrained the disgusted expression with the smell of the stable. Perhaps, to be honest, she didn’t even know how to hide facial expressions. After all, they were always hidden for her.

They rode all day without stopping. She still had the apple Cicero had given her in the morning and she ate it while they kept going. She also asked if he wanted a bite, but he refused.

"You look like a Draugr, little crow! That apple is better in your stomach."

She laughed.

"You know, I'm starting to believe you, you really are a gentleman!"

"Cicero? Always! Killing people doesn’t prevent him from behaving well!"

Then, finally, evening came, and they had to stop. They had gone further north, and already the difference in climate was strong. They decided to take shelter in one of the many recesses at the base of the mountains: some were little more than rock arches, others were real caves. They chose one in which the horse could also enter, and so they camped.

Cicero picked up some wood, the driest he found, and Morrigan lit the fire. Despite being blind, she was good at it. Because she could feel the sparks, she said. She used as parameters the amount of heat, the smell of the smoke and the crackling of the wood. Sometimes in the past she had burnt herself, but over time she had refined the technique and it was a fairly rare event.

They ate the provisions stolen from the groom. Nothing special: dry meat, stale bread, some fruit. The next day, Cicero would’ve had to hunt if they hadn’t met a village before.

They stayed in silence around the fire, without saying a word. The horse was already sleeping, and the dancing light of the fire cast its shadow so that it resembled a monster of gigantic dimensions. Outside, the wind was screaming, cold and angry. It was freeing the sky from the clouds, letting Masser and the stars glow, almost as bright as the first time that Cicero and Morrigan had met.

It was almost as if Morrigan could feel the light of the sky, somehow. She seemed to look at the conifers, and the small portion of the horizon that was visible from there.

"I wish my mother could see me now. Maybe she can, from Sovngarde. There she must have new eyes."

Cicero tried to imagine Morrigan's mother, but all he could figure in his head was a mummified skeleton. But that wasn’t the mother of the little crow, it was his own, the one of the Brotherhood. Perhaps the fact that both mothers were dead was a proof that they could’ve been the same person, and that Morrigan was indeed a Princess of the Void.

"Oh, do you believe in Sovngarde?"

"I'm a Nord."

"Um. Cicero doesn’t like Sovngarde."

She didn’t seem offended, indeed. Rather intrigued, actually.

"Why?"

"It's an elitist place. Nords can access it if they’re valiant in life, right? And what about all the others? Those who aren’t valiant? Where do they go?"

Morrigan shrugged.

"I don’t know, not to Sovngarde."

"And you think your mother was valiant enough? You think you are valiant enough?"

This time, yes, she was offended. She lowered her head like a submissive dog.

Cicero, sitting not far from her, rolled his eyes and reached out to pull her chin up. How many times did he have to repeat it? She had not to denigrate herself.

"Cicero didn’t mean to offend you, Princess" he explained, "Cicero was just saying that, in order to be valiant, one must be able to be so. And those who can’t? Where do they go? It’s not your or your mother's fault if you can’t be valiant in battle, and even in death you can never hope to defeat the divine guardian Tsun. You're not cut out for this, right?"

"I... my mother told me that in Sovngarde there is room for all men and women with a noble heart."

"Ah, sorry to contradict you, but that's not what Nords say. Sovngarde is a place for brute people, brainless, blinded, but not like you, blinded by their ideal of value. Nords like to think at themselves as wolves, but actually they’re tigers: they go on alone, they leave the others behind, crushing each other so that they can access Sovngarde and fill the Shor's Hall of their trophies. You’re not like that. And it's a compliment."

Morrigan shrugged. She unbraided her raven hair, in order to cover herself and protect from the lashing cold.

"So what should I believe in?"

"Oh, you belong to the Void, my dear. And your mother too."

"So the Void is your paradise?"

Cicero chuckled.

"Ha ha ha! No! The Void isn’t a paradise! The Void is just Void, and that's all!"

"So why should I want to go there?"

Cicero sighed, gathering air for a proud and high-sounding speech.

"Because the Void welcomes everyone, and treats everyone the same way. It leaves no one behind, it doesn’t judge, it doesn’t reward, it doesn’t punish. It is nothing different than life in Mundus. It's balanced and the only thing that demands of you is knowing how to welcome it."

A break. Morrigan remained silent, tightening her lips, not quite convinced.

"And you have already welcomed it, little crow" continued Cicero, "you’re half already there and you will be at the right hand of the Mother and Sithis, along with their most successful children. You will be among those who welcome it better, who fit in it, who love it. You can’t not love it. You will feel at home. And no, Morrigan, the Void perhaps cannot promise you to have new eyes, as Sovngarde would do. But it would allow you to be one of its most powerful inhabitants. You would be the Void in the Void, and this would make you... almost... a Goddess!"

She spread a sideways smile, still not convinced.

"Aye, maybe... I'm not suited to Sovngarde, I'm too shy. But this Void is scary. I'd like to believe I'm going to a nice place when I die."

"Nice places, nice lives, nice hopes, they’re all lies. You know it well. Life hasn’t given you anything, why should it start after death? But the Void, on the contrary, the Void will never be an unfulfilled promise. The Void is already here, Morrigan, you're in it. And you look wonderful!"

They talked a few more minutes, then the night grew thicker, the lids were heavier, and they decided to sleep. They had been awake for two days, they wouldn’t have come a long way if they didn’t rest.

They lay down, even if uncomfortable. Cicero fell asleep immediately, but it wasn’t a long rest. He didn’t have time to dream anything, in fact, that he felt something touching his neck and then his chin.

He was frightened: the hand ran to the dagger and in less than a second he was in an attack position. His amazement was great when, opening his eyes, he saw that he was pointing the weapon at the neck of the little crow.

She, terrified, rigid, held her hands up in surrender. Cicero thanked Sithis for not having opened her throat.

"What... what are you doing, little crow? Do you want to go explore the Void tonight?"

"Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t think it bothered you, I... I’ll never do it again..."

Cicero chuckled, his voice still halfway between sleepy and frightened.

"Cicero isn’t bothered. But his dagger works by its own, if you understand what he means. Don’t ambush at night next time, little crow, hm?"

Morrigan lowered her hands and nodded, more relaxed.

"Sorry" she repeated, "I just wanted to see your face, before my touch..."

Cicero, smiling, lowered his weapon, laying it on the ground with his arm. He found it funny that she had to try to do it at night, as if it were some kind of crime. She could’ve simply asked. Poor little crow, too shy.

However, Cicero didn’t say it to her, he didn’t want to give her a hard time. On the contrary, he gave her his endorsement to continue the study: she had to understand that it was natural, she shouldn’t be ashamed and she didn’t have to even vaguely think it bothered him. Quite the contrary.

"Go on, my dear. Cicero’s all yours."

He stayed down, wondering what she would’ve had the courage to do.

But Morrigan surprised him: with the usual gentle grace of her fingers, she put both hands close to his face and touched him. She was cold.

She began to follow his features. First the external ones: the forehead, the jaw, the sharp chin. A face that had been beautiful, when young.

Morrigan shifted to the cheekbones, the nose and the mouth, open in a cheeky smile. The ends were slightly rounded, like the sly smile of a feline.

"You have the mouth of a cat." Morrigan chuckled. Cicero smiled even more but said nothing, he had to agree with her. A crow and a cat... what a great couple.

The girl touched again his face, it seemed like she was doing a mental map of the wrinkles. Cicero at that point experienced an embarrassment that he had rarely felt.

"Those are signs of expression, not of old age. Cicero laughed a lot in his life, you know? Must have been that."

Morrigan chuckled harder and Cicero knew she hadn’t believed him. And, indeed, as a proof of that fact, the next question was about age.

"How old are you?"

Cicero tried to avoid the answer.

"Too old for you, little crow, that's for sure!"

Morrigan smiled again but didn’t investigate. She continued her mapping, then finally came to his eyes. She warned that she wanted to touch them, and Cicero closed them, letting her do it.

"What’s your eyes color?" she asked, removing her fingers.

"Um... a strange color. Like resin."

She seemed to think concentrated but in the end no, evidently she didn’t remember what resin was like.

"Dark yellow. Or light brown." Cicero explained, for the first time in his life, feeling inadequate with words.

"Like honey?"

"Yes, more or less."

"Ah!" she smiled, energetically, "it's my favorite color!"

Cicero frowned.

"How can you have a favorite color?"

"I don’t know. It's yellow, isn’t it? The color of the sun, of the flowers. And then honey tastes good, right? The color must be beautiful."

Cicero laughed, enthralled by that newfound optimism. He looked at her for a moment, still lying down, with her hair brushing his body.

He sat up, meeting her very close. Once there, he touched her eyes. She closed them and let herself be pampered, like a tame animal. Cicero felt them moving and darting, warm, under the thin skin of the eyelids.

"What do you see?" he asked curiously, "Do you see black?"

She shook her head slightly.

"No, I don’t see black. I see… nothing."

"How can you be sure? Maybe you don’t know that nothing is just black."

Then, suddenly, she said something Cicero would’ve never forget:

"What do you see behind you? Do you see black?"

Cicero remained silent with a slicked smile.

"No, I see nothing" he finally commented, astonished, "the real Void."

"The real Void." she confirmed.

Cicero suddenly realized that being blind was much more difficult for her than just having her eyes closed. He should’ve imagined it before, perhaps, but the reality was that he couldn’t understand it. He could know all the theory about the Void, but it wasn’t the one living in it. He had no right to judge how she moved or how she felt about her blindness.

Of one thing, however, he was sure, and he would never have retracted it, no matter how much she could deny.

"You must never underestimate these eyes. You don’t know how lucky you were." he whispered, in a warm, deep voice, a voice that he reserved only for the murders... or important feelings.

"Why do you like them so much?" she asked, softly, nervously. She hadn’t understood that, this time, he didn’t mean luck as a window on the Void. Quite the contrary.

Cicero didn’t answer immediately. Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her eyes over the eyelids, one by one. She was breathing strongly, amazed, choked by emotions.

"Because if it wasn’t for them, Morrigan... if it wasn’t for them..." he couldn’t tell her. Finishing that sentence was like making the biggest effort of his life. It was harder than being alone... years... in a crypt.

Her breath had grown heavy and irregular now. But she wasn’t scared. She was excited, he could feel it. She wouldn’t have back off.

Cicero, then, kissed her. He couldn’t restrain. It wasn’t so much out of romance, but out of curiosity: he wanted to see her reaction. What would’ve she done? Would she have consented? Would she have slapped him? He would’ve been proud of her in both cases.

It was fast: a light kiss, which was more the pressure of their lips, those of him hot, and those of her as cold as the wind of Winterhold.

She almost immediately pulled away, her cheeks red. Cicero laughed softly at her: for some things, perhaps, she would’ve never changed.

"Cicero liked it!" he told her, also to make her relax.

She burst out laughing, nervous.

"Morrigan liked it too!" she confirmed.

"So much to make you talk in the third person? Um. Good, little crow, you learn quickly!"

And they laughed again, together, as if there was no other reason to live. As if for the first time, for both, the earthly world had taken on meaning, and the Nirn had become one of those nice places that were just lies. As if, after all, neither of them cared about Sovngarde, or about the Void.

Chapter Text

Morrigan started to be a problem right away. Firstly, her father didn’t intend to conceive her, and I can tell with certainty. Because I was there, in his head. In that retrograde, violent and confused head.

Morrigan was a mistake, therefore, right from the beginning. Her father drank like a pig when the womb of Sígriðr Vetr-í-Auga, Sigrid Winter in the Eyes, began to swell.

"How dare you?" he used to say to her, as if it were her fault, as if she could decide, "I don’t want to have another blind, useless person in this house! You should be grateful. Nobody wanted you. I took you, and this is how you repay me?"

He had beaten her a little, not much more than usual. Then, as weeks went by, he seemed to convince himself to look at the bright side of that tragedy, conveying hatred in the hope of a male heir.

And then, all at once, the second and the third problem of Morrigan, in addition to that of being conceived: she wasn’t male and, moreover, to make sure that others could see it, she had made her mother suffer for seventeen hours consecutive. A badly started life: the child seemed to bring misfortune around her.

Like a crow.

That was how her father called her, in a deprecative way.

"Crow of ill omen! Unlucky fellow! She’s blind too, and looks like a crow. Why does she have black hair? Isn’t she a real Nord?" and he couldn’t even understand that she had inherited that hair from him, since Sigrid was blond as ripe wheat.

Speaking of her father, not much remains to be said that cannot be deduced from the few sentences reported. He was a violent, hypocritical and contradictory man. He made the others call him ‘The Hammer’, even his wife, and he didn’t seem to have a real name. He was smaller than the other men and he didn’t have the typical traits of a Nord. He, of course, proudly swore to be one.

But Sigrid wasn’t like him, she loved her baby. She didn’t care that she had almost killed her during labour, causing her to suffer for an entire day and tearing her genitals apart. She loved her, even without being able to see her. The first thing she did was cuddling her face, to understand what features she had. She was pleased to know, through her touch, that the baby had taken them from herself.

The Hammer, offended that she loved her, went off to drink, slamming the door. And while the midwife was cleaning the house and changing the sheets covered in blood, Sigrid whispered in her daughter's ear.

"Fear not, child. You've been kissed by bad luck, but it doesn’t matter. If your father wants you to be a crow, you will be, and you will show him that you can fly higher than he thinks. Like the Mór Ríoghain, dark and ruthless."

For that reason, honoring the ancient origins of her mother's mother, she called her Morrigan.

Years passed and the child grew up. Without the gift of sight, she inquired into life with a sort of cautious delicacy. Without brothers or sisters, without friends, she preferred to learn by her own. Her ears and hands, trained from birth, enabled her to hear the music of the world and see the shape of the colors. She liked yellow. It was the color of her mother's hair. She didnt’ know how it was, but she could feel its soft consistency, and was convinced that it was a beautiful color.

The thing she liked best in the world, though, was to hear Sigrid's voice. In the evening, if her father wasn’t at home, she used to tell her ancient stories. Even more ancient than the Nords themselves.

"And then there is Jörmungandr, the Miðgarðsormr. A huge serpent, black as your hair, which surrounds the world, and with its whorls moves the sea..."

But the girl was beginning to understand that something in her was not like the others, so listening to stories wasn’t so pleasant anymore.

"Mommy..." she interrupted her cautiously, "will I ever see the sea?"

"You don’t need to see it, my child. You can hear it. You can feel the breath of Jörmungandr through the foam waves. You don’t need anything else."

"But you can describe it so well... you must have seen it."

And at that moment Sigrid understood that she couldn’t lie to her daughter forever. It didn’t matter, even if it was not to make her suffer: she deserved the truth. She was intelligent, like all crows.

"Yes, my love, I saw it. But it was a long time ago."

"So you could see?"

"Aye. Sigrid once used to see, and she was not Winter in the Eyes, but Thunderstorm in the Soul! I was Sigríðr Veðr-í-Sál, the bravest Skjaldmær in Whiterun. The Curse first took my taste, I was lucky, more than you. But eventually the Curse takes everything."

"And why do we have the Curse?"

Well, on that topic instead she wanted to continue to lie, she didn’t want to tell her that it was just an illness. It was something that, growing up, Morrigan would’ve understood by herself. For now Sigrid could continue to delude her, to entertain her with the stories she loved so much.

"Because our oldest ancestor, Aslaug the Strident, had promised the witches that she would’ve brought them a leaf of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, in exchange for a melodious voice."

She was inventing it in that very moment, but it was working, judging by Morrigan's amused tone.

"How stupid!"

Sigrid laughed.

"Aye, Aslaug wasn’t very smart. But she was ambitious and unwise. She promised it and couldn’t honor her word. She had a melodious voice, then, but only up to twenty-six, when her senses died. Without hearing herself, she also lost the ability to sing, becoming out of tune again. And the curse passed on to her daughter, and to her daughter's daughter, to us. That's why we all can sing well... for a very high price."

"So if I could bring a leaf of the Tree of Life to the witches, would the Curse go away?"

Sigrid laughed, actually hiding the sadness of her heart.

"Oh, who would ever want something like that? I’ve tried both gifts and I can tell you that singing is the joy of life, much more than seeing, because everyone can do that. I’d never trade my sight for my voice. Maybe... Aslaug wasn’t that stupid."

And so, at least for a while, Morrigan had convinced herself that she didn’t need her defective eyes. She thought that singing, and hearing her mother sing, could solve all the problems in the world. Including the one represented by her father, who was becoming increasingly violent and unmanageable.

Morrigan didn’t usually meet him, except in the evening, and she was happy that way. She was forced to call him The Hammer like everyone else. And soon she began to understand that something was wrong with him: people mocked him.

The first time she noticed it was at the age of nine, talking to other children. She never played with them, but sometimes they approached her out of curiosity about her eyes, and then she could start a short and timid conversation.

"Oh man! They’re so white! More than your mother's! They should call you Morrigan Winter in the Eyes, not Sigrid." a boy was telling her, whom she imagined beautiful, just because his voice was beautiful.

"Is winter white?"

"Aye. Like milk and the moons."

"And my hair is dark instead?"

She didn’t really understand the distinction between light and dark, it was beyond her logic, and therefore she tried to make the others explain it as much as possible.

"Yes, of course, your hair is black."

"And how's black?"

"The opposite of white."

The opposite. She just couldn’t imagine it.

Then, suddenly, another girl had intervened. This, unlike the boy, had a hideous voice.

"Aye, you inherited it from your fool father! How lucky!"

"Fool?"

"Aye, just like you, apparently!"

The group of children laughed. Morrigan felt pressed, she could tell everyone was staring at her. She just knew they were.

"My father... he's not a fool..." but she too thought so and couldn’t hide it.

"My dad says he's not even a Nord!" the girl continued, "He says he is, but he's actually a kind of... half orc... and half breton... your mother is stupid too for marrying him!"

The children laughed and Morrigan tried to leave, running. She wanted to leave the Cloud District, a place for rich children, not like her. When she reached the stairs, however, he stumbled and fell down the ramp.

She had broken an arm.

Some passers-by tried to help her, but she still could hear the children laughing and then, clenching her teeth, she stood up and ran on. More cautious, this time, but no less agitated.

She ran to her mother in tears, feeling guilty for being stupid and impulsive.

"Mommy, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! They were making fun of you and I left..."

But Sigrid was always calm, always loving, always wise. She wrapped her arm in gauze and consoled her.

"Sh. Worry not, time will cure you. For now, eat this, it will make you feel better!"

And she gave her an apple.

Sigrid kissed her forehead, breathing hard to smell her daughter's hair. Then she got up and went back to work.

They were in the inn, The Bannered Mare, her mother worked there. She was hired to clean, but since she wasn’t that good at it, she often sang, accompanied by wandering bards that used to animate the evenings.

She was very good, one of the most beautiful voices Skyrim had ever heard. She often sang ballads, she knew them all. Morrigan's favorite was one that talked about the journey into the long and cold sleep of the underworld, called Helvegen. The lyrics was in the ancient language, but it was beautiful and with patience she had learned to sing it too, without understanding all the words. It had a calm but afflicted melody, fierce but resigned, and that was exactly what Morrigan wanted to be sung for her once she would’ve gone to Sovngarde.

Sigrid knew she liked it and then sang that one to cheer her up.

Kven skal synge meg

i daudsvevna slynge meg

når eg helvegen går

og of the spora eg trår

er kalde så kalde, så kalde

Morrigan sang the first stanza in a low voice, shameful. She couldn’t do like her mother and sing in public. She was good, but she simply didn’t care, she didn’t want to be ridiculous in front of everyone. But, oh, she really liked that song!

She returned home with her mother that evening, singing softly with her. She loved to sing and she loved her mother. It didn’t matter that The Hammer was a horrible person, if she was there.

When she had the feeling that the road was almost over and they were reaching their home, Morrigan decided to ask the heavy question which tormented her head.

"Mom... is it true that The Hammer isn’t a Nord?"

She heard Sigrid sighing beside her as they both walked slowly, cloaked in the night.

"No, your father isn’t a Nord. But you must never tell him."

"I know this. I must never tell him anything. But why did you married him?"

Sigrid put a hand on her shoulder, to comfort her.

"This is the life, my love, sometimes it takes unexpected paths. I met him in a den of bandits, he had been kidnapped and I saved him. He was another person back then, he was... he wasn’t like that, that's it. But it doesn’t matter, and do you know why? Because if I hadn’t married him, you wouldn’t be born. He’s the most horrible person in the Nirn, but you... I’d marry him a thousand times, just to have you."

Morrigan smiled, pleased.

"According to you... if he isn’t a Nord... will I be able to enter Sovngarde?"

"Of course, honey! You’re a Nord! You’re like me, you're more Nord than all of Whiterun citizens put together!"

"But not the hair and... and I'm short."

"You’re exactly of your stature, the one that the Divines and Talos above all have destined for you. “

Morrigan pursed her lips, not quite convinced.

"Talos could’ve given me at least sight, though. I wanted to be like you, a brave Skjaldmær, and instead... I don’t even have a nice nickname."

Morrigan heard Sigrid stop for a moment, on the road. She wanted to fix the matter before they got home.

"Do you want a nickname, is this the problem? All right, let's make it up now!"

Morrigan hesitated.

"Well, but ... usually you have to earn it, don’t you?"

"Do you think Kodlalk Whitemane earned his name? They call him that just because he's old and hoary, there's nothing valiant about being decrepit. "

Sigrid had said it in a low voice, so as not to be heard by other passers-by. Morrigan had giggled, embarrassed.

Sigrid resumed:

"Okay, so... you're Morrigan, like the war goddess my grandmother believed in. The Morrigan symbol is a crow, coming down from the sky on the battlefield to reap victims. Um... what about Kráka-frå-Ofan? Crow from Above!”

Morrigan wrinkled her nose. She didn’t know if she liked the matter of the crow... her father called her that, she wasn’t sure she loved that nickname.

"Kráka sounds a little too harsh..." she lied.

"All right, then... death, not crow. Mórrígan Ofandøðer, Morrigan Death from Above! What do you say?"

Morrigan spread a broad smile. Death from Above... it sounded good. It sounded intimidating, like a real warrior name. She stroked that name in her mind over and over again, and she could almost imagineherself as a proud and beautiful Skjaldmær, adored by the whole city.

She smiled even more widely.

"Yes, yes, I like it so much!"

Sigrid chuckled and cuddled her shoulder, encouragingly. She resumed walking, pushing her lightly on her back to take her home.

"Well, now that you have a name, never think again not to be worthy of Sovngarde! And never allow anyone to tell you that you should be different! Not even your father."

But she allowed him, and more than once.

Her father didn’t like Morrigan, for reasons that went far beyond being a blind woman. Morrigan began to understand that he hated her because she represented everything that he himself was and didn’t want to be. Dark hair, short height.

Whenever he saw her, he laughed at her. He told her how she should have been and how horrible she was instead.

"You should cut it, your hair! Better bald than that disgusting color!"

Morrigan ignored him most of the time. But some things bothered him more than others, so it was hard to ignore the beatings.

"You have to keep your eyes open, do you understand?" he shouted, mad, grunting, while he was giving her the belt, "you look stupid if you go around with your eyes closed, you look stupid! They all make fun of you! Keep them open! Even if they’re disgusting, keep them open!"

And so she had learned to keep them open, even if she didn’t need it. No more drooping eyelids, after that time. And likewise it had happened for some daily gestures: she had learned to say yes and no with her head, thanks to the straps; she had learned to look at the interlocutor in their eyes following the sound, thanks to the straps; she had learned not to touch what she was told not to touch, thanks to the straps.

When her parents were arguing, Morrigan was used to leave the house and waiting outside. She didn’t dare go farther: she was afraid. She was afraid of everything now. So she only escaped beyond the door, without asking anyone for help. She waited there, in the cold, and came back when the screams, and then the gasp of him, weren’t finished.

She wanted to do something, but she knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything, neither fight nor run away, nor ask for help, because she was convinced that nobody would’ve helped her.

When the screams were too loud, like that night of Last Seed, Morrigan forced herself to sing, not to hear what was being screamed, or the cries of her mother when he raped her.

"You... you’re on this earth thanks to me!" shouted Sigrid, from inside the house, "I saved your life! I was a shieldmaiden, I was strong, and I was earning my entry to Sovngarde before you arrived!"

"Stupid woman! You're just blind, nobody wanted you! "

And meanwhile, Morrigan sang.

Eg songane søkte

Eg songane sende

då den djupaste brunni

gav meg dråpar så ramme

av Valfaders pant

"This is what you convinced me of! What a fool I was!"

Alt veit eg Odin

kvar du auge løynde

"I don’t want another disgusting blind son! Get out!"

"You have no choice, stupid breton! Ivar is in my womb and you can’t do anything about it!"

Årle ell i dagars hell

"DO NOT TOUCH ME!"

enn veit ravnen om eg fell

And, precisely with the end of the stanza, the one providentially speaking of a ravnen, a crow, Morrigan heard a loud, frightening noise. Her mother screamed louder than usual and begged to leave her alone.

She couldn’t get inside. She wanted, she wanted so much to help her, but she was afraid and... she couldn’t get inside.

When her mother came out it was almost morning. Morrigan hadn’t moved from outside. She hadn’t dared.

Although Morrigan couldn’t see her, her mother was bent, she walked as if she had a weight on her shoulders. There was blood on her skirt, in the middle of her thighs.

"Mo... Morrig..." she tried to call, but failed.

"Mom! I'm here!"

They approached each other and Morrigan immediately understood that something was wrong.

"My love... I... I have to leave."

"Where are you going?"

"Far. I can’t stay here anymore."

"Do I come with you?"

A pause, strangled by tears. Morrigan realized her mother was leaving her.

"No, my love. I have to go alone."

"Why... why are you leaving me... I... what have I done?"

Sigrid hugged her, and Morrigan felt that she was trembling and could hardly stand up.

"You did nothing wrong. It's my fault, my love, it's my fault. I should’ve left before, with you. We didn’t have to stay here."

"So why don’t you take me? Where are you going? What will you do? Do you have my brother in your belly?"

Sigrid cried louder, sobbing.

"My love, Ivar is gone. But it doesn’t matter, he's in Sovngarde now. And you... you will stay here and you will be a true Nord. Forgive me for what I couldn’t do. Forgive me please!"

She hugged her tightly between convulsions.

Then, she whispered something unexpected to her ear.

"Do you know what a real Nord Skjaldmær would do, Morrigan? She would kill him. She would kill him."

"You mean my fath..."

"Don’t call him like that!"

Morrigan was silent, scared, not understanding what was happening, even more in trouble because of the emptiness that surrounded her since her birth.

Then, unforeseen, merciless, she said:

"Goodbye, Morrigan."

She broke away and Morrigan remained alone, without seeing where her mother was. She searched for her, stretching out her arms.

"Mom? Mommy?"

She called her, but she never heard her again.

She didn’t understand her choice right away. At first she thought Sigrid had escaped, and she hated her for not taking her too. After a couple of years she managed to think that maybe she had to forgive her, after all. And finally, one night, at the age of thirteen, she suddenly realized that her mother, Sigrid Winter in the Eyes, hadn’t left at all, she was dead. It was as if she had always known, but only mental maturity could unlock that thought. She had gone to die far away, perhaps in the forest, or in a Nord crypt, with the same dignity as cats. And Morrigan had grown up without being a real Nord, drowning in fear of pain and in fear of fear, more and more, until it had become impossible to get out of it.

Chapter Text

Morrigan awoke with a scream.

It was morning, now, just begun. It was a beautiful day, to the east the sky shaded in an old rose color. But on the other side, beyond the mountains, a dark cloud, heavy like an anvil, threatened a storm.

"Oh, good morning, little crow!" Cicero greeted her, perky as usual, "have you dreamt some sweet nightmares?"

Morrigan nodded, trying to calm her breath. She touched her chest, checking her breath, as if she wanted to make sure she was still alive.

"Aye... bad memories..."

"Oh, luckily you have bad memories, little crow! Those shape us, don’t you agree? If Cicero had no bad memories, he wouldn’t be like he is now!"

Suddenly Morrigan seemed to forget about everything and became interested. It was easy to tell when it happened, because she stretched her neck and turned her head to hear better, and to pick up the voice directly in the ear.

Cicero laughed rudely.

"Hey, a little bit of restraint! In Morrigan, khajiit ears would be comfortable, hm?"

"Sorry. I'm just interested in knowing about you. My life wasn’t interesting."

"Not even the one of Cicero, for the most part. He was a tremendously boring person, before. Normality for Cicero has always been like... a cage."

Morrigan frowned, astonished that the conversation had become so heavy, so fast. She tried to understand if he had used that term just by chance or if it was deliberate.

"Was it a cage? Like fear?"

He answered her mental doubts, almost reading her thoughts.

"Cicero never misses the words, he said exactly what he meant."

Morrigan, fearing that she had gone too far, took a step back and, smiling, tried to lighten the atmosphere.

"I know, you're good with words. I think that's why I trusted you, I like people who speak well. You're like my mother in this respect."

"Your... earthly mother?"

"The only one I call mother. Sigrid Winter in the Eyes."

Cicero came closer to her, curious, and sat down in front of her. He was wiggling a foot on the ground, nervous but in a cheerful way, as if he couldn’t wait to do something funny but forcing himself to stay still and talk.

"And what about your father?"

He seemed to know exactly where to hit. Morrigan was amazed, even if she should’ve known. Perhaps she would never have gotten used to it.

"Why do you want to know about him?"

"One like you must have had problems, as a kid. We are a bit 'all broken inside, as children. What a great curse, childhood! Since you cherish your mother so much that you believe her in Sovangarde and call her with the full name, Cicero must assume that the problems must have come from your father. Is Cicero wrong?"

Morrigan didn’t answer, because they both knew well that he wasn’t wrong. It was hard to fool him, he had a great intuition, as it was with irony.

"My father was just... an ignorant. Like there are so many, nothing strange. He's dead now."

"Dead?"

"Aye."

"Like this? One day he was alive and the next he wasn’t?"

"He died of an accident."

"Um."

Morrigan must have realized that it had almost become an interrogation. She stood in silence, undecided, trying to figure out where he wanted to bring the conversation. Then, not tolerating the immobility of the situation, she spoke.

"You don’t seem convinced" she noted.

Cicero spread a sly smile, challenging her.

"No, in fact. Cicero isn’t at all."

They had breakfast with the leftovers and decided to immediately resume they journey. The clouds had grown closer and more threatening, and they seemed to promise a storm.

In fact, the two had just started to walk, that the snow began to fall, slowly, without effort. The flakes, small and thin, danced in the air in a thousand volutes, too light to fall on the ground. They stood in midair as if waiting for something, as if they were not sure what to do.

A bit like Cicero.

He was quieter than usual. When asked, he tried to show his usual merriment, but inside he was bitten by guilt and doubt. He wanted to tear his heart, split it in two, and offer half to the Mother and half to Morrigan. But he couldn’t, and not only because he would’ve died, but because there would’ve been no one to take care of either the Mother, or Morrigan; the latter who at the moment was in the middle of nowhere, unable to defend or feed herself: she could survive only if he decided to let her survive. His life was starting to get a little too busy for his tastes.

Then, however, he remembered that she was there, and why he had decided not to kill her. Because he had felt it. Right? Because the Mother didn’t want her dead, for some reason. Maybe he was wrong, and then he would’ve accepted his punishment, but he didn’t want to risk killing someone that the Mother could have wanted alive.

Well... actually... maybe Cicero didn’t want to kill her, and that was it.

It had happened to him a few times in his life, but it had happened. Before Morrigan, there had been the daughter of the contract, the one who had seen him coming out of the window. He didn’t like killing children very much: they were the only ones who liked him, genuinely. And then, of course, before there had been Clovia. Clovia...

Cicero shook his head, gripped the reins, and tried not to think.

"What's up?"

He remembered of her, of her cold touch on his back, leaning on as they rode. There was no one in all of Nirn, more different from Clovia than her. Yet both had earned his grace, who knows how.

"Oh, nothing, little crow. Cicero has a crowded mind. Crowded, yes, hm."

"For me?"

"For himself, indeed."

"Can I do something to fix it?"

Cicero chuckled, thinking of an intelligent joke.

"We could do some travel games. Cicero spies with his little eye..."

She stopped him right away, laughing. She was not offended, she was genuinely amused, and Cicero thought that in addition to everything she had, from the sight in the Void to the protection of the Mother, it was also for that irony he didn’t want to kill her. It was rare that he was funny to adults. Yes, rare.

"You know I don’t want to play that game!"

He appreciated that she had said I don’t want, instead of I can not.

"Oh, come on, Cicero makes it easy for you. He spies with his little eye... something white."

"My eyes?"

Cicero acted as if he had been caught unprepared.

"Well... Cicero meant the snow, it seemed more obvious... seen? He underestimated you. Point yours."

"I don’t think this game works this way."

"Cicero decided yes. Let's see if your inventiveness beats his sight! Cicero, now, spies something yellow."

Morrigan played the game.

"Easy! Ripe wheat!"

"Exactly, little crow! In winter, Skyrim is full, full, full of ripe wheat! Are you sure you’re blind? Cicero bets that you're just kidding him. To save yourself making him feel pity, hm? Caught!"

He took her the knee and gripped the upper part of the kneecap, near the nerves. Morrigan gave a little squeal of ticklish pain, and her leg hopped involuntary. She almost fell off the horse, but Cicero stopped her with his arm and held her up.

"See? Pain can be fun!"

"This wasn’t pain" she laughed, when she recovered from the fear of falling, clinging to Cicero's shoulders with a strength that he wouldn’t have thought she had.

"Or maybe" he said, "or maybe you didn’t want to feel it."

With the passing of the hours, the day didn’t get more merciful. The clouds blackened further, the snow began to fall more violently, and the horse reeling along the way. Cicero began to think that they wouldn’t have arrived at the inn before night.

Then, when the light began to subside to make room for the cold darkness of the north, the situation got even worse, and what had been a kind snowfall so far, became an appalling storm. Cicero began to tremble, and it was in moments like those that his faith, otherwise always strong, wavered. He thought of his life, of everything he had done for the Mother, and wondered if it was worth it.

"Hey? Are you ok?"

Morrigan shrugged him from behind, trying to warm him up. But it was impossible, since she was as cold as the steel of the Skyforge.

Cicero shut his eyes, blaming his thoughts. He squeezed his left fist tightly, in order to make hurt the wound inflicted by the rapist. A small punishment, which he endured in silence and with clenched teeth, for having doubted the wisdom of the Unholy Matron.

"Hey?" Morrigan asked again, even more worried than before.

"Cicero is very weak, very... the cold hurts his spirit. Foolish, Cicero!"

"No, stay calm" she intervened, "let's stop and find a place to rest."

But Cicero shook his head, exhausted. They were in the darkness, and the storm didn’t allow them to see anything, nor to understand in what direction they were going.

"There's nothing in this Sithis-forseken place!"

But she, sweet and slow, stroked his shoulder.

"There's always someone, if you know how to communicate."

And, without saying anything, she got off the horse. Cicero didn’t follow her, intrigued.

Morrigan walked away a few steps, with the snow up to her knees, at ease, almost reborn. Then she stopped, framed her mouth with her hands, and after having powerfully inhaled, she uttered the most beautiful and disturbing sound that Cicero had ever heard.

It was like a song, but somehow it wasn’t. It was more like a pleasant cry. Acute, maybe the highest tone that a person, and especially a woman, could touch. Powerful, so much to overwhelm the lament of the storm, so as to echo in the nothing of the world.

Morrigan continued to scream, or sing, or whatever it was. She was raising and lowering her tone, in sudden changes. She was stroking the long sound of the vowels, protracted until she had no more air in her lungs. Cicero thought that that was supposed to be the static sound of the Void: distressing and yet beautiful.

Morrigan, after the first attempt, stopped for a moment and sharpened her hearing in the obvious way she usually did. It was as if she was waiting for an answer from the world, or the divine help itself, for she had sung for the gods.

"What are you doing?" asked Cicero at last, unable to hold himself back.

"It's the herding call, my mother taught me. It can also be used for emergencies. If there is anyone around here, they will hear us."

She had said it quickly, anxious to start singing again. Then Cicero let her do it, for minutes that seemed hours, in the stillness of the cold.

Then, finally, an answer. Far away, muffled, but there was. It had to be another woman, who was screaming from afar. Not with the same harmony as Morrigan, but she had replied, and the two women began to talk in that way as if they were handmaids for the Divines.

Cicero felt himself in the Void. Nay, more: he felt lost. He was a step beyond the afterlife, he was in that place where there wasn’t even Sithis. That place ahead of time, after the apocalypse, which is exactly halfway between sleep and wake, between life and death.

Then, suddenly, everything stopped. Morrigan stopped singing and so did her interlocutor. The girl returned to the horse and, once reached, gently put a hand on Cicero's knee, still in the saddle. He looked at her seriously, motionless, astonished as he wasn’t since the jester ha laughed at him for the first time.

"There's a farm, west of here. I believe they will host us."

Cicero put his hand on hers and stroked it, in a light movement.

"That was it, the song you’ll bring into the void. Now Cicero knows why Sithis wants you for himself."

She took it as a simple compliment, and then smiled, pleased and embarrassed. But it wasn’t just that, it wasn’t at all.

"Many Nord women can do it."

She belittled and didn’t understand that Cicero didn’t care that others could do it. She was not the others. She had many other details that bonded her to the Void, including blindness, the white of the eyes, the temper itself. The song was just part of the list, just another of the many features of a Princess of the Void.

But this, Cicero didn’t tell him. He didn’t feel worthy to talk to her, and above all to contradict her. Therefore, he tightened his left hand, his wounded hand, trying to restrain himself and stay at his place, in front of the true daughter of the Mother. Because now, really, he had no more doubts.

"Thank you, Princess of the Void. Thank you for saving Cicero."

Bending over, he kissed her forehead, fast, in a quick and chaste gesture that was more than just affection: it was devotion, faith, religious reverence. He had doubted the Mother, he had accused her of having led him into the cold Skyrim, and hadn’t realized that she had sent him a daughter to save him from the storm and... perhaps, even from loneliness. The loneliness that, despite everything, had never abandoned him since Cheydinhal. The loneliness that wasn’t only physical but also mental. The sense of desolation that had taken hold of him and made him feel abandoned, in the company of anyone.

Chapter Text

They reached the farm and it looked like a mirage, as it used to happen to the Khajiit caravans in the Elsweyr desert. But it wasn’t a mirage, it was real: a dark wooden house, isolated at the bottom of a small gorge, especially suitable for goat pastures.

When they arrived, a woman was waiting for them on the porch, despite the cold. She was standing there in her fur cloak, her gold-colored hair stirred by the storm. She was middle-aged, but proud as if she was twenty.

"Travelers! The storm won’t be merciful, run!"

And they moved faster, urging the horse.

When they arrived, the woman grabbed the reins and pulled the animal toward the barn. As expected, it was full of goats, resting happily and chewing straw.

The woman led them in, shut the door, and the storm remained out, as if it were miles away. Tranquility, suddenly, filled the environment and warmed it up.

"Welcome" she said sternly, "you can stay here for tonight. But I cannot accommodate you further, we have a lot of work to do. You’ll sleep in the barn, I’ll offer you what I can to refresh you. Dinner is in exactly one hour."

She was about to leave, indifferent, cold, when she seemed to realize for the first time who her interlocutors were. The wrinkles on her face and the white scar on her cheek stretched in a surprised expression.

"An Imperial jester and a dark Nord? Such strange visitors, nowadays. The empire has brought us… variety, no doubt."

"We're just passing by." Morrigan reassured her, forcing the subject to change.

"Yes, of course you are. But…"

The woman became interested again, scanning Morrigan's face with her sky-blue eyes.

"Are you by chance related to Sigrid Winter in the Eyes?"

Morrigan smiled, beaming.

"Aye! Aye, she was my mother! Did you know her?"

The woman, cold and severe, only at that moment allowed herself a smile.

"Yes, I knew her, we were shieldmaiden together. A very proud woman, I appreciated her. I didn’t know she had a daughter, I’ve never seen her after moving from Whiterun. How is she? Is she alive?"

Morrigan shook her head.

"No, she died when I was ten."

"And her husband, the half-breed? Is he your father?"

Morrigan didn’t seem happy to talk about it and dismissed the speech as quickly as possible.

"He died too, years ago."

The woman, for her part, didn’t seem at all displeased, neither for Sigrid, nor for the other. She had taken it as a fact, a matter of life. Indeed, perhaps she had expected it.

"That was a horrible man. If he didn’t physically kill her, he certainly took away her desire to live. No offense, little girl."

But Morrigan wasn’t offended. She shrugged, nonchalantly.

"No, you’re right."

From that moment on, the woman seemed a little more accommodating. She relaxed her shoulders and her voice, giving them sweeter words.

"What's your name, daughter of Sigrid?"

"Morrigan."

"And you have the same illness as she, I see. I'm sorry. Take it as a further challenge for accessing Sovngarde. Anyway, nice to meet you, I'm Gudrun. And what about the Imperial?"

Cicero showed himself with a bow, which in the presence of a tall Nord woman made him look even shorter. She seemed to judge, but perhaps it was just his imagination, Cicero was willing to admit it.

"You’re very far from home, jester. Warm up, before you die of cold. You can come close to the fire, if you want."

And she led them into the house, in front of the fireplace.

Gudrun immediately disappeared, getting back to work in the other rooms. Morrigan and Cicero remained alone, warming their aching bodies.

In an hour, as Gudrun had announced, it was dinnertime, and the living room filled with people. Gudrun's husband arrived, whom she introduced as Bjorn; then her brother-in-law; then, again, the children: four, of various sexes and ages. From the eldest, an eighteen years old girl, to the youngest, a child who hadn’t yet seen his fourth winter.

Both Morrigan and Cicero felt out of place in that context: the former because, by nature, was shy and didn’t want to disturb; the latter because, simply, he was the worst person to invite to a family dinner, and he himself knew it.

Gudrun stopped the din set up by her children with austerity, ordering them to sit at the table, composed and in silence. These obeyed as one obeys a corporal. But Gudrun wasn’t a bad woman, she didn’t use the belt like the Hammer: she was a strong woman, by nature, like Sigrid. They respected her for what she was, not for what she did. Next to her, the Nord men also seemed to be of Cicero's stature.

She had prepared a stew for the occasion. She divided everything into equal parts and ordered her children to eat everything they had on their plate. She imposed herself so severe that neither Cicero nor Morrigan dared to refuse anything.

The children were curious about the two guests and, after dinner, they began to burst those questions that they had held in their minds for over an hour.

"Do you really see nothing? Just nothing?"

"Are you a real jester? And you come from Cyrodiil?"

"How is the Imperial City? Can you show me a magic trick?"

And so Cicero found himself entangled in a show, with a screaming little audience. Not that he was annoyed: he adored to have an audience to perform to and he adored children. But he was so used to thinking ill of himself, that he was almost afraid for that family. All that availability with travelers would’ve ended up killing them, if it hadn’t been him, it would’ve been someone else.

However, he indulged the children and began to make magic tricks, he knew a lot of them. He also told a few simple jokes, including that of the horker, in order to entertain the adults as well. The adults, except Gudrun, of course. She seemed to have argued with good mood.

At one point, he decided to play the three shell game with Morrigan. The intention was to make fun of her and make the crowd laugh, of course. But, to the great surprise of Cicero, it wasn’t so: the girl could understand under which of the three cups the pea was, following the slight and subdued sound of the rolling.

The children laughed, Morrigan laughed, pleased, and Cicero began to think that, perhaps, all the stealth he had used with her in Whiterun had never been useful.

In the end, anxious to win, he removed the pea and made her play without it. When Morrigan became aware of the deception, she declared that he needed a punishment. It consisted in tickling, and Cicero soon surrendered. His stomach ached from laughing.

At the end of the evening, when Gudrun decided with a thunderous announcement that it was time to sleep, the children withdrew and so did Cicero and Morrigan. As planned, they went into the barn. The smell was almost unbearable, but at least it was warm in there, with the animals, and neither of them had the slightest intention to complain.

The darkness covered them when they laid down on the straw to sleep, and the impetuous wind sang the sound of the night.

They were already lying down for a few minutes when Morrigan spoke, more awake than ever.

"You were more silent than usual, tonight. Why?"

Cicero grinned, in a way that Morrigan had to find disturbing, judging by how she stiffened. Cicero could feel her tense, even without touching her.

"Oh, it's necessary on these occasions. If Cicero doesn’t want to be judged crazy, better to shut up."

"Why? Are you ashamed of it?"

"Nah, no, no. Cicero isn’t ashamed of anything. But he didn’t want to be pushed out in the cold, for what it's worth."

A pause of silence, broken only by the storm and the subdued bleating of a little lamb. Then, all of a sudden, when Cicero believed she had fallen asleep, Morrigan shifted, frightened.

"What happens?"

"Rats! Something touched me! I think there’s a rat!"

She was scared but she laughed, as if she too found funny the idea of being afraid of something so harmless.

"How can you hate them? Cicero asks you honestly: you don’t see them, for you there’s no difference between a rat and a duck. How do you know that they scare you?"

"I don’t know... the paws, the smooth tail. They walk on you and they’re fast..."

Morrigan shivered. Cicero couldn’t help laughing at her.

"But rats are beautiful animals! Cicero loves them, really... when they don’t make their nests in the Mother’s coffin. You too should love them, they’re very similar to the two of us: misunderstood, stealthy and cunning!"

"Weren’t I a crow?"

"Yes, because calling a woman little rat, Morrigan, is not the best way to keep the genitals healthy!"

Morrigan was taken by an embarrassed and uncontrolled laugh. She continued for a long time, trying to stifle her mouth so as not to disturb anyone in the house, but Cicero could feel her jumping with her whole body at the rhythm of laughter.

"You make me laugh, Cicero, you don’t know how much I needed it!" she said, lightly, serene, "if only you weren’t..."

But she stopped immediately. She froze, Cicero heard her swallowing from embarrassment. Then he approached her, leaning on one elbow, and spoke to her very close to her face, in a subdued tone, warm, baritone and disturbing.

"What were you going to say, Morrigan? If only Cicero wasn’t... what?"

"Nothing." she dismissed, quick, alarmed.

Cicero took her minute chin between thumb and forefinger. He didn’t hurt her, he didn’t want to. But she still felt it as a danger.

"Speak, little crow. Finish what you were saying. It’s not good to throw the stone and hide the hand."

She swallowed, embarrassed, agitated.

"I didn’t mean... I don’t..."

Cicero tightened his grip on her chin, just to make her understand that it wasn’t time to delay.

"Just say it! You can’t be afraid of a word. Say it! Don’t make Cicero angry!"

She sighed, scared. Then, finally, she spoke, completing the sentence.

"If only you weren’t... an assassin."

Cicero smiled, happy that she finally had managed to externalize the problem. He left her chin and gently stroked her cheek. In a way that could’ve been sweet, for any other man in the world, but made by him looked like something scary, a threat, even though it wasn’t.

"Yes, that’s the problem, little crow. You said you don’t care what Cicero does, but it's not true at all. You like to judge, don’t you?"

"No!" she corrected him immediately, "I'm not judging you, just..."

"Oh, sure, just you don’t find it right. Just you disapprove. This is called judging, my dear. And this mania to add just in every sentence doesn’t change the reality of the definitions."

"Sorry... it’s that... I live in constant fear that you may... maybe not me, but the people we meet. This family doesn’t deserve to die."

"Cicero doesn’t kill those who help him, and above all he doesn’t kill children... if he can avoid it."

She retorted quickly, shooting like an arrow in the stomach:

"And what about the groom?"

Cicero smiled, proud of her, happy that she had realized that the groom was dead. As with the game of the three cups, she was much more conscious of the outside world than what she gave to see, and perhaps more than she herself believed.

"Yet the little crow didn’t stop Cicero's hand. She knew it, and she did nothing, nor did she try to block him, nor did she desperate for the victim afterwards. You’re self-contradictory tonight, hm?"

"I... I..."

She didn’t know what to say, and Cicero rejoiced. He liked Morrigan, yes, but he also liked winning an argument. That was one of the few things he could do, along with joking and killing. If she wanted to win a debate, she had to learn to support it.

"You’re very hypocritical, that's what Cicero thinks. You have many qualities, but among these there is no awareness of yourself. You cannot admit what you do or what you've already done, Morrigan."

She continued to deny, stubborn.

"I... I did nothing... you killed him. I... I was passive, all right, but it's not like using the blade, and you know it too!"

"But Cicero wasn’t refering to the groom, my dear."

Suddenly, Morrigan froze. Cicero felt her, underneath him, stiffening and becoming rigid, like when he had almost killed her.

"I don’t know what you're talking about, it's not... it wasn’t my fault."

"Do you know what they say, in Cyrodiil? He… well… she, in this case… she who excuses herself, accuses herself. Yes, you know very well what Cicero is talking about. Why do you insist on denying? Why do you insist on seeing it as a fault? Don’t you understand that good Cicero considers it a merit?"

Morrigan closed her eyes, squeezing them, denying the evidence. Cicero, in response, kissed her. It was a deeper kiss than the first, but also more forced. Morrigan let him do it, but as soon as she could, she turned her head to escape.

Cicero left her mouth and changed tactics. With one hand he stroked her thigh, then squeezed it, then returned to caress her. He made his way, slow, between the legs, while she was shaking her head and trembling.

"Cicero can be stopped in one word, Morrigan. Why don’t you stop him? Do you think you’re not be able to? Just as you weren’t able to stop his hand before he killed the groom?"

But she, despite the provocation, didn’t stop him. She stayed there, still, denying and trembling, she did nothing to save herself. How could she not understand it? She was a Princess of the Void, no one could touch her if she didn’t want to! She should’ve stopped him, bitten his hand, slit his throat, killed him. She couldn’t let herself be touched against her will.

Cicero, annoyed that she didn’t defend herself, instead of giving up, insisted.

"Stop me" he whispered in her ear, hissing cruelly, "why don’t you stop me? You can do it. You’re the only master of your body and your actions. You’re not guilty of the actions of others. If you killed me now, you'd do well. Stop me, Morrigan!"

He lifted her skirt, and she said nothing. He touched her, and she said nothing. In the end, convinced that beyond that she couldn’t tolerate, he tried to penetrate her with a finger.

"STOP!" she shouted, kicking and freeing herself.

She sat up, panting, her eyes furious.

Cicero stopped, let her go, raised his hands up, even though she couldn’t see it. He left her for a few moments to catch her breath. Then, however, he resumed talking, challenging her, because it wasn’t over yet. It wouldn’t have ended until she admitted it.

"Did you kill your father, Morrigan?"

Suddenly, hearing those words aloud, she lost all the confidence she had acquired until then. She seemed to melt, lose strength in her back and arms. She lowered her head, contrite.

"No... I... it was an accident..."

Cicero snorted, angry, exasperated. He came back to her, close to her face. He spoke, punctuating the words, stern.

"Did you kill your father or not, Morrigan? Say it!"

"Why do you want to talk about this now?"

But as long as she kept denying it, Cicero had no intention of leaving her alone.

He brought his hand behind her head and grabbed her hair. Not strong, not as much as he wanted, just a little to make her understand that he was there and he was determined to free her.

Again, he hissed at her.

"Because I'm tired of seeing you enveloped in this self-pity, Morrigan. Because you are... a goddess... who justifies her actions and tries to make amends with her servants. It makes no sense! Do you understand that it makes no sense?"

"I'm not... I'm just... I..."

Cicero sighed, seriously tired.

"You are who you want to be!"

"I... I didn’t want to... I didn’t want to kill him..."

Cicero loosened his hold on her hair and paused. He was panting too, for the effort, mental rather than physical. He tried to stay calm, to be patient. As he was patient with the Mother, he had to be with her too, because even though she was a Princess of the Void, she wasn’t aware of it, and it sure wasn’t easy for her to live half-way without knowing her true nature.

"Morrigan, listen to me very well. Your father was disgusting. You hated him. You killed him. Maybe you didn’t want to do it in that moment, or that way, whatever it was, but you wanted him dead. You can and must admit it. What are you afraid of? You think I could judge you?"

"Not you…"

"So who?"

"Sovngarde. It had been something so miserable... without honor..."

There was the problem: living in a wrong religion was confusing her ideas. Why didn’t she want to understand that it wasn’t Sovngarde what she was looking for? It was just ruining her.

"If you opened yourself to the only, true afterlife that is the Void, you would understand that you did nothing wrong, that you just quickened a departure that would’ve happened anyway. You haven’t ruined any balance, because the balance is controlled by Sithis, and on that you have no power: you stole your father's time to give it to yourself. You did what you had to do."

She nodded, as if trying to convince herself of something that she had repeated in her own mind for a long, long time. Cicero caressed her, this time sweetly, and once again he thought he had been too harsh with her. He should’ve introduced the topic, but more calmly, because she was a delicate flower, a very intelligent bird, and severity had never worked with her.

He kissed her gently, as if to compensate for the previous harshness. Then he pushed her back on the straw.

"Sorry, Princess. Can we pick up where we left? Calmly, this time."

"I didn’t want to judge you, sorry. You're right, I'm an hypocrite."

"And Cicero didn’t want to..." he paused, closed his eyes, he didn’t want to give her the feeling that he was apologizing in someone else's name, "I didn’t want to treat you like that. I’ve been very disrespectful. Please, forgive me Princess, I just… sometimes I just don’t know how to behave, I’m not very used to… be with other people. But I wanted you to understand that you can’t... you can’t live in self-pity. You don’t need anyone. You can decide what you want me to do with you and what not. You can also decide who deserves to live and who deserves to die, because innocence, both yours and your victims’, is the greatest illusion of life. You only did the will of Sithis… Sister."

Cicero leaned back on her, with a whole new attitude, and with a whole new response from Morrigan. He returned lazily to linger on her leg, on her thigh. Then he raised her skirt, and went back to her sex. Morrigan didn’t rebel. She sighed. She closed her eyes as Cicero began to move on her. Never inside. She didn’t want it, so he would’ve never dared.

"Now tell me, please. Say it to me only. Did you kill your father?"

She didn’t answer right away, she let herself be carried away by the moment, by his massage. She arched her back, stiffened her muscles.

"Yes..." he finally admitted, in a light breath.

"How?"

Again, she didn’t answer, letting herself be taken by the emotions and plunging into pleasure. With one hand, she clung to his shoulder, strong, pulling his clothes. She bit her own lips.

"He was drunk... he wanted to beat me..."

"Go on."

She started to gasp, loud, faster and faster. She stirred, almost like a victim, even if she wasn’t. Pleasure and pain were very similar, thought Cicero. As also a paroxysm and death.

"I have... the wine... caught fire..."

"Did you burn your father alive, Morrigan?"

"Aye! Yes! He... deserved it!"

"Here, this was what I wanted to hear! And what did you feel?"

She stiffened her whole body, suddenly, drowning in pleasure.

"I felt…"

"Yes?"

She couldn’t hold herself back anymore.

"Free!"

She came among the spasms. Almost sobbing in the end, but they were just choked moans, not to wake the farm.

Once she had calmed down, she relaxed her muscles, and Cicero removed his hand from her sensitive part. He stayed beside her, looking at her, amazed, waiting for her to recover.

"Exactly, my dear" he whispered, satisfied as much as her and maybe more, "that's why we kill, and we feel good about it: to be free. We spread blood to feel alive, we feel alive when a soul slips off the eyes of someone else."

She, with her eyelids closed, shook her head slightly.

"No. I haven’t felt any pleasure in killing him."

"Oh, but it's the aim that matters, my dear. I also love the process, but this is another story. The reality is that you liked the feeling of not having to tolerate him anymore, and then, ultimately, you liked to kill. You’re surrounded by death, as befits a Princess of the Void, you are as drunk of homicide as me. And finally you understand that we kill to feel free, because every time a soul leaves the Nirn, there's more room for ours."

Chapter Text

I was there when Cicero was born. I'm always there... at least for important events. Noting the similarities with Morrigan’s childhood is almost too simple, they’re so obvious…. Cicero was conceived by choice for example, but like Morrigan he was of the wrong sex. Modia Prodice wanted a daughter, she was obsessed with that desire. She was so sure her child would’ve been a female, that she had started calling him Clovia since the third lunar cycle. The day of delivery for her was a day of mourning.

He was already the second male, and she got angry, considering it as a personal affront. After Cassio, another man, another pig to grow up.

The midwife gave the child to her and she, I remember, after just a few seconds, refused him. Not even the slightest hint of love.

"Here, Aialana, give him a name."

"But... mylady..."

"Give him a random name, it doesn’t matter!"

And so, the name Cicero was given to him by Aialana, the old midwife, who would’ve never seen him again. We must grant her a boast, however: she chose wisely. She decided to keep the initial letter of Clovia, as well as the initial of the first-born Cassio; moreover, perhaps by will, or perhaps by coincidence, she took the name of an ancient philosopher. Someone who wasn’t known in Cyrodiil, as if he were from another universe, and yet the midwife had chosen that name, perhaps baptizing Cicero from that very first day as a poet.

The little Cicero, because of the contempt reserved to him by his mother, grew almost exclusively thanks to the nurse, who first breastfed him, then taught him to walk... and then died. Cicero, at the age of four, was alone. Ignored. Surrounded by luxury, yet poor. Intelligent, yet ignorant of the most practical facts of life, that a child should know. He couldn’t speak, for example. An art that, fortunately, he would’ve recovered quickly and widely, perhaps because of those first years of difficult communication, as if for him to rediscover the lost words was an insatiable need.

Remaining in his first years of life, however, his non-talk made him even stranger in the eyes of his family and society, and this led him to be even more alone. A solitude that was like an urobor, that twists, twists, twists...

Cassio, his older brother, lived his condition better. Modia Prodice didn’t love him neither, but he was independent. He was the darling of all the children of the Imperial City. Precisely because he couldn’t find love at home, he looked for it outside, on the street, playing and conquering everyone's hearts. Cicero envied him a lot.

He in fact, on the contrary, was introverted, he preferred to spend his days listening to the quiet roar of the waves on the Waterfront. He was small, even for his race, even for his age. When he was eight, he looked five. Considering also the fact that he didn’t speak, ever and with anyone, he had become like the black sheep of the city: the lonely and silent child who never grew up.

He was very intelligent, though. His not talking, over time, more than a lack had become a choice. As if there were nothing interesting to say, or as if all the interlocutors offered by the capital and the whole Empire were not worthy.

Cicero, then, decided to address the words on himself. He thought a lot, and in his mind ideas, phrases and letters crowded like a flow impossible to stem, even in sleep. To relax, then, he began to write.

Nobody had taught him.

He had looked at the signs of the shops, the names of the ships in the port district. He had observed the movements of people's mouths, the sound made for each letter, and in the end, by his own, he had learned, without telling anyone.

Cassio first noticed it. After returning from a simulated battle between champions of the arena with his friends, he had gone to the Waterfront, to bring home the failed brother. Despite feeling sorry for him, I can say that he loved him. Definitely more than Modia Prodice.

"Hey! Cicero! Where are you?"

He found him sitting on the stone platform, his legs too short for getting wet in the water. He had a diary in his lap and was writing on it with a charcoal, running over rough sheets with a skill that didn’t even belong to all the members of the Arcane University.

"Hey... what... what are you doing? You know how to write?"

Cicero didn’t even try to hide it. He put the charcoal down, looked at Cassio in the eyes, and at that moment, eight years old, he said his very first words.

"I'm not stupid."

In the evening, when they came home, Cassio was euphoric. Dragging Cicero by the arm, he ran through the courtyard, the colonnade, and reached the vestibule. When he arrived, he was gasping out of excitement.

"Mother! Mother! Cicero talked to me! And he can write!"

Modia Prodice rolled her eyes, annoyed. She shrugged her shoulders in her red veil, adjusted her gold earrings, and finally, listless, rose from the triclinium on which she had been abandoned for hours. On the table, beside her, empty bottles and a pipe.

"Ah, so he's not stupid!" she laughed, vulgarly.

She tried to get close to them but she staggered, and finally fell. She laughed, crawling on the floor.

"Mother? Are you all right?"

"Yeah! Yes! I couldn’t be better, little bastard!"

She stood up again, with a confused smile on her lips and her eyes veiled. In the end, she reached her sons and grabbed Cicero's jaw, observing him from side to side, as if it were the first time she saw him.

"I don’t see anything different... the usual retard."

She turned his head violently, hurting his jaw, but Cicero didn’t complain. He didn’t do it, just to not give her the satisfaction of hearing his voice, not even a groan.

"So? Are you talking or not? It would be great, I could show my friends how good you are, at the party, tomorrow..."

But Cicero remained silent, trying to hide the diary behind his shoulders.

Cassio, however, decided to not be merciful. He didn’t do it out of malice, and Cicero knew it. He did it because he didn’t want to be accused of telling a lie. He needed a proof, to avoid punishment.

"Look, mother! He wrote a diary!"

He tore it from his hands and handed it to the woman.

Modia, staggering, grabbed the diary and opened it. She tried to read it, approaching it near her nose, as if trying to focus.

"When birds are about to die they cannot fly anymore..." she read, "they grope on the ground and at that point it is better to kill them..."

Cicero lowered his eyes. He wasn’t embarrassed, to be honest. He was embarrassed for her, for Modia, who knew how to read and yet didn’t understand anything.

"You can’t have written it. And anyway, it's an idiocy. I don’t like reading about dead birds."

She dropped the diary on the ground. Then, unstable, she turned and went back to the triclinium. She inspected the table for a still-full bottle, and when she found it, she churned it down in one gulp.

"Mother, really, he was speaking..."

"Oh, shut up, mom has a headache and she doesn’t want to hear anyone. Do like Cicero, cut your tongue and leave me alone. At least you’ll stop lying."

At that point, behold, a feeling moved in Cicero, at the level of the stomach. A feeling of injustice for the brother. He was a child with many problems, yes, but he was loyal, even back then. More than Cassio, and above all for Cassio.

"He said the truth" he said suddenly, contravening the rule of not making his voice be heard from Modia, "I can speak, I can read and I can write."

Modia looked at him, confused, squinting her grass-colored eyes. Cassio, happy, couldn’t hide liberation, the lightness of his soul.

"Well, this is unespected..." the woman commented, giggling, without believing her eyes and ears.

"I assure you it's true" Cicero retorted, "it's not the effect of skooma, you junkie crone."

That evening, Cicero got beaten up. Not by Modia: she thought she was too noble to raise her hands. She laid relaxed on her triclinium, wrapped in regal robes, the brown curls scattered on the pillow, while the servant did the dirty work for her. They beat him up with a stick. In the end, Cicero had his back almost completely black, covered with bruises.

He never complained, though. Not because he didn’t feel pain, on the contrary. Precisely because he felt it. Complaining would’ve only increased it, and would’ve also given Modia satisfaction. It was better to hold the pain, to hug it. Once hugged, it would’ve become his friend. A friend who could tell him "in spite of everything, you’re not dead yet. You’re alive, Cicero. You're still alive, you can suffer because your head works well. If your head works, you still have your most precious gift."

So no, Cicero didn’t fear pain. With time, on the contrary, he began to like it. It was the unmistakable sign that the mind was still healthy. On the contrary, his worst fear was not to feel it anymore.

For these reasons, when he laid down on the bed in his bedroom, he was quite reliefed. At least, now he could talk freely.

"Did she hurt you?" asked Cassio, still awake, in the bed next to his.

"Yes."

He wanted to say "thankfully", but he did not, Cassio wouldn’t have understood. He, unlike Cicero, was very scared of pain. He used to say he wanted to learn how to fight so he could avoid it all his life.

"And... is it true? That thing is skooma?"

Cicero wasn’t surprised. It was hard to surprise him. He knew his mother, he knew his brother, and he knew one was drug addict and the other very gullible.

"Haven’t you noticed it?"

"I thought it was wine..."

Poor Cassio, very naive, very. Cicero was younger but he saw and knew everything. He had seen the merchant ships of the Waterfront, and had seen both legal and illegal goods. He had seen smugglers smash drugs, and prostitutes use them. Connecting the symptoms of those addicts to those of Modia, in the end, had been elementary.

"Maybe, while I wasn’t talking I was keeping my eyes open... unlike you."

Cassio chuckled. He nodded, his head resting on the pillow.

"Yes brother. I think so. But I'm glad you're talking now. Now you can come and play with the others, they’re going to accept you!"

But Cassio hadn’t understood that it wasn’t for the will of the other children if Cicero was on the sidelines. It was his will, all his own. Even if they hadn’t ignored him, his feelings didn’t change.

"I'm fine alone."

Cassio seemed disappointed, but didn’t object.

The next day, rich Modia Prodice threw one of her many parties. It was known throughout Cyrodiil, in fact, that her most beloved pastime was to squander her husband's money.

Here, her husband... brave Velleius Nero. He existed somewhere. He too was like Modia: as much reputable outside, as corrupt inside. He was an officer, he had won many battles for the Empire, he had earned many medals, and in his spare time he used to reward himself with adultery. He was very good at that, so much so that one day he had decided to make it his main business, not returning in his house anymore. He was always elsewhere, to conquer territories and to enjoy the prostitutes of the place. His sons had seen him twice, in total. And Modia, of course, was fine with that.

Apart from the absence, therefore, Cicero had nothing against his father. He didn’t care that much, actually. There was Modia, she was enough for two parents.

Returning to the party, we can say that it was as lavish as it was depraved. Skooma flowed like a river, so that Cicero began to fear that they would’ve replaced it with the water of the impluvium. There were women, for the most part, but also men, who didn’t seem to be there to enjoy the party, the more because they had been bought. In addition to drugs, Modia Prodice loved handsome men and she didn’t even try to hide it.

Cicero and Cassio remained in their room, confined not only by their mother's will, but also by their own. They wouldn’t have dared set foot in that brothel.

However, at a certain point, a servant entered, without saying anything. He grabbed Cicero by the arm and accompanied him to his mother. Cicero didn’t know what he wanted to do, but something suggested that it would’ve had to do with talking.

As he crossed the villa, he tried to ignore the young noblewoman who was fornicating with a half-naked champion, or the one who was smoking skooma, leaning against a column. He wasn’t embarrassed, though: he was disgusted. His untimely mind only made him feel pity for those people, including his mother. Even because he couldn’t understand how someone could voluntarily ruin their mind. It was such a precious gift, such precious... and they spoiled it with refined moon sugar. What was the meaning? He wouldn’t have spoiled his brain for anything in the world, but of course people's priorities could be most varied.

Finally, he arrived in the dining room, where a banquet had been set up and then devoured by the guests. There were spilled cups and wasted food on the floor. Modia, standing in the middle of a circle formed by five other women, was holding a golden goblet and playing like a child. A drunken child.

She was gesticulating, without speaking, trying to make her secret identity known to the public.

"Oh... are you by chance... the Divine Mara?"

Modia shook her head. She grabbed her own breasts and made a rotary and vulgar gesture, as if to indicate that they were enormous. Then she lifted her skirt, and put it back down immediately.

"Ah, enough, I give up! It’s too difficult!" one of the audience complained.

Modia laughed, halfway between amused and impatient. In the end, she revealed the character.

"It was easy! I was Messalla’s lover!"

The others laughed. A hysterical laugh, acute, gallinaceous, which caused Cicero nausea.

"Oh, wait, Cicero is here!" she shouted, enthusiastically, as soon as she noticed the presence of her son. She sent the servant away, and Cicero was passed to her.

"You all know that for an unfortunate joke of nature, I happened to give birth to this beautiful child."

"Oh, beautiful!" said a young, sarcastic blonde, "he's so strange! And the hair? Where does it come from? Do you know whose son he is, at least?"

Modia laughed, throwing her head back.

"Surely not of a genius!" she joked, and the others exploded again in their collective laughter, which reminded Cicero of the verse of the slaughtered lambs.

"Anyway" she resumed, "yesterday this little man spoke to me, can you believe it? He told me I'm a junkie crone!"

"But you do are a junkie crone, Modia!"

Laughter, again. Cicero wanted to go and vomit in their skooma ampoules.

"Come on, Cicero, talk to my friends! Show them that it wasn’t a hallucination!"

Suddenly, silence. Cicero, standing in the middle of the dining room, with a thousand female eyes on him. For the first time, he really felt embarrassed. He didn’t say anything.

"Come on, talk! Yesterday you did it!"

But Cicero was silent. He tried to focus on something else, such as the apple, the one there, right on the edge of the table, which was about to fall, yet it wasn’t falling. It was like him, that apple: one step away from yielding, from killing all of them. But it wasn’t yielding.

"Come on, then! Speak! If you don’t, I’ll punish you."

But Cicero didn’t care about punishment. She could do whatever she wanted, he wouldn’t have been her trained dog.

Modia became impatient. With her lips tight with anger, she took off her shoulders the red veil and put it on him, wrapping him. She pulled a flap on his head, putting the edges in place as if he was a girl.

"Here you are, Clovia! Don’t you like talking? You do well, a woman who talks too much doesn’t find a husband!"

Laughs. So many. Laughs that merged with each other, and became gradually low, deformed. Maybe... maybe he was fainting. Fainting of shame... was it possible?

"Clovia! Stand up, Clovia!" she held him upright, clenching her hand around his thin biceps. Then, without any mercy, she called the others, and the drunk women began to dress him like a girl. And the dangerousness of Modia revealed itself in all its heaviness: not physical, like that of The Hammer, but psychological.

It was at that precise moment that something in Cicero's head snapped.

He had always been strange, in the eyes of the others, but now he was going to become their worst nemesis. He looked at those women one by one, registering all the features, all the details of their faces.

One day, he swore at that very moment... one day he would’ve visited them.

One.

By.

One.

Chapter Text

It would be wrong, however, to assert that in that moment Cicero had understood he wanted to kill. In that moment he understood he wanted to canalize that desire onto human beings. But even before, indeed, he had had a morbid curiosity about death. He saw it everywhere and, the more he noticed it, the more he understood that itwas the only real reason for life.

To stay in touch with death, he often went to the crypts, he liked the silence of those places, the heavy air. If he could, he pursued dying animals. Once he had stalked a staggering pigeon, hoping it would’ve died. And, when it had died, Cicero had observed, touched, feeling its cold body and drawing it in his diary.

It was not long, of course, that Cicero began to want to kill. But not out of malice, no... to do a favor. Life is nothing but the antechamber of nothingness, why suffer if afterwards there is nothing?

His first victims, in fact, were beings which he pitied. First a worm, cut in half, writhing. Then a squirrel to which a predator had detached a leg. Then a skinny, sick dog in an alley in the city.

This, Modia didn’t know. How could she? She didn’t pay attention to anything, she was always inebriated by drugs. But in the end she had to notice it inevitably. After the episode of the party, in fact, Cicero began not only to aspire to bigger prey, but to boast of his ability. He directed death not only on the creatures he considered needy, but also on those he hated, or... sometimes, those he met on the street at the wrong time.

Over time, his outbursts were becoming more and more cruel and casual. Cicero always saw it as a blessing, a favor, but now he used this thought to justify the death of those who were perfectly healthy.

The first, true victim, healthy and killed for the sake of doing it, was a rat. He found it in a corner of the pantry, trying to steal some cereal. It was black, but somewhat lovely. Precisely because Cicero adored it, he decided it had to die. Stupid rat... it trusted too much of him, it stood there watching him, it didn’t even try to escape. If it had not been Cicero, it would have been someone else.

He killed it, then, dismembered it and ate its little heart, to feel how it was. And he felt a pleasant sensation in sending it into nothingness. While the other kids were starting to make contact with the other sex, well, he just wanted to kill. There was something mystic in the process... something loving. He was sure that rat was thanking him, from the nothing it had been sent to.

Meanwh ile, Modia had got pregnant. Velleius Nero had never come back from the battlefront, but she was able to hide the truth out in the open; she said she had come to see him. In fact, she cuddled her lover every night, moaning and keeping the whole house awake. Cicero hated her, and he hated the pleasure he heard. It was there that he began to understand that pleasure and pain are the same thing, since there was not much difference between the cries of his mother and those of the murdered rat.

Nine months later, a blessing for the family: a daughter. There it was, the real Clovia. Born fifteen years after Cassio and twelve after Cicero. Small, pink, beautiful.

Cicero hated her immediately.

He began to be more and more away from home, sometimes he didn’t even come back to sleep at night. He stayed in the Waterfront, most of the time, studying some stolen books and cultivating his other passion: writing. He tried to force himself to think of something else, because he really didn’t want to kill Clovia. First of all, he didn’t esteem her so much as to be his first human victim. And secondly, he was a member of the family: no matter how jealous he was of the loving care Modia reserved for her, loyalty came first of all: killing a sister is always forbidden. A mother yes, a mother can be killed, especially if she deserves it. But not Clovia, too small, too neutral yet to arouse any feeling in Cicero.

"Brother, I'm afraid of you" Cassio told him one day, sitting with him on the edge of the walls watching the fiery sunset, which also lit up the lake Rumare with red and gold sparkles.

"You usually drown in fear, not a great news."

"I'm serious! You like to philosophize, but... I'm really scared. I see you when you kill those animals. I’ve found the skulls you hold under your pillow. You always go around with that knife, and..."

"And what, brother?"

"And I'm afraid you'll be able to hurt us one day."

Cicero sighed. He closed his eyes, trying to think about a way to explain himself. Growing up, he understood that the others didn’t think like him, and it had become increasingly difficult to explain his code to ordinary people.

"I cannot kill brothers or sisters. I would, but I cannot."

"You want to kill me?" he said almost whimpering, and Cicero felt sorry for jim. He was everyone's darling, but he had no dignity.

"Not you, Clovia. That stupid little bastard."

"Don’t blame her. It's our mother's fault."

And at that moment a new thought in Cicero, something that would’ve changed his life forever.

"She’s not my mother."

"You may not like it, but she is. You haven’t been adopted, I saw when you were born."

But Cicero didn’t mean physically. He intended to disavow her. For him the meaning was deeper: Modia was not his mother. Suddenly, he realized that she was a womb, nothing more. He was the son of someone else, someone who later had used Modia for gestation. He had nothing in common with her, not even physically. Modia... Modia was not his mother. She was a fertilized soil.

"She’s not my mother" he repeated, sternly, "she’s my parent. My mother, I still have to know her."

And he met her, his real mother.

It was like destiny to have predestined him. He was fifteen and, like most of his life, he was walking on the dock. There was a goat slaughtered on one of the ships, hanging from the mast by its hind legs, dripping blood into a barrel. Cicero looked at it fascinated, thinking that he wanted to do it on someone. Maybe on the blonde, her mother's friend. Domitilla.

Then, however, he began to feel observed. He had someone's eyes on him, he felt it, he was sure. Then, trying to act like a normal person, he turned his gaze away from the goat and started walking again.

But the feeling didn’t go away, and eventually he realized he was being followed. At a safe distance from him, in fact, there was a man. He must have been in his forties, he had the neutral look of someone who has seen too many things. He was dressed in red.

Cicero stopped, collecting his ideas and thinking of facing him. Then, he turned around and went to meet him, confident. The man seemed amazed, as if he didn’t expect to be noticed.

"Who are you?" he asked, without pleasantries, once reached.

"No one." he replied enigmatically.

"I'll ask you again: who are you? What do you want from me?"

But that man didn’t say anything. He smiled, took off his blood-colored hood and looked at the sky.

"Why were you looking at that goat?" he asked treacherously.

Cicero didn’t let himself be intimidated.

"Simple scientific curiosity. I'm interested in the exsanguination method, I'm studying the circulatory system."

The man giggled, shaking his head.

"I don’t doubt that you’re interested in exsanguination, but I doubt it was for scientific curiosity."

Well, he underestimated him. There was curiosity, actually. Beyond killing, Cicero also liked to ask questions and find answers. Of course, there was also the pleasure of seeing blood dripping, but that was another story.

"You are really a son of this age" said Cicero, showing off all his oratorical ability, "arrogant and totally disinterested. It doesn’t mean that everyone is like you."

The man had to be amazed at the boy's too adult language. He didn’t comment, however, he changed the subject. And what he said, immediately caught Cicero's interest:

"I came here specifically for you, because there are rumors about your... nature. And I must admit that you really look like an excellent son of our Mother."

Cicero didn’t understand, but somehow felt that it was true. He wanted to know more.

"Your mother?"

"Yours too."

"And who is she?"

"The Night Mother. We all are her children, and she loves us all the same way. Look for informations about her and Sithis if you want. One day, perhaps, I will return to see your progress."

And he left, without adding anything else. Cicero, therefore, remained there, dissatisfied and immobile, but for the first time with the hope of knowing his true origins.

He researched, stealing a few books from private libraries and the Arcane University. He didn’t like to steal... he considered it disrespectful. But he was also sure that his parent wouldn’t have paied for the books he needed. At the moment, she was still busy growing Clovia as a good mother.

And, while Clovia enjoyed the affection of an earthly parent, Cicero discovered the joys of an otherworldly Mother. The more he read, the more he felt fascinated, as if he had suddenly returned home, after a long period of absence. He read the descriptions and found himself in every word.

Thus there existed, his true Mother, and she was the Mother of all. A loving Mother, who cuddle her children, and sometimes asks for someone to join her in the nothingness. She had been so affectionate and so lovely to her children to kill them. A great, great honor. Modia... Modia was so disinterested that she wouldn’t even have wasted time doing such a gesture, not even to have him out of her way. It was paradoxical, Cicero himself realized, but if she had killed him, at least, she would’ve given him the importance of someone that has to be eliminated. He wasn’t even that. He didn’t even exist in her eyes.

How much he wanted to be killed by his mother! And not Modia, that was the parent. He wanted to be a child of the Night Mother, and die for her and her love.

Everything was fitting, even the Void, which Cicero had before called nothingness: the real afterlife, and there were others who knew it and believed in it! He thought he was the only one to consider nothingness as a possible future, and instead he understood that the others were blind about it. They could also keep their Divines... one was enough for him, and his name was Sithis.

Sithis wouldn’t have judged him for what he was. On the contrary, Sithis would’ve appreciated his peculiar killing skills. Sithis had welcomed all the souls that Cicero had sent him, he had listened to their stories, he had observed him, he had measured him. Sithis liked Cicero. The Mother liked Cicero.

He had found a family.

Clovia grew ever more beautiful, loved and spoiled. Modia Prodice cuddled her day and night. When she was a newborn, she had personally breastfed her. And she was still doing it. Oh, yes, she was still doing it. At the age of six, Clovia still fed of her mother's milk, and both Cassio and Cicero were disgusted.

"She's mentally ill." Cassio concluded one evening as they watched her from a distance, in the vestibule, feeding soft food to an overgrown little girl.

"Cicero hates mental illnesses."

"What? Why do you speak in third person?"

He hadn’t even realized that he did. He didn’t know why... it was true that he hated people with mental illnesses. He felt sorry for them, they too were all victims to send to Sithis for their own good.

"Nothing, sorry. My mind is crowded. Very, very confused."

"You scare me when you do like this."

But Cicero smiled and looked at him with piercing eyes.

"Don’t worry, brother, you're safe, now like three years ago. Do you know who’s not safe instead? The parent."

"What do you want to do?"

He was worried. How could he be worried? Cicero couldn’t understand it. She had hated them both, why did Cassio persist in loving her?

"Don’t you see her, brother? Look at her. You said it, she's mentally ill. A merciful person would end her suffering."

"What are you talking about?"

He was saying he was ready. He was eighteen years old, even if he looked younger. He had to do something with his life, he had to make his dream come true. He had spent years improving the technique, thinking in detail about how to take his revenge. It was time to become what everyone wanted him to become. It was time to actualize that widespread sense of fear with which people looked at him.

"Cassio, naive brother..." sighed, dreamy, anticipating his first murder, "I know you cannot, but I will take the responsibility. We have to free her, don’t you see? We need to give her peace. And give peace to ourselves."

"I…"

Cicero, with bloodshot eyes, stared at him, smiling, already in ecstasy. He stood in front of him and put his hand on his shoulder. Cassio, higher than him, yet intimidated, began to tremble.

"And do you know what a merciful person would do? They would send Clovia with her. Look, they’re so close, to separate them would be... sacrilegious."

Cassio shook his head, scared. He stepped back.

"Cicero, I... I don’t know who you are."

The boy was annoyed. He narrowed his eyes, in a predatory gaze. He smiled slyly. He didn’t interrupt eye contact, never even to blink.

"Of course you don’t know me, Cassio. Have you ever made a minimum effort to know me? Have you ever tried to talk to me before I talked to you? You are very kind, brother, but very silly. Your mind is slow, most of the time you don’t even understand what's around you. You wouldn’t even notice a bull intent on sodomizing you."

Cicero extracted the blade that, for many years, had always been on his side. An ebony dagger.

On hearing the sound of the unsheathed dagger, Modia screamed. Cicero heard her leave behind him, but he didn’t follow her, he didn’t care: he would’ve found her again.

Cassio at first impact backed away, with the breath cut off. Then he pulled out a sword. He knew how to use it, yes, but it was a legionary technique, not for hand-to-hand combat.

"You said... that the brothers don’t kill each other."

"No, in fact. But I don’t intend to be blocked by you. Be very careful about what you decide at this moment, dear Cassio. Be wise."

Cassio continued to back away, his sword still in his hand, shaking. He came to a column and slammed against it.

"Cassio, Cassio, Cassio... the hourglass empties quickly, the shadow of the sundial turns. Don’t make me impatient, Cassio. Cassio, Cassio..."

"Cicero... you... you're better than that. You’re a poet, a writer, you're good, and... I know she hurt us, but don’t spill her blood!"

Cicero rolled his eyes. It was exasperated that nobody understood him. But he also knew he should’ve get used to it.

"Brother, you think as if it were only for revenge. No! It's for love. The love she has not given me, I will have the courage to give to her. I will be unselfish. I'll be right. It’s time for that depraved woman to find peace in the Void."

"And... Clovia?"

"Oh Clovia, poor, little Clovia. She has my name. I’m a little sorry. But she wouldn’t survive without the parent, and you know it. Or do you intend to breastfeed her, Cassio?"

He shook his head, undecided, scared.

"Get out of here, Cassio. It’s not a place for sensitive ladies like you. After tonight, you'll be free to go and make a living, get married to Aldmera. Or do you want to stay here, subjugated, all your life? To see that slut who never loses the chance to get bare breasts?"

Cassio hesitated. He looked around, as if to find an idea in the air, a hold on which to cling and find an answer. He was a very simple young man, poor man. He couldn’t make decisions lightly.

In the end, however, lowering his sword and passing a hand through his long brown hair, he nodded. Crying, he nodded.

"All right. All right. But let it be fast."

"Oh, don’t cry, brother. For her it will be... like letting go to the umpteenth skooma delirium."

Cassio nodded again, sobbing. Then, fast, as if he didn’t want to change his mind, he went out, closing the door behind him.

Cicero sighed, satisfied. He smiled and turned: it was time to think about the other two.

As expected, they hadn’t gone far. They had taken refuge in the pantry, just like the rat, many years before.

When Cicero opened the door, they were hugging each other, huddled on the sacks of wheat. Modia's curly hair covered her daughter like a blanket, or a shield. For a moment, Cicero liked to see that kind of love. It was real, he didn’t doubt it. But he wanted it to be for him... not for that plump, blonde girl.

"Don’t worry, soon everything will end. Get up. I want space, for this occasion, and a sumptuous environment. I don’t intend to kill you here with potatoes."

They wept, sobbing very loudly. Cicero was annoyed. He became impatient and grabbed Clovia, lighter then Modia, so that the other followed him.

He led them into the vestibule, threatening them, and ordered them to sit on the triclinium. He stood in front of them, and was surprised again to see them hugged.

He began to walk, quiet, back and forth.

"Parent! Do you know what day it is today? The day when I send you to my family. The day when you will taste the Void... together with your daughter."

Modia exploded into sobs. She shouted, but Cicero didn’t care much. In the neighborhood, they were used to hearing her screaming.

"Cicero!" she whimpered, "why are you doing this to me?"

"Oh, parent, a little hypocrite for you..."

"I... I know... I was cruel! But it wasn’t my fault, it was... the skooma. I was horrible, but put yourself in my shoes... alone... abandoned by your father..."

Cicero laughed loudly. He raised an index, theatrically, exaggerating the movements.

"No! By Cassio's father, perhaps. Mine you don’t even know who he is."

She swallowed, and like Cassio began to look around for answers.

"Put yourself in my shoes... I was alone..."

Cicero became infuriated. Quick, controlled, he approached her face. The ebony dagger was between them, touching Modia's nose. She was terrified, gasping for air.

"I don’t put myself in your shoes, parent. Cicero has... Cicero... I... I've seen worse, you know? Abandoned and poor women, for example. Orphans. You're just a very bad person who likes to be a victim. You were rich, do you realize it? A roof on your head, the servants. Don’t blame your husband for something exclusively you did. You've ruined your life by yourself, and I'm fine with that, you're the owner of your person. Only... you shouldn’t have taken me with you."

She closed her eyes, squeezed them, and tears rolled down her face.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"If you hadn’t been like that with me, maybe I... Cicero wouldn’t be like that now. Cicero would like to be normal, you know? He would like to be able to think only of writing, he would like to be able to feel pleasure with a woman without the desire to bite her head off. And it's all your fault. All, exclusively your fault."

At that point, however, an unexpected event. An answer that Cicero, in his intelligence and foresight, hadn’t calculated. He hadn’t thought that human victims, unlike animals, could talk... and still hurt, after so many years.

"I was a bad mother, it's true. But only you have become like that. Cassio is a good man. You... you were born rotten. It wasn’t my fault, you... you would’ve become so anyway."

Cicero was stunned by that revelation. She was right. He couldn’t think of anything else.

He swallowed, eager now more than ever to choke her with her red veil. He would’ve done it, yes, she deserved it. But first... first it would’ve been better to show her what it feels like to have love taken away.

Cicero grabbed Clovia's arm and pulled her back to the center of the room. Modia began to scream, desperate. She tried to hold back her daughter, to pull her toward herself, but in the end she had to let her go, for fear of breaking her arms. Then she got on all fours on the floor, as she had been so often under the influence of drugs.

She begged, and Cicero liked the sound of prayers. Oh, he liked it... animals were very less satisfying, under that point of view.

"I beg you! Stop! I will do everything! Kill me instead, kill me!"

"Here she is! Modia Prodice is ready to die for her daughter! While Cicero has never even deserved the honor to be him to die for Modia Prodice."

He grabbed the girl by her long curly hair, forced her to stand up. She screamed, cried, and more screamed her mother.

"Look carefully, Modia. Watch your daughter as she reaches Sithis!"

He put the dagger on her neck and...

He stopped.

He did not.

Why? He couldn’t wait.

But Clovia... she was young. He always had a weakness for children. And then, she was his sister. Bastard, perhaps, but still out of the same womb. Loyalty had always been strong, in Cicero. He had also seen it in animals that protect each other, especially dogs and rats. He couldn’t... he couldn’t kill her.

He withdrew the dagger. He let her go, and Clovia fell to the ground like a sack.

Cicero crouched, to reach his sister on her level.

"You don’t deserve to die" he said in a disquieting whisper, "now you have to go, you have to get out of here. Don’t come back for any reason. You’ll stay with Cassio. Do you understand me?"

The girl, in tears, nodded. Cicero helped her get up and allowed her to farewell her mother. Modia hugged her, kissed her, while she murmured "thank you", perhaps to the Divines, rather than to Cicero.

He, overwhelmed by compassion, took his sister by the hand and led her to the door. He made sure that Cassio was out there, and handed her to him. He saw happiness on his brother's eyes. He cried with joy.

But for Cicero it wasn’t over. He went back inside, returned to the vestibule, and saw Modia abandoned on the triclinium, as she used to do when she was younger, lost in the delirium of skooma.

"Thanks, Cicero. Thank you for saving her."

"It wasn’t for you. Remember that."

Modia nodded, sympathetically, for the first time in her life. Death changed people a lot. Cicero wondered, at that point, what was the true version of her.

Cicero sat down on a chair, not far away. He relaxed, stretching his legs. He wached Modia with a hand to hold his chin, meditative.

"I want you to take the skooma, parent."

"Why?"

"Because it's right that you embrace death like you've always embraced life. You cannot have the privilege of lucidity now. You won’t even understand what's going on, you won’t have time to ask for forgiveness, to pray. You’ll die and you won’t even realize it. But you will suffer, I can swear. You will suffer without understanding why."

Modia nodded. She was docile now. Another sign of how much her love for Clovia was sincere. She was really ready to die for her. She was really willing to be tortured under skooma, for her.

The woman gulped down the bottles, then. She took at least fifteen of them, while Cicero stared at her, stern. When she was no longer able to stand up, then, Cicero got up, and approached her. He looked at her from above, with pity.

"Now I recognize you, parent. As in the good, old days."

She didn’t say anything. She tried to mumble something, but she had no control over her lips and a trickle of saliva came down to the side of her mouth.

"Look at you. You’re disgusting. You're a horrible woman, inside and outside. Now.. since you had so much fun believing me a girl, how about seeing what it feels like to be transformed into a male?"

He sat next to her, cuddled her forehead.

"Let's start from the simple part, hm?"

He approached the ebony dagger to the hair and cut the curls. All, from the first to the last, with such violence that in some points he cutted her scalp. As the brown curls remained in his hands, he threw them to the ground. It was as if every hair represented a part of her femininity, lost forever.

She was crying, suffering, as expected. She couldn’t understand that it was true, perhaps, and couldn’t even rebel in any way. But surely she was suffering.

Cicero cuddled her again, he even kissed her forhead.

"Sh, Modia, hold on. We must finish what has begun. I'm sorry you have to suffer, but see, this is nothing more than what you did to Cicero. I feel a lot of love for you, despite everything. All this is to redeem you. For the sake of your soul, do you understand? You will arrive much lighter, in the Void. You will have paid your huge debt."

She, unexpectedly, nodded. Perhaps, somewhere, she was still there, deep in the delirium.

"Let's continue, then."

He cut her breasts, while she was convulsing. He didn’t like that part at all. It had to be done, though. It was for the good of both.

He let her bleed for a frighteningly long period of time. It wouldn’t have been enough to kill her, probably, but it was necessary for her to suffer. Necessary. For everyone.

Finally, the dawn began to appear, and to illuminate the courtyard, reflecting clearly on the water of the impluvium. It was time to finish it.

"Modia, my dear... your crime is atoned, we are even. Now I can tell you that it is with a light heart that I entrust you to Sithis. Greet the Void on my part and wait for me. We'll meet again, one day. And maybe we can start all over again."

He raised the dagger, without waiting any longer. He sank it firmly into her lower abdomen, in the uterus. She had almost no strength left. All she did was to open her eyes wide and finally immobilize.

After the first murder, Cicero kept his promise. It was time to settle accounts with all the other women who had humiliated him at that party. They were all part of nobilar families, one even lived in the imperial palace, so it took time and perseverance to reach them all.

Thanks to them, however, Sithis bless them, Cicero could practice both stealth and technique. As promised, he cut the throat of one of them, then he hanged her upside down, to bleed her like the goat. He stabbed another, thirty-seven times, then he drown another, strangled another, and crucified the last one.

All this until the murders for revenge were over, and those of compassion, or pleasure, began. Until, soon, the Brotherhood noticed him. He was a cruel serial killer, one of the most methodical, organized and deadly. But he was nothing more than that, ihe didn’t serve a greater purpose.

It was time to make that talent come out, in short. It was time to welcome him to the Bruma Sanctuary. It was time to serve Sithis.

Chapter Text

Cicero woke up, without showing the most imperceptible sign of agitation. He simply opened his eyes wide, without moving, without changing his breath. The first thing he did was to turn his head, slowly, to check that Morrigan was still there. For a moment, he had feared returning to Cyrodiil and being near Cassio. Waking up in his spacious and well-furnished room, and then going to greet the new day in the courtyard, washing his face in the impluvium.

But no, he was in Skyrim, in a stable, lying on the straw. There was no Cassio. There was no Modia. There was no Clovia. Only Morrigan, still asleep, who was very different from all three, who had nothing to do with his previous life.

Modia Prodice. That horrible woman. He hadn’t thought about her for a long time.

Cicero tried not to give her too much importance, she didn’t deserve it, especially after more than twenty years since her demise. Then he got up, without disturbing the girl, and went out, to breathe some fresh air. The storm had subsided, leaving the sky free of clouds, but still dark. The morning seemed to be still far away.

Cicero watched the snow, which made the night shining, and thought that there was no comparison with the darkness of Cyrodiil. There were no northern lights there, there was no snow, and if it was a moonless night it became impossible to figure out where the Waterfront quay ended and where the waters of lake Rumare started.

He missed that lake. He missed the smell of saltiness, and the pungent smell of the harbor, made of fish and urine. One of those things that disgusts, yes, but which you learn to appreciate, and that is so strong that when you leave, it's like you lose a part of yourself.

If he closed his eyes, Cicero could almost imagine being there. He could hear the waves roaring lightly, slowly deteriorating the stones of the harbor. He would’ve so much, so much wanted to see it again. He missed his home, despite everything.

And the thought, not requested, returned to the parent. He knew that nobody had mourned her death, later. No questions were asked, it was as if everyone had suspected it for long time. It was obvious that she would’ve to die, she was too much a slave to vices, this they thought.

On the other hand, he had seen Cassio a couple of times. He had married Aldmera, had had children, and had continued to live as the courageous and integral cornerstone of society as he was. He never spoke again of either Modia or the evening of her death. He continued to live his life as if nothing had ever happened.

Clovia... well, Cicero had never spoken again to Clovia. He had watched her grow up from afar. Even after going to live in Bruma, and then later in Cheydinhal, if he happened to be in the Imperial City, he always looked for her. Cassio told him not to interact with her because she had been lucky enough to remove everything. She remembered nothing, and not only of the aggression against her mother, but not even of Cicero. She didn’t remember having two brothers.

Cicero, anyway, didn’t even wish to interact with her. He had a half-way attitude towards her: a little proud of having saved her, a little guilty because he had never stopped to think she was a mistake. He was young, still untrained, he repeated. He had let her go for compassion, it was normal. And yet... yet she remained the only imperfection in his noble career. Well... until then.

"Hey? What are you doing out here?"

Cicero turned abruptly, and saw Morrigan just behind him. Her eyes were sleepy and she was yawning. Cicero hadn’t heard her coming, but he would never have admitted it.

"For Sithis’ sake, little crow, you can’t be left alone for five minutes!"

He had joked but she, as usual, lived in awe, and then apologized, contrite. Cicero was too tired to reply, so he just ignored that hateful behavior.

"Let's go back inside, Cicero is freezing!"

She obeyed and returned to the pile of straw. She cuddled a little lamb, asleep next to her. Then, just as Cicero was about to lie down, she had a jolt and an exclamation of surprise.

"Oh! Cicero! I have something on my face."

He couldn’t see, it was too dark. But he approached and touched her face. For a moment he too had to rely on touch, and only then he realized that losing both touch and sight must have been a real curse. For the first time, he didn’t envy Morrigan's fate at all.

At first he didn’t feel anything, then, brushing against the left side of her face, he touched a warm, viscous liquid. A liquid that he knew very well.

"Did you scratch your head, little crow?"

"No, I don’t think so..."

He touched the wound on her forehead and felt that a stitch had broken. Morrigan jumped slightly in pain.

"No, no, no, it's not good, little crow! You ruined the work of the good Cicero! With all the patience and precision it took him!"

"I'm sorry, I didn’t do it on purpose."

Here again, contrition. This time it was more difficult to fly over it.

"Cicero was joking, Morrigan. It's just two damn stitches. Why do you take everything so literally?"

The girl shrugged, nodded.

"I don’t know... maybe because my parents never joked."

"Mh, that's not as relevant. Not even the family of Cicero was very happy. Not even Cicero was once. He talked back very badly and insulted people. He had ... a bad temper, indeed. Besides being a killer, of course. With old age, at least one of the two defects has been corrected. Right, little crow?"

She giggled, a little consoled, as if she felt less guilty about knowing that humor could be learned over time.

"Aye, well... maybe it was better to correct the other one."

This time it was Cicero who laughed. His high-pitched and hopping voice filled the stable, and the sound alone also infected Morrigan, who now was giggling lightly. She seemed pleased to be able to joke and make him laugh sincerely.

"Look, little crow, murder is an overrated crime. Yes, yes, overrated. See, death is an event that sooner or later would take place anyway. On the contrary, a theft wouldn’t happen for life events. If nobody steals your gold, it will remain yours. Cicero cannot really understand why murder is considered worse than robbery. And then, if Cicero was not a murderer but had a bad temper it wouldn’t be better. He would be like that idiot of Nazeem. Now, do you prefer Cicero or Nazeem?"

She pretended to think about it.

"I don’t know... Nazeem has never tried to slaughter me..."

"But he never even gave you an apple. And it must be said that it’s Cicero who has profaned your little temple, little crow, not Nazeem. Or you’re very opportunistic with regard to apples, and it could even be that way, or Cicero is less worse than you want him to believe."

This time, she had to hold her mouth with her hands. She had laughed so loud and suddenly, that she had feared to wake up the whole farm... another time.

She shook his head, hid it in her hands, embarrassed. Cicero was even more amused by her innocence.

"I think" she tried to say, between embarrassment and laughter, "I think you've just called me a prostitute payable with apples, Cicero. Not very..." she laughed again, "not very generous of you."

"Oh, no, never! Cicero is a gentleman. Also because he doesn’t have apples with him now, and he bets Morrigan will let him do this anyway."

And so, without warning, changing the atmosphere in a way too sudden, he approached to her face. He brushed her thin lips with his, but not so much to lean on them. He felt the variation of her breathing, from light to heavy, intimidated. He smiled, wondering if she would ever get used to it.

He didn’t kiss her, he moved further to the left. He leaned against her, inhaled powerfully, to feel the heady smell of fresh blood. It wasn’t much. He wanted more, but he couldn’t with her. Then, resolute, without the slightest hesitation, he licked it.

Morrigan shivered, started to draw back, but he held her face with his right hand.

"Cicero, what... what are you doing?"

He didn’t answer, even more amused. Perhaps, now she believed he was a vampire. Such naive: his was not necessity, it was pure and simple passion. He was devoted to blood, he didn’t need to be bitten by an immortal anemic to appreciate its taste and aroma.

The trickle was soon cleaned up, then Cicero went up to the wound. He put his lips around it, passed his tongue over it, sucking.

Morrigan winced, uttering a low moan and trying again to pull back.

Cicero didn’t let her go.

"Sh, be quiet quiet. Be brave and show Cicero what a Princess of the Void can withstand. We’re only at the first level, only at the first..."

She stopped, tightened her lips and said nothing more. Cicero wasn’t sure of her conviction, maybe she was still scared of him. This really displeased him. He wished she could enjoy the moment too.

Over time. Over time.

He continued to lick her wound, following the furrow. He felt the imperfection of the skin, the warm and metallic taste. Then, once he got to the broken stitch, he grabbed the knot with his incisors and pulled it out.

Morrigan stood still. She let go only a slight moan, with her mouth closed, which she immediately choked. When Cicero moved away, he had the thread between his teeth and the wound was clean.

"Very good, my dear, very good!" he whispered, once he had spit out the thread, "now let's think about medicating you again."

And he did, he put a gauze around her forehead, at least for the night. Fortunately, the wound wasn’t as deep as when it had been opened, and the stitches, though taken away early, were no longer needed.

Once finished, Cicero finally kissed her. He did it on purpose. It wasn’t for love: even if he felt affection for her, he had never understood kisses. He had always seen them as a penetration, less invasive, but still such. If he kissed, it was because there was a meaning, and not because he just wanted it.

This time, the meaning was to make her feel the taste of blood.

In fact, when he broke off, Morrigan had a curled nose and an annoyed expression, from what Cicero could see in the dark.

He smiled, proud of her, and stroked her hair, smoothing it from the hairline to the ends.

"Cicero also has a wound. When the time comes, he might ask you to do the same thing. What would a Princess of the Void answer? Would she consent?"

Without answering, she groped for his hand. It was Cicero who offered it to her, to avoid her fumbling in nothingness. She, then, took his hand in hers and, with the usual grace that she put in small movements, she approached the palm and touched it with her cold lips. She was very delicate, it didn’t hurt. She kissed his palm as she could’ve kissed a child, or a dying person. Cicero adored that elegance she showed from time to time, but he also adored pain, and he didn’t hide that he would’ve liked her to be less delicate.

"You could dare, you know? You could experiment. Cicero wouldn’t complain. He would show you what it means to embrace pain. Perhaps you would learn not to fear it so much. Because fear is a cage, and fear of pain is a bigger cage. Set yourself free."

But she smiled, delicate, and with hers, she closed his hand, giving it back to him.

"I don’t want to hurt anyone."

"But you will have to, sooner or later. As you will have to suffer. Pain is only a perception, it is a messenger, the one that tells you that you’re still alive, that you can save yourself, and that your head is still clear. You don’t need to know anything else, Morrigan. Breathe. Feel the strength of your lucidity through your wound."

She obeyed, inhaled, but she still had that sweet smile on her lips, as if she were now aware of an absolute truth.

"I'm not fit for this game, Cicero. I'm sorry."

"Oh, but it's not a game, my dear. It's life."

She didn’t dare to reply and Cicero didn’t dare to put her further to test. He touched her nose, suddenly and jokingly, as he used to do when he wished to wink at her. Then, quietly, he got back on the straw, finally ending that long, long night, forcing her to do the same and rest.

He didn’t let slip, however, one of those final, somewhat disturbing and somewhat arrogant final jokes. Because for him to have the last word, or rather the pleasure of the last jab, was of fundamental importance in life.

"Anyway, no, you're definitely not a prostitute. Usually, they don’t let you do these things... when still alive."

They slept until late in the morning, and would’ve gladly continued, given the busy night, had it not been for Gudrun who came to throw them out with no grace. She imposed herself with her severe impetuousity to feed the animals and milk the goats, while Cicero and Morrigan tried to compose themselves and wake up properly. Cicero was more accustomed to the lack of sleep, Morrigan a little less.

They left immediately after accepting a humile breakfast. The snow, fortunately, hadn’t accumulated so much to prevent riding. Their horse was big and tough enough to face the journey, and maybe even quick enough to reach the destination by evening. In fact, when they let it out of the barn, it snorted satisfied, as if it were more at ease than in the previous days.

Cicero put his foot in the stirrup. He was about to give himself the thrust and get on the animal’s back when he changed his mind.

"You take the front, little crow."

Morrigan's eyes widened milky, amazed.

"Me? But you're more comfortable, you have to hold the reins."

But now Cicero had decided. He moved away from the horse and went to get Morrigan. He grabbed her by the shoulders from behind and pushed her toward the animal.

"Don’t make Cicero repeat things, he doesn’t like it at all", he whispered in her ear, gently moving her hair, "don’t worry, you'll be fine."

Morrigan became convinced. So it was she who put her foot in the stirrup. Cicero helped her to hoist herself, taking her by the hips, and even he was surprised to feel her bones. He could almost count her ribs one by one, even under her clothes and his gloves. Although that cadaveric aspect was part of her charm, and undoubtedly had been the one to save her life, Cicero had to admit he would’ve liked to see her healthier. She had to be strong to be able to withstand the challenges ahead. He promised to make her eat more, even at the cost of giving her his food.

When he was on its back, Cicero climbed behind her and rubbed her shoulders, encouragingly.

"See, a relationship, of whatever kind it is, is like a game of power" explained, scientific, precise, "between mother and son, she commands, he obeys. Between two lovers, one is the dominant, and the other needs to be dominated. Now, you will admit that the balance of power has long been on the side of Cicero... but you see, Cicero, in all his faults, doesn’t want this. Cicero wants a fairer relationship. Move the power, give it to you that you deserved it, do you understand? Good. Now you just have to keep going ahead."

She was surprised from that frankness.

"Do you warn me if we have to change direction?" she asked, actually without knowing what to say.

"You won’t need it, little crow. Trust yourself."

She needed it, to be honest. But Cicero never corrected her, not directly, at least. He changed the direction of the animal by pulling the reins slightly, from one side to the other, but discreetly, without warning her. Of course, Morrigan knew what he was doing, but Cicero didn’t want her to feel judged. It had to be a normal thing. He wanted her to feel like she was doing the bulk of the job.

"Thank you" she said at one point, sincerely, "I know what you're trying to do."

"Cicero is not trying to do anything, little crow. Cicero is showing you that you can do everything, and you also have great bravery within yourself. You are very, very, very shy and apprehensive, at first, but with a little push, you could even conquer Skyrim. Cicero knows it. He just wants you to be aware of it too."

She giggled.

"I’ve been defined in many ways, but never really brave!"

Cicero smiled and sighed, preparing for a long speech. He placed both his hands on her thighs and patted her, as if to incite her into a constructive discussion.

"Although the Nords like to think that courage consists in unsheathing a sword and throwing yourself screaming in the mouth of some ferocious beast, it isn’t so. Courage is a very varied concept, do you understand? There are many types. For you, climbing stairs, for example, was an act of courage. An act that a Nord would never appreciate, because the Nords are really close-minded. Our friend quadrupeds here, with his blinders, Cicero is sure it has a wider field of vision..."

Morrigan chuckled, again. Cicero was happy that she hadn’t taken it as an offense, even if he had said something bad about her species. Perhaps even Morrigan herself began to realize that she had little to do with the Nords, if not biologically.

"Anyway" said the jester, "tell me, Morrigan, what turns a person into a brave person? What is the discriminant, can you tell?"

She thought for a moment, then shrugged.

"I don’t know. Doing things that you don’t want to do, maybe."

"Exactly, my dear!" Cicero said with too much enthusiasm, almost frightening her, "Exactly. Courage lies in anything that one is reluctant to do. Cicero's brother, for example, was always ready to plunge into battle, but he wasn’t brave at all, because he didn’t fear battle. Do you know what he feared? He feared his mother, and in fact he never faced her, he made Cicero do it. This isn’t courage, do you agree?"

Morrigan nodded. Cicero noted himself mentally that he would’ve had to let her know, sooner or later, about his past. If nothing else to make her feel less alone: patricide and matricide were fine arm in arm.

"You’ve been more courageous in making ten steps than Cassio in facing whole armies, do you understand? You were braver than him even last night, you let Cicero do something you were afraid of. This makes you very brave, really. Not everyone is able to notice these details, certainly not the Nords and not your beloved Sovngarde. But Cicero sees them, and loves them. He would like you to love them too."

There was a long moment of silence, in which Morrigan seemed to be processing something important in her head. In the end, when she decided to speak, she did it all in one breath, as if afraid of not being able to say the whole sentence before regretting it.

"And what is courage for you, Cicero?"

Cicero was glad she had asked. Morrigan was always afraid of saying the wrong thing, but he was glad she spoke, finding another way to be brave. Before answering, he wanted to reassure her from that point of view:

"You mustn’t be afraid to ask questions, little crow. You act as if Cicero could kill you if you say the wrong thing, but it's not so."

"Yesterday evening I said the wrong thing and you got angry." she replied, fast and proud.

"Yes, but he didn’t kill you, right? Rather, he thought he had made you... pleased."

She shook her head. He couldn’t see her from behind, but he almost felt her cheeks blushing, even from behind.

"Curiosity is never bad, Morrigan, as explicit as it may be. It is indeed a quality that Cicero appreciates very much, in this world of boring souls. But... but yesterday's it wasn’t curiosity, little crow. There’s a lot of difference between asking an inconvenient question and making an inconvenient statement, do you agree?"

Morrigan nodded.

"Yes you’re right. Yesterday I said something unfair. You don’t deserve it, you've never done it with me."

And that time, she didn’t apologize like a child afraid of straps. She admitted she was wrong, with justice and pride, and that was it. It was what Cicero wanted from her from the beginning. Apologize, yes, but with dignity. Not dying of fear.

He was so proud of her that he smiled, alone, and sighed satisfied. He brought her hair back and began to make a braid, as if it were a reward for both of them.

"Anyway, to answer your question, courage for Cicero would be..." he thought for a moment, then decided to be brutally sincere, as she had been, "courage for Cicero would be to be able to kill even those who he would not."

He felt her shivering at the nape of the neck. He was sorry that he should always give that feeling to other people. Those were the times when he wanted at least to be understood, if he really couldn’t be normal.

He tried to explain, perhaps even to redeem himself, to justify himself.

"This kind of courage is proper to the Mother, and it’s the one to which every good brethern should aspire. It may seem macabre, but just outside, little crow, just outside. Actually it is one of the greatest acts of love that can be done."

He told her about the Mother, about her great devotion to Sithis. He told her how the Mother had given birth to the five children of the Void, and had killed them, without mercy, without hesitation. In the end, Morrigan was nauseated, Cicero could understand it by her tone, her breathing, the way she hugged her own stomach.

He finished weaving her hair and kissed her neck, fast, just to give her some support. Not that he agreed with that scandalized reaction, indeed. But he wanted Morrigan to accept his belief, and he couldn’t hope to get that result except with patience.

"Why should a mother kill her children?"

"For their own good, Morrigan. To reunite the semidivines with their Father. Do you think they were suitable for living in this world?"

"But... but how could she live, afterwards?"

"Oh, she couldn’t. They killed her for this impious act, and she knew it would’ve happened. She didn’t care, do you understand? She knew she had received a great honor, being the bride of Sithis. Those children were destined for the Void, to be with their Father. Of course, for the Mother it would’ve been painful. But those little ones weren’t destined to her, they were destined to Sithis. This is what we believe in the Dark Brotherhood: that Sithis has a bigger plan, which can also go through murders that we would never want to commit... but we must obey, as the Mother did before us. This is the greatest honor and the greatest sacrifice that a Brother or Sister can receive and face."

Silence. Morrigan, now, was measuring the words again.

"So you... you want to be more... even more cruel?"

This too was curiosity, however direct, and Cicero accepted it.

"Yes, Morrigan. Cicero is ruthless, a lot, but there have been times when he didn’t have the courage to send to Sithis who he wanted for himself. It happened with you, but it happened even before, a long time ago. Killing you and Clovia... don’t take it badly... it would’ve been a gesture of great love. It would’ve been a gesture of inestimable courage, both from Cicero and from you. It would’ve risen our souls and we would’ve become all three Sithis’ favorites. But... but Cicero is still very human, very human, yielding to compassion which is nothing but a proof of loyalty sent to us by Sithis... and sometimes he makes mistakes."

Silence, still, broken only by the sound of the horse's hooves sinking in the snow, and a distant bird singing, and reminding them that they were still in the Nirn.

Morrigan, sad, turned to be seen in the face. Cicero saw the wounded soul on her face and was disappointed that he couldn’t explain himself. It wasn’t Morrigan's fault, it was his fault. All those years loving poetry and words, and suddenly he seemed to be back as a child, unable to communicate.

"So you would want me dead, I got it right? Do you consider me a mistake?"

The answer was yes, of course, like Clovia. But he couldn’t tell her, because he would’ve been misunderstood. Then he stroked her cheek and spoke softly, cautiously, choosing the words wisely.

"You're not the mistake, Morrigan. The mistake lies in the fact that you’re in the wrong realm. You don’t know it, Cicero understands it. But you shouldn’t be here, you should be in the Void, where we should all be. What Cicero told you is offensive only because of the fact that the Nirn is a nice place, and the only life available. But it isn’t so, the Nirn is only the antechamber of everything else. Holding you here, Cicero is holding you in the antechamber of a huge palace, keeping you from continuing on your way, and only out of selfishness, just because Cicero can’t follow you yet. This wasn’t a favor, not even for you. When you’ll arrive in the Void, you’ll understand what Cicero means, you’ll understand how weak he was and you’ll hate him for preventing you from crossing the threshold, for further extending your earthly agony."

Chapter Text

After that conversation, Morrigan became colder. Not angry, not even desperate. Just... cold.

Cicero was sorry about that, but he couldn’t even say what he didn’t feel. It would’ve been easy to cheer her up: she was a girl, it was enough to say what all the girls expect. "I love you madly, I'm crazy about you, I will never kill you, because you don’t deserve it and because I wouldn’t be able to!" It would’ve been simple, fast, Cicero was also quite good at acting to make it seem true. But... but it wasn’t, and that was the problem. Lie to her would’ve made her feel better, but it wouldn’t have been less cruel to her. Not only she didn’t deserve it, but even she didn’t want it, even though now she couldn’t understand it.

After hours of total silence, he decided to tell her. He decided to do it, even if it hadn’t led to anything, just for clarity:

"Morrigan, Cicero cannot promise you anything more than what he said. If you don’t like it, you have permission to escape, and find someone else. But don’t expect something to change from Cicero. He was born this way and always will be."

Also because his was actually love. Maybe it wasn’t like the common one, or like she expected it, but it was love, and it was sincere. The most sincere he had ever felt, like the one for Clovia.

Unexpectedly, though, she was quite rational.

"I don’t even know why I should expect something from you, Cicero. You're right, I knew you're like that. I don’t know what I expected."

"You expected what ordinary people have convinced you to want. But you're not normal, or you wouldn’t even have stopped talking to Cicero, the night of the northern lights. You just have to understand it." he was direct, but he didn’t regret it. She had to face the truth.

"So if I told you I wanted to kill you, would you take it as a compliment?"

"Oh, of course!" he uttered, deeply honored, "Cicero wished so much that his mother wanted to kill him. If you said so, Cicero would understand what you mean. And you would do well, really. You would do well."

But she still didn’t understand, Cicero could read it in all her body language. It didn’t matter, sooner or later she would’ve changed her mind.

Over time. Over time.

They arrived at the Nightgate Inn, which had already become evening. It had begun to snow again, but it didn’t matter, they would’ve both spent the night there. It was perched on a small mountain, hidden by the bare branches of the bushes. A discrete place, in short, away from the noise of the city: exactly what they needed.

They crossed the threshold, both of them silent, more distant than they had ever been. Despite everything, however, they were together, and continued to behave externally as usual. Cicero led the girl to sit at a table and went to the owner to order something to drink and eat, as well as a room for the night.

When he returned to the table, Morrigan was still there, seated and rigid, like a doll standing exactly where it was being put. Cicero sat in front of her and watched her, without saying a word. The silence became heavy, even more so than during the journey.

Dinner was brought and they ate in silence. Both were starting to think that the day was now lost, even though it was the last one they spent together. Then, an event brought them closer together.

As they finished eating, in fact, a group of young people entered, aged between approximately sixteen and twenty years. Cicero understood immediately that they would’ve been a problem: they were agitated, they were already drunk from out of the inn. They came in laughingly, two of them jostling each other. There was also a couple of girls, who sat down laughing at the edge of the central hearth.

Cicero moved his eyes to Morrigan, sitting in her corner, which was smaller than normal and kept her eyes wide open unnecessarily. She was agitated. Maybe she had learned long ago to stay away from that kind of people. No matter that now she was an adult, the instinct to avoid teenage groups remained. Cicero understood it: he too, in his time, had found himself ill among the noisy peers. But if he avoided them it was only for their own good, for not to kill them, and not to escape them.

The males ordered to drink, even if they were drunk already. When they took a table, much to the relief of Morrigan the farthest from them, the girls went to sit with them and started to make even more noise than when they entered. They spat on the floor, throwing food on themselves. Very rude for them, thought Cicero, to be dressed as wizards.

It didn’t take long for the two girls to get drunk and start to make fun of Morrigan and Cicero. They didn’t do much, they were far away. But they teased them, and didn’t even try to hide it.

"Hey! Blind girl! Blind girl, look here! Show us your troubling eyes!" they said occasionally. In particular, one of them to leaded the evening, the one that appeared to be the oldest of the group, maybe a little younger than the same Morrigan. She was blonde, tall, a real Nord.

"Well..." Morrigan muttered, embarrassed, turning to Cicero "look at me: I ran from one inn only to end up in another. Nice story."

She smiled, nervous, and began to torment her lips with her fingernails. It was something she did often when she was nervous. Her mouth, in fact, was ruined in several places, dry, full of cuts and wounds. She often bleed from her lips.

Cicero reached her over the table, and made her lower her hand. He didn’t want her to hurt herself.

"Not as a servant, though. As a guest"corrected her, "relax and make yourself confortable, while I'll be away. Cicero has earned some decent bonuses with his contracts for the last twenty years. Let's use them, hm? Cicero wants to see you with more flesh on your hips when he comes back."

Morrigan smiled and nodded. Suddenly, she seemed to forget the discussion of the past afternoon, and indeed she was grateful to be in the company of someone. Who knows how many comments of that kind she had had to face, alone, for a lifetime.

"Anyway, sorry, for today. I understood what you meant."

"Really?"

Cicero was sincerely amazed.

"No... I mean, yes, even if I can’t relate. But I thought you are like this, and that you didn’t say anything that I didn’t already know, after all. You’ve been sincere and I can’t condemn you for this. No?"

"Thanks, little crow. Cicero is very... impressed."

Again, he reached her across the table, and gently took her hand. He kissed her, only brushing her hand with his lips, as if it were a gesture he had studied for months.

Morrigan blushed, pleased. She cuddled her long braid and carried it in front of her right shoulder, resting her chin, almost like a pillow. Actually it was a way like any other to close herself and hide from the world. Cicero found it cute. Unfair, but cute.

"More than anything it seems strange to me that you..." she lowered her voice to whisper, "that you identify pain with... I mean... you know..."

"With sex?"

He said it too loudly, Morrigan blushed hard.

"Well... aye. Why? What do you see in it?"

Cicero took a sip, amused. He tried to find the most honest way to explain it, while the Nord girl, behind them, kept annoying them. He didn’t give her importance. Also because he wanted to see how Morrigan would’ve reacted, how she would’ve defended defend himself.

"Well, my dear, an expert would say that the psychopath Cicero because of abuse and sexual humiliation suffered as a child has come to identify murder with sexual pleasure..." the blonde girl had insulted them, and Cicero swallowed, annoyed to be interrupted, "...anyway, for what he thinks, Cicero tells you that there is nothing psychopathic in his viewing of the issue. If you focus well on the feeling of pain, you will notice that it is nothing other than an orgasm. Only it hurts. You don’t know why one gives you pleasure and the other doesn’t, but the basic feeling is the same. This is why the two things are a perfect combination, both to try and to make the partner try. Actually, Cicero isn’t a slave of either one or the other. He doesn’t particularly fear pain and doesn’t particularly want pleasure. But together, well... it's another thing, like sweet combined with salty."

Morrigan had listened, careful, but it didn’t matter her willingness to stay focused if the Nord kept screaming at them. Even the innkeeper had approached to warn her, but she had continued.

"Hey! Blind girl! Did you realize you're having dinner with a jester, didn’t you? Do you want us to save you? You’re made just to be together, one more idiot than the other! Hey? Are you deaf as well?"

Cicero stood still, calm, without taking sides of anyone. He continued to watch Morrigan, who was smaller and smaller, not to be questioned.

"How much more are you going to ignore her, little crow?" he asked, amused.

Morrigan winced.

"Let's go to the room?" she proposed.

Cicero burst out laughing.

"What wouldn’t you do to get out of here, eh?! Would you rather come with me to do a practical session of the lesson we have just discussed, just to not face a stupid, drunk blondie?"

Morrigan closed his eyelids, feeling caught out. She shook her head.

"I don’t know what to do…"

And the Nord continued, continued, continued...

Cicero approached her, whispering.

"Oh, Cicero would know very well what to do with her. About pain, hm? It would be a very pleasant entertainment, before going back to Dawnstar."

Morrigan shook her head again, more determined than before.

"No. No, we don’t kill anybody. We could... we could just tell her to stop it."

"You could. You, Morrigan. Not us. Cicero has a different method to resolve conflicts."

She was really confused now, it seemed that she was physically suffering from the situation. She seemed to have a strong nausea, swinging her head from side to side, his mouth half open in search of air. She was similar to Cicero when he was a child and his mother dressed him as a woman.

"How I wish we were normal..." she commented, in a hiss filled with discomfort.

Cicero decided to help her.

"Let's play a game, little crow. Let's try to verify who is right about the girl's account. Tell me, what would you do, hm? In particular."

Morrigan sighed, her voice shaking.

"I would do what a true Nord does. I would go there, proud, and tell her to regain her dignity."

"And do you think this would stop her from mocking you?"

"Aye sure."

Cicero raised his eyebrows, skeptical. However, he didn’t say anything to destroy her optimistic opinion. He took off his hat, in fact, and began to adjust his hair, relaxing.

"All right, then. If you can gather the courage to do what you said, and Cicero assures you that he would be very proud of you, we will verify if you’re right. If it doesn’t work, however, Cicero will show you the... more drastic method. Deal?"

He smiled slyly, amused, anxious like a child who is given a nice present. Morrigan was decidedly less enthusiastic, but at least she was trying to be brave. She was not quite Nord, perhaps, but in that respect, yes: challenging her pride was a great way to motivate her.

She nodded, then, and without saying anything stood up. She swerved around the table, holding her fingers on it, so as not to get lost in the inn's spacious surroundings. When she had to detach herself, she proceeded as Cicero had seen her do at the Whiterun market, shifting the weight very slowly on the foot forward and protecting the lower abdomen with a slightly stretched hand.

He didn’t help her, partly because he knew she could do it on her own, a partly because taking her by the hand would’ve been a great way to make her fail. And, contrary to what Morrigan herself thought, he didn’t want to see her fail. If she had succeeded, he would have been very happy for her... the fact was that he knew she couldn’t succed. Because he knew that kind of spoiled women, like the blonde, and dialogue, however proud, never worked.

Slowly, Morrigan approached the boys' table, showing a sort of fake confidence Cicero knew she didn’t have. They looked at her, incredulous, and the were already laughing. Cicero had to restrain himself not to kill them all, one by one, in that very moment.

When she arrived, Morrigan almost bumped into one of them, and they laughed, even louder. But she was good, didn’t let herself be intimidated. She swelled her chest a little and began to speak, loud, as proud as she could.

"What you do isn’t honorable."

The Nord girl answered her, arrogant and presumptuous.

"Really? You came here, it took you half an hour to cross the hall, to tell us this? What we do isn’t honorable? Who are you, my mother?"

Morrigan didn’t give up.

"My blindness is but a further challenge for accessing Sovngarde. What can you say for yourself?"

The blonde rolled her eyes, in a theatrical gesture that Morrigan couldn’t see. She made her comrades laugh out loud, Morrigan was more and more confused.

"Even if you went to Sovngarde, you couldn’t see anything, yeah, such an honor! And this? Do you see this? Go away, pretty eyes!"

She made a rude gesture to Morrigan. Cicero closed his eyes, annoyed, angry. When he opened them, he saw that Morrigan was pulling back, her head down: she had lost. Now she was still, petrified, unable to move, while the others laughed at her.

Cicero couldn’t bear it any longer. He rose, apparently calm, serene, and went to help her. When he arrived, he touched her an elbow, as if to tell her that it was now his turn.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Such rudeness! We got off on the wrong foot. Nothing that a bit of Alto wine and some jokes cannot solve, right? And the next round is on the jester!"

These, at first incredulous, immediately forgot the hostility. Cicero thought iy was almost too easy. People were already easy to manipulate, let alone young people...

The innkeeper, annoyed, brought the wine. A good man, he was being tested very hard. Then, when everyone had drunk and made a toast, Cicero took out his trump card.

"Well, then, are we all friends now? Good! Do you like black humor?"

They said yes, amused, including the blonde Nord.

"Very well! Do you know the one about the dead kids? It was like this: there are five kids in a bar, listening to a joke about dead kids. And do you know what's good about jokes about dead kids? Well..." he interrupted, and he looked, fixed, determined, predatory, straight in the eyes of the blond girl, "that they never grow old."

A moment of embarrassed silence. Cicero continued to look her straight in the eye, and he felt her uneasiness. Such naive she was... she didn’t even understand wher did that sense of unease came from. It was Sithis himself, who, they say, you can see reflected in the eyes of you executioner if you’re about to die murdered.

Then, after a second load of tension, Cicero looked away, smiled and all ended: the boys joined together, ignorant, without having understood anything of what had just happened, and started drinking again.

The only one left motionless, scared, was the blonde.

Cicero and Morrigan retired immediately, together, into the double bedroom. But Cicero didn’t care about the room, it was just a way out of the scene, to wait for the deepest hours of the night. Not that he didn’t appreciate a bed where he could possibly lie with the Princess of the Void, but to be honest, he now had other projects.

"What have you done?" asked Morrigan, confused as the door closed behind them.

Cicero, quiet, sat on the bed and took off his boots, to stretch his feet.

"Cicero has just kicked off his rudeness correction method, Morrigan. As agreed."

"Aye, but... why did you offer them a drink?"

Cicero also took off his jacket, to let the body breathe. He stretched out a moment, to relax before the job, crossing his hands behind his head.

"Well, little crow, it's obvious: Cicero has established a contact. Usually it can’t be done with the victims of the Brotherhood; with you Cicero spoke, but it was accidental. Instead for the victims that are, well... personal... it's all another matter, more free fun. When Cicero really wants to have fun, he threatens the victim before killing them. He warns them. He likes to see the reaction."

Morrigan was confused, had the face of someone who can’t stand over new upheavals of life. She also sat on the bed, in a rather messy way because of the unknown environment.

"Well, what do you want her to do? She will escape."

"If it were so obvious, my dear, humanity would be nothing more than a handful of worker ants. No, it's not that simple, the reactions can be very different, I've studied them thoroughly. So much so that you, little crow, it took you many hours to decide to run away."

"It was different" she minimized, "I'm blind, I was just scared. She has no impediments."

Cicero laughed. He was genuinely amused by the simplicity with which she saw the world. He tickled her side, joking, but she was still agitated and moved away. Cicero didn’t feel offended, brought his arm back behind his head.

"She has no physical impediments, but mental, yes. This Nord won’t go away, Cicero tells you. First of all, because she is a Nord, and running away isn’t in the nature of her race. Secondly, because she is arrogant and overestimates herself, minimizing external threats. And third, she's with her friends, she feels safe. Trust Cicero, she won’t leave. And on her deathbed she will repeat things like I was just drunk, or let me apologize publicly. If it won’t work, and Cicero can guarantee that it won’t work, she will try with insults, and she will become one of the most vulgar people in all of Skyrim, saying things that a girl should never even think of. If nothing else, we're lucky, she's a funny victim!"

Morrigan shook her head, firmly.

"You can’t kill her. She was... she’s just a girl, she’s young."

"Oh, don’t worry, there isn’t a minimum entry age in the Void."

"Stop joking! I'm serious! I... I don’t want you to kill her. It could end better, I could stop it..."

Cicero rolled his eyes, exasperated. He pulled up, knelt behind her, and tried to relax her massaging her shoulders. He decided to try to relieve her responsibility.

"Morrigan, haven’t you understand that whatever she said, didn’t matter? Cicero has set eyes on her, he won’t spare her now. He really has so much need to kill someone, and if you do not want to be you, we better canalize this need on a third person. Don’t you agree?"

But she didn’t answer. Her breathing had become heavy. Her shoulders now moved rhythmically, violently. She was crying.

"Little crow, please!" he tried to console her, almost shocked by that emotional reaction, "Cicero can’t believe you're sorry for her!"

"No... it's... it was my fault..."

Cicero stopped massaging. He stiffened, impatient. He would have liked to hit the wall up to the point of breaking his head and demolishing the inn, since he had had enough of that self-pity. She had noticed it, because he had squeezed her shoulders a little.

"Morrigan. Please." he hissed, punctuating his words too much, "how the hell can you say it's your fault? It's your fault because you shouldn’t be blind?"

"No, I mean... I wasn’t firm enough. If I had been Gudrun, or Sigrid, she would’ve stopped. I'm too insecure, that’s why it didn’t work."

Cicero closed his eyes, trying to find the lost calm.

"Are you saying it's your fault if she laughed at you, because you were not good enough to defend yourself? Are you serious?"

At that point, obviously, she too was ashamed of her statement, because she didn’t have the courage to confirm aloud. She only nodded, not very convinced.

Cicero got out of the bed, wandered around and walked in front of her, while she was still sitting. He lowered himself to see her closely, took her chin to keep her straight, pointing at him, making her concentrate on him.

"When you come out with these stupid things, little crow, Cicero almost thinks that there is no hope left for you."

She sniffed and made a strange movement with her head, as if nodding, but only half. Perhaps part of her agreed with that statement.

"Tonight the blonde will die, whether you like it or not" continued Cicero, with his usual tone halfway between the high and the baritone, between the merry and the disturbing, "you may not be present, if you think that the victim doesn’t deserve it. But Cicero advises you to attend, really, he tells you with love. You really need it."

Chapter Text

When the night came, finally, the inn became more and more silent. The moons had risen, they were visible from the skylights, near the thatched roof. Everything was slower: the fire burned calmer, the light danced calmer, the time flowed calmer. It was that magical hour, immediately after the spree of a long evening and just before morning, which Cicero particularly loved. He liked to work in those hours: the victims slept deeper and he enjoyed a more rested body.

He had slept, in fact, and so did Morrigan. They were both lying on the same bed, but far from each other, not even touching by mistake.

Cicero had woken up alone, as always. It was as if he couldn’t bear the waiting for the murder.

When he got up, as expected, Morrigan woke up too. She said nothing, didn’t even open her eyes, but Cicero understood that she was there, she was conscious, ands he knew very well what was about to happen. While he was dressing, Morrigan didn’t dare to move, petrified, with irregular breathing.

"So? Will you be with Cicero?"

She shook her head, firmly, still resting on the pillow.

"Your choice, little crow. Just know it would help you."

He didn’t beg her any longer: murder wasn’t an art to be forcefully inculcated. Either you appreciate it, or you don’t. He didn’t intend to become a merchant of death, to advertise and sell his passion. He was sure that she, actually, liked it all right, but if she didn’t want to admit it, it was her choice.

Over time. Over time everything would’ve been solved.

He left the room and took a quick look at the main hall. The owner was there, but he too slept in the smallest room directly next to the counter, the door wide open. Fortunately, it wasn’t an inn so frequented and so rich as to have other workers, so a problem for Cicero had already been solved at the outset.

The boys had taken two rooms, always on that floor, divided into males and females. Cicero thought that, to be kids who wanted to play adults, they were too modest. But for him it was better this way: the blonde, in fact, would’ve been left alone with her only companion. Taking her away from there would’ve been all too easy. It was almost a pity, for the missed challenge.

Cicero began to walk, slowly, furtively, being careful not to wake anyone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Morrigan standing, looking out the door, but she didn’t dare to cross it. If nothing else, she admitted she was curious.

Cicero ignored her, only hoped that she would’ve changed her mind. For now, he was focused on work. How many times had he walked sneaking on creaking floors, how many mouths he had plugged, how many stabs he had inflicted! It always seemed like the first time. The same adrenaline, the same excitement.

He passed by the counter, went around the central fireplace, let himself be caressed by the warmth and the soft light. Then, finally, he came to the girls' door.

He crouched, checked that he had no one on his heels, except for Morrigan, who almost seemed to have decided to stand guard. Then, ascertained that he was alone and unseen, he began to break the lock.

It took only one lockpick: this too, too simple. The owner would’ve had to spend a little and give an incentive to security, because after the murder of the ogre, which occurred in the same inn, the place hadn’t a great reputation.

When the lock unlocked, with a soft click, Cicero pushed the door with two fingers, slowly and carefully. Inside, the two girls were sleeping, one on the bed and the other on a sleeping bag, on the ground. Obviously, the one in the bed was the blonde: the pack leader always takes the best.

Cicero smiled, happy that everything was going according to plans. He slipped inside, it took only a moment. He drew his dagger and, stealthy, went to the bed. When he was there, just one step away, he looked at her: beautiful, young, clear, upturned nose and red cheeks, she slept peacefully and seemed to have the expression of one who hasn’t a single preoccupation in life and is ready to conquer the whole world.

Cicero took one last look at her friend, smaller, still on the edge of childhood, to check if she was sleeping deeply. She was. He hoped she had a heavy sleep, and started the game.

With a sprint, he rushed on his prey, with the dagger ready. He put it on her throat, while with his left he closed her mouth.

The girl woke up, terrified, immediately began to wriggle. She gave a slight moan, but Cicero pressed her lips stronger. Finally, he put the glove in her mouth, pulling it out of his hand, to make sure she could make herself heard as little as possible.

Not even Cicero could speak, or else he would’ve woken up the other girl. Then, keeping the blade pressed tightly against her throat, so that she could feel it, cold and sharp, with his free hand he brought his forefinger to his mouth. She had to be silent, or he would’ve killed her. Well... he would’ve killed her anyway, but she didn’t know that.

The girl, trembling, nodded. She had understood.

Cicero motioned for her to get up, and she obeyed. What a good thing: shewalked by herself and Cicero hadn’t to drag her. She was tall and gigantic, it would’ve taken some effort to conduct her forcefully. Fortunately, the dagger was enough. Such a good victim, yes.

When she got up, she was in a nightgown, and Cicero checked everywhere she had no weapons. But she didn’t, because she was a mage. And there was no fear of magic either, because she was too young and rude, surely she had not yet received the necessary education. She was probably going to Winterhold to enter the College.

For good reason, however, Cicero tied her hands behind her back. She was good, another time, she let him do it without rebelling. The world really needed victims like her.

He motioned for her to follow him, and she moved. Cicero held her from behind, never moving the knife from her throat, and wondering further about how tall she was compared to him.

They crossed the hall smoothly. Cicero looked at the innkeeper, but he was still sleeping there. He passed by Morrigan, before proceeding towards the final goal.

"If you want to come, you have to do it now." he whispered in her ear.

Morrigan said nothing, was petrified, more than the blonde girl. Cicero rolled his eyes, shook his head, and resumed his plan.

He led the blonde down the stairs, and then into the cellars. There was nobody there, as expected. It was a large tavern, with lots of barrels and supplies of wine and food, as well as some other guest room. But it was used only when the ground floor was full, that was never.

Cicero pushed the girl into one of the rooms, where they wouldn’t have been bothered or heard.

It was there that the girl tried to rebel, but it was a short battle: she tried to hit him with a shoulder, and both fell to the ground. But she was tied, with the glove still pressed in her mouth, and she didn’t go far, for Cicero mercilessly planted the dagger in her heel. He hit her tendon, it had to hurt her very much, while the blood was starting to gush.

She cried out, a muffled scream, that could never hope to cross the floor.

Cicero got up, tidied up his clothes and straightened his hat. He sighed, like someone throwing himself with enthusiasm and commitment in a new job.

"Girl, you're gigantic! Nice hit, congratulations!"

She screamed, struggled, but almost even Cicero couldn’t hear her.

"Oh, come on, stop shouting, don’t you see it's useless? You'll ruin your vocal cords, and we need them intact, for what we're going to do!"

The girl shouted more, starting to cry.

"It was just an advice! Why when Cicero tries to reassure you victims, do you start screaming like sows?" he complained, in a falsely scandalized tone, "Have you ever thought that you might offend him?"

The girl screamed again and Cicero laughed at his own joke.

He lowered himself, happy, carefree, and drew his dagger from his victim's heel. Blood began to flood the room, but this time Cicero was careful not to dirty anything difficult to clean. Morrigan would’ve had to stay there for several days, there was no need to make that place a crime scene.

Grabbing her arm badly, he hoisted her hard, and laid her down on the bed. He snorted at the effort.

"What is it, are you made of lead?"

He straightened up, wiped the sweat of his forehead, and inside his mind again thanked her for being so kind as to walk alone, up to there.

Cicero finally went to the bedroom door, to close himself and the girl inside, and put a further brake to the sound. But, just when he was at the door, he saw that there was Morrigan: she too had come down, a little late, perhaps, because of the steps, but there she was. Now she was groping toward him.

"What a pleasure, little crow, to see that you have changed your mind!"

He also said it to give her an auditory track to follow. In fact, she got in line and walked directly towards him, rather quick. When she arrived, Cicero led her in, and closed the massive wooden door.

Now that he felt safer, he took a moment to look at Morrigan's face. He studied her for a moment, trying to figure out what her intentions were. He saw her worried, nervous. In the end, he decided it was better to ask her:

"Why are you here?"

"I don’t know, I ..."

The blonde kept shouting and wiggling her legs, so that she ended up rolling and falling off the bed. Cicero ignored her.

"You can’t not know. Cicero will ask you you again: why are you here?"

"I... am... I don’t know..."

"Just say it, for Siths’ sake, or Cicero ties you with her!"

"I was curious! Just curious, just... I shouldn’t be here, I don’t know why I followed you!"

She put her hands over her mouth, breathing hard.

Cicero was impatient, between one of them so indecisive and the other who, even with a glove in her mouth, continued to disturb them with her noise.

"Once murders were quieter. Sithis, is this the punishment for Cicero?" he asked, turned to the ceiling, "he has spared two women, and now these will persecute him all his life?"

Immediately, Morrigan put a hand on his shoulder, to apologize.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know I'm bothering you..."

Cicero looked down, until he met her eyes, white, lost as usual, and yet somehow present, reactive. He felt pity.

"You don’t bother Cicero if you stay here, Morrigan, and he also understands it can be difficult. But there's no middle ground, stay inside, or stay out. Be brave, make a decision."

Morrigan nodded, unconvinced. Cicero tried to give her the last incentive, and if he hadn’t persuaded her with that, he would’ve led her out himself.

"Think about what she did to you. Think about what she told you. Repeat it in your mind. Ten, a hundred, a thousand times, if needed. She told you you're blind, you're an idiot, you don’t deserve Sovngarde. Repeat it, don’t stop. Then, decide."

And there something clicked. As often happened, it was as if the shy personality gave way to the true Princess of the Void. The one that seemed to transcend and govern life, death, and time. The one that Cicero had seen on the night of the aurora borealis and the one who he would always have liked by his side.

With a determined expression, frightened but firm, she finally nodded.

"You’re right. All right. I need it."

Cicero closed his eyes, savored the sweet taste of that consent. He didn’t believe she would’ve granted it. He didn’t think she was ready yet, after all, but... it was true that a Princess of the Void also had the right to surprise him.

"All right, little crow, sit down here. You won’t have to do anything, don’t worry. It will be easy, like when you set your father's wine on fire. You'll feel better, later."

He led her into a corner, held out her chair, and she obeyed, without a word. Now, finally, it was time to dedicate himself to the victim.

Cicero picked her up again and turned her, for she had fallen on the stone floor. Once she was on her back, he climbed astride her, more to keep her still than for the necessity of physical contact. She, with the glove still pressed into her mouth, was complaining for fear and pain in her foot.

Cicero smiled, pleased, and returned to bring the dagger on her throat.

"Hi, blondie, finally we are calm. We have an audience, have you seen? Cicero admits to being a little nervous, it didn’t happen for a while. Don’t make him look bad, hm? Now Cicero takes your glove off your mouth, also because you're tearing it. What are you, a rabid skeever? Come on, stop chewing it, Cicero needs his whole equipment, thank you very much. Obviously the blondie knows that she should not scream for any reason in the world. A single syllable, a single syllable at too high a volume is enough, and Cicero sends you to Sithis well in advance. Clear?"

The girl nodded, with tears and red eyes, both in fear and effort. The veins of the temples throbbed, and Cicero was happy to free her from the impending suffocation.

When he pulled out the glove, the girl coughed, hard, and breathed as if she had never felt air in her life. She looked around, confused, snappy, careful, dilated pupils. Cicero, for his part, was more worried about the glove. He was dripping it out of saliva, looking at it nauseated. In the end, he put it down on one side, with a shiver of disgust all along his back.

"Blondie, you destroyed it. Not very polite, on your part, not very!"

The girl, as expected, began to implore. She didn’t scream, she was good. Perhaps because she wasn’t even able to, she seemed to be trying to draw on the last spare breaths.

"Please, let me go, I'll do whatever you want!"

"Eh, classic, blondie. Let's skip the pleasantries because you're the two hundred and thirty-seven, I've heard them all by now. Let's move on to the next level, hm?"

"I... I don’t understand... is that for what I said? I know, I was cruel, sorry! I understood the message, I will never do it again!"

Cicero giggled, genuinely amused, his mouth like that of a cat, curled to the sides in a mad grimace. The girl stopped talking, feeling teased.

"Oh, no, no, no, go ahead! We’re listening to you! Cicero and the blind girl have bet on what you say to save you. Come on, go ahead, Cicero wants to win the challenge."

"I... I... I'm not like that, usually. I was drun..."

Cicero burst into a roar of laughter. He had to restrain himself, for fear of being the one to make them discover. He shook his head, amused, almost at tears, and his sunset-colored hair slipped before his eyes.

"Have you heard? Have... have you heard... little crow?" he asked, amid laughter, "I told you she would’ve said it! I told you!"

Morrigan said nothing, she was still, motionless, with a neutral expression, and Cicero didn’t insist. He returned to focus on the victim, smoothing hir hair back.

"Thanks, you were even faster than Cicero hoped!"

"Please, stop! What do you want from me? What should I do to make me forgive?"

Cicero recomposed himself, returned to his usual smile, the crazy but basic one. It took a while. He had found it very, very funny.

"Oh, but we've already forgiven you, you've apologized! We’re good!"

"Alright then…"

Cicero placed the index on her mouth, to block her in the bud.

"Then nothing, not so fast! Your colorful insults to Cicero's friend were just the spark, you see... it's no longer a matter of revenge or repaying a debt. The fact is that now..." he hissed, pretending to be forced, not to be able to find another solution even if he wanted, "now you're here, bound, submissive, and it would really, really be a waste to let you live."

The girl cried louder. The sobs made her jump, and with her Cicero, who almost had seasickness. He smiled, sympathetic, to give her courage, and stroked her gold-colored hair to the side of her face.

"And then, now Sithis has seen how pretty you are, he wants you for himself. A great curse, beauty."

The girl rebelled. She couldn’t much, but waggled her head, to free herself from the touch of Cicero. He, as if it were not his intention to lack respect, immediately withdrew his hand.

"Bastard! Shitty Imperial bastard!"

But Cicero was even more amused.

"Here, here are the insults! Cicero had foreseen this too! How clever!"

"As soon as I free myself, I swear I'll cut your balls! I swear I'll cut them!"

Cicero, suddenly forgetful of all the hilarity of a little while before, became serious, disturbing. With the speed of a cat, pressed more the dagger on her throat, and approached her face, arriving at an inch from her nose.

"What did Cicero say about the volume, eh? He seemed to have been clear." he hissed through clenched teeth.

The girl was now petrified. She no longer spoke, she didn’t breathe anymore. She had experienced on her own skin how sudden it could be the change in the mood of Cicero.

Even the killer was silent for a moment, sharpening his hearing. He waited a few seconds, then, not feeling steps upstairs, he relaxed, and could continue with his plan.

"You’re a kind of woman Cicero knows very well, you know? You would very much be friend with Modia Prodice. That's why it's so easy to predict what you'll do" he explained, still one inch from her nose, still serious, frighteningly piercing, "only Sithis knows how much the Nirn doesn’t need a plague like you. As you grow older, you would end up just becoming addicted to skooma, fucking every man you meet, and then giving birth to children you would never love. Cicero will do them a favor. To your future children. It will prevent them from having you as a mother."

Cicero paused, looked up to check on Morrigan. He found her still sitting, terrified, this time. Her mouth was half open and she breathed quickly, relentlessly. Cicero couldn’t understand what that look was for. Was she excited? Did she feel the ecstasy too? Or was she just scared and wanted to leave? Cicero hoped with all his heart that she could resist, because he had no intention, nor could, go back now.

He returned to his victim, now a little agitated, but convinced not to show it.

"So, what could we do to you?" he thought for a moment, then he had an idea, "Oh, since you're so full of good comments to others, maybe it would be good to take the chance to hurt you with that sharp weapon you call tongue. Open your mouth, come on."

She shook her head, cried like no one had ever cried before.

"Please! Please!" she tried to beg, but there was no chance that Cicero would spare her.

"Listen, blondie, be brave, you too. Not even Cicero likes to work with the tongue of the others, especially when placed in a mouth so full of feces, like yours. But it is to be done, and we must do it. Be an adult. Open."

On the contrary, she tightened her lips and jaw with all the strength she had. Cicero rolled his eyes. Did she really think he wouldn’t have found a way?

And indeed, he found it. It was enough to sink the dagger, by the tip, and the girl immediately opened her mouth. She opened it wide, in fact, for fear of touching the double sharpening of the dagger and hurting herself. Impressive as it was easy, with the right lever.

"Now you're going to feel a lot of pain, girl. Cicero would ask you not to scream, but he doesn’t think it’s humanly possible."

And so, without further warning, he grabbed her tongue between the thumb and forefinger of his free hand. With the dagger, only one movement was enough. Less than a second. It was a very, very delicate muscle.

The girl had a beginning to scream, but Cicero was faster than her. He put a hand under her chin and tightened her mouth. The girl continued to scream, inside, distant, and agitated, convulsed. But Cicero held her jaw tightly shut, and with his other hand closed her nose too.

The girl was struggling without rest, legs and arms trembling convulsively. Her eyes were wide, darting crazy to the right and left, aware of what was about to happen.

"Sh, sh, sh..." incredible, as the tone was reassuring, "soon it will all be over."

In short, she began to cough, or at least try to do it. The ribcage had continuous spasms, lungs in desperate search for air. But they didn’t find air, they found blood, and they filled, filled, filled... until the throat began to bubble, trying to throw out the liquid. But only a few drops came out, which dripped at the sides of her mouth and nose, drenching Cicero's hands. Just a few drops. Not enough.

She began to slow down. Slowly, arms and legs stopped, relaxing on the floor. Then the rest of the body. Finally, the eyes, which fell backwards, devoid of life.

Cicero held her tightly. Until he was sure she was dead, and then he released her airways. Flares of blood, mucus, saliva spilled from mouth and nose. The head, no longer supported, fell to the side, and didn’t move anymore.

Cicero was panting, his eyes closed, in ecstasy. That was his skooma, he was no less addict than his parent. And he was aware of it. He knew.

He opened his eyes, relaxed and tired, emptied of all strength. He breathed in, to regain his clarity. When he was slightly recovered, he looked at his victim's face. Especially the eyes... which were now incredibly empty like those of Morrigan. Blocked on nothing. Blocked on Sithis.

Cicero had a feeling of love for her, a feeling of gratitude, as one loves and is grateful to nature, to the earth, to a deer who sacrifices itself to give his flesh. Cicero had a deep respect for his victims, and this was right to grant him.

He stroked her hair one last time, and the blond was smeared with the red of the murder.

"You were really beautiful. Really..." he murmured, nostalgic, almost sorry, as if she hadn’t really died because of him, "thank you for your sacrifice. Sithis will be pleased and you will be at his right hand. Forgive Cicero, pray that he may soon reach you in the Void."

Cicero opened his eyes wide and squeezed them again, trying to recover. Only then he did remember of Morrigan, and he looked up at her. Her expression had not changed since before.

"Morrigan?" he called.

No reply.

Cicero then stood up and approached her. He put his hand on her shoulder.

"Morrigan, are you okay?"

She nodded.

"Aye..." she hissed, softly, without a voice. Only air. The fact that she answered, however, encouraged him.

"You're upset, little crow. Go back upstairs, go rest. Cicero will tidy up here, and then it's over."

She nodded, but in a strange way, to be honest. She didn’t look scared or pleased. She had the same expression as one who discovers a great truth.

"Everything alright?"

But she nodded again, neutral, almost amazed.

"It was..." a pause, as if looking for the right word, while Cicero was more and more nervous.

"Yes?" he urged her.

Finally she spread a very slight smile. She wasn’t happy, not for the girl's death, at least. She was happy for another reason. As if, finally, she had rediscovered the freedom she longed for.

"It was… easy."

Chapter Text

Cicero woke up that it was almost time for lunch. He opened his eyes and immediately felt satisfied. He had dreamed of something beautiful, even if he didn’t remember what exactly. Or maybe not, maybe it was just the residue of the emotions of the night before.

He turned and saw that Morrigan was awake too. He wondered if she had slept. He tried to introduce the topic with his usual playful and exuberant manner.

"Goodmorning, little crow! From those bags under your eyes Cicero would say you haven’t slept much!"

"I haven’t at all."

That was the answer he didn’t want to hear.

But he didn’t want to give up, he wouldn’t have let negativity invade that room. He stretched, perky, and stood up rested and happy.

"Hey, what's that face? Has anyone died?"

She curled a corner of her mouth, only one, for a few seconds. She didn’t seem particularly sad or scared, but neither was she happy. She seemed... blocked. As if she could not decide what feelings to show, or what reaction to have.

Cicero decided to turn her indecision in his favor, to push her definitively on the side of happiness. He didn’t expect her to be carefree, but at least not even dead inside. It was not really worth it, for that obnoxious blondie.

The jester approached her, still lying on the bed, and tickled her foot. Morrigan finally laughed, pulling her foot back.

"Oh, it's especially nice to tickle a blind woman! Ha ha ha!"

Morrigan couldn’t stop smiling, then hid her face in her hands, all rolled up on herself, closed like a hedgehog.

"No, no, no! Stop hiding! Now let's go out there and eat something, you have to put on weight!"

He took her hands, removing them from her face, and made her stand up. When she was at his height, he touched her nose, in the joking way he did only with her.

"I don’t know..." she tried to complain, "I don’t know if I can eat, my stomach is..."

But Cicero placed his index finger on her mouth, interrupting her.

"Sh. We don’t say no to food, and then you can’t really afford it, with your skinny body. If you want, we'll talk about what you feel, but later. Now you have to eat, hear people talking, feel the heat of fire on your skin. Everything will be better when you realize that the Nirn is exactly the same as it was yesterday."

Somehow, those words had to make sense to her ears, because she nodded. She was more active now. She still hadn’t decided which feeling to hold on, but at least she was moving and obeying. One step at a time.

They went to the main hall, where the scene was more animated than the day before. There were new patrons, a couple of lonely travelers, and there were still the young boys and the girl of the night before. They also were eating, laughing, and to tell the truth they didn’t seem worried about their friend's absence. Cicero and Morrigan later heard from their speeches that they were sure she had left alone for Winterhold, during the night, to prove her worth. Evidently, she must have threatened to go alone previously. For them it was a fortune, but not so much: in any case, they would never have found the body and could never have blamed Cicero. Now wild animals must have torn the body, not even the dust would’ve remained.

As they sat down, it seemed as Morrigan was about to ask what had happened to the body, if they were safe, if there were evidence, but she restrained. She remained silent, her lips tight, sitting on her side of the table, waiting to eat. After a few minutes, the host brought them some hare stew, some not-so-high-quality wine and, to the surprise of Cicero, also some slightly exotic products for Skyrim.

"So, little crow, let's talk about something light, hm? For example, do you like stew?"

"Aye, it’s good. I prefer deer stew..."

"Do you know what tastes good with hare? Olives. Do you like them?"

She remained banned. She frowned, her eyebrows black as two lines of ink, two accents on the emptiness of her eyes.

"What are olives?"

"Ah! Cicero knew it! You've never eaten them!"

Then Cicero took an olive from the bowl that the innkeeper had brought, and placed it on her plate. He also took one for himself, and put it in his mouth, savoring it with his eyes closed as if he had not eaten it for a lifetime.

"Good, olives! They taste like home! Try it, come on, try it."

Cicero struck the edge of the metal plate with his index finger rhythmically, to make her understand that he had put one there. Morrigan, then, undecided, armed herself with a fork and began to look for it all over the plate.

A merciless olive hunt began. If she even found it, she couldn’t pierce it. She put in the effort more and more passion, tightening her lips and squeezing her eyes, as if it were a personal challenge.

Cicero laughed heavily, unable to hold back.

"Take it! You can take it in your hand!"

But Morrigan didn’t give up. Unfortunately for her, not even the olive was giving up, and it was a long pursuit, which exhausted both.

In the end, without being able to resist, it was Cicero who grabbed both the olive and the fork, and stabbed the first. He gave her back the cutlery, ready.

Now Morrigan also laughed, but nodded, with feigned satisfaction, and finally brought the unlucky olive to her mouth. At first her eyebrows flickered, accompanied by an expression of annoyance, as if from the sour of a lemon. After chewing a little, however, she seemed to get used to it.

"Ehy, it has a core!"

But Morrigan swallowed, without giving herself time to take it off.

Cicero shrugged.

"Oh, well, an olive tree will grow in your stomach, nothing serious!"

Morrigan laughed headlong and shook her head, as if wanting to recover from the strong taste just felt. She squeezed her eyes a little.

"Well, it's... it's..."

"Good." suggested Cicero, as if it were the only conceivable answer.

"I was about to say strong, actually. Aye, it's... strange. I don’t know, it doesn’t convince me."

Cicero catched the opportunity. It was incredible how many she served him.

"You have a tendency to find strong and strange a lot of experiences, little crow. Just because they're hard to bear, it doesn’t mean they're not... tasty." he put the accent on the last word, uttered with a slightly lower tone than the others, full of allusiveness.

She caught the reference and cuddled her cheek, nervously and awkwardly. She didn’t return to the topic, however, and Cicero decided not to elaborate. He changed the subject, to accommodate her.

"Cicero likes olives very much, do you know? Who knows how they ended up here, these. They’re almost out of place as much as Cicero. He, however, doubts that they affiliated to a Brotherhood of murderous olives to reach Skyrim."

Morrigan laughed, her mouth wide and thin. She didn’t say anything though, she didn’t comment. She kept smiling, waiting for something. Cicero didn’t like silence, so he began to express all that the olive brought back to his mind, without brakes, like a stream of consciousness.

"You know... we had an olive tree, right in front of the house. It created a sparse but cool shade in the summer when the cicadas screamed. Cassio loved climbing it and Cicero loved to stay under it, to write. It was a little too close to the parent, though. He usually went to the Waterfront, to stay away from her, and not to hear her talk in that vulgar way... but Cicero loved that tree. Really. He should’ve taken a branch, at least one..."

Morrigan had listened, interested, with a half-open mouth and a half smile. Her eyes were pointing away, farther away than those of all the others, and Cicero had the impression of being able to see the olive tree reflected in them.

"You never told me something about you..." she noted, trying to encourage him.

"Well, it's right that Cicero says something about himself. You were honest and you said a lot to Cicero."

She giggled, a little melancholy.

"Aye, let's say you had to take out my words with tongs."

"But they went out, nevertheless. Cicero always knows how to reciprocate."

Morrigan became braver.

"Then tell me about this parent of yours. It isn’t the Mother, is it?"

"Oh, no. It would’ve been nice, but no. The parent was... was..."

It was hard to talk about her, even after all those years. Morrigan had to realize it, and tried to change tactics.

"These olives must have arrived as you did, Cicero. What is their story?"

Cicero smiled, happy and melancholy at the same time. She looked like a woman overwhelmed by the world, Morrigan, but she actually had a great spirit of adaptation and learning. She already knew how to talk to someone like him, for example. It was rare that it happened, on the contrary... it never happened.

Then Cicero took an olive, between thumb and forefinger, and looked at it carefully, he observed the curvature, the pale color, the surface very smooth. In the end, he spoke.

"This olive is Cicero. His parent was... a tree. It was a large and imposing tree compared to the olive. It could make the olive do what it wanted, it could even crush it. It gave the olive life and then... nothing elese. The tree let the olive fall to the ground, without anyone picking it up. There the olive suffered a lot, it was alone, but... in the end it found how to feed itself, from the earth. It took root, became a tree. But it was too close to the parent, and then... it made room for itself... forcefully."

Morrigan was now breathless, eyebrows arched in surprise. She didn’t dare to say anything.

"The new tree has crushed the old tree. It stifled its roots, and in the end it shriveled off. Even today the new tree sucks life from that old, horrible tree, do you understand? Like... like the little crow has done with the royal crow."

Morrigan nodded. Immediately she didn’t say anything, she stood still, with a stiff back. She seemed almost on the threshold of crying, but she didn’t shed tears, and Cicero was grateful to her. She didn’t deserve it, the parent.

"So I was lucky" she finally said in a whisper, "I found the only person in Skyrim who can understand me."

Cicero looked at her, penetrating, and regretted that she couldn’t notice. Perhaps it was because of that she had always had little fear of him. A look means a lot, and she had never suffered it.

"And the same" he confessed, sincere, "the same can say Cicero."

After lunch they went out to get some air. Morrigan had wrapped herself in a black bear fur, borrowed from the innkeeper, which made her shoulders look too big. She was strange, there, dark in the snow. Her profile stood out clearly, only her eyes were confused with the background.

It was a sunny day. Silence reigned supreme, as always in Skyrim, which made Cicero regret even more Cyrodiil. He didn’t like silence, it was like being alone again.

Then, however, he soon realized that this silence wasn’t like that of the Mother at Cheydinhal. It was a quieter silence, more alive. Every so often, in fact, you could feel the soft thud of small piles of snow that came off the branches of the conifers, falling to the ground. And then, of course, there was the rhythmic breathing of Morrigan, who was facing the sun with her eyes wide open, without being exposed to its light. She was enjoying the contrast between the warmth of its rays and the chill of the northern wind.

She began to walk, sinking in the snow. They reached the staircase, and she asked for a help to get down. Cicero granted it willingly: after all, they were unknown stairs. And then, she was the Princess, and the Princess is always to conduct arm in arm, wherever she goes.

When they reached the bottom, they walked a little. They moved away, but not too much, never leaving the path. The sun, meanwhile, was moving from the zenith, and beginning to decline. It was too early for the evening, Cicero had the feeling he would’ve never get used to the short Skyrim daytime.

"Tell me more about you, Cicero. What was your mother's name?"

"Don’t call her like that. She is the parent."

"Sorry. The parent. What was her name? Why did you hate her?"

Cicero shrugged. He shook his head, fast, and gripped his left hand. The wound was not hurting anymore, and trying to punish himself like that had become useless. He thought that almost he would’ve had to reopen it.

"Modia Prodice was her name. Cicero didn’t hate her, though. He loved her so much... he hated her behavior, that vulgarity that had taken possession of her. Cicero is sure that deeply inside she was a good woman."

"And is it since then that you speak in third person?"

Cicero chuckled, sharply.

"Ha ha, no! No, that happened later, a lot later. Cicero has been a long time alone, and... talking as if there was another... it helped him, that's it. Before... before... ah... he was more normal... as a serial killer might ever be... normal... you understand?"

Morrigan had to realize how chaotic he was when he spoke about normality.

"My father would’ve hated you so much, you know?" she confessed, "he hated everything that wasn’t normal. Even I was not, as you can imagine."

"Cicero also hated those who weren’t... normal... according to him. He was very unpleasant, very, he told you. He had this idea that... all the madmen were to be killed to do them a favor. Well... he still thinks... but now he doesn’t hate them anymore. The jester helped him a lot, a lot, a lot! He freed him from his cage, that of normality. He's freer now."

He told her about the jester, he always told about him with pleasure, unlike Modia. A contract that according to his old brethern of Cheydinhal had ruined him, and that instead had saved his life. If it hadn’t been for that, Cicero would’ve committed suicide, alone, at the feet of the Mother. And the Mother would’ve died, of true death, her body would’ve decomposed and stopped talking to the Brotherhood. But the Mother was wise, far-sighted, and had given him that contract on purpose. She had given him the soul of a jester to keep him company.

"The Mother is very thoughtful, very much. If it wasn’t for her Cicero, instead of mad, would be dead... or worse... still normal."

Morrigan pitied him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. Then, slowly, she climbed up: she cuddled a lock of his long, straight hair, curling it around her fingers, and then she fiddled with one of the tips of his hat, the one he never took off.

"You must be very strange, in the eyes of the others. It was likely that they would’ve made fun of us, we look like a mismatched pair of faulty humans."

Cicero was genuinely impressed by that definition.

"Ah! Even the little crow has a nice vocabulary! Cicero has always known it. If you decided to make speech longer than three monosyllables interspersed with sighs and intercalars, you would be an excellent speaker, excellent! Rare quality in the Nirn and in particular in Skyrim, it must be said. Cicero appreciates a lot."

They closed the topic. Maybe Morrigan wanted to know more, but she didn’t dare to ask more. Not out of fear, maybe it was just to not overload her interlocutor.

It was at that moment, therefore, clearing his throat, that Cicero decided to resume the most serious matter, the one that hovered heavily between them like an autumn storm cloud.

"You feel better, little crow."

It wasn’t a question, because he could see it with certainty. She was quieter, Cicero didn’t know whether it was thanks to the coolness of nature or to the talk they just had, which had put her at ease. Maybe both.

Morrigan knew right away to what topic he was aiming.

"Aye, basically. I didn’t expect it but... it was frighteningly easy, like I said."

"Yes, my dear, it's always easier than one thinks."

But she was still stubborn to justify herself, to find differences with him, and then corrected herself.

"If she hadn’t done anything to me, I would be sorry, though. I'm not like you. You love killing, no matter who."

"There are no innocent people, Morrigan. All the victims have certainly done something wrong, even if Cicero doesn’t know what, he is not going to investigate for everyone. It is a law that you can take for granted, I guarantee you. The victims are always guilty, like everyone else, Morrigan. Cicero wants this to be very clear. We don’t even raise ourselves above the victims. We are bad, all of us, and if one day they will kill us, they will do well. Cicero is very uncompromising on this point."

Morrigan nodded, convinced. Suddenly, everything seemed to make sense to her.

"Aye sure. I never said I was better than the girl. We both know what I did to my father."

"The good news is that you had a good reason. Just as Cicero had a good reason to kill the blonde, and the blonde certainly had a good reason to insult us. You have to be honest with the victims if you want them to be with you. The rules that Cicero applies to the others, obviously also apply to him. Only... that has yet to arrive, who will make him pay the price. Um."

Morrigan sighed, with a half smile.

"Well, at least you're fair with everyone. More than anything, I was surprised at how..."

"How what?"

"How you did it. I mean... I don’t know... you were the same as when you attacked me..."

Cicero understood. He smiled, pleased, went in front of her and touched her nose, instead of winking at her.

"You're not jealous, are you?"

"No. I meant... I don’t know, you were affectionate. It seems like you really loved her later. And I understood what was going to happen to me. I hadn’t realized it before."

Cicero sighed. Again, he searched for the right words to make himself being understood, even though it was so difficult with the others. With her less, yes, but anyway it was. He couldn’t say that he was completely at ease in speaking freely, he could still do it only with himself and with the Mother.

"Cicero is always affectionate with women. Killing is like talking, Morrigan. One speaks to men in a way, and to women in another. So men are to be killed in one way, women in another. Especially after they have gone into the Void, Cicero urges them to understand that he did it... with all possible love. And for what was going to happen to you, well, it didn’t happen, end of story."

"But if it had happened, what would it have been like?"

Again, Cicero decided to rely on brutal sincerity, which until then, although with ups and downs, seemed to have worked.

Then he went in front of her, standing, dreamy. He imagined that night, what he wanted to do, and what he still wanted to do, and did not just to not deprive himself of the pleasure of her company.

With an index finger, he touched her neck, exactly at the point where it was attached to the jaw, at right angle. He felt her swallowing, goosebumps appeared rough as he ran his finger from side to side.

"Cicero would’ve opened a beautiful smile, here. From one side to the other, a clear cut. You wouldn’t even have noticed."

"Isn’t it painful?"

"Oh, no. Cicero has admired you from the very first moment, he wouldn’t have tortured you. He would’ve been merciful. A very rapid death, very. He didn’t even hurt the blonde, for that matter. If he wanted to make you feel a lot of pain, he could’ve torn your teeth..."

With the index he made his way between her lips and touched the incisors, making her wince. Then he got out, stroked her again along the neck, up to the collarbone.

"He would’ve dislocated your shoulders..."

He went down the arm.

"He would’ve skinned you..."

He felt that she was trembling. But perhaps it was beginning to be more out of excitement than out of fright. She knew he would never had done it, she was starting to understand it. It was also for that reason that Cicero wanted her to witness: if she saw him kill another woman, she would’ve understood that he trusted to have her around, that he didn’t want to do anything to her.

At the bottom of her arm, he touched her fingers, eager.

"He would’ve torn your nails... even if in your case it would’ve been the last choice, seeing how beautiful your hands are..."

He went to her hips, put his hand behind her back and touched it, at the level of the spine.

"Finally, he would’ve stabbed your kidneys."

He put his hand on her hipbone, over her dark, thick clothes. He deliberately omitted everything he could’ve done under her waist. He didn’t want to scare her, and then, well... she didn’t deserve it, he wouldn’t have done it anyway. Respect foresaw that certain things were to be done only to those who truly deserved it. A Princess, on the other hand, wouldn’t even have to hear about it.

Then, after a sigh, he concluded the speech:

"There are many ways to make a person suffer, and Cicero didn’t want to use any of them on you. He swears it."

Morrigan believed him, he could understand it from her expression. He was grateful for that. He was glad that that trust had arrived in time, before he had to leave. He didn’t know what he would’ve done next, he didn’t really know. He couldn’t exclude that the Brotherhood gave him the peremptory order to kill her, and at that point he would’ve had to make a decision. He didn’t want to think about it.

Morrigan had to tell what he was thinking. She was blind but perceptive to human emotions, as if she had a window on people's minds, as if she were interpreting the different kinds of silence.

She moved closer, with a smile, and leaned on his chest. She sighed, in Cicero's astonishment.

"The week of the carrot is almost over. Will you come back?"

"Cicero will... try."

"What if they tell you that I have to die?"

Cicero didn’t answer. It wasn’t even to hide it, but he really didn’t know it. In the end, he decided to be optimistic but sincere, without false promises.

"The Mother is wise, Morrigan. If you've appreciated her just a little while hearing Cicero talking about her, you should know she's trustworthy. Whatever she will decide, it will be for the good of both. Can you believe it? Can you do it for Cicero?"

She nodded, without breaking away from his chest.

"Aye. All right, let her decide. I'm ready."

Cicero closed his eyes, relieved, his shoulders finally freed of a weight as heavy as a boulder. He sighed, put his chin on her head. And there, finally he caressed her, perhaps the first affectionate gesture he did without any second purpose. He didn’t want to get informations from her, he didn’t want to push her to talk, he didn’t want to indulge her and he didn’t want to reassure her or change her mood. He wanted to caress her, and that was it.

"Cicero is very proud, Morrigan, very" he said, in a light breath, "now yes, you could enter the Void in peace. There is no greater gift in life. There is no greater gift."

Chapter Text

Leaving was harder than he could’ve ever imagined. He was leaving her there, and suddenly he found himself incredibly protective, much more than he had ever been with another human being, and much more than he wanted to allow himself. He kept thinking of her way of walking, not very graceful. He imagined her falling, get hurt. Or worse, he imagined her being raped or, Sithis forbid... killed by someone else. After all, somewhere, for some reason, there was someone who hated her. Of course, the contract was still his, for now, but she could still be the fortuitous victim of someone else, or be killed by one of the Brethern before he could return.

But why? The question resurfaced: why did someone have to want her dead? He asked it in his mind every minute, during that interminable journey, and every time he answered that it was the Mother, the Mother who wanted her. She must have corrupted a mortal to want her dead, but the ultimate goal was to have her in the Void. Cicero, however, hoped she would’ve changed her mind, at least for a while. For the Mother, time had no value, but for Cicero it still did. Couldn’t she give him a little time with Morrigan?

"Blasphemous, Cicero! You’re cursing! The choices of the Mother are not to be questioned!"

He said so, speaking to himself, he was aware of it, but at the same time he couldn’t help doubting. Not of the wisdom of the Mother, but of himself. Perhaps she had sent him just because she knew he wouldn’t have killed the blind girl, and so Cicero was just running the planned path.

"Even if it were, the Brotherhood won’t like it."

He was always very rational when he spoke to himself. Expressing those considerations aloud was a bit like setting up a dialogue between the mind and the body. Very useful, when he had so many thoughts on his mind. Maybe that was one of the reasons why people out there considered him crazy, but... the reality was that he was trying to be the exact opposite.

Although he would’ve preferred it never to happen, Dawnstar eventually appeared in the winter mist, which rarely left those places. The trip had been objectively faster, perhaps due to the absence of Morrigan, which facilitated the horse; but at the same time it seemed to have lasted twice as long to Cicero. Like when the condemned go from the cage to the gallows, right? They say it's a very long journey.

Although he had arrived on the side of the secondary entrance, he decided to enter the main one, just to take more time, in case he had come up with some clever excuse to tell, in the meantime. He did so even aware that he couldn’t lie to the Mother anyway, not even if he wanted, and certainly the Listener already knew everything.

He crossed the village, flooded by the snow he hated, all year, and even more in that cold, merciless month that was Evening Star. The night used to fell quickly, the morning used to woke up late, and the sea often protested indignantly, breaking the ice that formed on the shore.

Cicero skirted the edge of the water, raised his eyes, tried to identify a horizon... but he couldn’t find it, he couldn’t see one inch from his nose. That sea wasn’t like the one of Cyrodiil. It was often angry, it wasn’t very salty, its noise was often covered by the wind which hurt human ears. How much he would’ve given, to sit one last time on the edge of the Waterfront...

He tried not to be nostalgic, because it was a kind of melancholy he couldn’t stand. He wasn’t very empathetic for many other things, and death was the most obvious, but when he had to remember past smells and sensations, it was as if he had a blow to the stomach. He missed the olive tree and the Waterfront much more than Cassio. He remembered with more pleasure the sweet reflection of the impuvium early in the morning, rather than Clovia. He remembered better the architecture of the Bruma Sanctuary, rather than his last brethren, although he had loved them from the first to the last one; and the same was true of Cheydinhal, with its imposing columns and the soft, mystical light.

The Dawnstar Sanctuary... he couldn’t say to love it. It was cold, both as a temperature and as atmosphere. Full of drafts, and too... blue. It was too blue for his taste. But the Mother liked it, and so he liked it too.

Oh, Mother! To see her again was worth all the problems faced up to that moment. Suddenly, he had remembered her, the pleasure of being near her, and a new energy had taken hold of him. That energy helped him, finally, to reach the entrance to the Sanctuary, and to get off the saddle without sinking into the ground.

He sighed heavily, giving himself courage. Now that he was there, though, maybe he was a little more confident. He had been away for too long. He wanted to talk again with someone who could understand him, and wanted to take care of the Mother. Once dealt with that serious matter, he could’ve rested for a while. Morrigan... she would’ve forgiven him, right?

He led the horse to a bush, and there he tied it. He didn’t want that animal to escape, after all it had taken to get it.

As he headed toward the massive entrance door, Cicero saw that there was Shadowmere, a sign that the Listener was at home. He didn’t know whether to be happy or not.

"Oh, Shadowmere, old friend!"

He approached him and caressed him, enjoying the sight of his ember eyes. In some respects, they were very similar to those of Morrigan: they transmitted the Void.

"You’re a horse worthy of a Brother! And you don’t run away, eh? Good boy. You're smarter than that flea receptacle... but don’t eat it, eh? It has cost a soul."

The dark stallion moaned, softly, in a way Cicero interpreted as affirmative. Then the jester ran his hand over the animal’s face, stroking his stiff coat. He patted him fondly and returned on his way. It was time to enter.

When he was inside, he was immediately hit by the smell of damp and mold. No fires and torches had been useful in those years: the environment hadn’t dried up. That was another reason why Cicero didn’t love that Sanctuary, the humidity wasn’t good for his joints. As much as he wanted to pretend to be still young, some ailments were knocking at the door of his life. Ah! Old age! The method by which Sithis made sure no one, really no one could escape his scythe.

He descended the steps, his knees a little sore, and began to feel the closeness of the Mother. How long! He felt guilty for being so far away. He knew that by now his Keeper services were less in demand, but they had been his routine for years, and it was difficult for him to get away from them, and perhaps even for the Mother herself. Or at least he liked to imagine it was like that.

He arrived at the upper room. There was someone talking in the main hall, but he didn’t care about them. First he had to greet the Mother.

He slid to the right, then, and saw her.

The closed metal coffin, in its imposing magnificence. It stood there, erect, beautiful. Below it, the candles shone, and there were fresh flowers. The Brethern had honored her, at least. They had been good.

He approached, his back bent, his soul twitching. When he came to her, he took off his gloves and hat, out of respect, and brushed against the metal. His fingers trembled with emotion.

"Oh, Mother! Mother, sweet Mother! Forgive your servant. Forgive him for being away from you, and for disobeying you. He doesn’t know what happened to him, Cicero... he is such a weak son... so weak..."

He bowed to her and his knees hurt. But he didn’t care, because he deserved it, because feeling pain made him feel better, now more than ever.

He closed his eyes, tried not to cry. He really wanted it because he felt deeply inadequate. For the first time in his life, he felt deserving to be banished, or rather sacrificed. But he didn’t cry, no, because the Mother didn’t like whinings.

He forced himself, opened his eyelids, and decided to check if she was fine inside. So he opened the sarcophagus, gently, trying not to disturb her, and seeing her gave him the most immense joy he had ever experienced.

She was pretty good. Some oil would’ve been useful to her, and Cicero would’ve been happy to please her, but other than that she was intact, just as he had left her. The humid climate, the one that made him feel bad, seemed to be a panacea for her. And so, welcome the wet climate! Cicero would’ve resisted.

"Oh, Mother, Mother! How beautiful you are! You know how to get away on your own, even without Cicero... how could he have doubted..."

He put the right glove back on, only that one, just to touch her. As much as he wanted to feel her bones on his skin, he was afraid of ruining her.

He touched her thighbone, and shivered with pleasure and serenity. She was robust, healthy. Everything was fine.

"Mother, have you already spoken to the Listener? Have you already decided how to punish Cicero? Anything, he’ll accept. If he has to kill her, he will. If he has to die, he will die, but... oh, such presumptuous! Such presumptuous to think that the punishment could be to reach you in the Void! It would be an honor, that, not a punishment. Forgive Cicero. He is confused. Very, very confused."

He withdrew his hand, not feeling worthy to touch her.

"Cicero returns immediately, Mother. To see you is an immense joy, but an even more immense joy is to hear you speak, through the Listener. Cicero wants to know what you have in store for him, if you have something. It may also be that Cicero is presumptuous again, thinking that his question is more important than it is. Forgive him, Mother, for all the ways he can ever offend you."

He stood up and, with great regret, closed the iron doors of the sarcophagus, with a gruesome clang. The hinges creaked: even those needed to be treated.

"Cicero! You're back!"

Cicero winced. For a moment his confused mind almost thought it had been the Mother. But no, it couldn’t be her: it was a too acute voice, too young. He turned then and saw Babette, that enchanting and yet terrible girl, who had just arrived from the stairs.

He spread a sideways, sarcastic smile.

"Oh! The little monster! She has missed Cicero, hasn’t she?"

"Not exactly. You know I hate you."

The little girl sat down, too, with an ironic expression. In her pallor she was perfectly matching the colors of the Sanctuary.

Cicero picked up the missing glove and the hat. He approached her with a bold step. Over time, at least with her, he had bound. He still had some trouble with Nazir, but he didn’t care, most of the time they ignored each other.

"The old woman in you hates Cicero, it's normal. But the child... nay, nay... the child can’t resist. Children find Cicero too funny!"

Babette didn’t comment, she just raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

She responded to the provocation by changing battlefield.

"Without that horrible hat you look almost like a normal person!"

Cicero chuckled, sharply. Immediately, he put on his hat, with a proud expression. He held his head high, with a broad smile, showing that he was proud of his way of being.

"What a great misfortune, normality!"

He approached her, cheerful, and ruffled her hair. He knew how much it bothered her to be treated like a child, and she protested, combing with obstinacy and cold eyes.

"So? How was the contract? Tell me everything!" she eventually said, when she was recomposed with a cheerful expression.

Cicero decided not to lie, but not even to say everything. He omitted.

"Oh, there has been some unforeseen events" he handed her the left glove, the one ruined by the rapist's knife and the blonde's jaws "could you get another one?"

Babette took the glove and looked at it, amazed, wide-eyed. She turned it over in her little hands and analyzed the central cut and the chew.

"The blind girl did this? What was she, a werewolf?"

Cicero laughed and omitted, again.

"No, no, not the blind girl. Cicero has had fun with other people, let's put it this way."

She giggled. She put the glove on the table and shook her head, as if to say that he never changed.

"You really are a monster, do you know that?"

"Almost like you, little old lady! At least Cicero doesn’t drink his victims" he recalled the episode of Morrigan's wound, and how he had cleaned it, then rectified, "well, not gallons, at least..."

Babette laughed happily, bringing a hand politely to her mouth. But maybe it wasn’t for manners, it was the habit of hiding her pointed canines, even if they weren’t always visible.

"Look, the offer is always valid: if you want to become a vampire, all you have to do is ask for it."

"Nay. Cicero can’t bear to live centuries and centuries in this ice chest, thank you very much!"

Babette laughed again. But Cicero was serious, he didn’t want to live that long. Not to mention that, at that point, reaching the Mother in the Void would’ve been really too demanding. No, better to age, after all.

While he was there, however, he could ask for advice to endure the pains.

"Listen, little monster, about small ailments, isn’t there any solution to silence the bones?"

"In addition to vampirism? Because it would end all your pains, you know that."

"Yes, you didn’t fail to illustrate all the benefits, and many times, thank you. But you have a tendency to overlook the defects. You’re merchant of fraud, li’l and sly Babette!"

She sighed, disappointed. She shrugged and pulled out of her bag a bottle of colorless liquid.

"If you really want the classic methods, drink this, half now and half tomorrow. It's twenty septims."

Cicero narrowed his eyes, trying to negotiate.

"We're friends, can’t you make an exception? Just once. Once in your long life, little monster!"

She, however, spread a satisfied smile, which made expression lines appear under her eyes, not suitable for the age of her body.

"Aren’t I a sly merchant of fraud?"

Cicero winked at her. He was happy to be able to do it now. Morrigan couldn’t really understand how much she was missing.

“Vampiress in body and soul, Babette! Good girl."

He gave her his twenty septims and he made her promise that the glove, instead, as supplied by the Brotherhood, would’ve been free. The girl said she should’ve delivered it by evening, she just had to rummage through the chests of the lodgings.

Then, unfortunately, arrived the most feared moment.

"The Listener is at home, isn’t he?" he asked, reluctant, but obliged.

"I think he's sleeping, he's in his quarters. You know he doesn’t like being disturbed, wait until tomorrow."

Cicero feared the worst.

"Um, don’t worry, if I know the Mother at least a little, she has already disturbed him."

"Why do I feel like you've messed up?"

Cicero smiled, nervous, pulled. He touched her cheek, in a chaste and affectionate gesture.

"Because you're li’l and sly, that's why!"

Chapter Text

He was standing in front of the massive, closed wooden door at the end of the corridor. He sighed, trying to be brave. He closed his hand in a fist, raised it to knock, but something stopped him: two of the new recruits were laughing and practicing archery in the adjoining room.

He sighed again, telling himself that nervousism wasn’t justified. It was time to have a chat. The Listener was a good person, after all, maybe he wouldn’t have been too hard.

Finally, he knocked. He withdrew his hand and sharpened his hearing, trying to pick up the noises inside. He didn’t hear anything.

He knocked again, reluctantly. In the end, a voice answered. He didn’t understand what he said, but Cicero took it as an invitation to enter.

He pushed the heavy, wet beater and finally found himself in the Listener's room. It was a great environment, but too closed. Cicero wondered why the Listener wanted to live there, when he had many other properties, around Skyrim. He had made it his main residence: he had brought all his clothes, weapons, potions. There were also a lute and a statue of Dibella, in a corner, and he had covered the little stone support in front of the bed of soul gems. Not to mention the books: the environment was full of them, not only on the bookcases, but also around, on the benches, the end tables, the chests... Cicero would’ve given gold to read them all. Who knows where he had taken them from, there was more knowledge in those volumes than in all the Nord heads put together. He mentally noted not to make jokes about the intelligence of the Nords, however, since the Listener belonged to that strange and haughty culture.

At first he didn’t see him: he wasn’t in bed, where he had thought to find him. Instead, he was sitting at the table on the left. He was slumped over it, holding his forehead with his hands. He stood still and stared at an empty spot.

He didn’t look very healthy, actually.

"Listener? Is Cicero welcome?"

"No."

Cicero would’ve willingly backed off, but couldn’t. Surely the Listener already knew something, judging from the bad mood.

"Oh, please, be good" he tried to joke, "this bad temper will end up prematurely aging you, hm."

He slowly raised his eyes and stared at him icily, without opening his mouth.

Cicero felt pierced and mortified. He knew it was a difficult time for the Listener. He was trying to reopen the Falkreath Sanctuary, and he also had to deal with contracts across the border. The fame of the Brotherhood grew faster than the Brotherhood itself, and it must have been difficult to deal with all the turmoil.

"Sit down, Cicero." he invited him, in a tone that was halfway between annoyed and exasperated, like a parent preparing to scold a child, even if unwillingly.

Cicero spread a broad smile, trying to reassure him. He went to sit in front of him, and having him so close gave him the feeling of being near the Mother herself.

The Listener poured a drink for himself, sighing. He swallowed hard and finally slammed the goblet onto the table. He didn’t seem too angry. Well, adequately to the situation.

"So what the hell are you doing?"

The jester stole the cup and drank, without preparing another one for himself, in a gesture halfway between friendly and challenging.

"First it would be appropriate to understand how much you know, Listener. Cicero doesn’t want to betray himself, hm."

The Listener rolled his eyes.

"Please, stop joking, I have neither time nor desire. Just talk."

But Cicero wouldn’t have yielded so easily. On one side he was sorry, but on the other he didn’t even want to say more than necessary.

"If the Mother has spoken to you, you shouldn’t need my story."

"Cicero, are you aware I am the Listener and this makes me your superior? If she spoke to me, I know it, and that's it. You should only execute the orders."

The jester lowered his eyes and his head, as a sign of submission.

"With all due respect, Listener, Cicero tried to kill you. Now you are surprised that he doesn’t speak on command? Cicero is very loyal, very, but he’s not stupid."

"Exactly, exactly. You tried to kill me. And then you swore me eternal loyalty, if I'm not mistaken. Strange, because my definition of eternal also includes this moment."

"Indeed Cicero said eternal loyalty, not omnicomprensive."

He spread a smile, hoping to make him understand that he was joking... but not so much.

The Listener, for his part, was too patient. Cicero himself admitted that, if he had been the Listener, he wouldn’t have let himself be treated like that, not even by the Keeper. He took pity on him.

"All right, Listener, cards on the table. The Fool, the Lovers and the High Priestess come out of the deck. Cicero isn’t ready to speak, but he does it for loyalty. Let's say that... well... killing the contract proved to be much harder than he thought."

It seemed that the Listener was trying to untangle the subject, ignoring the tarot cards, and everything that he clearly didn’t understand. He wanted clarity, and it was the last thing Cicero could give him, right now. He himself didn’t know what was happening.

"But you killed her, didn’t you? Did you kill the blind girl? We had assigned her to you on purpose, it was so simple!"

This made Cicero understand that perhaps the Mother must have omitted some details with the Listener. It was true, however, that he didn’t intend to lie. The Brotherhood was his family, he didn’t want to have it as an enemy, not even for Morrigan.

"He didn’t not spare her..." Cicero bothered himself, answering that way.

The Listener lowered his eyelids, tired and disappointed.

"I can’t believe it…"

"Listener! Yes, even Cicero finds it hard to believe. But evidently he has some feelings too..."

He had tried to joke, but it hadn’t worked. The Listener became harsh, and watched him as a father watches his son after a mischief.

"What are you doing here, Cicero?" he asked treacherously, accusing him directly, "I mean, in the Brotherhood. What are you doing if you can’t even kill a blind girl after twenty years of inactivity?"

Cicero took it badly. He tightened his lips, exhaled furiously, trying to hold back. But he couldn’t. After all he had given, after all he had sacrificed, that was the prize?

"Cicero was an excellent assassin, Listener, when you barely were making your first wailings. Cicero has been the deadliest of Cyrodiil for almost ten years, he killed the Grand Champion, and in all he sent Sithis two hundred and thirty-seven souls, numbers you can’t even remotely hope to reach! One mistake, Listener, is worth all this? Is it worth a lifetime to serve the Void? And if the numbers aren’t enough to give you an answer, it is right to remind you that in those you call twenty years of inactivity, Cicero has taken care of the Mother. If it weren’t for him, for his great devotion, for his sacrifices, by now the body would be dust, and you wouldn’t be the Listener! Remember this. Remember that the whole Brotherhood is on its feet because Cicero has resisted, alone, even when it was so difficult, so difficult."

The Listener was silent. He stood there, his gaze neutral, staring at him as if he knew him now for the first time. He slumped a little in his chair, then, and shaking his head, he began to carve furrows in the wood of the table, nervously, with the dagger. He wrote something, they looked like runes. Then, after a long moment of inactivity, he turned, looking at the uniform on the mannequin, of that dark black and red color, so familiar. Black to blend in the night, red to better accommodate the victim's blood.

When he turned back, Cicero was calmer. He felt guilty for reacting like that, but sometimes it seemed that nobody understood anything about him. Not even those of the Brotherhood, no: partly because for most of them it was a job, the real devotion in their ranks was now rare; and partly because they were all new members, except for Babette, no one had ever seen the golden age, no one had ever seen the cradle of their cause, Cyrodiil, no one had ever seen the crypt of the Mother, no one the statue of the Lucky Old Lady, no one had ever had the honor of seeing the Black Hand complete of all its members. Cicero felt more than ever out of place: too passionate and too old. It was as if suddenly he was back to being the killer without logic, nor criterion, nor discipline that he had been as a young man.

"Cicero is mortified, Listener" he tried to redeem himself, "he shouldn’t talk like that to you, he knows. Cicero is the Keeper, but the Keeper is still a subordinate. You’re the thumb, you give stability to the Hand, you make our Brotherhood sentient and evolved compared to the monkeys who are our imitators. Cicero invokes forgiveness."

The Listener nodded, wrinkling his nose, into something that looked almost like a dog growl. But he was calmer too, he didn’t seem willing to attack.

"No, I don’t care about this Listener thing. You shouldn’t talk like that to a Brother, and that's it. It's also true for me, of course. I should keep you in consideration, I know you're the only thing that binds us to the past glory of Cyrodiil. Forgive me. I'm just... surprised, do you understand?"

Cicero smiled and so did his interlocutor. He was a cold guy, the Listener. He didn’t smile often, and when he did he was almost forced, a mere apparent happiness that wasn’t transmitted to the eyes. But he tried, and this was enough for Cicero. He was more accommodating, Cicero was sure because, at that point, the Listener himself poured him a drink, as a sign of friendship.

From that moment the conversation was more peaceful.

"I know you’ll never convince yourself that it isn’t you who hears the Mother, Cicero."

The jester didn’t know exactly why he had gone so far with the matter. It had nothing to do with it, he thought they would’ve stayed more than anything else on the contract.

"No, on the contrary, Cicero is sure that he’ll never hear the Mother. There was a time when he hoped for it, yes, but old age brings wisdom, and wisdom brings awareness. The Mother will never speak to him."

This, however, didn’t mean that he believed he was not worthy. But if the Mother had decided to remain silent for him there was nothing he could do. By now his was mere acceptance.

"Anyway," resumed the Listener, "I don’t want you not to commit to your work because you believe... to deserve better. There's nothing better I can offer you, do you understand that?"

"No, no, no" interrupted Cicero, raising his hands, as if under threat, "Cicero would never dare! This isn’t the reason! Cicero always wants to be meticulous, even with the most humble jobs! Put him to peel potatoes for the refectory, and he’ll be happy, he’ll do it well for the glory of Sithis."

The comparison made the Listener smile, this time with a little more sincerity. Cicero could understand it from the very slight wrinkles of expression to the external attachment of the eyelids. He was young, yes, but perhaps the excessive commitments were overwhelming him. Cicero thought he would’ve to rest, but then he remembered that a Listener can never rest. A little like the Keeper.

"If this isn’t the reason, what is it? Do you feel guilty about killing those too weak? It's not a problem, I'll send someone else."

"No, no, this isn’t it. No, no, no."

"So what is it?"

Cicero sighed. He looked around, looking for something that could help him explain. He found nothing, beyond the cold room of the Listener, and his books, and his weapons, and his soul gems.

Then, there, the idea.

"The problem is that that girl is a soul gem."

"What?" he had the strange and terrified expression of having to face an intricate speech again.

"Listener, that girl is a soul gem. She contains something more precious. She’s a blind girl outside, but inside there is something else, she seems almost a direct daughter of the Mother, or even the Mother herself! She wouldn’t be any useful, dead. We don’t know, she could also be the new Unholy Matron, and we would kill he in her twenties! He cannot speak for you, Listener, but Cicero doesn’t want to stain himself with this crime."

The Listener had a raised eyebrow and an oblique mouth. It wasn’t hard to guess, even without that exaggerated expression, that he didn’t believe the words he was hearing.

"Well, this is very poetic, but you forget that it was the Unholy Matron herself who told me that this girl, this precious gem, must die."

"Don’t ask Cicero about the will of the Mother! How could he know that? He wondered why for a long, long time, but he doesn’t know, he cannot know, or he would be the Listener! Maybe the Mother only answered a Black Sacrament, and then she sent Cicero because she knew he wouldn’t have killed her... so many possibilities, so many! You have to be the one to ask her!"

At that point, suddenly, as if by magic the request of Cicero was realized, the Listener fell silent. He closed his mouth, opened his eyes, raised his head slightly, as Morrigan did when she wanted to hear something. Cicero understood that his Mother was talking to him. At that precise moment.

He felt a reverential fear. He lowered his head, contrite, and waited for the Mother to express her words. He struggled with all his soul to feel something, to see the sound moving in the air, to pick up the smallest signal, but nothing. He couldn’t hear, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t understand anything.

He closed his eyelids, disappointed, now like the first time. Her words were so close, yet so unattainable. He felt that he would’ve never got used to it, that his inability to listen would’ve always hurt. Like blindness, yes.

"What did our Matron say?" he dared to ask, feeling foolhardy. He remained with his head down, to show submission, at least with the body.

The Listener didn’t speak immediately. He stood up for a moment, paced back and forth, and finally returned to the table, without sitting down.

"The Mother said you're right. There was a reason why she told me to send you, a reason that was beyond making you kill you again. But she also said that you haven’t found this reason yet, and you have to keep searching."

Cicero felt emptied. He felt so much joy at that moment, that he could no longer think, or breathe. Suddenly, sitting down seemed to him a horrible lack of respect: he stood up, took off his hat and threw it on the ground, turned to the wall, because he knew that the Mother was in that direction, in her sarcophagus on the other side of the Sanctuary, and he bowed down. Again, the knees hurt, but he welcomed that pain with pleasure, as if it were a caress of the Mother.

"Mother, Mother! Cicero, your servant, loves you madly!" he decided to change person, because it wasa  too important moment, too much, to let the jester talk," I wouldn’t be anything without you! Just tell me what I have to do! I’m so human, and confused, and alone!"

The Listener reached him. He stood beside him, and Cicero could see his studded boots close up. In an unexpected gesture of affection, the Listener put a hand on his shoulder.

"The Mother told me to tell you that you’re a good son, Cicero. She knows what you did for her. You don’t have to fear her. It's okay how you behaved, you did exactly what she had planned, what you were chosen for."

Cicero leaned over, slumped forward. He hugged his stomach, rested his forehead on the stone. He couldn’t find a way to physically show her how grateful he was. The soul was exploding, the mind was exploding. After all those years... after a whole life of silence, the words he had always hoped to hear.

"Th... thank you... Mother..."

The Listener, now pitiful, began to shake his shoulder, trying to encourage him.

"Don’t worry. It’s alright. Let it out."

He realized only at that moment that he was crying. It was a painful joy, but still joy. Cicero knew that the Mother didn’t like tears, so he tried to behave. He went straight to his knees, looking directly at the wall, as if there were nothing between him and the Mother's body. He wiped his tears, sighed deeply.

"Mother really loves you very much, Cicero. For reasons unknown to me" they laughed together at the joke, now both calm, trying to dampen the tension, "you must oil her really well..."

Cicero laughed again, overwhelmed by emotions. He shook his head, still with puffy eyes, and raised an index in the direction of his Brother.

"Hey, careful, Listener, careful! This could be considered... blasphemous!"

Even the Listener laughed, and Cicero could swear it was the first time he saw him taken by humor, and perhaps also by the emotion of the moment. It was rare for the Mother to grant personal praises for a member of the Brotherhood. It was an event that everyone considered with great joy and respect.

"Now that she's talking to you, do you want to ask the Mother for something?" he finally said, inviting him to the conversation he had wanted to hold for decades.

"Yes, er... yes..." he composed himself, trying to remain lucid and calm, and to talk to her as he had done thousands of times, in the solitude of Cheydinhal, "if I haven’t made a mistake, Mother, please, tell me, what should I do do? Why did you make me know her? Why is she the first person I save in almost thirty years?"

But, after a frightfully long time, the Listener said nothing. He stood in silence, next to him, Cicero could feel the stiffness of his body, thanks to the short distance. The hand on his shoulder had become solid, too heavy.

Cicero turned, looking up, and saw that the Listener, lost in the direction of the wall, almost hallucinated. He swallowed, bleached, as if he had just received the worst news in the world.

"Listener! Listener, what did she say?"

"She said..." a pause, then he decided to look at his face, "she said that the contract isn’t concluded. A soul has delayed its entry into the Void and that’s why double the stake is on the table. She says you have time."

"Okay okay. That's enough for me, yes, time is enough for me... I won’t kill her, all right, I'll take two more souls, double the stake, I..."

"Cicero..." the Listener interrupted him, serious, penetrating, "the Mother hasn’t said you won’t kill her."

Chapter Text

Going home was always a bit like dying, for Cicero. Not in a negative meaning, because death for him was never something to escape from. It was like closing a job and starting completely from scratch. Saying goodbye to everything that had been, to all the problems and all the joys of a contract, to never come back. All subsequent works would’ve been different, and so he could live his existence in watertight compartments. He didn’t like the mess, he didn’t like to take a job for too long.

And there he was, now, with the longest work he had ever had to do. Not so much in terms of actual timing: to kill the Grand Champion, it took more. But in terms of responsibility, of procrastination. With the Grand Champion he had immediately known what to do; with Morrigan, however, after two weeks, he was still at the starting point. He hated having to leave home with the idea of going back to something that was wrong, left uncompleted. Now that he had carte blanche, he had no idea what to do. He simply wanted to say goodbye to the contract, let it go, go back to his former life. But at the same time he didn’t want to, because the idea of depriving himself of her company and her empty eyes was unbearable.

Once out of the Listener room, then, he headed for his, confused and much-needing rest. Being the Keeper had given him the chance to have his own room, where to keep the tools of the trade and possibly take care of his Mother. Even the fact that he was a little crazy and usually people thought he was annoying had encouraged the desire of the others not to have him as a companion. Actually, Cicero wasn’t so happy with the matter. He had always been in common rooms in Bruma and Cheydinhal, and he had begun to sleep alone when the Brotherhood had emptied. He would rather not remember those dark years, be more in touch with his Brothers and Sisters. But he also realized that in their eyes he was strange, old and far too high in the hierarchy to share common areas with simple assassins.

"Hey, hey! Wait! Now it's up to Cicero!"

Some amused protests, then, finally, the shouting died out. Cicero, with a gallant smile and swagger, stood up, reaching the center of the dormitory. He felt the eyes of his companions on himself, especially the younger ones.

"So?" one of them spurred him, "what was your most stupid contract?"

Some were already giggling. In particular, a girl, barely twenty years old, with curly blood-colored hair, freckled viscous eyes, a lively and somewhat bizarre look. She was holding her hand in front of her mouth, forcing herself to keep quiet, while the rest of her body couldn’t stop laughing. Her name was Galla and it was for her that they had gathered there, drinking and laughing: she had had a bad day, the victim had run away, she was new and she was afraid they would’ve repudiated her.

"My most stupid contract?" asked Cicero, pretending to think about it.

"Yes, come on! You too must have made a shitty contract in your life!"

Cicero raised a finger to the sky, leaned a little, theatrical. He liked to boast, at least in that field, one of the few he knew he was good at.

"Oh, misplaced hope, Brother! I'm the best here, and to make it I've never made mistakes!"

A chorus of cheerful disapproval. They insulted, but with affection. With the same affection of biological brothers, to be honest. And, on the other hand, weren’t they? So many souls born from different wombs, different parents, and yet all united from the first to the last in loving the same Mother.

"Cicero, don’t try to get smart!" Ademar intervened, treacherously, "there was the Anvil’s cat contract!"

A chorus of laughter. They were sure, all sure that at least one scratch had been there, in the brilliant career of the most famous murderer of the capital and the entire region.

"Luckily you remember it, Ademar" Cicero replied, falsely annoyed, "you're the only one in here. It means you're getting old, you know?"

In fact, he was the only one who could get the unlucky Anvil cat, the others were all young, new and passionate recruits. Cicero enjoyed their company, they were constantly reminding him why he had joined the Brotherhood, although he was a couple of grades higher and a lustrum older.

"Don’t you try to change the subject" threatened Ademar, the athlete, the seducer, surrounded by the attentions of the Sisters, "it's the game, you have to tell that story. Come on!"

Cicero bowed slightly, laughing, and making even his spectators laugh.

"All right, then. Let's talk about the Anvil cat. It was one of my first contracts, and definitely my first Khajiit. It happened... in Anvil. Would you ever have said that?"

Laughter, again. They were easy to entertain, the recruits. They were nice souls, many of them had found themselves there not to live on the street. But over time they were learning to appreciate the cause, and the religion that ensued, as well as gold and bonuses.

"I followed him a bit, he was a big black cat, entangled in even bigger and darker business. I had killed cats... I mean real, quadruped cats, until then, and somehow I assumed that a Khajiit was nothing but a bigger cat..."

"Now don’t try to justify yourself with poetics" Ademar scolded him, adjusting the black curls and winking at a blonde Sister, next to him, "what happened is too stupid, don’t add preambles! You'll end up making it a valuable story, when it's just the story of how foolish you are!"

"Ademar, your words hurt me, Brother!" Cicero joked, putting a hand on his heart and pretending to shed a tear.

"Anyway..." he went on to say, "he was much bigger than me, and agile, and also equipped with more claws and teeth. I wanted to catch him from behind and finish him quickly, get my first bonus, go back to the Sanctuary."

He moved a bit in the audience, to be seen by everyone. He liked it, being the center of attention. Something he had never experienced as a child and of which he was now happy, knowing that he was surrounded by his true family, the only one who could understand him.

In a few steps, light and casual, he came to the bizarre girl, the one with the blood-colored hair, like his. He turned directly to her, more than the rest of the crowd, staring straight into her eyes.

"I reached him in a dark alley, sneaky" he continued, miming what he was telling, "I was a step away, I was ready to jump to his throat, and suddenly..."

He paused, stared at the girl again, and saw that she was holding her breath, with a half smile.

"Suddenly, I remembered that the fucking cat had a tail."

There was a roar of laughter. Cicero himself couldn’t but laugh, this time really embarrassed. A positive embarrassment, nevertheless.

"Well, I hadn’t seen it, all right? It was black, I was aiming at his neck, I didn’t think about it! I stepped on his tail, and that damn cat shouted, as if I was already killing him."

The laughter grew louder. One of the youngest was holding his stomach, swinging back and forth like a possessed man. Even the girl laughed, her eyes narrowed, she was almost at tears.

"And after..." the young woman asked, amid the hilarity, "what happened after?"

"After he noticed me, Sister! He turned around and didn’t think twice about using those claws I was carefully trying to avoid..."

He raised his jacket, at the right side. Three scars, now white and no longer in relief, stood out on his muscles and embraced him, from his back almost to the navel.

The girl was charmed, her eyes wide open. She found the scar attractive, and Cicero didn’t fail to notice it. She was a beautiful girl, she was an assassin... why not? Ademar slept with all the sisters, he could’ve left one for him.

"Did you manage to kill him?" she asked, hanging from his lips.

"Oh yes. Well, it took a while, and in the fight the alley was full of fur. Half Anvil woke up, they chased me at least in twenty, and to get away I had to throw myself up to my neck in a drainage channel, I smelled like death for a week. I swear to you that it was the worst contract of all the history of the Brotherhood. And I expected a bonus, do you understand? I’m lucky they haven’t expelled me!"

Everyone was still laughing, especially Ademar and the redhead. Cicero, taking advantage of her interest, lowered himself towards her, who was sitting down. He took her hand, bowed, and kissed it gently.

He spoke a little lower, just for her.

"You see, my dear, there’s no perfect assassin, nowhere. Don’t be ashamed of what happened today, you'll make up for the next assignment. You’ll become an excellent Silencer, I see it in your eyes. One contract at a time, all right?"

"One contract at a time..." she sighed, heartened.

Cicero could read gratitude in her dreamy expression. Then he winked at her and pinched her cheek, making her blush.

"Cicero, no! I refuse to believe you'll be able to pick up a girl with this stupid story!"

"Ah, that's why you pick up so much: all your contracts are stupid stories, you have a lot to tell!"

Another laugh in the group, and uncorked wine, and a toast to imperfection.

Those warm memories badly mixed with that icy environment.

The Dawnstar Sanctuary: a hole in the ice, inhabited by cold people. Not that Cicero didn’t love them, after all the Listener and Babette were nice to him. But it wasn’t like it used to be.

It wasn’t at all like it used to be.

He sighed, nostalgic, and opened the door to his room. It was too big for his tastes. He preferred narrow, more reserved spaces. But he began to realize that he was complaining too much, so he decided to curb his negative thoughts.

Without further ado, he went to his chest. He wanted to changeclothes and rest, but first he had to take care of the Mother. So he extracted the oils, the special gloves, the gauzes, the poison, and... and the cards. He would’ve brought them to the Mother, a gift that was also a bit of a request. He gathered everything and went to the other side of the Sanctuary, full of stuff.

He went through the archery hall, and saw a small group of recruits laughing happily, and he remembered Ademar and Galla, his friends who were gone. They had died in Bruma, when that Sanctuary had gone on fire.

Cicero ignored the group, imagining himself with them, joking, at twenty-five. How much time had passed... how much time.

He arrived in the main hall, decorated with the great iconography of Sithis and Death, and immediately, even before he crossed the threshold, he heard Nazir's voice.

"Oh Sithis, that jester is coming!" he had done on purpose to speak out loud, and Cicero thinned his eyes, annoyed.

He passed by him, without slowing down.

"If you wish, Cicero can dance for you, Nazir. We all know you like it."

A cruel allusion to both his hatred of Cicero's laughter, and his questionable taste for young Nord boys. Not that Cicero had anything against sodomites, after all they were just people deceived by the myth of love, like everyone else. He hated just that particular sodomite.

Nazir didn’t let himself be intimidated and spread a sideways, sarcastic smile.

"I like men, not retards."

There it was. There it was what remained of the ancient family. A sick mind and indifferent brethern.

Cicero rolled his eyes and ignored the Redguard's insult, climbing the stairs. He knew he wanted a bickering from him, but he wasn’t in the mood, not that day. Too many things to think about, too many mixed feelings: the immense joy of the Mother approval and the equally immense sense of defeat for a contract that seemed interminable.

Once at the top of the balcony, he turned left, towards the altar. He knelt down, touched the ground with his forehead, and finally opened the sarcophagus, beginning to carry out his sacred task.

It was a long job, but no more than usual. He treated her bones, one by one, from the large femurs to the smaller phalanges. It needed an innate delicacy not to disintegrate her. In twenty years he had never ruined anything, not even a part of the fragile corpse of the Mother. He thought he was good at his job, although it wasn’t what he had expected when he joined the Brotherhood.

He stood in silence all the time, diligent. It was also a matter of concentration, to be honest. He only allowed himself to murmur some magic, light spells, from time to time, to repair some more damaged points.

He had a billion things to say, but he restrained himself, and only started talking when he was done, two hours later.

"Mother, you're perfect!" he flattered, checking his work, "sorry for the poison on your feet, but those rats want to use you as a nest, we have to eradicate them once and for all."

He closed the bottles, especially the poison, he didn’t want to assassinate the newborn Brotherhood in one fell swoop. He also thought about putting a warning, for those who had approached to pray. As funny as it would’ve been to see a recruit die at the Mother’s feet, the last thing they needed was just one less member.

Now that everything was in order, Cicero took off his work gloves, remaining with his hands uncovered. He preferred it this way, he saw it as a form of respect, at least when it was necessary to make requests.

"Mother, sweet Mother, thank you for having spoken to me through the Listener. Thanks for the time granted to me, for the grace granted to me. I don’t deserve all this because I was wrong, I doubted you. But you also know that I'm sorry. Now, I’d like... I’d like to give you these."

And he showed her three tarot cards, pulling them out of the deck.

Galla snapped a noisy kiss on his cheek, cheerful.

"Cicero, I love you! Do you love me?"

No, he didn’t love her, or at least not in the way she meant. He had felt a lot of love in his life: for the Mother, for Cassio, for the parent, for the Brotherhood, and also for Galla, yes, but not in the conventional way. He couldn’t feel butterflies in his stomach. He liked being with her, and that was it. More than anything else, he indulged her, because everyone did so and because even to the other assassins it seemed strange that he felt nothing, apart from a generic sense of devout and chaste love towards some cornerstones of his life.

"Yes, of course I love you. But you won’t change my mind anyway."

"Cicero, tarots tell the truth!"

"Tarot cards are just pieces of colored paper that are randomly chosen. There’s nothing scientific, I don’t like them."

"Neither the Void is scientific, but you believe it!"

"The Void isn’t scientific because it is the parent of science, Galla. It has given rise to everything, including science, which therefore is its specification. Of course it cannot explain it, if it’s inferior. And you, don’t be blasphemous, Sithis hears you!"

Galla rolled her eyes and said she didn’t care, she would’ve read his future anyway, whether he wanted it or not.

Cicero consented, just to silence her. He took the cards, shuffled them and returned them to her.

"Now prepare, Cicero, you’re about to know your destiny!"

With excessive theatricality, the girl had him choose three cards. She turned them around, one by one.

"The Fool, the Lovers, the High Priestess. Now we must interpret them."

"Well" Cicero immediately stopped her, "the Fool for sure isn’t me. It must be Ademar."

His friend looked at him bad, from the bed on which he was lying, apart.

"That's not how they work." Galla reproached him.

"The Lovers are Ademar and all his various young ladies, as well" continued Cicero, undeterred, "and the High Priestess, I don’t know, it must be you, Galla. She has red hair."

"I said that's not how they work!" she exclaimed, resentful, throwing the rest of the deck against his chest.

Cicero observed the three cards of his life, the Fool, the Lovers and the High Priestess. He held them in his hands, remembering Galla, and how unjust he had been with her. He passed a finger on the ruined and yellowed surface of each one, observing the golden drawings and miniatures. Then, at last, he laid them down at the feet of the Unholy Matron.

"The Fool was me in the end" he admitted, in a low voice, "and you’re the High Priestess, wise, incorruptible, loyal..."

Then, suddenly, a noise behind him. Someone who walked.

He stopped talking, but he didn’t hide anything. It no longer made sense now.

"Hey, Cicero! Sorry, I didn’t know you were taking care of the Mother, I'm leaving."

The jester turned, sad. It was Babette. He was always happy to have her around, he didn’t want her to leave. She was the only one who really felt like a Sister, perhaps.

"Hey, little monster! It doesn’t matter, you can stay, I'm almost done."

Babette raised her eyebrows, astonished, and joined him in front of the Mother.

"Do you speak in first person today? Weird."

Cicero shrugged.

"With the Mother, I strive to. I don’t want her to think I’m talking for someone else. It is difficult, always, so difficult, but Cicero... I, not Cicero, I. I strive. Do you think it makes sense?"

She smiled, sweet.

"In your weird way, you always find how to make sense."

Cicero knew it was meant as a compliment. And, in the end, he took it as such: he knew he had a really, really sick head, but if he still managed to be logical, then it wasn’t everything lost.

"What are you doing?" she asked curiously, pointing to the cards resting on the ground.

"Oh... I relate the past..."

"The Listener told me what happened, you know? Do you want to talk about it?"

She had introduced the subject like that, direct, without taking even a moment to introduce herself.

"Do you know that your irruption with hot topics without even warning is nothing less than sexual harassment?"

Babette, in her false innocence of false child, giggled, red in face. But the reality was that Cicero wanted to talk about it with her, yes. Not for the sake of it, but because she was the wisest person he knew. And even the oldest in there: although their age difference was nearly three centuries, he felt more comfortable with her than with the younger ones, including the Listener. It was as if she understood better, perhaps because she was the only one able to elaborate a strong feeling like nostalgia.

"Come on, tell me, why is this girl special?"

Again, nothing pleasant, but Cicero didn’t protest.

"She's special, and that's it. I thought she was so for the Mother, but maybe she’s not. She says I have to find another reason."

"Didn’t you think that maybe it's special for you, and not for the Mother?" Babette dared, pointing to the Lovers card.

Cicero chuckled, nervously, nodding his head violently. He refused to believe it.

"No, no. That is, of course, I feel affection for her, but it wasn’t for that at first. And then I don’t feel love. I haven’t felt it before, I can’t feel it now. It almost seems like a joke, at my age."

"Why not? I waited two hundred years before tasting the deer stew, and it wasn’t even a good idea, given the vampirism. I just did it, right? Never say never, Cicero."

But Cicero continued to deny vehement. He closed his eyes, inhaled, trying to give an order to all the thoughts that crowded, overlapped, mingled indistinctly.

"No, no, no, no, no" he repeated, convinced, like a religious chant, "that of the Lovers is a stupid card. Look at them! They don’t even look at each other, idiots. They stand at the sides of the card and look up, towards their god, or whoever he is. They don’t really love each other either. There’s no romantic love, it’s just a fairy tale to sweeten procreation, a lie that fools tell themselves, trying to stand out from the beasts. There’s only one love, and it’s that for the Mother, the only thing that makes us aware of the Void that is this life. There’s nothing else."

Babette was visibly disappointed to have to deal with that stubbornness. She shrugged, without insisting.

She put her hand on his shoulder, friendly, as the Listener had done before. It seemed that everyone felt pity for him. Cicero didn’t like it, he wished to kill them just to show them that he was still worth to be feared.

"But you accepted the other two cards, Cicero" she finally commented, moving away, "maybe it's time to face the third."

Chapter Text

Sometimes I don’t remember certain details. I should’ve a very wise mind, a very large memory, but the reality is that I’m nothing more than a human, just so, so old. I don’t remember, for example, my old house. I don’t remember my place of birth. In the same way, I don’t remember what Cicero did at that time. He stayed at the Sanctuary for a while, I don’t know why; to reflect, I suppose. Then, perhaps, he realized that it was impossible not to stay in there without being continually oppressed by the past, and then he left.

I don’t know.

I only know that he had been away for more than two weeks when he came back to her. He had traveled more serene, but at the same time tremendously incomplete, as if a piece were missing. He had the distinct feeling that something elementary was missing, and that frustrated him. Years and years of training intuition, deduction, intelligence, and now he couldn’t solve a simple contract like that of Morrigan. He must have done something wrong, something fundamental, but he didn’t understand. He couldn’t untangle the skein, to find that evil knot that ruined all the linearity.

But he had time, and this was important. The Mother hadn’t specified how much, so it meant that he could’ve taken his own time. And then he would’ve managed to take the more he could, that was for sure.

It was with this half-minded spirit that he crossed the inn's threshold, one evening just before the end of Evening Star. The year was about to end, but for Cicero it didn’t matter, because now he knew that the world would’ve remained the same, and his dream of living in time blocks was now far and unattainable. On the first day of New Year's Morning Star, he knew it, he would’ve had the exact same problems.

The heat of the fire hit him, together with the unmistakable smell of dried herbs and garlic that permeated that place. Although he had been away for just some days, he felt like he had returned to a mystical place, which he had only visited in a dream. If he ever got home, in Cyrodiil, and smelled the olive tree, he would’ve had those same feelings, he knew.

Perfumes brought feelings and feelings brought memories. Cicero would’ve liked to say that the first memory associated with that smell was Morrigan, but it wasn’t. The first image to re-emerge was that of the blonde girl who was suffocating in her blood.

Cicero felt like a horrible, ungrateful man, and perhaps he was right to believe it. But I know it wasn’t his fault. Life had ruined him since childhood. If there ever was a chance to straighten him up, to cure his obsession with death, no one had ever caught it.

The jester felt so guilty that he decided not to rush to Morrigan right away, even if he wanted to. She was there, next to the counter, sitting at the table with a stranger, talking and laughing. Cicero didn’t approach, but walked towards the side of the inn, going to sit at an isolated table. The host, from a distance, recognized him and gave him a sign of greeting, but said nothing fortunately, and Cicero could keep his cover.

Once seated, he sighed, clutching his wounded hand. But now it no longer hurt and it had become useless to punish himself that way. He didn’t even have stitches anymore: Babette had removed them, in a cold and fast way, not at all like what he wanted Morrigan to do. Only the scar remained, as did a thousand others: a sign no longer useful. He couldn’t wait to get hurt again.

He decided not to think about it and went back to look at the one who had once been his victim, and that perhaps was still such. He had to admit that it was pleasant to watch her without being noticed: she brought him back, when he had stalked her. Everything tasted more adrenalinic, so it looked like a hunt.

Morrigan hadn’t noticed anything. She was sitting, serene, laughing and drinking. Her cheeks were red, not for embarrassment, but for the heat, and perhaps the wine. She was waddling her head a little too much, too cheerful for her standards. Not that she was drunk, but she was much looser and Cicero wondered if, besides the wine, it had to do with the fact that he had left her alone. Perhaps she had been able to think, in the meantime, to rediscover herself.

The man she was speaking to was a boy, actually, they had to be peers. He wasn’t handsome, and perhaps the fact that Morrigan was blind made him more confindent than normal. In any case, in that context, he had that arrogance that Cicero knew very well, because it had been his own as well. He knew that attitude so well that he knew exactly how and why it impressed women. The boy was impressing Morrigan, in fact.

Cicero didn’t care, to be honest. He wasn’t jealous, because jealousy is a requirement of love, and more particularly of possessive love. Cicero didn’t feel either. On the contrary, he didn’t really understand the logic: why is it necessary, loving a person, to want them only for ourself? If you love someone, you should be proud to share them with as many people as possible. He loved the Mother, for example, and he was always happy if someone else loved her with him. Now, not that love should necessarily mean pushing the partner in the arms of others, but... but he would’ve felt flattered, if others had found interesting who he found interesting. And indeed, he was happy that Morrigan was with that boy. It meant that she had managed to talk, to make friends, that she had opened up, that she had left her shyness aside; and, at the same time, it meant that someone, a third, a stranger, had understood her, had gone beyond her handicap, and had appreciated her on a deep level, as everyone should’ve done. Cicero was proud of her, really. On the contrary, he took it as confirmation of the fact that the little crow was the most amiable person in the world, as well as confirmation of the fact that he was right, as usual.

For these reasons, he could only smile, relieved, when the boy cuddled her head, and she turned red.

"Sorry!" he heard her clarify, from a distance, "I'm not really... really single..."

Cicero found it very sweet that she believed she was bound, at least as much as he found it out of place. He wanted her to feel free, in all areas of her life: from climbing stairs without impediments, to saying what she thought without fear, and yes, even to courting others and being courted by others. Why, instead, ordinary people had to get serious problems out of those little issues? Cicero found it stupid, really stupid to fight for love, or torment for it, or feel guilty for it. Especially since love, according to him, didn’t even exist, so he saw jealousy as a mere excuse of hypocrite people to vent the repressed violence, with idiotic justifications. The world would’ve been a much happier place with couplings and homicides free of constraints.

After Morrigan's warning, however, the boy stopped immediately. A good person, really. Cicero wanted to kill him, but not out of jealousy, no. To do him a favor, to free him from a world that would’ve surely cheated him, because he was too good. But he wouldn’t have killed him, because Morrigan seemed to get along well with him, and Cicero didn’t want to traumatize her any more than he had already done. At least with her, it was better to mantein the profile of killer for revenge.

He continued to watch her for a while. First he saw her eating, joking, giggling. Then, after the meal, the boy disappeared in his room for a moment, coming back with a hurdy-gurdy.

A bard! There, that was a good reason to hate him, not jealousy.

Cicero rolled his eyes, exasperated by that unhealthy race. But he looked on again, without commenting aloud what he wanted so much to express.

Unexpectedly, the boy, instead of bragging about his musical skills as Cicero would’ve believed, gave his instrument to Morrigan. She didn’t refuse it, on the contrary, she didn’t even seem surprised, a sign that it had already happened before. Indeed, she, with all the ease of a real earthly princess, welcomed the hurdy-gurdy in her lap. Together they blended well: even the hurdy-gurdy was dark, rigid. It wasn’t wood-colored as usual, it must have been painted.

"Do you remember where we left off yesterday?" the boy urged her.

Morrigan nodded, happy and confident, and began to play. Cicero had to admit she was good. Blindness made her particularly gifted with ear, and perhaps it was also for that she could sing well. No wonder she could play an instrument too. She couldn’t see what she was doing, so sometimes, also because of the little practice, she missed a key with her left hand. But it wasn’t important, because she had a great sense of rhythm, she could well coordinate the different movements of the two hands, one on the keyboard and one on the crank. And then, there was her usual hidden grace. Oh, those hands! Cicero yes, with those he was in love, like her eyes. He couldn’t say to loved madly the woman who owned those gifts, maybe, but he sure loved those details madly. Her fingers were so light that one could almost have thought they belonged to a ghost, which goes through what it touches. If it was good to see her touch apples, then, seeing her play an instrument became heavenly.

Cicero sighed, watching her fingers moving fast. What would’ve he given to touch them, run through the bones, feel her knuckles... while he thought it, he touched his hand, his left, but it wasn’t the same. It was bigger and older. Nothing to do with the skeleton covered in velvet that was Morrigan. And, again, he meant it as a compliment.

"Good, you learn fast! We're doing the same thing tonight, but a higher octave, and with a different ending. If you put together the two pieces you have learned, it’s the song you asked."

The boy, patient, explained fully what she had to do. Morrigan immediately understood and tried herself, without needing an example. And, only at that moment, Cicero understood: it was the Macabre Dance, and not just a random one, but theirs.

He smiled, sincerely pleased. A nice present, really.

He held himself still, sighing, now much lighter in the soul of when he had arrived. Even just watching her calmed him, it was incredible. It was something that had never happened to him, not even with Galla, the person closest to the concept of partner he had ever had.

"I'm too slow, though." she moaned in the distance. Cicero thought that in some respects, perhaps, she would’ve never changed, and being too strict with herself was one of those.

Cicero decided to reveal himself, he could no longer stand on the sidelines after such a long time. Also because Morrigan was falling into self-pity, and he wanted to block her in the bud. She had been so good until now!

He approached, then, peering cautiously. He was sure, though, and he was pointing straight at her, as he usually did with victims, or as he had done with Galla before he noticed she liked it.

"Do you know how they make hurdy-gurdies, little crow?" he asked, when he was close enough.

Morrigan lit up. She straightened up on her chair, immediately smiling, without waiting. She was already ecstatic, and Cicero felt honored by that welcome.

"Cicero!" she exclaimed, out of her mind.

"They take a bunch of wasps, they stun them, and then they put them in the sound box. Otherwise that sound cannot be explained."

Morrigan laughed, her cheekbones taller and rounder than ever. She passed the hurdy-gurdy to the boy, carefully, so as not to ruin it, and as soon as she was free she jumped up, like a spring chaffinch. She had to grope a little to find it, but as soon as she did, she wrapped his neck, hugging him tightly.

Cicero returned, happy. When he did it with Galla he had to strive, but with Morrigan it was frighteningly easy. But he decided to turn off his brain, not to think so much. It was useless in any case.

He squeezed her then. In a somewhat mechanical way, perhaps, but it wasn’t his intention, on the contrary. He was happy, as perhaps he had never been, and he was grateful to hear that her body was softer, there was more flesh between him and the girl's skeleton. She had been well cared of, as Cicero had recommended.

"You're back! You're back!" she was repeating, euphoric.

"And you haven’t left. Good, little crow. Obedient and tame!"

She laughed, serene, as if she were convinced that she no longer had any problem in the world. Cicero’s heart wasn’t strong enough to let him tell her that she wasn’t completely free from the contract.

"Cicero sees you have made a friend!"

She pulled away, with a sideways smile, vaguely guilty. She could not lie, less than ever now that she was a little under the effects of alcohol. Cicero hastened to reassure her.

"You’ve done well, little crow, very well. Haven’t you thought that Cicero wanted you alone and silent all the time, eh? On the contrary, on the contrary!"

Morrigan relaxed her shoulders, relieved. At that point she introduced them. She was calm, kind, very professional. She seemed to have returned to be a maid's for a moment.

"Cicero, this is Pontius. He's an Imperial like you!"

"Yes, Cicero had guessed it." he commented sarcastically.

There were so many visual features to understand that he was an Imperial, including the height and darker complexion, but they were all things Morrigan wasn’t used to notice. She thought the race was always to be declared aloud, perhaps it was for that that some found her offensive.

"Pontius was teaching me to play. I almost learned our piece, you know? I've been training for two weeks!"

He was glad to see her so light and carefree. He wished he could be carefree as well. He wished he could’ve met her first, at her same age. He wished he could’ve courted her as he had done with Galla, but without lying to her, without being cold, as he had been when he was young. Eh... he wished, yes, he wished a lot of things.

Fortunately, he had the laughter behind which to hide. Laughter had saved him.

"Have you become a bard too, now? You know Cicero hates that kind. Even if he has to admit that he have never seen one as pretty as you."

Morrigan opened her milky, distraught eyes. Suddenly her face became purple, homogeneous, with no distinction between the color of her cheeks and the rest of her face. Cicero wondered if it was for the offense to the bard or for the compliment...

"I... forgive him, Pontius. Cicero is a little peculiar..."

"What's his problem?"

Well, if nothing else, he was a direct boy, without half measures. Cicero understood perfectly why Morrigan liked him, she liked all those who knew how to express without filters, unlike her.

"Oh, Cicero doesn’t have only one, no no!" he laughed sharply, without giving satisfaction to his opponent to be seen offended.

The boy finally shrugged. Yes, he was like the young Cicero, the same: bold, self-assured, one of those who doesn’t care at all to win or lose, because in his mind he has always won.

"Alright, now I leave you. Goodnight, Morrigan!"

And he stood up, taking his leave without showing the slightest hint of emotion.

Cicero thought he could’ve been an excellent Brother.

They went into the room, Morrigan particularly happy. With wine in her body, she was walking around safer, less stiff. Her legs were also a bit loosened, which were usually so rigid. In fact, when she reached their bed, she almost twirled lightly, to sit on it. She landed heavily, bounced, and laughed of herself.

"Cicero had to get you drunk a lot before, little crow!"

She giggled. It was really strange to see her like that. Strange and pleasant.

"I don’t usually drink" she confessed, "I just tasted that wine, I didn’t think it was that strong!"

And Cicero believed her, really. With her squirrel mass, half a glass would’ve been enough to get her like that. Cicero thought, once again, it was good she had a little more fat on her body. Now that she seemed a little sturdier, Cicero felt less guilty about wanting her physically, if he had to be completely honest. Before, he was afraid to break her bones just looking at her, he didn’t dare to imagine what he could’ve done with a loins’ thrust.

"So, how did it go, where you had been?" she asked, cheerful, with a smile that never left his lips.

"You look sure it went well."

"It must be so. Otherwise you would’ve killed me without revealing yourself."

Cicero remained interdicted. She was perspicacious, very, and knew him well. He had never made a promise like that, but it was true: if he had had to kill her, he had already planned to do it without any greeting, she wouldn’t even have noticed that he had returned.

"It wouldn’t have been out of malice" he insisted on specifying, "it would’ve been less painful... for both."

She nodded, serene.

"I know. I wanted it to go like this, in fact. I knew I could trust you."

Cicero stopped, became serious. Serious for happiness, was it possible? He was so proud of her, and happy to see her again, that all of a sudden the whole weight of the situation had fallen on his shoulders. Yes, he was one who laughed at the murders and became serious about light situations. He lived life on the contrary, he did it on purpose, because everything became less obvious, like that.

He approached her, sitting on the bed, and leaned forward, to have her face close.

"Cicero missed you, you know?"

He confessed it, in one of the rare moments when his voice became low, natural, his old voice not crippled by the acuteness of the jester. It was more difficult than one might think, for someone like him, to say something genuinely important. He would never have said such a thing to Galla, for example, because he had never felt it.

Morrigan blinked slowly, happily, like a relaxed cat.

"I missed you too. Here it was starting to become like Whiterun."

He watched her, at close range. There were new details on her face: she was a little more colorful, healthier, and her cheeks were slightly rounder. To find out, he touched them, with both hands, and felt more warmth than usual. Perhaps it was the wine, but perhaps it was also because regular meals had torn her from the grave she was slowly heading for, or at least had slowed her down.

"You ate well, Cicero can see" he commented, regaining possession of his usual humor, "he’s afraid to ask how much you have spent."

Morrigan chuckled, and Cicero could see the two rows of teeth, not perfect, but hers, real. If they were too linear, she would’ve looked like a copy of someone else.

"You said to use that money and I did it! I..." she stopped for a moment, as if she wanted to think of an original word, "I’ve squandered!"

Cicero laughed, genuinely amused.

"Oh, what a big word, little crow! You like talking, eh? You seemed so shy, so shy, and instead you were quiet just to elaborate this beautiful lemma! Very good!"

"I can amaze you with others" she went on, proud of herself, "adamant. Argute. Querulous. Ensnare."

"Oh, if you want to make Cicero sexually aroused, you're on your way, really."

She let herself go to an almost coughed laugh. She rocked a little, in a loose and carefree movement, oblivious of the stiffness that usually kept her erect and alert. Cicero could hardly understand her degree of drunkenness, to be honest. Maybe it was just a new part of her.

"But you miss adverbs, my dear. Forthwith." he challenged her, amused.

"Verily!" she accepted the challenge, light, without brakes.

"Whereof."

"Anon."

Cicero was impressed. He touched his heart, as if she had stabbed him. She couldn’t see it, but he didn’t care. He was sure she could understand his theatricality even blindly.

"Morrigan, this is a very low blow. Anon. Where did you hear it?"

She shrugged. She raised her head, her eyebrows, puffed up her chest. And then a hand up, effortlessly, in a snob gesture.

"These are the secrets of the trade, Cicero. Don’t ask. Accept your defeat."

"The secrets of the trade?" he teased her.

"Secrets, yes."

"Of the trade?"

"Of the trade."

"And what would it be?"

Morrigan held her breath, making a vague gesture in the air, as if she couldn’t define.

"Oh, you know. Muse? Aedra of art? You choose."

"Cicero choses?"

"You choose."

And he chose very boldly, because he kissed her.

He had done it before, yes, but it wasn’t for the same reason. The first time had been cold, a scientific experiment, almost. Now... now it wasn’t anymore. Many things had changed, many, in such a short time.

The goal had changed: no longer a challenge, a search, but a closeness, a need.

He had changed: no longer repelled by the idea of loving her.

She had changed: less rigid, more adventurous.

The kiss had changed: no longer cold, but passionate, deep, warm.

Many things had changed, yes, and for the first time neither of them was afraid of that change. As if the whole story, the whole life, had served only to lead them there, at that precise moment.

But it was still a precarious balance, still fragile. And so, as soon as they broke away and the distance was restored, it was as if a barrier descended, physically between them.

"Oh, Morrigan..." Cicero murmured, now without even a word in his mind, "what a mistake, what a mistake. Oh, Sithis, what a mistake, what a mistake..."

Morrigan, breathless, didn’t understand. She frowned, confused, stunned.

"Why?" she asked, almost offended.

"What a mistake, what a mistake!" Cicero insisted, proving that he could also act like a normal person, or think like a normal person, but sometimes he simply couldn’t be.

"Why?"

"Why? You ask why? Can’t you get it?"

For a moment, old Cicero had resurfaced, the offensive one, the one he had so ardently tried to repress. He didn’t like that Cicero. He was old, obsolete, he used words to hurt, when only the daggers should be used for this purpose.

"Sorry, little crow, sorry, sorry, sorry. But this is... oh, it is... a mess. A big mess. A problem. A big problem."

She didn’t comment. She sat there, turned small, fearful again, her face sad. Cicero forced himself to calm down, for that reason. He had been so happy to see her open, cheerful, self-assured, and now he was ruining everything like that?

"Sorry, sorry, Morrigan, you don’t deserve it, no. No, no, no."

In his mind he was logical, he was always logical. He wanted to say it, and it wouldn’t have been be difficult: I'm not yet free from the contract, and I'm falling in love with you.

But he didn’t say it, because he could no longer speak in first person, because he couldn’t admit such an important feeling, because he couldn’t overload her with the weight of the the contract.

"Cicero, come on, don’t be afraid..." she said in a suppliant tone, "I have fun with you, I like you..."

"Cicero knows, he knows! But why? Why are you here? Do you realize what a stupid choice you made? Why don’t you run away, hell! Escape! Make it easier for me, run away! Insult me, let me hate you!"

She shook her head, firm but shivering.

"I don’t... I don’t want to, I..."

"You what, Morrigan? You’re crazy, that's what! You’re as crazy as me, we’re both hopeless! There’s no way out! I saw it happen and I let it happen! How could I!? How... how the fuck... could I... fall for someone like you?"

He was angry now. He was raising his voice, she was scared. There was no hope, that was the truth. At least one of them would’ve ended up getting very hurt, at the heart, and it would’ve been worse than dying.

"Sorry, I..."

"And don’t say sorry! Stop that! I hate it!"

She was silent. She had become small, her head bent low, like that of dogs when they were beaten. She was pathetic. Cicero found her pathetic and... beautiful. And the more he found her beautiful, the more he wanted her; the more he wanted her, the more he thought it would’ve been better to kill her now.

There it was.

Kill her now.

Before anyone got hurt.

He drew his dagger, fast, trying not to think about it. As he had done another two hundred thirty-seven times, to be exact. The number two hundred and thirty-eight was about to reach Sithis.

She felt the blade, stiffened, but didn’t even have time to process the information. Suddenly, Cicero was on top of her, nailed to the bed. He stood on top of her, his dagger pointed at her throat. It was unbelievable how much that day was like that of when they met: an entire evening to observe her in silence, and then find her defenseless, at his mercy, ready to die and to welcome the Void.

Not everything was like the first time, though: she wasn’t scared. Or rather, she was shaking, panting, but they were only physical signals, impossible to repress. Actually, she only looked surprised. Not suppliant, not terrified.

"Cicero, what are you doing?" she asked, not with fright, but with sincere curiosity. As if she knew he wouldn’t have done it, and was asking him how the hell he got to that point, lying to himself.

"I have to kill you, Morrigan. The Mother said it, she said that I would end up doing it sooner or later. Better sooner than later, Morrigan. Better sooner. We won’t be able to do it later, I wouldn’t know how to slaughter you, you wouldn’t know how to leave without feeling sorry for the disappointment of love. It's better now, we have to do it, we have to."

He was speaking as if he wanted to convince himself, in truth. Suddenly, their tones, their behaviors, had exchanged. He was scared, confused, and she, perhaps for the first time in her life, sure of everything.

"There's nothing we have to do, Cicero."

"What do you know, eh?"

"A very wise man once told me that fear is a cage. I'm trying to open it, my cage. And you, Cicero? What will you do with yours?"

Cicero shook his head, confused, disorientated, with a mind full of discordant thoughts.

"The Brotherhood isn’t a cage, don’t even dare to think of it! If it weren’t for the Brotherhood, I would be a disorganized, useless serial killer, a damage to all the Nirn and all the other worlds."

"And instead with the Brotherhood, what have you become? If you were free, really free, you would choose by yourself."

Cicero pursed his lips furiously, and pressed the blade to her neck, so that she could feel it well.

"Don’t be blasphemous, Morrigan. Don’t dare. There’s nothing that can affect my faith, nothing! Not even you."

"I know" she admitted, far too calm, "I'm just sorry that this spoils everything between us. I was so happy, before. So happy."

She sighed, disappointed, and Cicero felt terribly guilty. He diminished the pressure on her neck.

"Sorry, Morrigan. Really, I'm so sorry" he changed his tone, lowered it, made it more reassuring, "I wish I met you before. I mean before everything, before the Brotherhood, before Modia. Before. In another life. I... I’ll never free myself from this thought."

He felt tears sting his eyes. He couldn’t hold them back. He was ashamed, for the first time in his life, of what he was doing. But he couldn’t do anything about it, because the weight of all his life, that of all the fear of Sithis, and that of all compassion, were crushing him at the same time.

"Cicero?" the girl murmured, surprised, taken aback by that reaction.

He removed the blade. He left it, ungainly, and it fell on the bed, next to them.

"I'm so sorry for what I am! Believe me! Believe me, I'm so sorry!"

He sobbed, unable to restrain himself.

Morrigan didn’t say anything. She sighed, calm, and while she was still lying down, took his head gently, with both hands. She dragged him down, compassionate, and let him rest on her breasts, like a mother. Like the Mother. She began to stroke his hair, in absolute silence, controlled and calm.

Cicero felt her heart pounding inside her, and he realized how stupid he was even thinking of stopping it. Never again. Never again.

"I’ll never kill you" it was the first time he admitted it, desperate, hopeless, "I won’t make it. I don’t want to. I’ll never kill you. And I'll be damned for this."

Chapter Text

They slept together that night, but somehow not together. They were in the same room, in the same bed, but they weren’t touching each other, they were pointing in opposite directions. And for most of the night they hadn’t even slept. Cicero, not even he could’ve said why, with all that had happened, he kept thinking about the olive tree he had in Cyrodiil. Then, when the nighttime hours had become early morning, he began to caress the memory of his last victim, the blondie. She had gurgled, squirming in a very elegant way. She surely was very beautiful, in the Void.

The more he thought of her, the more he felt guilty. What was he doing? He knew the answer: he was ruining everything. Maybe it was because he missed killing. Maybe that was it, he needed to vent his anger.

At one point, in fact, he stood up impatiently. He realized that Morrigan was following him with her hearing, but he didn’t say anything. He would’ve liked to, but he had the feeling that until he had calmed down, he would’ve only said other idiocies.

He dressed quickly, put on his gloves, from which he never separated, and went out, to find someone, anyone.

As soon as he was in the main hall, however, he realized that there was nobody there. Heck. There was only the bard, the idiot who couldn’t kill because Morrigan would’ve never forgiven him, and finally the innkeeper, who was still useful. Cicero had no intention of cooking for Morrigan, he wasn’t good at it, if there wasn’t any poisoning involved.

He felt anger mount, fill him from toe to head as if it were a liquid, and he was a container that was about to overflow. He looked around, hoping to find any living being, but there was nothing. Nothing.

"Cicero hopes that the Void isn’t so frustrating!" he exclaimed, and strode toward the door.

Not that there was anyone to kill, out. They were isolated, from everything and everyone, to find a human being he would’ve had to ride for hours. It wasn’t a good idea. He couldn’t stand another few hours of boredom, partly because he might have killed himself for the pressing abstinence.

Nervous, stubborn, he walked into the woods, determined to kill something. Anything.

When he returned, it was late in the morning. It hadn’t taken so long to find a victim, nor to kill it, but it certainly took him more than expected to carry it. He wasn’t trained in that aspect, usually he didn’t need to move corpses, and certainly not when they weighed over three hundred pounds, as in that case. But that was a beautiful, socially acceptable victim, it would’ve been a waste to leave it to the wolves.

They saw him coming, then, sweaty, dirty, panting. He was dragging a deer by the horns, giggling and cursing, while this left a red trail along the snow lit by a beautiful sunny day.

When he was near the inn, he stopped, exhausted. He put his hands on his knees, trying to recover, breathing hard. He took off his hat, adjusted his sweaty hair, and put it back on, gathering his courage to make the last effort.

"You really are a big beast, you know? Cicero wants at least to enlarge the belt of a hole, tonight!"

He grabbed its horns again and kept dragging it, insulting it because it wasn’t cooperating.

When he was at the top, he finally entered the inn. He believed he was dying, leaned against the doorframe.

"Innkeeper!" he shouted him aggressively, pointing a finger at him, "you don’t know how lucky you are!"

"What do you mean?" he asked, confused.

Cicero meant that he had been lucky not to have been killed, but he tried to act sociable.

"You’re lucky because Cicero brought you a present!"

The innkeeper seemed not to believe it, perhaps he was thinking of a joke. Then, however, he approached, circumspect, and saw blood and dirt that covered Cicero.

"What the hell did you do?"

"A deer!" the jester boasted, but the reaction wasn’t the one he expected.

"Did a deer do this to you?"

The innkeeper was incredulous, almost as if he were about to laugh at him. Fortunately, he had to cook, very fortunately, because Cicero was beginning to hate him.

"No! It wasn’t the deer to attack Cicero, Cicero attacked the deer!"

"But... with what..."

Cicero drew the ebony dagger, proud of himself and of his weapon. He held it down, harmless, and tapped the handle on his interlocutor's chest.

Again, the reaction wasn’t the one expected.

"Couldn’t you use bow and arrows, like everyone?"

Cicero rolled his eyes, exasperated. He sheathed his dagger.

"In such ungrateful times the poor Cicero is living! Nobody appreciates art any more, nowadays!"

The innkeeper, still incredulous, opened the door and looked out. He seemed amazed to see that the deer really existed and hadn’t been the vision of a madman. It had been stabbed in the heart.

From that moment, finally, the innkeeper began to be grateful.

"Wow! Good! Useless effort, but good! What do you do now? Are you really ginving it to me?"

Cicero joined him. He was immensely shorter, but he patted his shoulder, benevolently.

"My friend, of course. Do you want Cicero to eat it all?"

"Well, thank you! Tonight I offer you the dinner, to you and the girl!"

"You better do, with all she has paid you."

The innkeeper again thanked him, running down the stairs and cuddling his immense gift with his eyes. Cicero, finally more relaxed, felt ready to put things right.

"Where is my friend, innkeeper?" he asked, without going down the porch.

"She went out."

For a moment, Cicero was afraid.

"Did she take the horse?"

"No, no. She just wanted to get some air, she left five minutes ago."

Cicero relaxed his shoulders. That woman would’ve ended up giving him a heart attack, he knew. She was shortening his stay in the Nirn.

"All right, Cicero will go and look for her." he noted, speaking more to himself than to the innkeeper. He, unfortunately, took it as a starting point for dialogue.

"She mustn’t be far."

Cicero went down the stairs, annoyed. He paused before setting off and gave him a commiserating look.

"You have a certain aptitude for the obvious statements, hm?"

It was as if he hadn’t said anything, the innkeeper wasn’t offended. Perhaps that kind of sarcasm was too witty for someone like him.

"That girl is really pretty."

"This also is an obvious statement, my friend. Try again."

"You shouldn’t let her go. Honestly... I don’t know if you could find someone else who appreciates you for what you are."

That actually wasn’t an obvious affirmation. Out of place, perhaps, but not obvious.

"Um, this is true, Cicero admits it. But don’t underestimate him, as a young man he had some success!"

"Oh yes, me too, when I was twenty..."

And he began to talk about all his useless love adventures, which Cicero gladly avoided listening to. He immediately liquidated him, leaving him to his memories and his deer.

He found her a little later, behind the inn. Surely she had heard him coming back, but hadn’t bothered.

"Just like a princess." Cicero noted, aloud, when he was near her. She was sitting under a bare birch tree, she stood cross-legged on the snow, uncaring of cold. It was strange, because she kept a book open in her lap.

"What?" she asked, without understanding the meaning of his words.

Cicero leaned against the trunk, next to her, and cuddled a lock of her hair.

"Oh, nothing. Cicero was saying that... you did well to ignore him. You're becoming more independent, it's a good thing."

"Um."

She seemed not very talkative that day. And the night before she was so happy...

"You know, Cicero is mortified for the last night. He's just... a fool... understand him, please, Morrigan."

She nodded.

"There’s nothing to forgive, to tell the truth you said something beautiful. For me it’s a positive, that you don’t want to kill me. I know it's not the same for you, but..."

"No" he interrupted her, immediately, to clarify, "no, you don’t have to think this way, little crow. You don’t have to, absolutely, no."

"But you said you'll be damned."

"Yes, but maybe Cicero has exaggerated, you know? The Mother is very wise, very. She couldn’t have done all this just to frame Cicero, right? Last night... he just got frightened, you know... so many years... so many years... that he hasn’t to deal with a beautiful girl." he said jokingly, to cheer her up. He touched her nose, in that gesture now so familiar, and she let go a satisfied smile.

Cicero folded his arms, happy that the situation was no longer so cold.

"What are you doing with that book, little crow?" he asked, full of curiosity. He felt bad for her when her smile died again.

She shrugged, shook her head, didn’t want to talk.

"Hey? Little crow?"

She shook her head again and began to sob.

Cicero did not feel guilty, this time, because he was confused, he didn’t know what he had done. It seemed strange to him that she would react like that just because she couldn’t read, it wasn’t news.

He leaned down the trunk, sitting next to her. He tried to ignore the cold of the snow.

"What's up? What did Cicero do this time?"

"Nothing. Not you, no..."

She sighed, and put both hands on the pages, facing up. Cicero noticed immediately that they weren’t of a normal color: on the tips they were beginning to get dark. The nails were dying.

"Yesterday, this book..." she said, crying, "yesterday I could read it. I could feel the ink, it’s thick. Today…"

She no longer felt anything, at least on her fingertips. It was serious because it was the most precious point for her, the one that allowed her to study the world. Cicero suddenly realized that he would’ve no longer seen her press the keys of the hurdy-gurdy, or caress the apples, or touch the walls as she walked.

"Oh, Morrigan, it's... horrible."

She cried more, couldn’t stop herself.

"Sorry. Sorry, I know I shouldn’t react like this! I knew it would’ve happened, I should be braver, I should..."

Cicero, at that moment, regretted all the idiocies he had told her. He still believed they were true, but perhaps he was wrong not to identify himself better with her. Dying like that had to be scary, far more scary than dealing with a sudden death, like the ones he usually inflicted.

Suddenly, he realized that she would’ve died quickly. He realized that he could no longer afford to waste time with her: either he accepted that she was part of his life, or not, there was no time for a middle way. Then, without saying anything, he hugged her shoulders with his left arm. He squeezed hard, to make her feel like he was there. He hoped she wouldn’t lose touch too quickly on the rest of the body, or it would’ve been a disgrace, she wouldn’t even have been able to walk.

She leaned on his shoulder, unable to stop crying. Cicero smelled her hair, and realized that he would’ve remembered that parfum for the rest of his life, even after she wuold’ve left.

"Hey?" she spurred him, wiping her tears, "it’s strangee if you don’t speak..."

Cicero spread a bitter smile. He quickly looked for something intelligent to say. Something that wouldn’t offend her, at least.

"You’re already brave, little crow. Cicero... he would’ve already killed himself, he supposes. But you have found a way to escape from your city, and change your entire life, in your last weeks. This goes beyond bravery, this is... crazy. You’re really crazy and I adore you for this. Cling to this craziness and you’ll see… everything will be fine..."

She sighed, and finally tears calmed down.

After a moment of silence, she asked for something unexpected:

"Does this tree look a little like your olive tree?"

Cicero looked up, studied the bare branches of the birch, clear, tall, slender. It had nothing to do with his old, gnarled olive tree.

"No, not at all." he murmured, full of memories.

She sighed again, resigned, dreamy. Then she said something Cicero would’ve never forgotten.

"That’s too bad. I would’ve liked to stay at least once under that olive tree, with you."

And even Cicero would’ve liked it, yes. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine it. He would’ve given his whole life to be there with her, just for a minute, in the warm cyrodiilic climate, with the smell of the oil that was being squeezed, of the salt lake, the noise of the cicadas, the hot wind, the shimmering of glass shards on the edge of the walls of his house. Just for a minute, yes.

Just for a minute.

That evening, Cicero decided to start all over again. He made a mark on what had happened the night before, he didn’t want to think about it, it was as if it had never happened, and he wanted it to be the same for Morrigan. So he led her inside, made her warm up, insisted a lot, hoping that the partial insensitivity was also due to the cold. And in any case, he told the innkeeper to make a deer stew, and to bring wine. A lot of wine. He wanted to see her serene again.

"It almost seems like a date, this way." she noted, skeptical but happy.

"And even if it were? Isn’t Cicero allowed to organize something without ulterior motives? A dinner that doesn’t result..." he lowered his voice, not to be heard by the owner, "... that doesn’t result in the departure of the other diner?"

Morrigan chuckled. Cicero was happy that she was learning to accept even his blackest humor, partly because most of his repertoire was covered by that kind of jokes.

"Well, then if it's a date, I should dress better."

"How do you know that the dress you have isn’t beautiful?"

"I'm blind, Cicero, not idiot."

She made him laugh and immediately disappeared into the room, saying she would’ve borrowed some clothes from the innkeeper's wife. She had left years before, to rest in peace.

It took her a long time to get ready. At one point, dinner was ready and she still hadn’t shown up. Cicero began to think that she was struggling to figure out which part of the dress was the front and which the back, which one the up and the down. He thought of going to help her, but he didn’t even have time to get close to the room, because she came out at exactly that moment.

She was... yes, she was beautiful, but that she was even before. What amazed him most was that she was normal. That was the strange fact: she seemed more alive than usual, more human. The dress was more low-cut and colored than hers, white and pale green. Stripped of her usual dark cloak, she suddenly seemed younger, more real. A normal girl, really, who suddenly regressed to her true age, and Cicero felt old. There was also some jewelry. Even if they were only gold-plated, non-precious, iron bracelets, she still looked out of her social frame, so well-dressed. With her tied hair, which didn’t close her face, she was brighter, even her skin seemed to have regained color.

Ultimately, Cicero found himself displaced, as if he were in front of a new person he didn’t know at all. A person who no longer had the contract on her head, and this made him feel more relaxed.

He went to get her to take her to sit down. He was gallant: he bowed to her, kissed her, and took her arm in arm.

"Um, now there’s a great disparity between the two of us, little... little robin. Do you remember the game of power? Here, now you have too much in your hands. Cicero doesn’t feel at ease, he’s so unkempt in comparison to you!"

She blushed, pleased, and lifted her chin up, proud of her appearance, though she couldn’t see it.

"Oh, now I’m a robin? Did I change nickname?"

"You're very different tonight. You don’t look like a crow at all. Cicero... he was more comfortable with the crow, actually."

"It's only temporary, tomorrow I’ll put my clothes back on." she reassured him.

But Cicero shook his head, snapping his tongue, in a line of denial.

"No, no, Morrigan, so you haven’t been listening! Cicero said he doesn’t reduce everything to external appearance" they had arrived at the table, he made her sit down, "you changed many things, not just clothes. Cicero is afraid you’re becoming another person."

She never lowered her head, stayed stiff and raised, as if she wanted to be the highest in the situation, both in stature and in personality.

"Or maybe I've always been a robin, I was just full of mud and ashes. Having all this, a nice dress, a nice dinner... it matters, you know? It's good for the spirit too."

Yes, it had to be that, Cicero agreed. Getting a person out of the mud and cleaning them up properly had to increase self-esteem.

"Cicero is happy that you’re more self assured. But, don’t tell anyone, perhaps he preferred the crow. A more mysterious, less presumptuous animal."

She smiled, nodding.

"Yes, I prefer the crow too. I am. Like the Mór Ríoghain who reap the dead in battle, I am from birth. But I like to believe myself a robin for one evening. Once in a lifetime."

Cicero felt compassion for her and realized that perhaps this being a crow was something she knew long before he arrived. Cicero meant it as a compliment, but who knows how many had meant it as an offense.

"Oh yes, for one night it's okay" he reassured her, "rather than a cleaned robin, maybe you're a crow who has stolen someone else's colorful feathers, but that's okay. It means you can choose who to be, when you want. It doesn’t depend on the richness of your life, but on what you dare to take."

She interpreted it as a compliment, and Cicero was happy. She almost never interpreted those statements in the wrong way. With the rest of the world only Sithis knew how often it happened to him, but not with her, because they had a very similar way of speaking and thinking. The innkeeper was right, she wasn’t one that he could’ve easily found around the corner.

"Anyway" Cicero changed the subject, pouring out a drink, "the program for tonight is very simple. First of all, eat the deer stew. Do you believe that Cicero captured it with his own hands?"

"Do you remember that I like deer stew more?"

"Cicero remembers everything, my dear! And above all, remembers how you last night were a lot like a... robin, hm? So let's try to reproduce it. You must distract yourself. It will be better if you drink."

After pouring, he took the glass and put it in her hand.

"Down the hatch, robin!" he whispered, in his tone that was halfway between seductive and disturbing, "Cicero needs you drunk for later."

She blushed, hid her mouth with one hand, embarrassed.

"Not really gallant, this behavior."

"But it's not for having you at my mercy, it's just to make you a little more sprightly. Cicero also drinks, so we’re even. Both of us merry and stupid, it will be fun!"

And, as promised, he drank the first glass. She did the same, all in one breath, and that was enough to make her forget about the death which was coming down on her like a sad and heavy wedding veil.

When they entered the room and closed the door, they were actually quite lucid. Merry, but lucid. Perhaps tension was keeping them alert. Cicero... in spite of what he wanted to show, he wasn’t at all sure of what he was doing. But he kept telling himself that there was little time with her, and soon he would’ve regretted it if he hadn’t let it go.

"Oh Cicero is very hypocrite, very..." he confessed, "all this time telling you that you have to be more relaxed and now look at him, he behaves like a kid. Foolish, Cicero!"

But she smiled, and didn’t give him time to sadden. It was she, in fact, in a motion of initiative not entirely foreseen, to move in front of him and to kiss him, gently, as if she didn’t want to disturb the peace.

"Thank Sithis you’re not the one I have to oil, hm, little crow?" she imitated his voice and his grotesque and caricatural way of speaking. Cicero laughed sharply, shaking his head.

"Cicero doesn’t talk like that!" he tried to defend himself, before realizing that she was right.

"Cicero always speaks well, little crow! He's very intelligent, hm, am, um!"

He kissed her this time, to keep her quiet. Their soft lips touched each other, and luckily she could feel it too, she still had the sense of touch on her face.

"You're venturing into a battlefield, Morrigan. Forget it. Don’t make fun of the susceptible Cicero!"

They kissed again, but this time it was a more lasting union, more passionate. They hugged each other tightly, as if they could both get lost in the Void, if they let themselves go. The only lit lamp accompanied their descent into the happy torment that was the carnal desire, along with the scent of nightshade berries, hanging in a garland on the wall.

They fell on the bed, clinging, never letting themselves go, not even by mistake. He was on top of her, but not like the first time, not to block her. To bring it with him, rather. An experience that, unlike murder, would’ve been the same for both.

She put her arms around his head, taking off his hat. She sank her hands into his hair and pulled slightly. Cicero, complying with her movement, broke away from her lips.

"Oh, little robin, slow down! Do you already throw yourself on rude love?"

She smiled, closed her eyelids, breathing hard.

"I thought you liked it."

"Yes, but Cicero thought of having to give you a whole lesson on the importance of slight pain in the intercourse. He had prepared a good speech, you know?"

But she smiled, almost neutral, as if she were thinking of something else. As if she wasn’t really there, but in a beautiful, much more carefree place than the Nirn.

She didn’t answer the game, therefore, and moved, as if driven by an inner instinct. She was so different from usual, that Cicero was almost afraid of her. She would also have been able to take revenge and slit his throat at that very moment. If she had, he would’ve been happy for her, really. It would’ve been an honor to be her victim.

But she didn’t kill him, no. She continued to kiss him with that shamelessness that didn’t seem completely hers. Or maybe it was hers, it was the real Morrigan, who finally was flourishing, making her way through the icy layer of snow that was her fear and hovering toward the sun, enjoying the rediscovered light.

They undressed each other and, even when they were naked, Cicero didn’t study her. He didn’t want to look at her, not just because he had already seen her, but because Morrigan couldn’t do the same with him. He had to get to her level. Equity was the watchword, as in all aspects of life. In order not to cheat, he decided to turn off the light, extending an arm and tightening the wick of the lamp between his fingers, without even moistening them.

Now that he was in the dark, he was more at ease, because both of them were in the dark. He had to rely on the other senses, all the others, letting go of the fallacious sight. Eyes were traitors, Cicero knew it well: they make you believe they’re fundamental, but they’re the most misleading of all the sensory organs, so much so that the reflecting sun on sand is enough to create an image of water that doesn’t exist. Well... he didn’t want that experience with Morrigan to be a mirage... as it had been with everyone else.

Then, suddenly, her voice, with a note of concern she didn’t have before.

"Cicero... will it hurt?"

He sighed, heartbroken. Not exasperated, he was patient, it wasn’t that. He was just sorry for her, who couldn’t enjoy that experience without always thinking of pain, as if it were a constant in life. It was her worst enemy, it was ruining her existence.

Cicero decided to be terribly sincere and put his face close to hers, talking to her ear. It was a whisper, in fact, just a breath, without a voice. But at that distance even the air became music.

"Of course it will hurt, Morrigan."

He felt her stiffen, tremble. Better. Better for her to know what she was doing. If pain was so frightening for her, it was better for her to give up, rather. Cicero didn’t want to load his conscience with her regret.

Cicero spoke again, to better explain. He was slow, calm, measured, to be sure she understood well what he meant.

"It will hurt, but not because it has to, or because Cicero wants to make you feel pain. It will hurt because you have decided it should hurt. Everything in life will be painful for you, even the most pleasant experience, if you continue to be a slave to fear. You understand it?"

He heard her nod, almost hysterically, trying to convince herself.

"Morrigan" he added, honestly, "if you don’t want to, you just have to say it. It's really that simple, you know? But you have to choose, yes or no. The most intense experiences of life don’t provide half measures, you have to start accepting it. Don’t live halfway. It's not worth it."

"I don’t want... I mean... I don’t want to die..."

She stopped, she couldn’t say it. Cicero knew exactly what she meant, but he also wanted it to come out of her mouth.

"You can’t be afraid of words, they're just... words. Just say it."

But she still was silent and undecided. Cicero, in a movement of impatience that he would’ve immediately regretted, squeezed her nipple. Not strong, just to make her understand that he was there and he didn’t want to wait for a word all night.

She jumped with her whole body, the movement muffled by the weight of her consort.

"Virgin! I don’t want to die virgin! "

Cicero smiled, satisfied.

"Well said, Morrigan, who would ever want it?"

"Don’t you think it's a stupid reason?"

"Wanting to have sex out of curiosity? No, Cicero would say no, since, well... it’s the reason why the totality of human beings has sex the first time, and he would dare to say even the totality of living beings" this made her laugh, and relax, fortunately, "and even if it were, there is no one here to judge you. There's only you, you’re saying that you’re stupid, you're doing everything by yourself."

She had to agree, because she remained silent, without replying. At that point she was more relaxed, she was returning to the light-heartedness of a moment before, and Cicero couldn’t help but be happy.

She tried to give herself courage.

"And then, all women endure it, don’t they?"

Cicero rolled his eyes, unable to restrain himself. For once, he was grateful she couldn’t see.

"Why do you use these terms inappropriately? You don’t have to endure anything, Morrigan. You must convince yourself you won’t feel pain, even if the situation clearly tells you that you will. Pain is a perception, if you cancel it, you’ll have nothing more to fear. And I don’t mean in this bland situation, I mean you wouldn’t feel anything even if you were tortured to death. You understand it?"

She nodded again, and Cicero hoped she had understood now. He felt her less rigid, beneath him, softer and more welcoming. Perhaps she was convinced, and to verify it, he bit her ear.

He felt her arching, slightly, as much as his weight allowed her. She sighed, and at last Cicero understood that she had decided.

"Very good, the brave little crow." he kissed her neck, lascivious.

Morrigan left him more space, raising her chin and stretching her throat. Cicero sniffed her, smelling her naturally cold skin. It was a point, the neck, which he adored. Perhaps because he had strangled so many girls, in his life. Not that now he didn’t want to do it, of course. Everything would’ve been much more pleasant, with a death as a grand finale. But, as he always said, it was the purpose that mattered, not the procedure. He might have been a sick killer, but he needed her, and holding her close beside him in the Nirn was more important than any murder. That need he could vent on anyone else.

He brought his left around her throat, then, and found with pleasure that only one hand would’ve been enogh. He tightened the grip a little, just for the pleasure of feeling the sensation, then he let go, feeling she was stiffening again.

"Quiet, little crow, I would never dare."

And then she was relaxed again. She trusted him, if nothing else. She was still intimidated by his behavior, but it was enough to reassure her and she was immediately meek. For Cicero it was enough, it was fine. That too was faith, and of a very strong kind.

He felt her legs widen, and the situation began to please him much more than he remembered. He became more voracious, and so did she, who finally was letting go, go, go... surrendering to the joy of carnal union.

Cicero ran a hand along her body, starting from the collarbone, passing over the breast, the breastbone, the belly, and finally touched her in the center of everything, from which a flame of desire radiated.

"You’re very wet. Your body has confirmed, have you seen? Trust it. Let it go, don’t think."

She began to gasp as he stroked her, just with his hand, without haste. Waiting was his best specialty. He would’ve waited hours, if necessary. And, once again, he knew it wouldn’t have been.

He put himself in position, asking for the last permission, not in words. And he received her last consent, not in words, when Morrigan lightly rested a hand on his lower back, pulling him towards herself.

First he kissed her. A deep kiss, which was a bit of a preamble to what would’ve happened shortly thereafter. And finally, with one determined movement, he penetrated her.

He heard her winceìing and broking away from the kiss. Morrigan was breathing hard, but without complaints. He was proud of her.

He stood still, waiting for her to calm down.

"So, did it hurt?"

"Aye…"

"Think again."

And suddenly, Morrigan seemed to understand what he meant. Yes, it had hurt, but it wasn’t important. Nothing was, in the light of that situation. The pleasure of being together in such an intimate moment was worth it, just to feel free, death and all worries forgotten.

"No" she rectified, and Cicero felt like getting lost in that syllable, from how sweet and gratifying it sounded, "no, because it doesn’t matter."

He felt at peace with himself, and with her, especially with her. Finally he had the feeling of having given her a little freedom, even if not much. A huge step towards acceptance, towards self-awareness. That alone was all right for him. It was the fulfillment he had wanted since he had first seen her, afraid of climbing the stairs. He didn’t aspire to anything other than her strength of mind, her rebellion, her independence from the terror she had been slaving to for decades.

Cicero continued to move, enjoying the warm and enveloping feeling that gave him being inside her. He studied her reactions, from the stiffness of her muscles to the rhythm of her heart and her breath. He tried to pull her hair, to make her understand what he meant by pain that becomes pleasure, and had the feeling that she was finally experiencing it. Morrigan, in reply, scratched his back, and he was immensely grateful and devoted to her.

In the end, when they reached the ultimate pleasure, they both faced two great truths. One had just been released from the fears that imprisoned her, and the other had just been imprisoned by the feelings that would’ve freed him.

Chapter Text

He woke up and realized he had overslept. He had not slept like that for many years, perhaps even since he was a child. He looked up and saw that from the small windows at the top, near the roof, blades of golden light were penetrating, highlighted by the flow of fine dust in the air. To see the corpuscles dancing gave a certain sense of greatness, to Cicero. Each time he analyzed the immensely small and found it similar to the immensely large: dust which in reality was nothing more than an agglomeration of chaos, as well as the universe. In that perspective, perhaps, the planets were only the dust of the immense Sithis.

He sighed, trying to bring his mind back to the Nirn, and more specifically to Tamriel, to the Skyrim province, to the Nightgate inn, and finally to that room, next to Morrigan.

He turned to the side and saw her, deeply asleep. He was sure she was, breathing too slowly and heavily. She was leaning on his arm, naked, curled up as if she were remembering how safe she was to live in her mother's womb. They were there, together, close, in such a normal position that they almost looked like a couple like any other. Cicero found it amusing: they were very normal, after all, apart from the fact that one was a psychopathic murderer and the other a blind girl affected by a very serious social anxiety. Perfect, really. Perfect.

But, perhaps, there was nothing to joke about. Maybe they were perfect for each other, and they were a normal couple, in the infinitely small of that room. They were, on their own, a separate microcosm, as was the dust that was laying on their naked, languid bodies. They were normal, yes, if no one had been outside. And, at that moment, no, there was no one outside. Everything was beginningand ending there, and they were defining normality as they wanted, free, without chains.

Cicero thought about the last time he had woken up in the morning and with a girl sleeping by his side. And he realized that, actually, all those things together had never happened: sometimes he had woken up with a girl by his side, like Galla, but it wasn’t morning, and he had slipped away so as not to satisfy her nauseating post-coitus need for affection; at times it was morning, the girl was there, but he had not awakened at all, he had returned from a night job and was just about to embrace the carnal pleasure with her; at times he had awakened, it was morning, but the girl hadn’t been as lucky as Morrigan, and if she stood still beside him it wasn’t because she was asleep. However, well... having all three things together was a rare, unique event that made him feel like he had just won a prize. Everything was so pleasantly ordinary, that he could almost start thinking about having a family.

He chuckled, because yes, even to himself he made jokes. Family. Such an idiocy.

Or rather, he would’ve liked it, but not so much to abandon everything, work, life in the Sanctuary. In fact, the idea of having children teased him, but maybe it wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t want them to born sick and mad like him...

Then, however, he remembered that it hadn’t always been mad. Although he had been crazy, very crazy, for a long time, in reality he could’ve been different. He and Morrigan would’ve been better parents than Modia Prodice and The Hammer. Even with all their faults, yes, they would’ve loved their children, and that would’ve been enough to make them good people. Cicero would’ve liked this for his progeny, yes. It was a good thought that something healthy and ordinary could born from him, as the scene in the bedroom was now.

It was at that moment that Morrigan woke up. Maybe she had heard him laugh.

She didn’t immediately open her eyelids. She struggled to open them later and reluctantly, as if she still did it only for her father, who didn’t want her to keep them closed. If it had been totally up to her, she wouldn’t have done it. But Cicero was grateful that she could keep them open, or he wouldn’t have seen the Void on the evening of the northern lights, and he wouldn’t have spared her.

"Good morning, little crow!" he greeted her, happy, in a serene whisper.

She stretched and Cicero could feel muscles and tendons getting stiff for a moment. How many times he had felt it in the victims... it seemed like a temporary rigor mortis.

"Hi..." she mewed, softly, relaxing immediately and getting closer to his shoulder.

"Are you all right?" asked Cicero, for confirmation.

He saw her happy but wanted to hear it. In some respects, he was an insecure person, he couldn’t understand well the feelings of others, because he couldn’t understand his own. With intelligence, deduction, and predatory instinct, he could assert that she was quiet, but not whether the experience of the night before had pleased her or not, or in what gradation. Maybe that was the reason why he needed to talk often and a lot.

"Aye, of course" she replied, weak, calm, "I was dreaming of my mother, you know?"

"And what was she doing?"

"Nothing, I can’t see in dreams either. I only know she was there. Maybe she was saying something, but I can’t remember well."

Cicero couldn’t give an interpretation to that dream, so he didn’t, and he shut up. Now that the sun was flooding the room and Cicero couldn’t turn it off, he allowed himself to look at her, as he hadn’t done the night before. It was true, she was a little rounder, even on the hips and on the belly. He watched the feminine curve of her body, which was laying on the side, from the shoulder to the pelvis, the pale skin reflecting the liquid gold of the sun. He paused on the buttocks, then on the navel, and finally on the breasts, crushed between them by the closed shoulders. Her nipples were turgid.

"Cover yourself up if you're cold."

But she shook her head. It wasn’t true she wasn’t cold, the goosebumps were covering her shoulder. But maybe... maybe it was like pain, for her. She didn’t care. She wanted to feel cold on purpose in order to feel alive, to verify if she could bear it, to test her inner Nord.

"Cicero and Morrigan aren’t so different. Cold is a perception too, isn’t it?"

She nodded, as if she were grateful that he finally had understood her. From that moment on, Cicero no longer insisted. He would’ve brought some snow, if she had asked, he would’ve seen her become cyanotic in the ice without intervene. Because that was what she wanted, it was what she needed to be comfortable with herself, as he needed wounds, and so it was fine.

"I'm glad you can understand. Nobody ever did it, ever."

Cicero sighed, approached, and hugged her. He stroked her back lightly, brushing it with just a finger, and felt her skin ripple as he passed. He was happy, because it meant that she still had the sense of touch on her body.

"How are your fingers?"

She didn’t answer right away. She let out an undecided sound, like the low moan of a suffering dog.

"Like yesterday, the same."

At least it hadn’t got worse. Cicero told her, and she nodded, not very convinced.

Cicero got up, then, to check her feet. Those seemed to be good, they were of a healthy color, unlike the hands. Better, again, because if the illness had taken her feet first, she couldn’t have walked anymore.

To cheer her up, he touched one of the soles, and she rolled herself up with a hysterical snicker. When the spasm was over, she hugged a pillow and returned to her fetal position, curled up. So positioned she looked like a comma, or an apostrophe. Something that is between two words, in short, and those words could be beginning and end, or day and night, or happiness and sadness. The words that described her, in short, that explained her innumerable contradictions.

Cicero decided to go get something to eat and dragged himself down from their thalamus. When he stood up and started dressing, however, he stopped, noticing something on the blanket.

He leaned forward, and realized that it was a small patch of dark blood, darker than the blood he usually saw, the one which came out of the victims’ wounds and throats.

"What's up?"

Morrigan must have felt his immobility. Once again, Cicero was amazed at how much she was aware of what was happening around her, despite everything.

"You bled, little crow." he told her lightly, to make sure she didn’t take it too seriously.

"Really?"

She seemed not to be convinced, to be honest.

"Why this amazement? Have you lied about your virginity to naive Cicero?" he joked.

Morrigan laughed, amused.

"No, it's just that... I didn’t think about it."

Perhaps it was normal that she hadn’t thought about it. She, after all, had never seen blood, perhaps she didn’t even know it could happen in losing her virginity.

Still immobility. Cicero stood in silence, observing that little stain, and thinking about how difficult and at the same time deeply mystical it would’ve been to be a woman. Life that in many aspects becomes suffering: the first lie with a man, giving birth, and then the monthly pain. A very hard trial, which surely the Mother would’ve appreciated from all her daughters. An immense gift, then. A constant pain that he, unfortunately, had to get on purpose to feel better.

"Are you pleased?" Morrigan asked suddenly, looking halfway between curiosity and repulsion.

Cicero spread a sly smile and stared at her, though she couldn’t notice it. He did it for himself, to tell the truth, to recover the self-esteem that only a direct look could give him.

"Don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answer to, Morrigan."

They remained locked in that room all day. They saw the blades of light reach out, hit the wooden wall, then disappear. Neither of them bothered to move, they only got up to eat. Everything was very still there, like a crypt.

They were waiting. Neither they knew what.

They felt well together, talking, comparing, but they also knew that they were there only because of the impossibility of doing anything else. Because the path was lost, they didn’t know where to go, what to do. Cicero was the most undecided, because he knew that sooner or later he would’ve had to face and resolve the issue, but he didn’t know how. He had to kill her, he didn’t want to, and he still had all the time he wanted: the only solution was to stay in that room for decades. It made no sense.

Then, toward evening, after Cicero had rekindled the candles, Morrigan took on a strange expression. She was still, lying, completely naked in her pallor, with open arms as if she wanted to hug the world. She looked like a crucified victim, as they did in Cyrodiil: a position as much painful as it was serene, as if it were the victims themselves to sacrifice. A very dignified position, almost superb. Yet, in her grisly beauty, Morrigan didn’t seem calm, there was something wrong with her eyebrows.

"Cicero?" she asked at one point, oddly. She was staring at a point on the ceiling: she was keeping her eyes there, without moving them, and even though she couldn’t see anything, she seemed to be trying to decipher a message engraved on the grain of the supporting beam.

Cicero was frightened of her tone, too serious. He decided he didn’t want to be serious, he was too much in those days, and so he tried to laugh.

"Um, what a bad tone, little crow! What do you want to ask good Cicero? Do you want to sleep with the bard?"

Just an hint of a smile, because with all the rest of the face she remained serious. Cicero, standing in front of her, watching her as an artist observes the perspective vanishing point, understood that it wouldn’t have been so easy to escape from seriousness.

"No, I have no interest in him."

"Oh, what a relief! Just because he's a bard, you know, not for anything else. If you want the innkeeper..."

She smiled lightly this time, with only a hint of scandal.

"I don’t want the innkeeper, he's old!"

Cicero breathed in his tight teeth, as one does when there is a very painful news to be reclutantly shared.

"Cicero is no longer a youngster himself, you know, right?"

But she shook her head, amused and annoyed at the same time.

"I don’t want anyone apart from you and it has nothing to do with other men or any kind of Nirn creature!"

Cicero was silent, admitting that, for that time, she had won.

He sighed, leaned his arms against the low wooden beam, and looked at her with his head bent sideways, as if he wanted to study her depth and shadows, beyond perspective.

"Um, bad business, loyalty!" he said honestly, "Cicero is loyal, but believe him, it's better for you to get rid of it before you get imprisoned."

"It doesn’t concern loyalty what I wanted to talk about, but pain."

Cicero suddenly became interested, stretching his neck and stiffening the muscles of his bare chest. He held his breath, because he didn’t know if he was about to receive a scolding or a sort of assent to heavier erotic games.

In doubt, he remained silent, with ears wide open, waiting for her to speak.

"I just want to understand how you... you know, right? Ignore it."

He still didn’t know what she was asking for, but at least it wasn’t a scolding. He relaxed a little, exhaling. He thought, for the umpteenth time, that all those emotional ups and downs were taking away at least a decade of his life.

"Cicero doesn’t ignore it, little crow, he embraces it. It's different."

"Don’t always correct everything I say, please! You understood what I meant!"

Cicero spread a sly smile. He liked it, that alterity. Lately she used it more often, if justified, of course. It was as if she had suddenly learned how to assert her reasons, how to rediscover herself the Princess of the Void.

Cicero lowered his head slightly, as a sign of submission and respect. She couldn’t see it with her eyes, but he was sure she could see it in other ways. She could feel it. She was one that always understood how others behaved with her, even without being able to see their gestures.

"Humble Cicero asks for forgiveness, Princess. Sometimes he's a very arrogant jester, very, yes. But he’s forced to insist, at least on this definition, because... to ignore means to act as if pain doesn’t exist, to embrace means accepting it, living with it and... loving it, in some respects."

"Well, I would just like to ignore it."

"Would you? If you need to use the conditional, you’ll never succeed. We start with the little things, even the verbs at the right tense. You don’t would like to ignore it. You want to ignore it. Hm?"

Morrigan expressed an annoyed smile and a sigh. Cicero ran for cover.

"Cicero doesn’t care that the little crow is annoyed, because this isn’t linguistic arrogance. This is the first lesson, so listen."

At that point, in fact, she became interested. She abandoned her crucified position and sat up, exactly in the middle of the bed. She hugged her legs, bending them against her own body, and suddenly, from big and proud, she became a tiny spot in the center of the half-lit room. A change that also represented her way of dealing with the hot topics.

"All right, I want to ignore it. But you like it, right? How is it possible?"

Cicero shook his head and scratched the back of his neck, ruffling his hair. He found it difficult to explain, because he had never done it, with third parties. Nobody had ever cared to know what he thought about it.

"Nobody likes pain itself, little crow, not even Cicero. It’s humanly impossible, it goes against every instinct of conservation. This is why Cicero doesn’t hurt himself and when he fights he does everything he can to avoid being hit. However, and here you have to pay attention... however he likes the feeling that comes with a wound. Pain is a strong experience that brings awareness of oneself. If you feel pain, you're still alive, for example. If you feel pain, your nerves are still intact, they work well, and the brain works well too. If you feel pain, you're feeling something, Morrigan. To feel something has always been... difficult, for Cicero. You should understand it more than anyone else: rather than feeling nothing, wouldn’t you rather feel pain in your hands? It would mean they exist, they still work. Rather than seeing nothing, wouldn’t you rather see something horrible?"

She clung more on herself, and Cicero saw the soft flesh of her legs deformed by the strong compression. She was agitated. Why was she struggling so hard?

"Yes, you're right, it makes sense."

"But you’ll never be like Cicero, Morrigan" he clearified, "you donìt have the problem of feeling nothing, you feel way too much. You’ll never look for pain like Cicero."

She nodded, pressing her lips and sinking her face between her legs. When she re-emerged, shortly thereafter, her eyes were wide open and she looked like a frightened squirrel.

"I know, I'm not like you."

"So why investigate?" asked Cicero, still leaning on the supporting beam, "why are we tackling this topic? Cicero wasn’t born yesterday, he knows you don’t like it. What do you want exactly?"

She shrugged. If she had a look, she would’ve moved it elsewhere, embarrassed. But she only had her face, and its direction, to signal when she didn’t want to be in direct contact with the interlocutor: in fact, she turned her head to the right, resting her ear on her own knees. She almost looked like he was looking at the fresh, fragrant snowdrops in a vase on the chest of drawers.

"I’ll never seek pain, but it will find me anyway. My illness, well... isn’t the most merciful of the Nirn. I’ll be sick, and... I would like to face it with dignity, as I know you would do. And instead I’ll be pathetic."

Cicero closed his eyes. He was disheartened, really, disheartened that she diminished herself like that.

"Why do you underestimate yourself, little crow? Cicero has already told you a thousand times that you shouldn’t. And he has already told you that you’re so blind about your personality you can’t even admit what you have already done."

She didn’t understand, Cicero was reading it in her face, so he continued:

"Morrigan has already been proud, very, yesterday, under that tree."

"I cried!" she protested, severe with herself.

Cicero, finally, lowered his arms and stood without leaning on the beam. He got on his knees on the bed, went to her, and taking her by the chin made her head turn towards him. He spoke to her an inch from her nose, so much so that at that distance he could almost smell her skin.

"Crying isn’t synonym with patheticity. Crying is just a physiological reaction to an external stimulus. Yesterday you were so sadly serene under that birch, Morrigan, how couldn’t you see it? You were beautiful, and nostalgic, and... everything would’ve occurred to me to tell you, unless you were pathetic. If you don’t believe in yourself, can you at least believe in Cicero?"

She nodded. Not forced, fortunately, it seemed that she was at least partly convinced. He was glad that his logic worked with her, because with everyone else it had never succeeded. Morrigan, however, followed his speeches, and he took pleasure in this. Everything seemed to make sense when she nodded in that unnatural way that belonged to her alone.

"You're right, but... I'd still like to... die lighter, do you understand? You said you could teach me, then do it."

Cicero felt a shiver of pleasant expectation along the spine. He squeezed her chin a little, narrowed his eyes, and smiled in a disquieting way. He spoke in a hoarse voice, coming from the innermost recesses of his soul.

"Cicero has so much hoped to hear you ask this..."

He kissed her, carried her, caressing her little tongue as if he had nothing else in the world. And maybe it was so, he really didn’t have anything else. Without jacket, without gloves, without hat, he felt naked inside his soul, as if he wasn’t really himself, and his personality could come out and evaporate from his skin, no longer contained. The only way to survive was to remember why he was there, and the reason was her. His contract... how much he wanted to be able to eliminate the possessive pronoun and to change the term. The little crow, that was all. Not a contract, not owned by someone.

He broke away, almost obliged, for her and for himself. No intimate contact when trying to explain pain. She had to be alone, because she would’ve been in her worst moments. She had to learn not to depend on the comfort of others. And so he backed off when she tried to approach. He put a finger on her mouth, feeling it soft, cold, slightly cracked by the frost, and gently pushed her away from him.

"No cuddles or kisses, it's for your own good. Then you'll thank me." he said, cold and warm at the same time, disturbing and seductive, thoughtful and detached.

She didn’t understand, but he didn’t care, because she would’ve later.

He touched the side of her face, in a caress that, for the first time, had nothing affectionate. It was too heavy, too rigid. He reached his hair, soft, long, and grabbed it, pulling lightly. He was almost scared when she complained for so little. He wasn’t very sure on what level to set, so he asked her.

"What do you want us to do, Morrigan? You choose the level, I don’t want to be responsible for your... eternal hate."

And, for the first time, she wasn’t undecided at all. She was much sels-assured than he was at the moment. Afraid, but not undecided. The student was surpassing the teacher.

"Use the knife. As if I were a victim."

Cicero let go a nervous giggle. He wondered if he had heard correctly.

"Well, not quite like a victim, or there will be very little to learn from you... the first lesson and also the last one."

A joke. Why had he always to make jokes? Sometimes he hated himself.

"I want you to do like that time when you were going to kill me. I want to feel…"

But Cicero knew well what she wanted to feel.

"You want to feel alive, eh? Because there has been no time when you enjoyed the world more than when you were about to die."

She let out a sigh, as if a great weight were being taken away from her shoulders. As if she was holding within that truth from the beginning and only now she had accepted it.

"Is there something wrong with me?"

"No, Morrigan, no, no. It's just that... you love life a lot more than you thought. More than we thought."

She smiled slightly, but Cicero didn’t want her to. Not because he didn’t like to see her serene, indeed, but because it gave him the impression that she had not quite understood what she had asked, that she was taking it too lightly.

But perhaps he was the one who underestimated her now.

The ebony dagger, dark and lethal, with its hypnotic decorations, was always by its side, tied to the belt. He never took it off, professional deformation. When he unsheathed it, with a quick movement, he saw her wince, and he was glad that she wasn’t too serene. It wouldn’t have been natural otherwise, it would’ve made him questioning her sanity... even if he was the least person suited to such criticism.

Holding the dagger firmly, he approached it against her throat. That soft, clear and delicate throat, which he had already noticed the first time. The difference was that, now, he was afraid of injuring her involuntarily.

"Lie down, Morrigan." he accompanied his light pressure on the neck with the vocal instruction, because he wanted her to follow the movement. He was really afraid of cutting her in half like a fish.

She, fortunately, obeyed, swallowing. She fall backwards, lying down again, with a heavy movement. She was holding her hands up, a little above her face, in a sign of total surrender, and her lugubrious hair framed her head like the macabre halo of a dark saint.

Cicero was on top of her, straddling her, holding her firmly, but he thought with pleasure that there would’ve been no need. It would’ve been really easy if all the victims had been like that. Perhaps it was appropriate for him to start seducing them all.

"Now, Morrigan, what did you feel that night?"

She breathed slowly, agitated but at the same time controlled, making the chest drop and raise rhythmically, her nipples pointed upwards without veils.

"I was afraid of dying."

"Yes, but more specifically. What were you afraid of?"

Cicero wanted to give her a clue: he brought the dagger back to her throat, making her feel the blade's edge, cold and sharp. He had done so many times, with a thousand other people, and never in life he would’ve imagined having to redo it in such a context. So... consensual.

"What did you ask when we talked about how you were going to die? Do you remember it, hm?"

"I asked... if it was painful."

"Exactly, my dear. So what were you afraid of?"

"Of... suffering..."

She said it as if she were disappointed that all aspects of her life always led to that, always to fear of pain. But Cicero, on the contrary, was proud of her because she had admitted it.

"Exactly, again, two out of two. You were afraid of dying while suffering, and not just dying. If you want to overcome this fear, you must free yourself."

"And how do I do this?"

Cicero leaned more on her, moving closer, until he felt the warm breath of her agitation.

"Well, that's why we're here" he moved the dagger, caressing the sides of the face, the cheeks, the neck, with the tip of the blade, "what must be clear from now on, however, is that this won’t be the our routine, Morrigan. This is something you asked for. Do you confirm?"

She didn’t nod, for fear of moving and getting hurt.

"Yes, I asked for it."

"Because Cicero wouldn’t want to do it, you know? Cicero... certainly will enjoy it, but he would never have thought of force you. Clear?"

And, again, one of her sarcastic sentences full of pride, which Cicero liked so much.

"Is it me or you’re you washing your hands?"

The jester laughed, genuinely amused. One inch from her face, he licked the tip of her nose, without giving her anything more affectionate.

"Touché, my dear, and it's already the second time I've said it with you. When you're under you become a lot more daring, hm?"

He saw her blush and he was pleased. He liked to have control, at least in words. Because for everything else, no, he didn’t have control. He was her slave, he felt that way and admitted he was. He was on top of her, but just physically. If she had ordered him to slit his own throat at that moment, he probably would’ve done it.

"It's just for survival instinct." she justified herself with a smile.

"No, it’s for pride" Cicero corrected her, mercilessly, "like all your fellow men, stupid Nords."

He had done it on purpose, to provoke her. Morrigan didn’t show an exaggerated reaction, but Cicero could read the annoyance in her slightly curled nose.

He brought the blade to her nose, then, to point out where she had done wrong.

"Anger isn’t good, Morrigan, it’s the first to be eliminated. Whatever your physical aggressor says, or whatever is the way you feel about your illness, you must never give in to anger. Anger is ephemeral, it obscures your mind, it makes you do stupid things. It makes you feel less pain, it's true, but it would also make you say or do something wrong, bringing you to death. So remember, no anger. I could also tell you that you’re a disgusting handicapped, and you wouldn’t do anything. You would be calm. Yes, exactly, like this. I could tell you that you're a whore, your mother was too, and you wouldn’t feel anything. Clear? Whoever is attacking you doesn’t deserve your grudge, because it’s a difficult feeling to feed, wasteful."

Morrigan, very serious, taken from the speech, nodded, quick.

"And so you don’t have to feel anything for what's going on. Try to see the situation as objective. If they're trying to rape you, think it's just sex. If they want to torture you, think it's just for information, not to hurt you, and if you don’t tell them, you win. If it's a disease... think it's not sentient, it's just random, and it has hit others before you. What's happening to you isn’t unique. What's happening to you happens to everyone, always. It happened to you not because you’re unlucky, but because sooner or later it had to happen. If you see everything as predestined, you have no sense of guilt, and you can react."

She was fascinated, her mouth half open. She was hanging from his lips. She didn’t dare to disturb.

"Convince yourself that you can do something. Not necessarily to free yourself, that may not be possible. But convince yourself that pain is just a perception, and you choose whether to feel it or not. Cicero .. he did it many times, as a child. No anger, no guilt, and he remained silent while they were beating him. Do you understand, hm?"

She nodded again, silent, religious and respectful as a model student.

"Breathe deeply and don’t think about anything" he resumed, calm, reassuring, strange for a professional assassin like him, "let your mind be the Void. Your attacker points the knife at your side, but you don’t react, because you don’t care. You don’t even feel it. You don’t feel anything."

He spoke so persuasively that she closed her eyes, calm, serene.

He raised her arms higher, fixing them over her head and holding them still. Not so much to dominate her, but because he didn’t want her to snap and be harmed more than expected.

He pointed the dagger at her ribs, to her left: a delicate point that didn’t require a serious wound to cause much pain. He felt Morrigan tremble and wince with the cold and the sting of the blade. He understood that she wasn’t ready yet.

"Morrigan, there's nothing here. You’re not here. You’re in the Void. There is no knife, no aggressor, no room, no body to hurt. Delete everything. All of this, except... except for one particular."

"What?" she asked, as if she couldn’t decide between many feelings to focus on.

"Anything, Morrigan. It can be a perfume you like, the fabric under your fingers, or a memory. The important thing is that you only think about that particular, and nothing else. A simple method is to focus on a healthy part of the body. Like the wrist. Do you feel my finger on your wrist?"

He stroked it lightly, with the same hand he was using to hold her arms still. Morrigan nodded.

"Yes, I feel it."

"So just think of that. Think of your wrist. That is fine, that doesn’t hurt and will never hurt. It will never betray you, you’ll never feel pain in that part of the body. They could even stab a lung, but your wrist will be fine. If the wrist is fine, everything else can be fine, do you understand?"

She nodded again and Cicero understood from the languor of her body that now, yes, she was focused. He continued to caress her wrist, to focus her attention on that spot. He continued for an interminable time, in silence, with patience. It is always necessary, patience, when teaching something, because hurry is the enemy of new skills.

After more than ten minutes, he decided to try again. She was there, or rather, she was gone. She was elsewhere. She was all on her wrist, she existed only there, the rest of the body was no longer hers.

So Cicero, gently, cut the skin on her side, at the height of the last ribs. A red mark formed and began to drip on the bed. She only made a slight gesture, a spasm perhaps involuntary, but otherwise remained stationary. Cicero opened a cut as long as his finger, to prove she could resist, no matter how long the agony was. He didn’t go fast, in fact. He opened it slowly, and she never moved, not even her expression changed. He kept smoothing her wrist and knew she was only there.

When he stopped, the blood was gushing from the wound. It wasn’t deep enough to hurt the muscle, but it wasn’t even superficial like a scratch. He didn’t want to hurt her, and he hadn’t, after all. She hadn’t felt it, so it was as if it hadn’t happen.

He sheathed his dagger and freed her hands, but she didn’t move from her position. Cicero put his right hand on the cut, pressing, stopping her blood, and kissed her on the forehead.

"Morrigan, you did it." he whispered, doubting she hadn’t even noticed. She lifted her eyelids, slamming them as if she had just woken up.

"Now the pain will fall all in one stroke, little crow, but it doesn’t matter, because it's over. The important thing is that you never stop concentrating while it happens. If you need relief, think of your wrist. Always think of your wrist."

Morrigan sighed, calm, balanced.

"What do you focus on to when you do it?"

"Cicero? To what's here."

He was about to tap an index on his temple, but then he realized that she couldn’t understand. Then he tapped her temple. He clung to his brain, the one that had saved his whole life. Specifically, to the laughter, but he didn’t say this, not to be considered too crazy.

"I really don’t know how, but I didn’t feel anything! It works!"

She almost seemed to be moved. Cicero smiled, proud of her.

Now, Morrigan was laughing, without restraint. It was the adrenaline coming up all at once, Cicero knew it.

"Very good, little crow, Cicero is extremely proud of you. Really. You made him happy."

He too was on the verge of being moved by her. He was so proud of her change, so proud! He thought of the first times he had met her, when she didn’t even dare to touch the apples of Nazeem. Now he was sure she would’ve caught them, those apples, and bitten them in front of him, putting them back in their place half-eaten. Now, if Cicero had attacked her again, none of his threats would’ve been successful, she would’ve been calm, she wouldn’t have begged that way... so ordinary. She would’ve faced death with courage. And if he had let her go, he could bet that she would’ve defended herself, denouncing him, turning the whole Whiterun against him to protect herself and her home.

Cicero rose from her, freeing her from his weight. He let her recover for a moment, lying down, and in the meantime he dabbed her wound. It stopped bleeding almost immediately, stitches weren’t necessary.

When he had finished, he pulled her up, helping her to sit up straight.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, back in the caring gentleman's role.

She shrugged, to say yes, it hurt, but it was bearable. It didn’t matter.

"Thank you" she said, and to Cicero it sounded like music, "thanks for everything, I know you didn’t want to."

Cicero smiled at her, but he didn’t answer. It wasn’t over.

To the girl's astonishment, he handed her the dagger, forcing her to hold it.

"It's not over yet, little crow. Equity, remember?"

She was terrified now. She shook her head, her raven hair danced around her face. She was stubborn, behaving as if she had heard a curse. She wasn’t even holding the dagger, even though Cicero was pressing it on her hand.

"No, no, why? I can’t! I don’t want to!"

"Neither did I, you said so too."

"Aye, but you’re used to..."

"To hurt those I love? No, no, Morrigan. I never did this. Cicero has never hurt those to whom he has sworn loyalty. He never hurt a Brother or a Sister who were loyal in their turn, and... you’re a loyal Sister. When you accept pain, you do it for yourself, but also for others. You forced Cicero to make a sacrilegious gesture, now you owe him something."

But she shook her head even stronger. She tried to get away, but Cicero held her arms. She was about to cry, incredible... incredible as she could change behavior when it had to do with other human beings.

Cicero decided to be sweeter, not to threaten her, not even remotely, not to make the debt weigh. It had never worked, with her. Things were to be explained to her, because she was a clever crow, not a goat, she couldn’t be frightened with roars.

"Listen to Cicero, listen to him very well. Think of the cold. You like to endure it, and you're good at it. If Cicero asked you to help him learn how to endure cold, what would you do? Would you teach him in the cold, with him, or would you give him advice from the heat of the inn?"

She stopped. She stopped trying to rebel. She still was breathing violently, however, agitated.

"It's not the same..."

"Oh, it’s totally the same, Morrigan. Cicero asks you with humble heart. He begs you. He needs it, so as not to feel guilty."

That was a feeling that she could understand. And, in fact, she understood it: she put her hair unkempt behind her ears, so as not to annoy her face, and finally grabbed the ebony dagger. It made a strange effect in his hand, unnatural, as if suddenly it had become a flesh knife.

"What if I hurt you severely?"

"Do you really think Cicero would allow it?" he joked.

Morrigan smiled, nervous, tense. Cicero guided her hands. He leaned the free one on himself, to make her feel where she had to cut. He felt her cold fingers, even colder than usual, on his tense muscles, ready to receive what they deserved.

"Do you feel where you are?"

She nodded. Yes, she felt it. The sensitivity was missing only on the tips of her fingers, for now, with the rest of the hand she could still see.

Cicero, approaching her armed hand to him, signaled her to proceed.

She was hesitant, slow, and that made the agony more painful and more agreeable. She opened a cut in the same place where he had done to her, but less precise, less linear. She seemed to be frightened to feel the heat of the blood flowing over her fingers.

In the end, when she couldn’t bear it anymore, she broke away, looking horrified. Cicero sighed, kissing her, regardless of his bleeding. He didn’t want her to feel guilty for him, he was immensely grateful.

"Thank you" he whispered, in the same tone as the one who receives a blessing, "thank you, Morrigan, for you made me your equal, at the price of your guilt. We are free together, now."

Chapter Text

The wound didn’t give any troubles to either. They began to heal very quickly, Cicero a little faster than Morrigan. But she didn’t complain, she was stoic. Occasionally Cicero saw her touch her own side, but she never said anything, she remained quiet until it stopped hurting her.

The thing that Cicero appreciated most, however, was that she had learned. He had seen her before, especially in the evening, falling into depression. She began to think that everything would go wrong, that she didn’t want to die, that her life was horrible. She had done it a few more days, and then she had stopped. She had stopped seeing the negative of everything. Instead of cuddling depression, Cicero noticed that she occasionally cuddled her wrist. He never told her that he had noticed, because it was right that it was something of her own, private. She had to understand that nobody would’ve noticed, not even an attacker. She had to understand that she was safe, with her wrist, and so he never told her how proud he was of that little gesture. It was as if, suddenly, she had learned where to canalize negativity.

She was beginning to accept his religion as well, it seemed. Perhaps not to believe it, of course, but at least she appreciated it. No one had ever understood why Cicero and his brethern wanted the Void so much, but Morrigan began to get an idea.

In fact one morning, one of many at that time, she said suddenly:

"You know, I think there's a certain beauty in the Void. It makes the world better."

It was a deep thought, and Cicero agreed, but he wanted to know what had led her to that conclusion. When he asked for further explanations, she was simple, yet precise.

"If you believe in a fantastic paradise, life, which isn’t perfect, becomes something to finish as soon as possible, almost a punishment. If you know that afterwards there will be nothing, instead... everything seems more beautiful, here."

And that was exactly the reason why worshiping the Void was the wisest choice. Morrigan hadn’t yet taken the next step, she hadn’t yet understood that the Void, once achieved, would’ve still been positive in its own way. But again, he had to give her time. Time corrected everything.

Time, unfortunately, corrected everything but one thing: her illness. Morrigan's fingers were whiter than usual, as if there were no more blood flowing, and she claimed to feel the numbness rising from the mid-phalanx tips. Both were fearing the day when the whole hand would’ve become useless, but they never talked about it, Morrigan herself seemed to want to convince herself that it wasn’t important. As she had been taught, yes... but maybe it wasn’t right.

They were very often making love at that time. A little because they wanted it and a little because they felt obliged, they knew that sooner or later the insensitivity would’ve imprisoned Morrigan completely, even in private parts. And then they were there, in that inn, as if nothing else existed. The patrons came and went and they remained, in the innkeeper's amazement. They ate, laughed, waited for death trying to mimic a normal life that, they knew, wasn’t for them. Everything seemed false, in that period. Everything seemed unfinished.

When Cicero tried to talk about it, they were sitting on the outside stairs. The weather was cold but merciful. There were clouds that threatened a storm, but the storm wasn’t coming, and they were there waiting for it.

Waiting... now it seemed to have become a routine.

"Little crow, are you... are you happy here?"

He hoped she would’ve said no, but he knew she wouldn’t have said anything.

In fact, she shrugged, hesitating.

"I don’t know. I am if you are too."

A non-response, as she always did to avoid making decisions. Cicero tried to be patient.

"You don’t have to always reconnect everything to Cicero. I asked if you're happy, and that's it. Are you or aren’t you?"

She shrugged again, as if to repeat the previous answer.

Cicero, exasperated, looked up at the sky. He saw a snowflake, only one, falling on him. It melted on his forehead.

Then, however, a change as sudden as it was unexpected:

"No" she admitted, in a low voice, almost guilty, "it reminds me so much of Whiterun. Don’t get me wrong, I know it's not like there, I'm treated well here and I should just be grateful, you're paying for everything. Just... I’d like to do something adventurous before... before..."

She couldn’t finish the sentence. Cicero noticed the sadness in her empty and homogeneous eyes, even if she was trying to hide it. She gripped her own wrist, as if clinging to a vain hope.

"Little crow, it's okay if you vent it. Ignoring pain doesn’t mean not to feel it at all. Being able to win it must be a benefit for you, not an effort for others."

And that was the authorization she was waiting for. She sobbed, holding her mouth tight so as not to overdo it. Her eyelids narrowed and a pair of tears came down slowly, making their way to her skin and competing with each other.

Cicero didn’t like to see her like that. He really didn’t. He had never liked to see sad women, it was something he couldn’t stand, perhaps because Modia had never been. When killing them there was no problem, it was normal that they cried during an attack, but if he saw them crying for unknown reasons he immediately began to wonder what could’ve happened so serious.

"It's so hard, Cicero. It's so hard..."

She breathed in, and the warmer air came out immediately from her nostrils, appearing white into the colorless atmosphere.

"Cicero knows it. He never said it would’ve been easy."

"Why did you ask me if I'm happy?" Morrigan asked quickly, changing the subject.

Cicero didn’t answer immediately. He sighed too, searching for suitable words. It's not that he was really bored, though...

"Cicero is bored, Morrigan. Sorry."

She didn’t seem surprised too much. She nodded, shrugged. It was as if she knew that day should’ve come, as if she wanted to remove the trouble as soon as possible, to stop being a burden.

"Cicero needs to stay active, little crow" he tried to explain, "to make jokes, to go and kill people, to pray the Mother! He can’t sit still, it reminds him... it reminds him of Cheydinhal too much."

Morrigan frowned, and only then Cicero regreted not ever mentioning Cheydinhal to her. What had happened there still hurt. It was as if those souls continued to follow him, all of them, even the one of the previous Listener.

"Cicero has been a long time alone and a long time still, in Cheydinhal. Cicero doesn’t want and cannot repeat the experience, he would die. He must be active, that's why they allowed him to go back to work outside. Cicero becomes... unbearable... when he feels trapped."

Morrigan pursed her lips, nodding lightly. She wrapped herself in the black fur, which widened her shoulders in an unnatural way. She really seemed to have wings, like that.

"Well, you could go back to work. I know I'm ball and chain, but I could..."

"No, Morrigan, you couldn’t come with Cicero, but not because you're ball and chain" he said sternly, making things clear, "Morrigan isn’t ready. And both of us need space. Cicero doesn’t want you to have anything to do actively with the Brotherhood. He’ll never take you into the bowels of Dawnstar and no, he’ll never take you during a contract. You're not suitable, little crow. You accept death, and Cicero is happy, but you’re not a killer anyway. You need a reason, and often there is no reason, when Cicero works. Cicero won’t drag you through Skyrim while doing something you don’t understand and disapprove of. Forget it. Stay out of it, for your own good."

She was silent, Cicero couldn’t understand whether disappointed or not. In doubt, he put his hand on her shoulder, sinking into the fur of her cloak. But he wouldn’t have done more, he didn’t really want to let Morrigan spend her last months of life supporting him behind the scenes.

"And then" he added, a little more cheerfully, "Cicero works one contract at a time, always. As long as yours isn’t solved, another isn't asked for. It’s a rule that is learned quickly, in the Brotherhood."

Morrigan nodded again, silent. Cicero tried to wait, to see if she wanted to say something, but she never hinted to even open her mouth.

Cicero peered at her, watching her and swinging his head from side to side, as if by changing perspective he could understand her better. But he didn’t understand her, and so he decided to conclude.

"Cicero must go to the Mother, it’s necessary. He’s leaving tomorrow."

She nodded. Nothing. Nothing at all.

"Well... if the Princess of the Void doesn’t want to talk, it won’t be Cicero to oblige her."

He got up from the steps and headed inside, leaving her there. It was starting to get hard, really hard to endure the cold... not even Cicero knew if that thought was about the weather or Morrigan herself.

That evening they were both silent. They ate, sighing, and Cicero felt the atmosphere too heavy. The inn was fuller and more vital than usual, it seemed that only they weren’t in the right mood.

Cicero glanced at Morrigan, on the other side of the table, who was biting into bread. Even when she used force she was elegant: instead of tearing it off, she had martified it with her incisors, insistent, until she had managed to take a bite.

He decided he didn’t want to leave with melancholy on him. He should have fixed the matter with her.

He stood up, smiling, trying not to be heard. The noise of the other patrons covered his steps and allowed him to get around the table, to reach her. He positioned behind her and placed his closed fingers of the left hand on the center of her head, as if to simulate the shape of an egg.

He felt her wince in surprise, asking who it was. But he didn’t answer and, quickly, he simulated the breaking of the egg, mimicking with both hands the yolk and the albumen dripping on her head. She had to understand that it was Cicero, because she laughed.

"I thought it was true!" she was repeating, amid laughter, "I thought it was true! You’re good!"

"Morrigan too often forgets that Cicero is also a jester. He knows a lot of nice tricks, you know?"

It was true, he knew a lot, most of them because he did them alone during that period of emptiness in Cheydinhal. Many were visual, however, and Cicero was quite certain that Morrigan wasn’t the kind of person to appreciate a coin that disappears behind the ear or a card drawn and guessed in a deck.

Cicero sat down, happy, and above all happy to have made her happy. The tension between them had faded in a few seconds. Cicero was happy to have someone like her: it was easy to cheer her up. Unfortunately, he had the misfortune to meet her in a period not really cheerful for her, but he had to recognize that she was doing everything possible to enjoy the moment, especially now that she had been saved from Whiterun's stillness.

"Cicero, I... I wanted to tell you something. I had an idea."

She was serious but still in a good mood. Cicero wondered if he had made a wise choice encouraging her to speak. He was genuinely afraid of what she could propose him.

"Cicero is listening to you, little crow!" he said, perky, hoping he wouldn’t get something too serious. To calm down, he took a sip of wine.

"We could go and investigate my client."

Cicero almost spat everything. But he restrained himself, feeling the wine rise up his nose and burn. He had to cough, to recover.

"By Sithis, Morrigan! You're like Babette! When will you stop violating poor Cicero?"

Yes, she was like Babette, in introducing uncomfortable topics. Above all, it wasn’t a good idea to do so among thirty people, but fortunately no one seemed to have noticed: the others were laughing, joking and eating as before.

Morrigan had some trouble understanding the distance between her and the others and how much voice to use for delicate speeches.

"I'm serious, Cicero. I remembered what my mother told me in that dream, you know? She said: it’s not honorable to leave with pending issues, a true Nord fixes them all."

"Cicero believed that we had established that you’re not really a true Nord..."

Morrigan sighed, putting a hand on her forehead, as if it hurt her for thinking too much.

"This thing torments me, now more than ever. I have to find him or her, to understand why all this happened to me, and... I don’t know, maybe even take my revenge. The thing also torments you, I know. You said you're stuck on my contract until you solve it."

It was true, but he intended to solve it anyway with her death, perhaps natural if not really procured, certainly not with the death of the client. It couldn’t be, it was forbidden. How infame it could be a Brotherhood of assassins that sometimes kill those who request its services? A very good incentive to have more customers, really.

"Little crow, it doesn’t work like that, Cicero is sorry."

"You too know that staying here is a trap. If you want to solve the problem without... without doing something to me... then you have to go back."

He was amazed by how much she could be logical and pragmatic. It was true, if there was nothing in front of them, a good way, even to understand what the Mother wanted from him, would’ve been to understand the origins of the contract.

"Yes, yes, yes, but Cicero cannot!" he said, acute, tormented, "Cicero cannot go looking for the client, it would be like going against every principle of... the family!"

They were careful not to use improper terms, among other people.

"Then I'll hire you." she said treacherously.

Cicero looked at her, wide-eyed, trying to figure out if she was serious. And yes, she actually was. She was stiff, seating composed, her face turned towards him and slightly bent sideways, as if challenging him.

"Wow. Morrigan... tonight you want Cicero to get a heart attack."

He drank, upset. He put the glass down and tried to think where that conversation had started, because he couldn’t remember it anymore. In the end, he decided to get up, leaving dinner table. Quick, he stood, and took Morrigan by the hand, pulling her back. They needed to speak calmly and in privacy, the matter was becoming a little too heavy for Cicero's tastes.

They vanished, then, and soon they were in their room, accompanied by the innkeeper's allusive look. Cicero would’ve killed him willingly, and maybe he would’ve, one day. What a good man that innkeeper was.

When they were inside, Cicero closed the door and took a moment to make up his mind. He leaned against the wooden wall, almost suffering. He looked at Morrigan who, for once, was more confident than ever, and was standing in the center of the room as could do... a boss. Someone who already had the attitude of have hired and paid him, and was expecting a clean job.

Cicero smiled, thinking that he couldn’t really see her as a killer. Then, calmer, he decided to take back his personality, and to make her understand the weight of what she had asked for.

He approached her, then, with a silent and predatory movement. She noticed, even if he didn’t touch her. She always noticed, she was perspicacious. And, in fact, she became a little smaller. She didn’t give up, she didn’t react, but became more human, something that Cicero could hope to face.

"Cicero doesn’t think you have a clear idea of the gravity of what you have said, little crow" he warned, walking around her, with the malicious and sensual tone of a snake, "first of all, Cicero costs. A lot. And secondly, hiring him isn’t so easy, there are some... procedures. Oh, don’t get him wrong, Cicero’s always happy to accept a new victim, but see, hiring him without the proper process would be... unorthodox."

"Procedures? What... what kind of procedures?" she asked, scared, smaller and shivering. Cicero laughed of the strength that could have the right words and tone. He liked words. If he couldn’t impose his staring look, at least he was still good at imposing words, and Morrigan was particularly susceptible with those.

"Oh, the kind of procedures you wouldn’t want to do, little crow. You need candles, bones, human flesh... to request the services of the Brotherhood, you must first invoke the Mother, and it isn’t just like buying an apple at the market, if you know what I mean."

Morrigan wassurprised. Hadn’t she expected it? Hadn’t she understoodd that the Brotherhood was more than just a cluster of assassins? More than just a guild of ruffians, like that of Riften?

Cicero, however, when he saw her falling on the bed, realized that it wasn’t the macabre Black Sacrement that frightened her. No, it was something else.

"Sombody has done this to see me dead, then?" she asked, shocked, disappointed, "Someone hates me so much to pay and ruin their soul like that? Why?"

Cicero understood and, seized by an impulse of compassion, let go of the killer's attitude. He relaxed his shoulders, went a little closer to her, and this time walking normally, so she could hear him.

"Yes, even Cicero thought it was strange." he confessed.

He went to sit next to her, without speaking. They stayed for a moment like that, still, pointing silently in the same direction.

"What have I done?" Morrigan asked, more to the universe than to Cicero. Not in a commiserial tone, though. It was more a sincere curiosity.

"Sometimes the victims are unsuspected" explained Cicero, from the height of his experience, "the reasons may be the most disparate. Think of the people you've had some dislike with, even the slightest. Think of the things you've done."

He really wanted to help her. Also because it was a case out of statistics and he was interested too. Although the other victims were unsuspected, there was always some reason. Cicero often didn’t know that reason, but he could imagine it: the baroness, for example, was a really sweet woman, no one could’ve ever wanted to kill her for her character... but for her position, yes. Morrigan had no temper flaws, she didn’t bother people because most of the time she kept away from them, she wasn’t in an important position and she couldn’t be involved in any shady deal.

"We can’t even say that you may have seen something too much, eh, little crow?"

The joke was welcome, she laughed softly. Cicero was happy to make that effect. At least she was always ready to play down.

In the end, she spoke honestly:

"I really can’t think of anything. The most serious thing I did was killing my father, and you know it. But it happened a long time ago and nobody loved my father, besides the fact that nobody thought it was intentional. Really, they all hated him, it can’t be for that."

Not even Cicero thought it was for that. And he believed her if she said there was nothing else, really. A little because he trusted her, yes, but above all because he trusted confessions made without a real reason to lie.

"You must know something more than me, Cicero. Please tell me!"

She implored, behaving as if Cicero knew everything and didn’t want to tell her, out of spite or to protect her.

"Cicero doesn’t know anything, he already told you. He doesn’t ask why, he just executes orders" he clarified, mortified that he couldn’t help her, "the only thing he knows is that Babette has collected the contract. Then the Listener assigned it to Cicero on the order of the Mother, but it was she who spoke to the client."

Cicero knew very well what Morrigan wanted: to ask if it was possible to go and talk to Babette. She didn’t dare, however, and remained silent, her mouth tight. In the end, she asked a sweetened question, which had nothing to do with what she really wanted to say:

"Who is Babette?"

Cicero chuckled, thinking of the little monster.

"Well, she's... a woman... more or less... hm."

Morrigan was confused, Cicero understood that she was thinking of some form of hermaphroditism.

"She's a woman but she looks like a child" he corrected, "she's really nice, you'd get along, Cicero is sure!"

But Morrigan still didn’t understand.

"A woman-child in a metaphorical sense?"

"No, no, she's just a girl. She's a vampire!"

Morrigan shook her head a little, frowning, as if she didn’t want to believe it. Instead of being amazed, however, she joked.

"Well, I don’t know what I could expect from one of the Brotherhood..."

"Oh, don’t worry, she wouldn’t hurt you. She only drinks men."

Morrigan chuckled, sarcastically, as if she wasn’t quite sure she was safe.

"And why?"

"Cicero doesn’t know, she never told him. But he supposes she has an unresolved  fatherly issue. A little like you, little crow, hm?"

"Well... mine isn’t unresolved."

Cicero laughed hard. Where had she learned? Had he been such a good teacher? He would’ve never hoped for that ease on her part, ever.

"Little crow, it seems you like black humor! Very good!"

And he gently hitted her with his shoulder, to make her understand how much he loved that new part of her. Even because everything was lighter, that way, and Cicero appreciated when everything was light.

A pause, in which they calmed down, both by laughter and by the previous tension. Now they were ready to face the matter with more objectivity.

"Listen, why don’t you take me to Dawnstar? We could talk with this Babette and we could investigate a bit. Without revenge, just... just to know, okay? To do something, to solve this matter."

The idea was honest, a good compromise, Cicero had to admit it.

"Um, we could do it, little crow. But be aware that possibilities that Cicero decides to kill a client are few. Rather, no, he’ll never kill a client, forget it."

"You don’t want to kill someone? It sounds weird."

Another joke.

"By Sithis, Morrigan, you’re like a running horse! What happened to you, eh? Where's the little crow?"

They laughed again, but Morrigan was on her way now, she had no intention of losing the debate.

"All right, no revenge, for now."

"No, no revenge, never, at least not by the hand of Cicero. The Mother should command it herself to…"

But he stopped. An idea. Dazzling. As if everything made sense.

"Morrigan... did your mother tell you those words? To fix the issue?"

Morrigan was lost. She turned to him with frowned eyebrows.

"Yes, in the dream. Why?"

But Cicero needed to think.

Her mother, her mother... her mother... her... Mother?

The Mother spoke only to the Listener, she couldn’t have spoken directly. But she could’ve sent a sign. It wasn’t the first time she took the form of other mothers, other parents, it was a figure who she appreciated, because she had been herself. Was it possible? Yes. Yes, it was.

"Morrigan, the Night Mother loves us!" exploded Cicero, suddenly euphoric. He stood up, agitated, grateful for that enlightenment. He put his hands on his head, laughed, closed his eyes and enjoyed the presence, though vague and elusive, of the Mother in that room.

"Cicero, what are you saying? It was my mother, Sigrid, I remember her voice."

But Cicero knew it now, there was nothing that could change his mind. He stood in front of her, took her by the shoulders, convinced and more than ever a believer.

"Do you often dream of your mother?" he asked, and he knew that it didn’t happen often, or else she wouldn’t have said it in those days, it wouldn’t have been such a particular event.

"No" she admitted, still confused, "no, I had never dreamed of her."

"Exactly! Exactly! She was your mother, but she was sent by the true Mother! She's telling you what we have to do! She’s telling us that we can, indeed, we must investigate the origins! It’s her blessing, she’s telling us to find the client! I’ll inform the Listener, he’ll accept, I know."

He hugged her, gave her a quick kiss, joyful.

"We’re leaving for Dawnstar tomorrow, little crow. It's time to put an end to this damn contract."

Chapter Text

Morrigan seemed to appreciate Dawnstar. The cold, the snow that seemed to fall incessantly, the wind whipping at her hair and giving her the appearence of an otherworldly creature. She became happier in that environment. While Cicero found it dead, rigid, monotonous, she was reborn. Perhaps it was also because they had left: leaving the cocoon in search of adventure must have made her more perky. Now, really, she seemed completely forgetting about every problem, even the insensitivity of her fingers.

She inhaled deeply when they reached the edge of the city, wrapped in her pitch-colored cloak, while in her mind she seemed to dance along with the furious snowflakes.

"Describe me this place, please!" she asked, sitting in the front of their horse.

Cicero looked around, searching for some new detail that had escaped him in those years. But he found nothing, only the usual dead, rigid, monotonous village.

"Ah, it's a hole. Four houses, with three inhabitants, of which two chickens and one not even out of the egg. Hell, in short."

Perhaps he had been spoiled in his early years in the swarming cosmopolitanism of the Imperial City. There, he remembered well that one corner was never similar to the other, and the shops were changing every year. You could meet the most diverse kinds of people, different for sex, age, race, culture, religion, character, profession, social class... an excellent and fertile starting point for a young killer looking for human types to study and categorize. Dawnstar, well... in the eyes of Cicero it was nothing but an icebox for old Nord horker hunters. He was sure that the joke of the horker had to came from there, or at least from a place like that: who knows how many fishermen had decided to lie with those obese seals, out of desperation, in the absence of other kinds of entertainment.

But Morrigan was of another opinion, and complained about Cicero's little consideration.

"Well, I like it! It's colder than Whiterun."

If she liked it, however, it was right that Cicero made an effort. For her, because perhaps it would never have happened to be in a new place she liked.

He sighed and decided to retract.

"Well, it's a nice village. The houses are built of wood and stone, and comes a warm light from the windows. From the roofs hang sharp icicles and the fences are almost completely covered by a high layer of snow. It's almost time for dinner and it smells like roasted fish. Do you feel it, hm?"

Morrigan smiled, dreamy, happy that Cicero had decided to collaborate. He sighed lightly, and she leaned against him with her back, her head heavily abandoned on his shoulder.

Cicero gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, noisy, more playful than romantic. With his right he rubbed her shoulder, as if he wanted to warm her, while he was actually warming his own hand.

He approached her ear and continued to speak, soft and persuasive.

"There are fishermen coming back, they just docked at the port. They come down in four, they even have a dog. What will a dog do on a boat, eh?"

Morrigan chuckled.

"So there is the sea?"

"Well... yes. A merciless sea, this, that Cicero would define liquid ice, instead of water. It's very dark, agitated, and... shy, actually. A sea that covers itself as much as possible of ice, along the coast, to avoid being navigated. It reminds of someone, right, little crow?"

She smiled, feeling called in, and didn’t even try to argue. She shrugged, surrendering to evidence. Yes, she was really like that sea, the little crow.

"My mother always described it to me. She said that the waves are the breath of Jörmungandr, the serpent of the world."

Cicero didn’t ask what it was because he knew it. His infinite curiosity for all subjects of study had ended up making him discover many cultures, many religions, many pantheon. He had never believed in any of those, but he had appreciated them, from the first to the last.

"Cicero fears snakes, they make him jump out of his skin!"

She didn’t immediately catch the irony. Perhaps because it was such a bad joke that even she couldn’t register it. Cicero stubbornly tickled her neck.

"Hey, Cicero knows it was horrible, but Morrigan has a duty to laugh!"

And indeed she laughed. For the tickling, not for the joke.

When she had stopped squirming, they resumed their journey, urging their mount. While crossing the city, Cicero saw his partner busy sniffing the air, to better capture the sea, perhaps. It was a pity that the cold dampened its smell and the wind covered its noise. He was sure she would’ve liked the sea of Cyrodiil, which used to open one’s nostrils miles from the shore.

They rode on the beach, at a steady pace, not noticed by the citizens now holed up in their homes. They crossed the creek to the east and, finally, they were in the unmistakable little bay in front of the Black Door.

They dismounted and approached the rock, above all to protect themselves from the wind. Cicero was sorry to leave her there, but it was a matter of a minute, he would’ve gone and called Babette and then they would’ve gono... well, he didn’t know, to the inn probably.

When he said it, he saw the disappointment on Morrigan's face, with her shameless way of curling her sharp nose.

"An inn, again..."

"Cicero doesn’t know where else to put you, little crow. Do you want to stay out here?"

And, in the exact moment in which he said it, Cicero understood that the answer could’ve also been affirmative. He hoped with all his heart that she didn’t oblige him to a conversation, or even worse one entire night, to the open cold.

But no, she didn’t say she wanted to stay out. If possible, she chose an even worse option.

"I’d like to come in, see your house."

Cicero shuddered into the spine. Absolutely not. He would’ve so much, so much liked to let her know the Mother, but... she would’ve been scared. And then it wasn’t orthodox, no, no... she wasn’t an assassin, she wasn’t part of the family. Without forgetting the fact that Cicero was beginning to feel protective towards her, and bringing her in there would’ve been a pure and simple murder: what he hadn’t done in Whiterun, his brothers would’ve recovered there in Dawnstar. He loved the family, really, but even he could understand that they weren’t exactly the most recommendable people in the neighborhood.

"Morrigan, it's dangerous. It would be like taking you and throwing you into a pit of snakes, many little Jörmungandr, since you like them so much."

She smiled sweetly without fear. But where was it, her fear of everything? Where did that recklessness come from? If it had been Cicero to completely unraveling it, he was ready to admit that it hadn’t been a good idea.

"Can I at least see the door, please?"

Well, yes, that she could do. Then he took her by the hand and made her lean on the stone, cold and hard as death. She immediately shivered, as if at first glance she understood the gravity of the situation, the sacredness of the place. She acted with more contrition, in fact, from there on, and Cicero was grateful to her. She lowered her head a little and touched the door as she had done with the vegetables at the market: with guilt and reverence. As if she were apologizing, excusing for that intrusion.

She passed her hands, whole, not just her fingers because she couldn’t afford it anymore, on the big central skull. She surrounded it with a delicate grip, standing in front of it, as if she were touching a real person. Then she circled the empty orbits and, on the forehead, she felt the symbol of the Brotherhood.

"That is the Black Hand" explained Cicero, happy to be able to share his devotion so deeply, for the first time, "it’s our brand, and also the symbol of our hierarchy. The Listener is the thumb, the other fingers are the Speakers."

"And where are you?"

Cicero approached her, placing a hand on her shoulder, as though he wanted to reassure her and guide her with patience on that journey of knowledge.

"Cicero isn’t there. His charge is very old, for a long time unused. But it is inferior only to the Listener himself and, if there were, he would be the palm, the one that holds everyone together."

Morrigan had a half smile, sideways, as if she were proud of him after all. Cicero was surprised, but grateful, immensely grateful.

Morrigan continued to descend and arrived at the base of the door, where the skeleton and the smaller skulls laid. She ran through the bones, almost all of them, with manic precision, and Cicero remembered how she had ordered the glasses in Whiterun. Blindness made her very rational with the use of space, paradoxically.

"Those represent the Mother and her five children. The doors of Cyrodiil ... were different… more pertinent."

He complained, happy to be able to say it. It was a thought that he had never expressed with anyone, without a specific reason. But it was a detail that had bothered him since the first time he had seen the Falkreath sanctuary in Skyrim, because he had always believed that symbology was important. And that skeleton, there, neutral, could be anyone. It could even not being the Mother, while in Cyrodiil she was always well recognizable, with hair and a black robe. Unconsciously, Cicero had ended up linking that neutrality with a certain departure from the Old Ways.

Morrigan remained motionless, without saying a word. Her eyebrows were frowned, as if she was thinking of something very serious, almost mystical.

"Cicero... in your opinion… does the Mother care about me?"

It was the first time that she was speaking of the Mother as a real person, as an existing entity. And it was also the first time she was mentioning an interaction with her. Does she care about me? It was like recognizing her greatness, her goodness, her magnificent mercy.

Cicero hugged her choulders, invaded by the purest joy he had ever felt, second only to the joy he had felt when the Mother had spoken to the Listener in his presence.

"Oh, Morrigan, of course! Of course! The Mother loves all her children! Above all she loves you... you must be one of her favorites. You’re so similar, you and the Mother. Merciful, sweet, yet terrible. Good in your cruelty. Bearers of Void, Terror and Piety at the same time. Your eyes are her gift, Cicero knows, he's sure of it. They’re windows on the Void, so you never forget where you come from and where you’re going. The Mother... not just loves you, my dear, she venerates you! You know, Cicero still doesn’t know why she decided to let us meet, but... she definitely has a plan for you. She's always by your side, don’t be afraid. Let yourself be guided."

She sighed, a little heartened, but Cicero wasn’t sure she believed it. She turned, with a paler face than usual, eyes more candid than ever.

"Loneliness is so strong when one dies, Cicero."

And on this Cicero had nothing to say. He had given a lot of death but he had never even been close to it himself. And if there was one thing that really united all the victims, yes, it was loneliness. That was something that he could understand, to tell the truth, more than he would’ve liked. It was ugly, really ugly, loneliness. Abandonment. Isolation. It was bad because it was a taste of the Void when you're still not void, inside. You’re person, true, whole, in a context without stimuli. A false void, not complete, in which one cannot mix and dissolve. That, yes, that was a suffering, and not the true and perfect Void that was Sithis

"However, if you need a more concrete affection... Cicero also cares about you. He likes you as he really liked a few others in life. Perhaps no one else. You know this, don’t you?"

She tilted her head a little. If she had eyes, Cicero would’ve said she was watching him. But no, she remained there, motionless, with her face to the side.

"You never told me." it was a statement, neutral tone.

Cicero shrugged.

"He thought... it was obvious."

"No. No it wasn’t. Thank you."

Cicero entered alone, as anticipated. It was quick: a greeting to the Mother, promising that he would’ve returned in a very short time to take care of her and to pray her properly; then he intercepted Babette and, without anticipating anything, led her out of the Sanctuary.

When the Black Door opened in front of them, flooding them with cold and snow, it took half a second to Babette to be surprised. She widened her eyes, seeing Morrigan. She smiled, with her small, fresh, girlish mouth.

"Cicero! Is she...?"

"It's her!" confirmed the jester, proud, as if he were presenting his daughter. He tried not to think about the fact that, with regard to age, she could also be.

"Oh, what a pleasure! What a pleasure!"

Babette was always polite, a good girl, really. Perhaps it was because she was small, she had kept some part of her real childhood. She didn’t go around terrorizing Skyrim like the other vampires, she loved good manners and was easy to amaze and amuse. Even for that it was easy to befriend: she was free from certain stigmas, certain antipathies of adults.

She approached Morrigan in a hurry, holding her skirt so as not to stumble. Morrigan, for her part, was amazed more than her, and followed the sound of Babette's small steps with a look half-fearful and half amused. Babette didn’t take it as an offense, she was used to making that effect on people.

Once she was in her presence, Babette took her hand and shook it. Cicero enjoyed watching her perform adult gestures, because they didn’t match her image.

"You must be the girl of the contract! Sorry, I don’t know your name, we never know the names. It helps to depersonalize, you know..."

"Morrigan" the other said, without hesitation, “nice to meet you... Babette?"

"Yes, it's me!" answered the little one, perky and joyful, "Cicero must have told you about me!"

Morrigan smiled, raising her head for a moment, as if to indicate Cicero. She was aiming the wrong direction, but it didn’t matter.

"Yes, he told me a lot about you. He said you're very nice!"

But Morrigan was making the mistake of treating her like a child, even in her tone of voice. Everyone fell for it, from the first to the last, and even after years of acquaintance it was difficult to divide her personality from her appearance. Cicero also found it difficult to talk about heavy subjects, at times.

"Who, Cicero said this? But he hates me! Don’t treat me with pity, honey. You know who I am, don’t you? Do you know how old I am?"

Morrigan closed her lips in a slanted smile. She frowned, guilty.

"Sorry. It's difficult, you really have the voice of a... I didn’t expect it. He had told me, but I didn’t expect it."

But Babette wasn’t offended. She stroked her forearm, confirming that it was all right, and Morrigan laughed nervously. Then, they both turned to Cicero, Morrigan with her head slightly off course. Now that he could see them near each other, the jester was astonished to notice how the pallor of Morrigan wasn’t far from that of the vampire.

"Hey you, man, do the honors! Are you taking us out? We need to drink."

"Morrigan doesn’t want to go to the inn."

"Oh, but it's okay! It doesn’t matter, really. We can’t be here in the cold."

Cicero knew that she had said it out of fear, not to assert her opinions with a stranger, but he didn’t scold her. A bit of social fear could be normal, basically, especially with a girl vampire.

And so they decided, and went to drink at the Windpeak Inn, in those hours a little unsuitable for a young girl. If they had met someone's glances or criticism, however, Cicero was sure that Babette would’ve been able to fight back.

They took a seat and ordered. While the maid brought Morrigan and Cicero some wine, Babette wasn’t as lucky. She looked into her cup with little conviction, already knowing what to expect, and when she saw icy water, without even the grace of a decoration, she collapsed disappointed in the chair.

"It is on these occasions that I’d like to grow up. In your opinion, if I get dressed in a revealing outfit, can I look like a dwarf?"

Cicero chuckled, remembering once again all the reasons that made him feel comfortable with her. If she hadn’t been there, perhaps, it would’ve been difficult to still call the Brotherhood family.

Checking that no one was watching him, he exchanged his glass with that of Babette, in a quick and furtive gesture.

"Cicero isn’t a slave of fermented grapes like you. Here, old drunk lady. Don’t drink it all, we won’t be leading you fainted at the Sanctuary."

Babette gave him an impertinent smile and took a big, satisfied sip. She couldn’t afford to drink very often, they didn’t even let her enter the inn, if she was alone.

After enjoying the small amount of wine she could bear, she leaned on her elbows, on the table, childish. Perhaps to blend better with her appearance. The legs, short, were hanging over the chair.

"So, Morrigan..." she began, sweet and happy, "you're very beautiful, you know? I understand why you impressed Cicero. You look very much like the Mother, how they describe her in ancient books. Except for the fact that she was a Dark Elf, at least they say. She herself can’t remember what kind of breed she belonged to, you know? Occasionally the Listener chats with her, but little can be inferred of her past. We’re trying to transcribe what we learn, me and the Listener. A very long job, really."

"A job for which she and Sithis will always be grateful to you, Sister." Cicero interjected, speaking in a low voice. He knew the Mother, yes, perhaps more than the Listener himself. He knew that their faith would’ve led them to glory, into the Void. Well, when they would’ve gone there. For Babette it could still take many centuries, and Cicero couldn’t really understand how she could not suffer.

"A job I know you’d like to participate in, Brother. When this story is over, I'll hire you to write. I know you like it."

Cicero made a humble grimace, tilting his head.

"Um, he was good once, once. He misses so much training, as with work. Cicero... he has aged, he's afraid."

"Don’t try to complain to me about old age, jester. It doesn’t work."

They laughed together, and they realized at that moment that Morrigan was excluded. She couldn’t see them, she couldn’t pick up on their expressions, and besides, she often didn’t know what they were talking about. Then Cicero and Babette gave each other an eloquent look, as if to reproach each other.

"Forgive us, Morrigan, honey" Babette said, still sweet, stretching a hand on the table and clasping the abandoned one of the girl, "we’re very rude brethren. Let's talk about you. Do you like Dawnstar?"

Morrigan seemed to light up, her empty eyes became thin.

"Oh, aye, it’s beautiful! It's cold here, I like it."

"Yes, I like it too. You'd be a great vampire, you know?"

Cicero rolled his eyes.

"Do you always have to try and sell vampirism to everyone?"

"Cicero, Brother, every miller draws water to his own mill. I’d need an immortal friend. Everyone dies, otherwise, like dogs. Lonliness is so strong when one lives that long, you know? I'm almost thinking about biting some children."

Morrigan smiled but was petrified, she didn’t dare say anything.

"I'm kidding, honey!" she laughed, making Morrigan cheerful too, though nervous, "I don’t bite children, they're rowdy and ignorant. But you, if you want..."

Morrigan shook her head.

"No, thank you, I'm not fit..." she seemed indecisive about how to refuse, as if it were wrong to simply say no, as is done with a glass of wine offered.

"It would cure you, you know? Not blindness, not that. But probably it would stop the illness you have, Cicero told me about it."

Morrigan held her breath. It was a good offer, Cicero himself admitted, but he hoped she would’ve immediately refused. It was just a big rip-off, vampirism.

"Are you serious?"

"I don’t know for sure, but I suppose so."

"And I would live..."

"Forever. Until you decide not to live anymore, indicatively."

Morrigan pursed her lips in disappointment. She shook her head again, bent over to the table.

"I know myself, I wouldn’t be able to get out of it. It would be too hard to sustain."

Babette was disappointed but not surprised. There was nobody who had accepted, ever. And even if she didn’t talk about it, she agreed too: she hadn’t chosen that life herself, it had been imposed by someone. A man, that was why she hated them all.

Unexpectedly, however, Babette took the matter more seriously than she had done in those years with Cicero. She took pity on Morrigan.

"Yes, it's hard to get out of it, not even I can. Who knows how much I still need to convince myself to leave for the Void, eh? A great prison, this life. A great prison. I envy you two a lot. Above all, you, Morrigan, you don’t know how much I would give to have my days numbered. Don’t take it bad, but that's what I think."

Suddenly, the atmosphere had become heavy. Morrigan hadn’t taken it bad, she never took it bad. Cicero, for his part, had never imagined there should be that aspect in the life of his little monster. She had to feel really misunderstood. That was why they got along, maybe. They were two abandoned souls who were trying to be a little less lonely.

"Anyway" she resumed, happier, leaving everything behind, "tell me, why are you here? What do you want from me?"

Cicero took the situation into his own hands. He had to explain everything, and above all he had to address the conversation about the Mother, because Babette could understand.

"Little monster, the Mother has spoken. Not directly, but she sent Morrigan a dream. She told her to solve the contract, to go back and find the client."

Babette raised her eyebrows. She didn’t want to believe it, Cicero knew, but the girl wasn’t cruel and didn’t comment with personal opinions.

"Do you want to know who it was?"

"Morrigan wants. It's her idea, you decide whether to help her or not."

Babette looked at them both, flicking her eyes quickly from side to side. She drank, even to hide the liquid from the innkeeper, who was passing near them at that moment. When she had finished sipping, she seemed to have already accepted every change. She was a very pragmatic woman who tried to maintain a neutral position in the internal affairs of the Brotherhood.

"This is very unusual. But you’re superior to me, Cicero, and indeed you’re the superior, since the Listener isn’t here. If you have interpreted that the Mother has expressed her will, I’m no one to contradict you. Well... I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t know who the client was. You know, Morrigan" she turned to the girl, turning around with her whole body, "if we don’t use names for the victims, you'll understand that we don’t even care about the names of the clients. I can only tell you that he was young. A young adult between the ages of twenty and thirty, I couldn’t quantify. I think he was a Nord, he was very tall. He was shaved in the face and had long brown hair. I met him in Solitude."

Morrigan put a hand on her forehead.

"Solitude? I don’t know anyone in Solitude..."

"Well, he was there. He was completing the Black Sacrament in a cellar, and before you ask me which, I tell you it wasn’t his, he had just entered an abandoned house. I arrived, there was a brief moment of embarrassment because he didn’t want to believe I was from the Brotherhood, and then everything proceeded smoothly. He paid a lot, eight hundred septims, and upfront, out of norm for such a simple contract... no offense, Morrigan. He told me that a blind girl from Whiterun, Nord, short and dark-haired for her race, had to die. We really can’t hope for the mistaken identity, in this case."

"Did he say why?" Morrigan was begging.

"No, not even a hint. Which, if I may be honest, seemed strange to me. They usually say it, at least to the Speaker. Many are overwhelmed by anger and spit it all out, adducing stories and justifications which we don’t care about. But he didn’t do it, he didn’t say anything and I didn’t ask."

Morrigan had already finished the questions to ask. Cicero could almost see the gears spinning in her head, reasoning hard to understand who Solitude's mysterious client was.

Since she didn’t speak, it was Cicero who continued the interrogation.

"What did you think of him? Of his temper."

In fact, he had spent a lot of time studying people in his life. He hoped that some indication of his behavior could well direct them.

"I'm just a Speaker, Cicero. I don’t judge the clients."

"Cicero asks you humbly, little monster. He could also order it, as you have specified, but he doesn’t. He just wants to know... who he was. Not as an identity. As a personality, hm?"

Babette sighed, annoyed. To express an opinion on the contract was something sacrilegious for her.

"He was agitated" she finally said, obliged "he didn’t look like someone who could perform a Black Sacrament. It seemed he didn’t want to do it, or felt guilty. He wasn’t very sane, he kept looking around. I thought he was a little crazy... no offense, Cicero. I don’t know why he had that fear, though. In the end, the Sacrament has been performed and we have accepted the job, matter solved. I don’t know anything else, really."

Silence, broken by the other diners who were screaming, drunk. They were watching and talking about them, and Cicero understood it, because they were too much out of the ordinary group. A jester, a blind girl and a child enter a bar... it seemed like the beginning of a joke. But all three were well used to ignoring looks and comments, and then they remained with their heads bowed, turned to the center of the table, as if they were trying to summon a spirit.

In the end, Babette raised her head, with eyebrows inward, in a displeased expression.

"I don’t know how else to help you, honey. All this situation... it's very strange. I had never hunted a client. It goes far beyond our traditions, although... they’re very different from three centuries ago, this is undeniable."

"No, really, thank you. You’ve been very helpful and you’re very kind."

Morrigan smiled sweetly, and Babette returned. Cicero was astonished at how much the two looked alike and he had never realized it. Morrigan looked like a grown Babette, only with darker hair.

"Now I have to go back, I was working on the notes on the Mother and I want to get them ready for the Listener when he comes back."

They got up. Cicero asked Morrigan to stay there: he rent her a room and guided her, a little agitated by the enthusiasm of the other clients. He didn’t trust much to leave her in there, but it was also true that she had lived all her life among the rough patrons of an inn, she must have been more used than him.

"Don’t worry, I'll be fine. Come back soon." she urged him, evidently feeling his immobility and reluctance to abandon her, there, on the threshold of the room.

"Don’t wait up, wifey" he joked, allusive, "Cicero must take care of the Mother, it will take a while."

But Morrigan shrugged and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. It took her a while to find him, but he was happy to offer the cheek to her. It seemed a gesture so... normal.

Babette, not far from them, had a look not suited to her age, a kind of sweet and wise pity. Like when old people watch young lovers and regret the past.

"Morrigan, it was nice to meet you" she gave her farewell, always polite, always kind, "know that I’m happy that Cicero hasn’t killed you. I wouldn’t have done it myself, believe me."

Morrigan lowered her head, out of respect. She believed her. She always knew when to believe people, she had a kind of sixth sense for the sincere tone.

"It was a pleasure for me too, really."

"And as for Cicero..." Babette added, before saying goodbye, under the astonished gaze of the jester, "I beg you, keep an eye on him. I learned to know him, and I understood that his head often reasons very differently from what he expresses on the outside. He loves you very much: if he hasn’t already told you, know that he thinks it. Keep him close... he's very lonely, he needs it."

Chapter Text

Cicero returned to Morrigan when it had become morning already. He sneaked into the inn that everyone still was still sleeping, only the innkeeper’s daughter was awake and cleaning the window near the counter. She didn’t even notice his presence and Cicero thanked not to be a prowler... at least not at that moment. He mentally made a complaint about the safety of that place as he slipped into Morrigan's room and closed the door behind himself.

When he turned, he saw that she was fast asleep. She wasn’t covered up, in fact, she wasn’t even dressed: she was abandoned, naked, across the double bed. She was probably feeling hot.

Cicero sighed, taking a moment to observe her, with the light that was beginning to filter through the dormers. She was so calm, asleep, and above all so casual. She was shameless, and it was beautiful to see her free from everything for once.

Her belly, fuller than when he had known her, rose and lowered rhythmically, accompanying her breath. The navel, now no longer protruding, gave the impression of being the center of the whole scene and, perhaps, of the whole universe. And then there, to her right, a red mark.

Cicero had to look away, feeling guilty. Quick, he put his hand on his left side, pressing hard. He let out a low moan when he felt the pain he was sure he deserved. And at the same time, he felt better... inside.

He returned to look at her and finally he could be less strict with himself. Sighing, he took off his gloves, his hat, and even his jacket. He remained shirtless for just a few seconds and began to feel cold. How could Morrigan bear it?

He went to sit next to her feet, but she gave no signs of vigil. She remained in the same position, she didn’t even vary breath.

He smiled, feeling better just looking at her. With his forefinger, he touched her ankle, covering the tendon, and then the bone. He was careful not to wake her, he didn’t want to bother her. He just wanted to study her, as he had done so many times with corpses, out of scientific curiosity and not only out of macabre passion. He saw himself again as a young man, and he thought he would’ve drawn her, and he would’ve dedicated a poem to her. No, maybe not to her... only to the ankle. The world had forgotten the value of small things: all of them talking about concepts that were too ambitious, too difficult to understand. Love... if it existed, it was incomprehensible. But there were other things more practical and equally pleasant, which Cicero appreciated most: her ankle at that moment, for example; her hands as she explored the world; her nose while curling; her weird way of nodding, mechanical, unnatural. Really, people had forgotten the value of small things.

Trying to be careful not to bother her, he hoisted himself onto the bed, sliding beside her. He was cold. He was cold and he knew that being next to Morrigan would’ve worsened that feeling, but he didn’t care. She would’ve taught him to bear it, or better... to love it. And she would’ve done it asleep, without even talking.

He lay down and saw her next, very close, very serenely. Slow, careful, he stretched slightly, until their foreheads touched. He closed his eyes, happy, purely happy, for the first time in so many years.

"Mother" he said, without actually making a sound, in a phrase that was just the movement of his lips, "Mother, thank you for her. I love her."

"I love him."

Cicero was exasperated, disappointed, he didn’t want to believe it. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, annoyed.

"Galla, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, it wasn’t planned, I... I couldn’t..."

"You let him run away. Like the other one."

"No! This is different, he hasn’t escaped, but... I can’t kill him, Cicero. Please help me! Help me, I can’t tell the others! It's already the second one, they would kill me!"

"The family doesn’t kill its siblings, they won’t do anything to you. They'll just tell you to reevaluate your career, and I honestly do it too."

But Galla was now without dignity. She clung to his chest, pleading, hooking herself to his killer armor. Cicero was annoyed, he tried to back away, eliminating physical and even visual contact, embarrassed for her.

"Galla, please, recompose! You're silly when you do like this, you look like a stupid teenage."

"Are you angry... are you angry because I fell in love with him?"

Poor Galla, she hadn’t really understand anything. Cicero decided to be honest, there was no need to further complicate the situation.

"Don’t be even sillier now. I don’t care about who you love, or who you lie with. You can even fuck all the known races, as far as I'm concerned. But you cannot, you cannot, you cannot make these beginner mistakes! What does the brain tell you? Just the contract? With all the Nirn men, just him?"

Galla lowered her eyebrows, contrite, suffering. She approached, crying, and leaned against his chest. Cicero hated that physical contact, that indignant whining. He hugged her in annoyance, only to stop her.

"I'm so sorry! I know, I'm silly! I know, you did a lot to teach me, but... I'm so weak."

And Cicero agreed with her on that point. Weakness. Hormones of a fertile woman disguised as feelings.

"Galla, you have to kill him. You can’t give me the contract if you want to keep this family. Just kill him, what’s the problem? It's just a person."

"I can’t do it! I can’t do it!"

She was desperate, sobbing, and Cicero began to fear that she would’ve dirtied his uniform with mucus. Disgusted, he tried to get away from her. He pushed her, until she was far enough away to look her in the eyes.

"Listen, I'm coming with you. Let's go together, I'll take a few days off, so you don’t have to give me the contract. But you must be there too. Never make the mistake of thinking that I can take responsibility for death instead of you."

He was hard on her and at the moment it seemed to him the wisest choice. He took pity, however, seeing her wounded in pride.

"We'll solve it, don’t worry." he retracted, giving her new hope.

Because no, he didn’t love her as one loves a partner, but he loved her as one loves a sister, always. The will to help her was sincere, he didn’t think it was right to let her ruin her brilliant career for that stupid reason.

They crouched in the tall grass, daggers already unlined, at a safe distance. The farm, isolated in the middle of the Cyrodiil countryside, was dark and empty, even though dinner time had already passed. They had to wait for the victim to come back, so Cicero signaled his companion to sit down, it would’ve taken a while.

She obeyed, crossing her legs, and Cicero joined her. The heat of the summer weighed them down, surrounded them like a quilt, a heavy hood. They took off their gloves and let their necks breathe, opening the last snare of the uniform, breathless.

It was almost romantic, there. In the tall grass, surrounded by the night, they could barely see each other in the darkness. The fireflies were dancing around them, and giving that deathly evening a too sweet atmosphere.

"Tell me about this man" Cicero began, intrigued, in a low voice, "what's so special about him, eh?"

"Nothing... I don’t know. I only know that he is, special. He has something in his look..."

"In his look?"

"Yeah. I can’t get it out of my head."

Cicero was unhappy with the answer, but he didn’t comment.

The look... he couldn’t conceive how it could be a valid reason, the look. It was nothing more than a pair of eyes, that is a pair of organs, with pupils, irises, vitreous humor, and finally a nerve behind. He had studied them, eyes. They also tasted good. But how could they stop a murder on their own?

"There must be something else. What is he, rich? Did he courted you?"

"No, nothing like that. Yes, he courted me a little, but it had already happened, it wasn’t that..."

"So what is it? Are you halfway through the month? Does your uterus need to be filled?"

"No!"

This time she was angry. But Cicero didn’t understand why: he didn’t want to offend her, they were serious questions. He had noticed that the monthly cycle had a strong influence on his Sisters. It changed their mood and also it had effects on their work: they weren’t sent out for killing Khajiit, for example, because the cats could smell them.

Of course, not that Cicero blamed them. He took it as a matter of fact, a balance desired by Sithis. On the contrary, it was something sacred, because there really had to be a lot of honor in shedding blood for sixty days a year, with manic punctuality, pain, for almost all of life. A continued sacrifice that elevated them, as well as something scientific, something he could study, which would’ve made him less fearful on Galla, than a sudden madness of love without logic.

"Look, I'm just trying to figure out why. To help you, Sister. Don’t be touchy."

Because, indeed, Galla had always been good, a tenacious and confident assassin. She had had bad luck with contracts, that was to say, and had always been a bit naive, with her tarots and intrusive personality; but she wasn’t a bad Sister, no, she was obedient and devoted, and Cicero was still convinced she deserved to be a Silencer.

"I just don’t understand you" he confessed, incredibly frankly, "giving up a whole career for a piece of meat. What's the matter with you, eh? Wher’s our Galla?"

"I am always here. But I love him. I'm sorry."

She ran a hand through the long, frizzy carrot-colored hair: she herself didn’t know how she had come to that point. But Cicero didn’t take pity on her tired and bewildered appearance.

"To love. You use that verb inappropriately, Sister. You say it too often."

"And you say it too little."

Intermitted by the glow of the fireflies, Cicero could see an accusatory look towards him. He knew what she meant.

He smiled, sly, picking up the challenge.

"Galla, my dearest Sister, should it be a way to make me feel guilty? To spill responsibility on me? Are you saying that if I had covered you with kisses, and cuddling, and cute words, you wouldn’t have come here to drool all over this contract?"

"No" she clarified, convinced, severe, "no, the fault is only mine for the contract, I let myself be influenced. But for the two of us, yes, I blame you. I really love you, I don’t understand why it can’t be the same on your part."

"Galla, my darling" he said, hissing, disturbing rather than conciliatory, "didn’t you understand that Cicero doesn’t feel anything? He feels love for the Mother and Sithis, and that's it, he has nothing else for you. If you want sex, it's okay. If you want friendship, it's okay. But the rest, Sister... you can go look for it from Ademar, he seems to have enough for both of us."

He reached out, took her chin between thumb and forefinger, laughing at her.

"You’re infatuated with me only because I’m your superior. Because you admired me and you liked the idea of the expert on duty to teach you some tricks."

But she moved away, angrily. With the knife still in her hand, flat, she hit Cicero's hand and threw it away. She held her head high with a feral gaze.

Cicero chuckled, sure he had hit the mark.

"My feelings were real. You're nobody to tell me how I feel."

But Cicero wasn’t so easy to stop, less so than in a verbal battle. He took it has a further challange, and he didn’t regret it.

"Well, you were infatuated with the contract thanks to a look, Galla. Your credentials about deep feelings aren’t that impeccable."

"Are you calling me superficial?"

"No, I'm calling you deluded."

The victim came that it must have been near midnight. Even the fireflies had gone out, tired. The darkness remained on the world, quiet, broken only by the song of crickets.

The man was a Breton, short and corpulent. As soon as he saw him, Cicero didn’t want to believe his eyes. He promised himself not to judge his appearance from so far, to wait when he had been close to him. Maybe he had a good-looking face.

The man was walking down the driveway to go back alone to his farm. He seemed cheerful. He wouldn’t have been for long.

Cicero sat up, staying behind the tall grass. With one hand, he motioned to Galla to imitate him, then he left, descending the little hill.

It would’ve been better to catch him before he could close his home: less noise, less effort. But not too much in the open, there was no need to risk someone seeing them. Then they approached the farm, preceding him, and hid behind the stone corner.

It didn’t take long. They waited for the victim to come in, whistling, to insert the key in the lock, to turn it around. And there they acted.

Cicero did the bulk of the work, he didn’t want to risk Galla be moved to pity, letting him escape. It would’ve been... a tragedy.

He grabbed him from behind, plugging his mouth and pointing the ebony dagger on a kidney.

"Good evening!" he greeted him, hissing cruelly in his ear as he held him close to him.

He pushed him inside the house and checked that Galla was there. He felt the Breton struggling, trying to scream through Cicero's hand pressed against his mouth, but of course it was useless.

Once inside, they closed the door behind them. Galla, with free hands, acted alone: she checked that there was no one in the other rooms, then she closed the shutters of the windows and lit the candles. She was good, really. Working with her had always been pleasant, they had a certain harmony, they understood each other without speaking. Cicero had never felt that work affinity with Ademar, for example, although he was his friend.

Cicero, silent and precise, decided to tie the contract to one of the wooden columns in the main hall. The Breton, standing, found himself in a moment with his arms tied back, trembling and confused, still with his mouth stuck.

Cicero aimed the weapon at his throat.

"I don’t think we need to tell you, do we? Not to scream."

The Breton nodded and Cicero, with a smile, let go of his mouth. The man, tired and frightened, took a long breath. He didn’t say anything though. He must have been one of those whose fear made that effect, paralyzing the vocal cords. He was one of those silent, and it was always nice to deal with contracts of that kind.

Cicero inclined his head to the right and to the left, studying him as he studied an enigma.

"By Sithis, Breton, now that I see you closely I must say that you’re horrible even in the face. What does Galla find in you, eh?"

He looked at him, with a derisive and disgusted smile. He was dark, out of shape. The face, of a horrible rounded shape, was glabrous, both of beard and of hair.

Cicero looked for the eyes, which Galla idolized so much, but he saw only a pair of dark irises, like there were a thousand others in Tamriel.

"G... Galla?" was the only thing the little man managed to mumble in his terrified paralysis.

The girl took off her black hood, showing herself and releasing her thick hair. She was standing back, far away, and she had a mortified expression painted on her face. The tight lips were pointing down, the heart-shaped face was deformed by the low eyes and the drooping eyebrows. Cicero would have called her a dog. It wasn’t an offense, no, it was a purely descriptive term: dogs always look at you like that when they suffer, especially if they have puppies.

Cicero mentioned a laugh, sarcastic, disturbing.

"Hey, what a great twist! Galla is an assassin, wow! Congratulations for the perspicacity, little man! Didn’t you get it from the Black Hand she has tattooed on her thigh?"

But the Breton was upset, his eyes wide and stupid. He kept looking at his beloved Galla, and almost Cicero could see it, the dagger that had pierced his heart. A dagger that was called disappointment, betrayal: not as concrete as the one that would’ve killed him shortly thereafter, but certainly just as painful.

It was fun, Cicero had to admit it. He had done well to participate in that contract.

"Oh, maybe you never got to her thighs, my friend? This suggests to me that therefore she doesn’t even love you for your sexual prowess. No, I really can’t understand then what’s special about you, I’ve finished the alternatives. At least Modia used to fuck just the handsome ones."

"Can you avoid making fun of him, Cicero?"

Cicero turned, slowly, annoyed and amused at the same time.

"Sister, you asked for my help. You just have to say a word and I'm leaving, you can be sure. But if you want me here, well, you're up to my rules. I'm still your superior."

She didn’t have the courage to fight back. She kept her eyes downcast, shaking her head slightly, as if she wanted to cry out to the whole world the injustice of life.

Cicero looked back at the Breton, trying to find any detail, but nothing. There was nothing to justify that stupid infatuation.

Finally, the Breton was able to murmur something, with a hurt and broken tone.

"Please... I'll do whatever you want..."

Cicero rolled his eyes. Did everyone really have to say it?

"Listen, friend, spare me this useless begging. If I had a septim every time I heard this phrase, I would’ve bought the imperial palace."

"What do you want from me?"

The usual pleasantries, the usual boring nonsenses.

"Galla, do you want to do the honors of the house?"

He couldn’t really do it, especially since it wasn’t even his own contract. Then he stepped aside, letting Galla come closer. She did it slowly, crawling her feet on the floorboards. She was holding an arm with the other, embarrassed, dejected.

"Hey, Lennoc, I... I'm so sorry..."

"Galla, but... what are you doing?"

"It's not a personal matter. It's just my job, I..."

And they had already clarified, everything was revealed. Cicero was grateful that it hadn’t take too much. He watched them with a certain disdain sewn on him, as if they were one of those silly and melancholy theatrical comedy.

"Come on, kill him now, Galla. We don’t want to stay here all night, eh?"

"Cicero just... a moment..."

"The more you wait, the worse it will be."

Galla knew he was right, and in fact she didn’t say anything to reply. She stood for a moment in the center of the room, her feet close to one another. She was cuddling her hair and she seemed far from extracting the weapon. The Breton didn’t say anything, he was still disconcerted.

"You must take the dagger, Sister. The thick part is held in the hand and the sharp part is passed over the victim's throat. Do I have to teach you this? Or can we give it for granted?"

But Galla now gave him a furious look. Her nose was curled, as if she wanted to growl. Green eyes tried to stab him from side to side. But Cicero was a master of looks and wouldn’t be intimidated.

"Oh, stop it, dear" he mocked her, cruelly, "I saw that look too many times in the bedroom. It's just acting, and not even very good."

"Cicero" she growled, her teeth clenched, trembling with rage, "I swear to Sithis, I'll kill you if you don’t stop it right now."

"Ah, so you still know how to kill someone? Strange, it wouldn’t seem so."

She gave up her contrite position. He had teased her enough, the lioness had awakened. Now he recognized her!

She approached, panting powerfully. She went near him, almost touching his chest. She pointed an index against him, cruel, mercilessly.

"I'm a great assassin. Never dare to say these things to a Sister, never! You're a horrible person."

Tere, that was the Galla he wanted. He smiled at her, more accommodating, more serious. He stroked one side of her face, and for a moment he thought he could lose his hand in those thick red curls.

"Good, this is the rage you need. If it helps, I’ll continue to insult you all evening. Get angry with Cicero as much as you want, and then kill him."

He shouldn’t have told her, probably, he shouldn’t have revealed the plan. Galla, in fact, immediately relaxed, and the one that had previously been an accusing index, fell on Cicero's chest in a dead and tired gesture.

"I can’t do it. I can’t do it."

Cicero didn’t know what to do to convince her. She had to set herself free, she had to! She didn’t look like the real Galla anymore.

And there, the idea.

Without any sign of pity, he pulled away from her, slipping out of her touch. He gripped his weapon, dark as Sithis, and approached the Breton. He leaned on his shoulder against the column, challenging, nonchalantly. He aimed the weapon to his face.

"Galla, I’ll torture him if you don’t kill him. The choice is yours."

"What? No you can’t! You can’t…"

"I can’t? If it isn’t forbidden by the five tenets, I totally can. Let's talk about what you can’t do, Galla. You can’t disobey me. You can’t refuse to do Sithis’ work. Stop me. If you don’t want him to suffer, stop me."

But she didn’t move, she did nothing. She was motionless, useless, like the empty shell of a dead-born chick.

Cicero was incredulous, he couldn’t understand what was happening. He turned to the Breton, eyes wide open, as if to ask confirmation of what was happening to him.

In the end, he decided he had to act. He had to do it for her. She would’ve thanked him one day.

He grabbed the man's hand, more particularly the middle finger. With a sharp blow, he disarticulated it, breaking it. Cicero clearly felt his bones fracture under his pressure and he enjoyed it.

"NO! CICERO!"

Galla put her hands to her mouth, yet she still didn’t move. The Breton was screaming, screaming, screaming...

"Shut up, it's hard enough without you crying like a sow!"

He broke another finger, without even waiting for Galla to do something. He would’ve continued until she had killed him.

"CICERO"

He was about to break the third finger when it happened. Galla, crazy, jumped on him. On Cicero, not on the Breton. Now yes, she had the dagger unsheathed. With a mad scream, she tried to plant it in his shoulder, but Cicero moved in time.

He let the Breton loose and went into an attacking position towards her. Now they were in the middle of the room, both panting, bent over and ready to sprint. Neither was willing to stop eye contact, green eyes in honey eyes.

"Sister... look at you..." Cicero began, panting in surprise, "would you attack a family member not to kill this idiot?"

Immediately, her confidence seemed to fail. Suffering made its way into her face and mingled with fury.

"I told you I can’t do it! I don’t know why, I don’t want to!"

"I'm just trying to help you!"

"I know!"

She left the attacking position, straightening up. There, now she was crying. Even Cicero straightened up, even more disappointed than before. She was crying. Galla. The fire-haired murderer was crying. How much more would’ve he persisted in abandoning dignity?

Cicero said nothing. By now he had understood that there was no word or action that could serve to make her change her mind. He was baffled, he hadn’t thounght she could ever get that far.

He approached her, in two steps he was there. He sheathed the ebony dagger and took the one from Galla, an elegant steel stiletto that Ademar had given her, in one of his countless attempts at charming her.

The girl tried to protest, but not actively. She leaned toward him as he stole the dagger, but didn’t move, did nothing. She remained passive.

Cicero turned and, with a smooth, fast, clean movement, slit the Breton throat. Skin and flesh opened halfway, immediately starting to gush out blood. The man's gaze remained impassive, only slightly amazed, as he breathed. Finally, he leaned his head forward, lifeless, hanging from the column like an inanimate rag.

Cicero, cold, took off a glove, carried his right hand over the victim's throat, drenching it with red. He clearly felt the slimy opening of the wound, the cut vessels, and the heat that continued to pump as if the heart hadn’t yet convinced that there was nothing left to do.

When he was completely soaked with blood, he put his hand on the column above the victim's head, and left Sithis' imprint in that house, to imperishable memory of the strength of the Dark Brotherhood, a warning to all the souls of the Nirn.

The assassin cleaned up everything on the victim's coat, both the hand and the knife of his partner, passing it flat and making it shiny again. Finally, with appalling indifference, he wiped his face with a red splash, turning back to Galla. She hadn’t said anything. She stood with her eyes wide open, breathless, tears still abundant on the corners of the eyes and on the freckled cheeks.

Cicero approached her, stern, disappointed. He handed her the knife, but she didn’t take it. It was he who put it in the sheath that the girl was holding next to her, to her belt, while she remained motionless, detached. She seemed dead with the Breton.

Cicero looked into her eyes, unbending, without even a hint of mercy in his facial muscles.

"We'll pretend you did it. I never want to hear about this story again, is this clear?"

She didn’t say anything, either in words or gestures.

Cicero didn’t want to wait for her feelings, so he walked towards the exit, at a determined pace.

"See you at the Sanctuary, Sister."

And he left her there, without feeling anything for her except for a terrible, unbearable disappointment.

They never spoke again of the Breton's contract. It was as if it had never happened, and Galla slowly began to be the same as always. With everyone... except with Cicero. She came very close to Ademar and they stayed together until they died in the fire of Bruma.

Cicero, for his part, didn’t even consider the Breton one of his victims. He had said he wouldn’t have taken responsibility for his sister, and he hadn’t. He had never even added that victim to the count.

Cicero opened his eyes. He hadn’t fallen asleep, he could never sleep when he thought of the past, and above all... when he thought about how horrible he was, when he was young.

Morrigan was still there, sleeping, and he saw her face so close that he almost could get lost, like an infinitesimally small animal on her icy skin.

A look... a single look could change everything. He hadn’t believed Galla, but in the end he had experienced it on his own skin. And only now he understood how deeply cruel he had been with his Sister.

He tried to imagine the opposite. He tried to imagine Galla urging him to kill Morrigan, and he who couldn’t, and she asking why, and he who couldn’t answer. He saw her, Galla, in his thoughts, slitting Morrigan’s throat while tied to a column. The very thought... he couldn’t...

He closed his eyes again, holding back his tears. He wanted to scream, to go back in time, to do it all over again with Galla. How stupid he was... how much...

"Mother" he whispered, still in one breath, not to wake the little crow, "Mother, tell Galla Cicero is so sorry. Please tell her."

And he thought it was unfair to not even consider the Breton his victim, after all. He had killed him, not Galla. She would’ve never done it, if she only had felt even half the affection Cicero felt for Morrigan. Only now he understood it.

"Two hundred and thirty-eight." he whispered, guilty.

Chapter Text

Cicero didn’t sleep much, but well. He always slept well, since he knew Morrigan. Keeping her beside gave him a sense of security, as if she could watch over him more than himself. It mattered little that actually she wasn’t a physical protector. She couldn’t save him from an aggression in the night, perhaps, but she could certainly save him from bad thoughts. Cicero wasn’t the one to underestimate such a quality, even though, like many of Morrigan's qualities, it remained hidden and visible only to those who knew where to look.

Looking back today, I'm very sorry for him. I would’ve liked him to see the potential of his soul, and to understand as a young man how much in reality others mattered to him. It could’ve been different with Galla, for example. She too had many hidden qualities, which Cicero hadn’t noticed then. Maybe... maybe it just wasn’t the right time. Perhaps because a man sees different things at different times in his life.

Life... they say the greatest illusion of life is innocence, and on one side I agree, but I think another of the greatest illusions is stillness. Souls are a changing entity, and even if both Morrigan and Cicero were convinced they would’ve never changed, I knew it would’ve happened. Slowly, sure. But inexorably.

If Morrigan had noticed before, however, of her profound change, Cicero was noticing it that morning, in that room, in Dawnstar. Like an enlightenment, an epiphany: he knew he had changed outside, with time, in the way of dressing and in the wrinkles that were beginning to peep, he also knew that he had become crazy, but he had never, never took in consideration his feelings.

Galla... if he could’ve gone back, she would’ve been the first thing that he would’ve changed. Even before Cheydinhal, even before Modia. He would’ve gone to the Bruma Sanctuary, in the dormitory, woken her up and said:

"You’re all you should be and the one I don’t deserve."

But he had said it aloud and Morrigan, confused, woke up. As usual, she didn’t lift her eyelids, but Cicero noticed from her frown.

"What?"

"You’re all you should be and the one I don’t deserve." he repeated, a little louder.

"What does it mean?"

Cicero smiled, because she was still half asleep and wasn’t very present. They were lying to the side, facing each other, breathing the same air. He brought a hand to the side of her face.

"It means that you never have to let Cicero tell you what you should or shouldn’t feel. Cicero is an ignorant, and like all ignorants he speaks, speaks, speaks inappropriately. Cicero doesn’t deserve you, and above all doesn’t deserve to tell you what emotions you should feel and which ones to repress. Sorry, for all the times he tried. Telling you that you must not be afraid was exactly the same as telling Galla that she shouldn’t feel love. Cicero is just... an idiot."

Now Morrigan was more awake. She moved her head a little, even more indecisive than before.

"You just wanted to spur me."

"Yes. Yes, the intentions were good, and even with Galla they were. But intentions don’t matter, what matters is the result. Cicero doesn’t want you to be another Galla."

"Who’s Galla?"

Cicero didn’t want to tell her, but he knew he owed it to her, for everything. He continued to caress her face, then, and tried to concentrate on the softness of her hair, to become estranged, while confessing his worst sin.

"Galla is my greatest regret. You’re so young, so young... I wish you never have to try it."

She squeezed her lips in annoyance, and released a relaxed sigh as she enjoyed the caress.

"Instead I believe that my greatest regret will be to have no regrets. Because it means I've never been wrong, so I’ve never dared, and so... I've never done anything."

Cicero found her ear in her unkempt hair and traced its curvature with a slow and reassuring movement.

"Um, but you're getting better, right?" he encouraged her, "you're taking your life into your own hands. Cicero can’t do anything to make up with Galla, you know... she's gone. She’s at the right hand of Sithis, now."

Then, suddenly, he understood that something could be done. The best way to ensure that the pain he had procured Galla wasn’t useless was to take it as an example, and not repeat it for any reason in the world. He had to remember how he had behaved with her and do the exact opposite. Starting immediately.

He leaned over to Morrigan and gave her a kiss, slow and deep, but chaste. Incredibly chaste, without any allusiveness. And he said something he would’ve never said, as a young man.

"Morrigan, I love you."

She smiled. Her eyes, empty, seemed a little less empty at that moment.

"I love you too" she replied, simply, as if it had always been like that, and couldn’t be otherwise.

Getting out of the rooms of those inns was always a way to dampen tension. That was because as soon as they crossed the threshold, in the common room, they always found themselves in the most varied chaos that Tamriel could offer. It was a way to forget the joys and mistakes of a bedroom and start a new day, all over again.

When they were in the hall of that inn in Dawnstar, they found themselves in the most diverse crowd they had met so far. There were Argonians, shining in their new scales after the recent moult, in a corner of the room; there were Nords, because those were always there; there were a couple of Imperial soldiers, who were speaking of the difficulty of protecting the border with Elsweyr from smugglers; and, finally, two Khajiit, at the counter, busy and engaged in a lively discussion with the innkeeper.

Morrigan immediately noticed the two cats, Cicero really didn’t know how she did. He asked her.

"You can smell the fur!" she explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"You only can smell it from so far."

But Morrigan had hardly listened, how fascinated she was. She was facing the two Khajiit, far from them. She had the look of a child who would like to run and play.

"Do you like Khajiit?" asked Cicero, surprised.

"They’re exotic. They intrigue me."

"Cicero can’t say he loves them instead. But perhaps because he is biased, he has taken them all in dislike after the Anvil cat. "

Morrigan became interested.

"What is Anvil's cat?"

Cicero's eyes widened: he hadn’t realized he had really said it. He hadn’t told that story for years, and he hoped it would’ve remained underground as much as possible, if he had to be honest.

He chuckled as he prepared the chair of one of the free tables and helped her to sit down.

"Oh, nothing, nothing, my dear. Just... a contract just above yours, as an execution skill."

"I’m starting to think that you actually never did one single contract."

Cicero sat down in front of her and, with a quick and sudden gesture, pinched the skin of her hand. She immediately withdrew it, complaining jokingly.

"Then you think wrong, little crow" he whispered, in a warm and disturbing voice, low so as not to be heard by the other patrons, "Cyrodiil used to tremble, for all the Hands I left around! There was no city, village, or forgotten corner that didn’t have Sithis’ mark on at least one wall, thanks to Cicero. And now it's Skyrim’s time. Cicero really couldn’t wait to place the Hand on your wall, drawing on the ink directly from your half-open throat. You can bet that the print would’ve been of a beautiful light red, the color of young victims."

He stroked her hand, which she had once again left on the table, with only one finger, touching it in both lascivious and threatening ways. He took particular care to go on the wrist, because that was a significant place for them. A place that told her: if I wanted to, I would’ve killed you all right.

She shivered, with an undecided smile. But Cicero immediately stopped behaving like a killer and chuckled, hilariously.

"Um, Morrigan, Cicero has already sworn that he will never manage to do anything bad to you. At least let him pamper his imagination."

She played the game, and for the umpteenth time Cicero was grateful that she had understood his...peculiar and heavy humor.

"Well, if you’re ruthless in your imagination, then you have to allow me to imagine myself strong and... with sight. Yes, I would’ve seen you, with my blue eyes... you would’ve tried to jump on me, and I would’ve pulled out a Nord sword from under the pillow. I would’ve blocked you!"

She raised a hand in a fist, as if imitating to wield a sword.

Cicero laughed. Someone was watching them, but he didn’t care.

"And Cicero would’ve liked it, he assures you! He would’ve been happy to find resistance. And such resistance! The ebony dagger can’t compete with your beautiful Nord sword."

"I would’ve chased you!" she continued, amused, taken away by her imagination, "I would’ve cut your hat in half. You would’ve run away crying, and Whiterun would’ve loved me, bowing to me. I would’ve become Jarl-Frøken."

She stopped, the smile died in her face. She lowered her hand.

"Aye, I would’ve been like that if I had eyes. I would’ve been like my mother, a shieldmaiden. They would’ve called me Morrigan Death from Above, like the crows coming down from Sovngarde with the Valkyries to take the souls out of the battlefields and... everything would’ve been perfect."

She put her hands back on the table, afflicted. She touched her fingertips, rubbing them together, trying to feel something.

Cicero stopped her: he took both her hands, blocking the convulsive movement with which she rubbed her fingertips. He squeezed them, to make sure she felt his presence.

"It’s not the eyes which change so much a person, little crow."

She squeezed her mouth, sadly agreeing, nodding.

"Aye. I would’ve been shy anyway."

"On the contrary. Cicero meant that you can be Morrigan Death from Above even now, if you wish. You just have to... be it, do you understand, hm?"

She smiled, melancholy.

"When I talk to you I really think I can be all I want, Cicero. I... I'd like to thank you. If it wasn’t for you, I would’ve died alone. I would’ve died void."

They finished the conversation, forcing themselves. Neither of them wanted to self-pity, partly because they were at the beginning of a new job. Although unconventional, Cicero was excited: he had tried to see it as a new contract, after all, convinced that there would be fun.

They talked a little more at the table, but they both wanted to leave for Solitude soon. The problem was that the waitress didn’t arrive. After a copious handful of minutes, they realized that the owner and all the employees were still busy discussing with the two Khajiit.

Morrigan and Cicero sharpened their hearing to understand what was happening.

"What are they saying?" asked Morrigan, confused.

"Um... what they always say to cats."

There were problems of a racial nature, of course. It seemed that the Khajiit wanted to buy supplies and the innkeeper had refused, claiming that their money was stolen, or otherwise coming from illegal traffic. Which was probably true, Cicero knew, but he also knew it wasn’t the real reason why the innkeeper, a Nord, was refusing to deal with them. He didn’t want them because they were different, and that was it. It was also for that reason that Cicero had never very much agreed with the Nords: they were generally close-minded, racist... the exact opposite of him, born and raised in the most cosmopolitan city of Tamriel. He himself admitted to having many faults, but racism wasn’t among those. In fact, he thought he was very fair: he didn’t want to exterminate a particular race, he wanted to exterminate everyone, and that was it. Very fair.

"Look, I can’t accept your money, surely they come from the skooma trade and I don’t even want to hear about that stuff in my inn" the innkeeper finally said, trying to end the conversation.

"These Khajiit have cubs. They beg you, just a little milk." he insisted, politely, a black cat, with long, drooping mustaches and a thick fur around his cheeks.

"They talk in third person too" Morrigan noticed, surprised, "you should get along."

"Quite the contrary. They make Cicero feel unoriginal."

They laughed and kept listening.

There was a bit of bickering, but the innkeeper refused to help them categorically, indeed, he also specified that they didn’t have to camp nearby. In the end, the Khajiit gave up: they looked at each other, giving an eloquent glance, then they started to leave, walking lightly on their bare paws.

And then, just at that moment, something happened that made the whole inn dumbfound. It entered, in fact, another Khajiit. An immense Khajiit.

He opened the door and had to bend almost ninety degrees to be able to pass the jamb. When he was inside, all the patrons, including Cicero and Morrigan, clearly heard the floorboards bend under his weight. The huge cat filled the room, in height and seemed also in width. He was twice the height of a Nord, the long tail snaking between the tables like a jailer's whip.

"What's up?" Morrigan asked in a low voice, startled by the sudden silence.

Cicero, for the first time in his life, was speechless. He observed that immense creature and couldn’t find an original way of describing it.

"Little crow, the biggest cat I've ever seen has just entered!"

As soon as she turned to them, Cicero realized that it was indeed a female cat. She was also beautiful, for her species. Slender, long-legged, well balanced in proportions, hadn’t it been for the exaggerated stature. The thick fur was of a pale color, a kind of white tending to blond. Streaks and black patches covered her body, from the tip of her nose to that of the thick tail.

"Describe it, please!" Morrigan begged.

"She has the stature of a giant and the mantle of a tiger."

He couldn’t say much more, because he missed the words.

The Khajiit moved slowly, trying not to break the floor. The yellow eyes, bright, felines, were looking at the inn, intrigued. She didn’t seem surprised, however, that everyone was looking at her in silence.

"So, what's going on here? Why does it take so long?" she asked impatiently.

She was strange even in talking. She did not have the strong accent of the other Khajiit, though she maintained the hoarse, almost growling tone. She seemed accustomed to the Skyrim way of talking.

"Amun'e Phis can come back out" one of the two Khajiit told her, "the Ma'dran caravansers don’t want to make trouble. If they’re not welcome, they leave. May your road lead you to warm sands, innkeeper."

They walked, with dignity and elegance. When they reached their fellow, they had to signal her out, because she didn’t seem convinced. And in fact, the giant cat named Amun'e Phis shook her head, annoyed. The long light hair, gathered in a million braids and decorated with bells and trinkets, moved on her shoulders and played and exotic, distant music that reminded of hot winds and spices.

She brought her ears backwards, annoyed, and the earrings joined the music of the bells.

"It isn’t fair, though! Hey, innkeeper! We have cubs! Is it so difficult to help us, eh? Whoever your god is, know that he will judge you!"

She shook her head again. She didn’t even try to assert her reasons by relying on her size, even if she could. She went out, as she had arrived, bending to pass through the door. As she slipped out of the building, she almost hit Morrigan, with her cumbersome tail.

The whole inn needed a few seconds before realizing what had just happened. Then, slowly, everything returned to normal: the patrons resumed talking, the innkeeper's daughter began to clean, and the innkeeper himself resumed to be gruff and annoying with everyone.

"Wow!" said Morrigan, fascinated, "we should help them, you know?"

Cicero burst out laughing.

"Yes, yes, of course, we should help them! You go before Cicero, eh, he covers you! Go and let them eat you in a bite, yes, um, it's worth it!"

Morrigan assumed an exasperated expression.

"They won’t eat us! They just wanted some milk. That Amun'e Phis seems nice."

"Yes, she also seems enormous, and fierce, and... by Sithis she must have claws, hidden in those fingertips, at least one meter long."

"If I didn’t know you well I’d say you're scared, Cicero."

"You’d be too, if you had seen her!"

But Morrigan wasn’t intent on giving in. She had become stubborn, now that she had unlocked. Cicero would’ve never thought of having to deal with that stubbornness, almost regretting the time when she had said "I’ll do whatever you want."

"Well, I'm going to get milk for them. I want to know them! They always treat bad us too, basically. We should understand them."

On this, Cicero agreed. They weren’t normal as Khajiit, not to mention the beautiful Amun'e Phis, who wasn’t normal even among her own race. Cicero had always known how to appreciate abnormality, he had to admit it. And then... even if it was bad to think, little time was left for Morrigan. Cicero had realized that in a single morning she had asked him twice to repeat something, a sign that perhaps even her hearing was leaving her. If she was curious about those Khajiit, that was the time to take advantage of it, no delays allowed.

"All right, little crow, let's go meet those nice cats. After all, curiosity is always the best lover to court."

Chapter Text

Morrigan made her way to the counter, confident, and Cicero had to recognize it. She stood up, straight and convinced, and took the straight line shorter, walking at a steady pace, evidently hoping that there were no tables on her trajectory. There were, but Cicero, following her, shifted her slightly and prevented her from bumping into them. He did it in a way that was hidden enough not to make her look ridiculous, it was right that she maintained that security she had accumulated.

When she got to the counter, she stopped too abruptly, but no one noticed. She then put her hand on the rough wood and cleared her throat with a haughty look and a slightly raised chin. Like a Princess, yes. Cicero was amused and amazed by that behavior.

The innkeeper had to get the call and, finally, he brought himself before her, with a smile.

"What can I do for you?"

Cicero saw Morrigan swallowing, but otherwise she was good at maintaining her severity.

"I’d like some milk for those Khajiit cubs."

Cicero was even more surprised: he hadn’t expected her to say the reason, he had thought that she would’ve just asked for milk, then run away as quickly as possible. And instead, there was the little crow, now an adult crow. One of those which descend from Sovngarde to reap the victims, severe but without rancor. She, really, slowly, was earning her name. Death from Above.

"Listen, my Lady, I’ve nothing against you, you’re a Nord, but... don’t you think it’s foolish to meddle?"

But Morrigan had the sternest expression Cicero had ever had the pleasure of seeing her on. She remained silent, stiff, pointing her face at the innkeeper so penetratingly that he too must’ve seen him, Sithis, through her pale eyes.

"I wouldn’t be so arrogant if I were you" she warned, in a voice that no longer seemed to be hers, "if I had ended up working in a rat-hole like this, rather than thinking about the Khajiit, I'd be desperately looking a way of earning Sovngarde before dying of old age."

The scene froze. The innkeeper stared at Morrigan in amazement, not yet offended just because he was too stupid to understand such a long sentence. Morrigan didn’t even blink to disturb her opponent, and it seemed like it was working. Cicero and the innkeeper's daughter, instead, were observing the scene, making the sight flicker from one contender to another.

In the end, the innkeeper unlocked first. Without removing eye contact, he lowered, picked up two bottles of milk, and placed them heavily on the counter.

"It's twenty septims." he hissed, his tone deep and threatening.

Only then Morrigan realize she didn’t have any money. Cicero saw her clearly open her eyes wider and fall into terror. The others hadn’t yet noticed.

Cicero would also have paid all the savings of his life to see her win. Trying not to be seen, he took a few coins from the bag and, hidden from the counter, passed it to her.

She calmed down, showing a bold smile. She brought her hand over the counter and laid the money down with studied slowness, making it jingle.

"Thank you." she hissed in turn, even more threatening.

"And now, get out."

"Or else what? You call the guards to deal with a blind girl? Or, even better, would you dare to throw me out by yourself?"

Cicero put a hand to his mouth, stifling a laugh of joy. If a few weeks ago, while he was tracking her and seeing her give up the apples at the market, they told him she would’ve ended up fighting and protecting herself with her handicap, he would’ve never believed it.

Morrigan decided not to insist, though. She was good, she had known when to stop. She took the milk, smiled, greeted softly, and started heading out, without the slightest sign of agitation.

Perhaps she wasn’t agitated in the room, but certainly she recovered her anxiety as soon as she stepped a foot over the threshold. Tension seemed to fall on her shoulders all at once and Cicero saw her lower slightly, her legs sagging, clutching the milk bottles as if they had been the most precious loot in the whole world.

"Wo, wo! Stand up, little crow!"

Cicero grabbed her shoulders, amused, and prevented her from melting like a candle in a bonfire. She, in response, began to laugh hysterically.

"I did it! Did you see? Did you see? I'm a hero!"

Cicero approached her ear, speaking soothingly.

"Yes, of course Cicero saw, little crow. Perhaps you’re not yet Death from Above, but Justice from Above, for sure."

She smiled, pleased, flushed. She tightened the bottles more and took a few steps, still uncertain. She began to tilt her head, as if trying to hear where the Khajiit were. She spotted them immediately, hearing them speak: they were standing, with their two huge wagons, under a pine tree, a few steps from them.

She began to walk towards them and this time it was Cicero who had to take courage. Yes, he admitted it, he feared Khajiit. The wounds inflicted on him by the Anvil Cat were still quite vivid, on his side. He remembered them well, because they had taken more than a month to heal, and they had given him a pain that went a little beyond what he could like. They gave him a strong infection, since he had had to dive into a drainage channel to escape. Such a bad contract.

However he didn’t complain and tried to make the best of a bad situation. He didn’t want them to see him tense, and in this regard he promised himself not to stare at their claws too much.

When they arrived, the Khajitt, at least eight, stared at them insistently, halfway between menacing and fearful. The giant cat wasn’t there. They didn’t have their typical battle face, they hadn’t folded their ears or even thinned their eyes, but Cicero could feel the tension that was reigning among them. Perhaps they were wondering if they were about to have other problems of a racial nature.

Cicero stopped Morrigan when they got close enough. She sighed, to give herself courage, then a big smile.

"Hi!" she finally said, perky, "we’ve heard you need milk and we bought it for you!"

The Khajiit didn’t answer immediately. They looked at each other a bit, saying nothing, as if they were able to talk to each other telepathically. Then they turned all eyes on the two, and Cicero felt small, observed by the thousand orbits of a thousand different colors, the vertical and menacing pupils.

"You’re very kind, Lady" spoke, finally, one of the females, with a bundle tied around her neck, "the whole clan thanks you. The cubs were very hungry, these Khajiit are struggling to breastfeed, they’re not in their habitat, with this cold."

She approached, with an expression that must have been a smile, but which Cicero found threatening, crowned by those sharp teeth. When she was there, she took the bottles and briefly bowed.

From that moment things got quieter. The Khajiit relaxed, they all smiled and many of them went back to work, to leave with the caravan. The cat who had taken the milk, however, remained a moment with Cicero and Morrigan. Smiling ample, the wide orange eyes fixed on them, she showed the bundle around her neck.

It was a kitten. Black, asleep, with his nose jumping, perhaps in the grip of a dream, the whiskers carried forward.

"Morrigan, she's showing us the cub!" Cicero warned, unable to hold back a smile. He was nice. If they had all remained of that size it would’ve been better, though.

Morrigan's eyes widened in ecstasy. She didn’t dare to move, though. The Khajiit herself, then, allowed her to touch, if she wanted, and Morrigan began to caress the kitten with the same delicacy she put into the little things. She had to use the palm of her hand, not her fingers, but she was too happy to despair. Cicero thought she would’ve been a good mother, if she could.

"His name is Ji'qah. He’ll become as big as his sister."

"His sister?"

"Amun'e Phis. She was in the inn."

And, as if she had been evoked by a mystic spell, they heard her coming. They didn’t see her, because she was on the other side of the inn. But they did notice her anyway, because they felt the ground tremble.

She came from behind them with a few quick steps, and Cicero felt his spine shivering. Morrigan, on the contrary, couldn’t be happier.

"What do you want, eh?" asked Amun'e Phis, threatening.

Cicero turned and saw her a step away from him. Or rather, one step from him he saw her belt. To see the rest of the body he had to raise his head, and even lean backwards. He noticed with no little fear that the giant cat was looking at him, from top to bottom, and she was doing so with her ears back and her eyes thin.

"So? What do you want? If you're here to tease my mother, you can even dislodge! Or I swear I crush you down!"

"Amun'e Phis must learn the art of calm!" the mother scolded her, severe, always speaking in third person, "these people bought the milk. Amun'e Phis shouldn’t scare them."

"Oh!" exclaimed the cat, amazed, "sorry, lil ones, my bad! I wasn’t expecting it, not from a Nord and an Imperial, for sure!"

She lowered herself, to see them more closely. Cicero could see the big, wet and pink nose, just an inch from their faces. She breathed on them and almost took off his hat, moving the air. Her whiskers were outstretched, to study them, and Morrigan laughed, because they were tickling her face. She looked like a child excited for a new game, Cicero would’ve given gold to get half of that enthusiasm.

"The Imperial smells strange." she noted.

Cicero looked at her in the eyes, trying to keep his usual confidence. He was afraid of becoming blind too, dazzled by those yellow irises.

"Cicero always washes himself, he doesn’t know what you're talking about!" he tried to joke.

Fortunately, it worked. Amun'e Phis spread a disquieting smile and straightened up, letting them breathe. Cicero knew what the Khajiit was referring to: he smelled like death. Khajiit were like that, they knew a lot about a person through the smell. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Amun'e Phis had even understood that he was from the Brotherhood, but fortunately she didn’t say anything. Perhaps she didn’t care much: it was known that Khajiit had a particularly flexible sense of justice.

"Who are you, lil ones? Who should we thank?"

They introduced themselves and Amun'e Phis did the same. She insisted on shaking hands with them, even if her paw was too big. They shaked her index finger, more than the whole hand.

"Well, thank you so much for the milk! It never happens, as you can imagine. Ma'dran will surely want to know you and thank you in person, come with me!"

"Who’s Ma'dran?" Morrigan asked, with no fear.

"The leader of our caravan! One of the first Khajiit merchant to come up with the idea of coming to Skyrim!"

They followed her while she was doing the gimcana among the tree trunks, which for her became nothing more than fences. They stood behind her, while she walked, elegant and sensual, with her tail high for happiness. She swayed with a certain grace, but exaggerated, too exposed by her size.

"So, what are you doing here in Dawnstar?" shee asked as they walked.

She was a chatter, Cicero liked that aspect. But he found her way of speaking incredibly modern and out of context for those of her race, unnatural.

"We're going to Solitude!" Morrigan exclaimed, shocked by the situation, her happy eyes of the same color as the milk she had just bought.

"Oh!" exploded the cat, pointing up her ears in amazement, "we’re also going to Solitude! We use to move, you know, we always take the route from Windhelm. This time it takes a little more: new born and so many goods!"

They turned around the last pine tree, and finally found themselves in a tiny clearing, where the Khajiit had set up a temporary camp. It was nothing more than a fire and a tent, which gave the idea of being put there to hold only a few minutes. Inside, sitting cross-legged and eyes closed, the old Ma'dran.

"Ma'dran! Look, these two bought us milk!"

The old cat lifted his first layer of eyelids, and for a moment the inner one was also visible, a little late in the opening. He gave the idea of being quite tired. His whiskers were pointing down and the fur, gray, must have been darker in the past.

"Oh, benefactors!" he greeted them, in a hoarse, deep voice, "Ma'dran gives you back the money immediately."

He started to look in a pocket that he held at his side, but Morrigan, with her eyebrows raised, almost scandalized, immediately stopped him.

"No, no, it was our gift!"

"Is always Cicero the one who pays anyway, isn’t he?"

Even that was a joke but, this time, it didn’t raised the desired effect. Cats weren’t famous for their sense of humor. Ma'dran, however, didn’t seem offended, because another peculiarity of Khajiit was to consider money and the debts a serious matter. Too serious, even when it was a few septims. They would’ve preferred to have their tail cut rather than being in debt of a coin... or rather than offering the same coin. They were intransigent on the economic side, for better or for worse.

"Ma'dran always repays debts, my young girl. Come closer."

Morrigan obeyed, groping. Ma'dran, however, was a gentleman: he took both her hands gently, to make her feel where he was and to guide her in his presence.

He looked at her closely, carefully, with a half smile.

"Um, your eyes look like Elsweyr's sky. The sun beats so strong, in the desert, that blue is lost and everything becomes white."

He put the gold coins in her hand, with all the calm and dignity of an old cat.

"Er... thank you..." Morrigan muttered, embarrassed, not knowing whether to take that statement as an actual compliment.

"Hey, that's enough, Ma'dran!" intervened Amun'e Phis, too cheerful, "don’t think of Elsweyr, you're homesick. We must stay happy with this cold! Get ready, we're about to leave! By the way, you, you two, yeah.  Would you like to join us? The road is safer, in a big group."

Morrigan spread a toothy smile, while Cicero saw his prospect of death widening. If nothing else, they weren’t bards... although, thinking about it, he didn’t know how much better it was.

"Cicero, can we?" she asked, in a tone so excited and happy that not even Sithis himself would’ve dared to say no.

"Little crow, you know you don’t have to always ask Cicero's permission for..."

"So yes, let's come with you!"

She hadn’t even let him finish talking. After a first moment of loss, however, Cicero thought that... she was finally free. Instead, he was no longer free. Now he was her slave. The exact feeling he had tried to avoid for a lifetime, but... but why had suddenly become so pleasurable?

Time to take the horse and mount, Morrigan always ahead, and they had already left. They joined the caravan, therefore, remaining last. But Amun'e Phis didn’t let them: she ran to them, scaring the horse, and forced them to the front, among the group's firsts. Cicero didn’t like having the cats behind... because he didn’t like having anyone behind, a good killer lives with his back to the wall. But Amun'e Phis was uncompromising.

"No, you must stay here, there’s an order to be respected! First the weakest, because they are the ones to make the way, so we don’t leave them behind. Then there are the strongest, we are the front guard. In between, pregnant women, children, and wagons. Then the rearguard and finally Ma'dran. He must be the last to watch over all of us. These are the rules of the desert caravans, we also use them here. We’re very attached to traditions, and I'm sorry but you have to adapt. If you break the formation, you break the balance. Got it?"

Morrigan was fascinated and, if he had to be completely honest, even Cicero. He had always loved group dynamics, and perhaps it was because he had always lived in the Brotherhood. He felt better, surrounded by others, even though they were cats, even though they weren’t really his family. But he could’nt decipher Morrigan to be honest. She had always been isolated, why did she want to stay in a group? It seemed too sudden a change. But perhaps she had made an exception to the rule just because they were Khajiit, and thus discriminated as her and maybe more than her.

"Listen, Amun'e Phis... can I ask you why are you so big? I hope I don’t offend you."

And there it was, the moment when in Morrigan curiosity grew stronger than shyness. Cicero greatly appreciated her thirst for curiosity and also knew that she must have always had it. It’s a quality you have as a child, you cannot learn it. Cicero could’ve tried to inculcate the interest in knowledge to Cassio, he could’ve tried it for decades, but he knew he would’ve never changed. He didn’t dare to imagine how much Morrigan must have felt empty in those years, grown up alone with the Hammer, without being able to see anything, without being able to know anything that wasn’t the steps of an inn. Suddenly, it was explained her mad desire to do something, her desire to learn about cultures and people. Escaping with the Khajiit wasn’t anything different than running away with Cicero, after all. In her last weeks, she was pursuing everything that could make her feel alive like a moth toward the flame.

Amun'e Phis, however, wasn’t offended by the question. Cicero knew her, too, because he knew everyone, he had studied everyone. That cat was a happy person. Simple to describe, not as simple to understand, or to imitate. She was one of those who live life one good news at a time, in a mysterious way that only they knew. The worst misfortunes could’ve happened to her, but she would’ve been positive anyway. She would’ve been a difficult victim, to be killed. And not so much for her size, but because of her way of being: those like her are always convinced they can do something, they think they’re able to take their destiny into their own hands. Ten years of segregation wouldn’t be sufficient to bring them down. They’re the ones who would also fight with a severed head, those who scream even if you point a blade to their throat. Those who, in short, if you don’t kill in one go, will certainly give you many problems.

"Oh, no offense, honey! We’re both quite strange, eh? Anyway, I'm big because I'm a Cathay Raht! I was born here in Skyrim, with growing Masser and Secunda. A rare ja-Kha'jay."

Morrigan was stunned, Cicero felt her stiff on the saddle.

"What?" she asked in the end, unable to hold back and unleashing the hard laughter of the whole clan.

"Khajiit are born of different breeds depending on the phases of the moons, honey! The ja-Kha'jay! Mine is rare, with both moons crescent. However, those who are born with this ja-Kha'jay become of breed Cathay Raht, the biggest among the Khajiit. No deformities or illnesses, I’m just rare!"

Amun'e Phis, who was walking beside them, taking a step every four of the horse, lowered a little, bringing her furry hand under Morrigan's chin. She cuddled her cheek with her huge thumb. Then she lowered her ears a little, with a dreamy look.

"Um, you humans say you don’t believe in the phases of ja-Kha'jay, but they also influence you, I’m sure. I bet you must’ve been born under the sign of Senche. Your eyes really look like two beautiful full moons."

And from that moment on, the whole pack seemed to agree in calling her Morrigan Qo Kha'jay, or Morrigan Two Moons.

Chapter Text

The journey was more pleasant than Cicero could’ve expected, with the Khajiit caravan. They were pretty interesting people, after all. Lovers of their own traditions, they never lost an opportunity to talk about Elsweyr, their relatives at home, their gods. In one respect, they were a little like the Nord from the point of view of Cicero: very close to their culture, very proud. But not as racist towards others, he had to admit it. Maybe he had that impression just because those particular cats were out of context, in Skyrim, maybe in Elsweyr they would’ve been less accommodating. But Cicero didn’t think so, no. They were an exotic, hot race, made such by the burning temperature of the desert, by the group life of the caravans. And they also had the reputation of being people who knew how to have fun, including skooma, music and everything else.

Amun'e Phis was the happiest of them, undoubtedly, perhaps also because she was one of the youngest. She was really the youngest, actually, except for the cubs. Cicero and Morrigan didn’t ask for her age, but assumed she was no more than eighteen. Not much more than a little girl... a girl in a gigantic body.

Because of her size, she was the only one without a mount, and she suffered a lot. In the evening she was exhausted, and she use to strongly massage her feet, which Cicero noticed to be the length of his calf. She didn’t complain at all, though. As Cicero had already noticed, she was a happy person, and her feet wouldn’t have changed her character. So her comment was limited to a few words:

"The only reason I’d like to see Elsweyr is that they say walking on the sand massages your feet."

The whole morning passed slowly and calmly, without any kind of problem. The road was a simple, linear. The wagons hopped on the paving, now roundish for too many tramps passing by and stepping on it. As they proceeded westward, the temperature gradually became more bearable, white snow giving way to green vegetation.

They crossed forks, bridges, rivers, waterfalls, and Cicero regretted that Morrigan couldn’t see anything. He regretted, yes, but only until they met a not really idyllic sight, and then he was grateful that she couldn’t see anything.

At the end of a crossroads, in fact, three crucified victims stood on the road, framed by conifers. The first to see them was Ma'dran, even at the back of the group, thanks to his prodigious vision. But they didn’t stop, because there was no other way, they couldn’t leave the path with the chariots in tow.

They arrived and raised their eyes upward. The victims were two men and one woman. Hanging with arms wide open to their crosses, they had been nailed by their wrists, in the gap between radius and ulna. Their blood was dried, but the bodies were intact, a sign that it must not have been more than a day since they had been hung. They were all three with their heads bowed, and from their faces there were streaks of blood: their eyes had been torn. The woman was naked, she also had blood between her thighs, while the other two... didn’t have thighs. They didn’t have a lower part: their bodies had been severed under the diaphragm and also emptied of the lungs.

The Khajiit women were scandalized, clutching their babies, snarling. The men were scared. Ma'dran was silent. Amun'e Phis, instead... she was angry. She wasn’t scared, no, she was angry. The ears pulled back as far as she could, the lips raised to show the canines, the thin, pungent vertical pupils.

She approached the crosses, so high that the victims’ faces were parallel to hers.

"Imperial bastards!" she cursed, without filters.

She turned immediately, focusing her eyes on Cicero. He felt challenged and pretended to be shocked by the show. Actually, he wasn’t scared: on the contrary, he was thinking about how much it would take for a victim to die, without the lower half of the body; he was wondering what they had done to the woman's intimate parts; he was wondering if it was difficult to cut the spine with such precision.

"How much more will this have to go on?" asked Amun'e Phis, in a rhetorical question addressed to Cicero, as if he could be the official spokesman of his entire race.

Cicero looked away, irritated. He sighed, then spread a false smile.

"My dear kitty, sorry to disappoint you, but this isn’t an Imperial work. If you see a cross you mustn’t immediately think of the evil Empire. If you hear hooves, it's usually a horse, but it could also be a goat, hm?"

Amun'e Phis didn’t abandon the fervent expression, but Cicero, this time, wasn’t intimidated. By now he had understood that her rage was nothing more than an adolescent outburst. She was active, easy to sting on, but only because she was young, not because she was a warlike Khajiit. It meant that she would’ve growled a lot, but never bitten, and this was enough for Cicero.

"You’re just protecting your race, jester. But in front of shows like this, one should have the decency to admit the cruelty of his fellows."

"Oh, no, absolutely, Cicero isn’t protecting his fellows, he couldn’t care less about the expansionist ambitions of the Empire, seriously. He’s just explaining why this particular massacre isn’t Imperial. Cicero knows the pleasant cruelties Cyrodiil offers, believe me. He saw how a person is crucified, and certainly it’s not cutting he or she in half: it wouldn’t serve the purpose of a slow death. The crosses are too high, the right size for you or... well, giants, Cicero would think at first glance. And then the dead are not in a city. When one crucifies someone, usually violent criminals, it’s never in an isolated place like this, or it wouldn’t serve as a warning. Also, Imperials don’t take off clothes. They take great care to let passers-by know what faction the convicts belong to. If they were Stormcloaks, you can be sure that the uniforms would be there, and even clean! Finally, those are crux commissa, that is to say T-shaped, without the fourth arm on the victim's head. Imperials always use the crux immissa: it’s less simple to build, but allows to put on the top the symbol of the Empire. Are those enough, as motivations?"

Perhaps he got carried away: the Khajiit looked at him strangely, wide-eyed, especially Amun'e Phis, who had now raised her ears. Morrigan had turned, as much as the space in the saddle allowed her, on purpose to make him sense her disappointment.

"You seem to know a lot, jester..." insinuated Amun'e Phis, now vaguely unsettled.

"They’re called books, my dear."

And he said the truth. Of course, he had seen the crucifixion practiced, and he himself had sometimes enjoyed it, even if it wasn’t his favorite method, because of the fatigue involved in preparing the material and relieving the victim. But for the rest, all he knew was innocent knowledge. He had studied methods of torture and public execution as a form of sociological and cultural curiosity, and then he had also felt a sort of anatomical interest. He was amazed, for example, to know that the victims didn’t die of fatigue or starvation, but it was usually because they suffocate. With open and pulled arms, they widened the lungs and could no longer inhale.

"And anyway" he resumed, confident, "if Cicero really wanted to defend the Empire, he would’ve talked about the varied torture methods of Elsweyr. Which one do you prefer? There is the Vise of Fire, which consists in leaving the condemned to the sun, in the desert, and seeing him dehydrate and die with blisters. There’s also a good repertoire for what concerns the tortures practiced with claws, or those that provide to tear fur. Elves cut off ears to show one’s shame, Argonians tear off scales… different province, different cruelty. Don’t be fooled, kitty, all the races of Tamriel have a fair share of guilt, none has to envy the cruel fantasy to others. Even the Nord one. Indeed, especially the Nord. Do you agree, little crow?"

Morrigan was beyond scandal, she was terrified. Cicero enjoyed it, as if suddenly he had remembered how good it was to use that cruel sarcasm he had so loved as a young man. Then, however, he took pity on his audience, and tried to conclude.

"No offense to those present, obviously. It was just to be precise, here each of us has some cultural flaws. Hmm?"

The Khajiit stopped staring at him and immediately, on Ma'dran's advice, resumed their journey. They didn’t seem surprised by the speech, to be honest. They looked as if they were going to ignore the madness of a fool, a rather familiar look to Cicero.

He also spurred his horse and resumed marching in the mortified muteness of Morrigan. Amun'e Phis, next to them, was continuing to stare at him, skeptical and insistent, while the tail was whipping furiously to the right and left.

"You talk too much, Imperial." was her only, odd comment.

In the evening, they stopped at the side of the road, and Ma'dran announced they would’ve set up a camp for the night. He was kind and granted to Morrigan and Cicero one of their tents. However, Cicero found the open space designated for the camp to be dangerous for Morrigan: it was over a high cliff of rock that ended in nothingness, the bottom covered by fog.

"Little crow, I beg you, tonight don’t go for a stroll alone" he advised as they climbed off the horse, "Sithis forbid, we don’t want you to fall half a mile down, hm?"

She assured she would’ve been careful and Amun'e Phis joked that she would’ve caught her, in the eventuality. But Cicero didn’t want to risk, so he decided to pitch the tent as far as possible from the cliff, across the street. While he was hammering the stakes, he wondered when it had happened, that he cared so much about the safety of who, in effect, remained a victim. He should’ve pushed her down the ravine. On the contrary, he was almost putting a fence for her, as to the cattle. What was he doing?

He shook his head, annoyed, reproaching himself for those conflicting thoughts. He had made a decision and so it was enough, now he had to follow it. He hated those relapses.

"Hey, can I help you?" Morrigan asked, sitting on a rock next to him.

Cicero cleared his sweat and almost chuckled, thinking about the little help she could’ve ever given, blind and almost without the use of her hands. Then, however, he held back. He thought he didn’t want to make her feel useless.

"Of course, little crow! Come here, hold the stake."

She spread a big smile. She got up, walked undecided up to him, then crouched down on the ground. Cicero let her find the stake and she held it straight, to be planted in the ground. She trusted that he wouldn’t have hammered her hand, and Cicero found it very sweet.

Now that he saw her like that, from a higher perspective, she seemed shorter than she was. Suddenly she looked even younger.

"Is Cicero allowed to ask you a question, little crow?" he said, stopping a moment and looking at her closely, realizing with fear that not even a wrinkle of expression was present on her face.

"Aye, tell me."

"How old are you? Exactly."

"Twenty-one."

Cicero felt the ground being missing beneath his feet. It was less... less than he had expected. He didn’t even remember how he was, at twenty-one. He well remembered Galla, Ademar and all the rest, but that had happened a few years later. At twenty-one... he had just joined the Brotherhood. He had the lowest rank. What a great feeling, being at the lowest rank...

"And you?"

The question came as a betrayal, like a hot-red stiletto, but Cicero knew he should’ve expected it. He smiled, sideways, trying the path of irony.

"Indicatively, he’s younger than the Tamriel continent and older than a fly larva. Consider an avarage."

She laughed, but didn’t give up.

"No, I'm serious. I want a number. Equity, no? I told you, now you owe me something."

Cicero looked away, suffering and amused at the same time. Then, in the end, he decided to be honest. It no longer made sense to hide it, also because it was stupid, it wouldn’t have been a number to change things between them, for better or for worse.

He lowered himself, approaching, talking to her ear so that only she could hear him.

"Forty-six, my dear. So many winters, so many summers."

This time she felt the ground failing beneath her feet, Cicero could see it clearly from her expression. He found it painfully funny.

"It was better without numbers, eh?"

She giggled, still wide-eyed, with an innate expression of surprise.

"No, why? I'm glad to know it. Oh wow, you could be my father..."

"Thank you for this cruel remark, little crow! Thank you very much! Was it really necessary to point it out?"

She was amused, now. She sat down and Cicero did the same, taking a break.

Morrigan stretched out her hand, bringing it to his knee, caressing it peacefully and gently, reassuringly.

"Don’t worry, it's not a problem, I don’t care how old you are. But I understand you, I’m ashamed of my age too."

"Um? Are you kidding, little crow?"

"No, I'm serious. I feel too young compared to you, now I can even say it. Sometimes..." she frowned, embarrassed, "sometimes I feel like you consider me stupid, or naive."

Cicero felt bad. He had never wanted to give her that impression, really.

"Cicero always tells you that you don’t have to consider yourself stupid, why do you think he lies?"

"You say so, aye, but then you always correct me when I speak..."

That was true. But it wasn’t for her, he did it with everyone, he had done it with the Khajiit too, running the serious risk of making them mad. It wasn’t because he thought she was stupid, it was because he had a certain taste for precision, and above all because he liked to share his knowledge. He had never thought she would consider it… arrogant?

He stroked her hand lightly. He realized she couldn’t feel him well, so he cuddled her wrist with an index finger.

"No, no, no, no, no, Morrigan. Cicero doesn’t think you're stupid, ever. If he corrects you at times it is precisely because he knows you can understand, you’re worth the explanation. He’ll try to do it less if it offends you. But really, he always saw you very smart and trustworthy. If he thought you were stupid, your empty eyes wouldn’t have been enough to save you. Cicero hates stupids. Naive... well, maybe yes, a little. But why do you say it as if it were bad? At your age it's right. A great gift, really. You should rather be happy to have retained a little 'ingenuity, despite the difficult childhood. Cicero... has never been naive and doesn’t boast of it at all. Cicero was adult and... bad... even as a child. At your age he was experiencing the effects of strangulation through different tools, do you understand? You... you’re more normal, and you must be happy. Naive? Yes, fortunately. And that's why it's so nice to be with you, it seems... to forget everything."

A break. He continued to cuddle her wrist and saw her smile, oblique, with the setting sun reflecting on the pure mirrors that were her eyes. Her skin became golden, with that light. She looked almost like an Altmer.

"It is Cicero who should be ashamed, you know... it seems to him he’s ruining you sometimes. Indeed, let's say that it is so, in no uncertain terms. Not to mention the fact that he’s sure to bore you, when he’s blabbering so much. Like now, hm? Cicero is really heavy."

She shook her head, slow, easygoing.

"No, no. I always like to listen to you. You know many things, you've seen so many places... it's nice to hear you talk, really. I’d never get bored."

They smiled at each other, and at that moment they both understood that, perhaps, the age difference had helped them, instead of being an obstacle: if Morrigan had met a young Cicero she wouldn’t have survived to know him; if Cicero had met an older Morrigan, she wouldn’t have impressed him with her lightness and he wouldn’t have fallen in love with her.

For the first time, they felt that everything was perfect as it was.

Night fell merciless and cold that evening. The sky was clear, as it was almost always, in those months that were turning to spring, even if the temperatures showed no signs of becoming more bearable.

They dined with the Khajiit, who offered them dry meat and what looked like skooma in a pipe, which Cicero refused vehemently. If there was one thing that he hadn’t recanted over the years, it was his aversion to drugs and everything that alters mind.

There was not much talk, however, because the whole caravan was tired, it had been a long day. They therefore decided unanimously to go to sleep. Morrigan and Cicero gathered in the small tent, chilled. Cicero wasn’t sure he could sleep, the air was really cold, and being in contact with Morrigan didn’t help at all.

But he hugged her anyway, as they clung together in their sleeping bags, dressed. They stood facing each other, almost touching.

"You're shaking." Morrigan said, sweet and calm, at ease in that climate.

Cicero embraced her and put his hands under her hair at the nape of her neck. That was the only warm place.

"Little crow, you’re cheating! You could make a blanket with this hair, of course you're not cold!"

She giggled. With the movements limited by the sleeping bag, she grabbed one of the long strands and tickled his face with the tips, like dusting his face. Cicero almost sneezed.

They chuckled, but tried to make little noise, so as not to wake the other fellow travelers. They stifled laughter, then, and forced themselves to stay calm. Cicero closed his eyes, relaxed, hoping to sleep a few hours.

Hisarms were around her and he could feel the rough fabric of her dress, under his fingers. He cuddled her a little, just half-awake now. He felt her ribs, sticking to the vertebral column, firm and wavy.

"What are you thinking about?" Morrigan asked, whispering.

Cicero opened his eyes, waking up from the torpor that had just wrapped him up. He was thinking about... things she wouldn’t have liked.  

"Um, little crow, forget it."

"Why?"

"Cicero never thinks of beautiful things when he’s about to fall asleep."

"Test me, then."

Cicero appreciated the effort. In the end he thought that, after all, he had always been sincere with her. Why now he was beginning to censor? Maybe it was to be protective. As he didn’t want to make her fall off the cliff, so he didn’t want to disturb her dreams, or her life itself, with his mentally ill stories.

"Hey?" she urged him, not hearing the answer, "I was serious, I like listening to you. Whatever it is, it's okay. I won’t get scandalized. By now..."

Cicero found himself agreeing in silence. By now... by now he had already ruined her.

"Cicero was thinking about today's crucifixes, and the difference between my vision of screams of pain and that of the Nords."

He felt her settle a little by placing her head on his forearm.

"Tell me about it."

Cicero hesitated, then had to yield. The desire to speak was too much in him. It was always, really, really too much. Amun'e Phis was right.

"Once, in Cyrodiil" he said, as to start a long speech, "Cicero was with Galla in the great square of the Imperial City. We had a contract for a pedophile, a very bad person, really. When we found him, however, we realized that the law had reached him before us. They were executing him in public, in the Brezen Bull of Phalaris."

"What is it?" interrupted Morrigan, and Cicero could already feel the stiffness of her muscles.

"Oh, a method of execution as cruel as it is spectacular, little crow", he recounted in a whisper, which was almost no voice, "the condemned is inserted into the hollow statue of a bronze bull. Fire is lit under the bull and the condemned dies among atrocious sufferings, and... the most beautiful part is that the screams turn into very strong bellowings, thanks to the bull's acoustics."

She now yes, was rigid. But when she urged him to continue, her voice was calm. Maybe she wasn’t scared, maybe... she was enjoying it?

"Well, then I thought of another method of execution, used by the Nords. Used very little, for the truth, but still exists. The Blood Eagle. Your back reminded me of it, because you know... it consists in fracturing the ribs, one by one, at the base, where they stick to the vertebrae..."

To make her understand where he meant, he pressed an index on the interested spot, in the middle of her back. Feeling the fabric of the dress, however, didn’t satisfy him, as if it really put too much distance between his hand and her body, making it all too cold.

Then he dared to pass under the dress, brushing her buttocks, hoping she would’ve let him do it, to feel the bones better.

When he touched the affected spot again, he felt her wince.

"They break them one by one with an axe, right here. Then they open and extract the lungs, so that they look like the wings of an eagle. In this case, too, the condemned dies suffocated, paradoxically, and not because of the severity of the wound."

Now Morrigan was trembling, and Cicero relieved the pressure on her rib, to put her more at ease.

"Don’t worry" he murmured, sincere, reassuring, "Cicero would like so much, so much to try it, but not on you. Too violent, as a method, he wouldn’t have done it even when you were a contract. Beautiful girls aren’t to be so disfigured, Sithis himself would be displeased."

She swallowed, tense.

"I had never heard of this practice."

"You have to go to Windhelm to hear about it. A really nice place, among this, Ulfric, the Butcher... " he chuckled, softly, sarcastically, and went back to telling, "anyway, all this to tell you that there’s a very different view of screams, in these two methods. During the Brezen Bull they’re exaggerated, and Cicero himself appreciates it more, because it’s as if... as if it were a song, an announcement for Sithis, right? On the contrary, for the Nords they’re a shame. If the condemned screams during the Blood Eagle, he’s denied access to Sovngarde. Do you believe it? What kind of cruelty is this? It's much worse than death, a lot. Cicero himself, with all the people he killed, has never wished denying anyone the Void... that yes, it's being crazy. Well... that was what I thought. Happy?"

He was sarcastic, he expected her to tremble, to change subject quickly, or to be quiet and motionless, petrified. But no, she did nothing like that. To his astonishment, she kissed him, slow and sensual, with her lips chapped by the frost that gradually were becoming softer, in contact with another human being.

When she pulled away, she spoke soft, slow.

"Would you like to do it on someone, you say?"

"Ah, so it's true that you like listening to these bad stories, Morrigan. Um, maybe... maybe Cicero shouldn’t have run so fast, calling you naive."

He brought again a hand on her back, running across all the spine, allusive.

"On who?" she asked, shivering.

Cicero didn’t answer immediately. He moved closer, turning, forcing her to lie on her back. He was on top of her and kissed her, invaded by the cold she emanated. Even with love she didn’t heat up, she was almost supernatural.

He ran his hand, still under the dress, lower, tightening a gluteus and then the thigh. He moved her skirt, as he continued to kiss her, lascivious, thinking he didn’t deserve her, really.

"The innkeeper" hissed at the end, putting in that word all the cruelty he was capable of, "that fucking innkeeper, he looked at you so badly... he wanted to threaten you. He wanted to threaten you, and... oh, how he will pay, for this treachery! I’ll open his rib cage, tear off his lungs and give them to you."

He made his way into her intimacy and she was already panting, her mouth half open. Cicero had the feeling that it was more for the topic than for the movements.

He loved her even more, because yes, she alone could appreciate such a gift: the lungs of one who had treated her badly. No rings, no frivolities from a common woman. Justice. Revenge. The most personal and profound gift that could be offered.

He felt her wince slightly as he entered in her, and was glad to see that she had got used to it, that it was no longer out of fear or pain.

"I’ll kill him for you" he kept repeating, as he began to move, "he’ll be sacrificed for the Princess of the Void, and all will fear the day you return to your kingdom, for it will be terror, the complete trinity: Father, Mother and Daughter."

She clung to his back, as if she wanted to become one with him. Cicero felt her cold body, stiff with effort and thinness, and felt unworthy to lie with a creature like her. Sacrificing a traitor in her name was the least, indeed, the least even for the honor of looking her in the eyes.

"I’ll kill him for you, Morrigan. I swear I'll kill him for you."

Chapter Text

They had to take a longer road to get around the marshes. The wagons were slow, awkward already on the cobblestones, it was impossible to drive them off course, much less on marshy lands. For this reason, the journey was longer than what Morrigan and Cicero could’ve done alone, but neither was annoyed. Cicero, in particular, was beginning to appreciate the powerful presence of Amun'e Phis, who banished both wild beasts and bandits from their path. Of course, Cicero had always traveled alone, he knew he could defend himself in most cases; but he wasn’t so arrogant as to believe himself invincible, or not to admit that a Khajiit with a dragon's maw could be a better deterrent than a short Imperial dressed as a jester. Cicero even doubted that the Khajiit mother, the one with the black cub, had calculated the conception well so as to obtain another Cathay Raht, another giant to be hired as an armed escort.

They stopped twice a day, usually: in the evening and also for lunch, because mothers had to feed the little ones and let them rest, they couldn’t sustain a whole day of walking. Suddenly, Cicero understood that being a nomad merchant was much harder than he had imagined.

When they passed the marshes, finally, the fog cleared, the rancid smell was swept away and the sun emerged in the sky. The road began to get steep, snaking up the hills, which then became mountains, snowed in the distance. They still couldn’t see the Solitude cliff, with its port, the Blue Palace overlooking the sea, but it couldn’t have been more than a day's walk away.

"Tonight this caravan stops earlier" Ma'dran announced from the bottom of the line, with a hoarse roar made dry by the accent of the south, "little is missing to reach Solitude and Ma'dran wants to organize a decent greeting to the guests."

And they stopped, therefore, that it was still the sunset. The golden light flooded the hills and gave the world a luxurious, rich, precious look. Cicero was grateful for the milder weather, and he thought it was strange for the weather to be so nice right now that the time for Morrigan was about to end. Perhaps, however, it wasn’t the representation of her vitality, no: it was the representation of her freedom. And if it was true that she was dying, it was also true that she was doing it as consciously as possible, much more aware of what she could’ve achieved by remaining in Whiterun. The clarity of the sky which was also the clarity of the mind. As Cicero used to say, there was no greater gift in life.

Like the previous evenings, they set up camp, Cicero and Morrigan were faster and more helpful than the first time. Morrigan, in particular, seemed intent on giving the best of herself. She wanted to be useful, to work with everyone. The Khajiit were kind to her, gave her some simple tasks, kept her busy with their stories. Cicero was grateful to them, really. They were helping her a lot, in their small way.

At a certain point, when it was time for the heaviest work, like raising the tents poles and gathering firewood, to keep her from being bored, Amun'e Phis's mother decided to give her the cub, the little Ji'qah.

"Oh, no, no! I'm not able, I'm afraid of hurting him!" she tried to refuse, at first, intimidated.

But the mother of Amun'e Phis, the black cat named Shahrazad, was a wise and confident woman. With half-closed eyes, relaxed, as if purring, she handed the bundle to Morrigan.

"Morrigan Qo Kah'jay must not worry" she told her, heartening, using her Khajiiti nickname and recognizing her as one of them, "you’re a very caring young woman, you will be an excellent mother. Take care of the Shahrazad puppy, she trusts you."

So she gave him to her, and she didn’t even wait for Morrigan to take the job, leaving immediately to work with the others. The girl, left alone with the bundle in her arms, had her eyes wide open, terrified.

Cicero approached her, to give her courage. He peeked into the bundle and saw the cub, dark and very shiny fur, staring at them with two huge yellow eyes. He was silent, perplexed.

"Morrigan, he's watching you." Cicero warned her, hoping to please her.

Morrigan smiled broadly, tenderness took possession of her expression. With the palm of her hand and her wrist, the only spots now sensitive, she tried to caress the kitten. This allowed her to do everything, without complaining. He seemed to wonder where the hell his mother was, but without fear. Only pure curiosity, with a veil of disappointment. Cicero understood that he would’ve become a very intelligent adult.

"Hi, Ji'qah! You're beautiful, you know?"

Morrigan continued to cuddle him, but her face was not pointing him, it was as if she looked forward. She was so estranged with blindness, as emotionally captured.

"You say he's hungry?" she asked, undecided about what to do.

"Um, hard to say. From the look it seems he's calling both of us idiots, actually."

Morrigan laughed, continuing to stroke him.

"Well, he know us well then."

Morrigan moved, slowly, more cautiously than usual, to the cart with supplies. She took the bottle of milk that Shahrazad used, to whose mouth she had specially added a piece of cloth that, when soaked, served as a teat. Morrigan tried to give it to him, and she succeeded, only that she poured a few drops of milk on the face of little Ji'qah. That wasn’t annoyed, indeed: with a wide movement of the tongue, pink and rough, he wiped his face and even seemed to like that unconventional way of feeding himself.

When she was able to stabilize the situation, with the cub calm and attached to the bottle, the soft paws voraciously twisted to the food source, Morrigan sat down on the ground, enjoying the calm of the moment. She remained motionless for an immensely long time, with a slight smile on her face. She seemed in peace, with herself, with the world.

Cicero approached her, placing a hand on her shoulder. He thought of Modia, how much he wanted her to have treated him like that. He retraced his mind to all the things that had been and would no longer be.

"Cicero must agree: you would be an excellent mother, little crow." he whispered, sincere.

She frowned, spreading a melancholy grimace.

"I would’ve been." she corrected him.

Cicero sighed, disappointed. She already was speaking in past tense, she considered herself lost already.

"You are" he corrected, in return, "you are an excellent mother now in our dreams. Those have no time or age, neither beginning nor end. Those are the true beauty of the Void."

When the sun fell asleep in the west, a bonfire was lit, an island of light in the midst of darkness. All around, the tents silhouetted long and disturbing shadows on the ground, while the smoke and the hot corpuscles danced in the sky, rising from the fire.

They were all sitting around, in a circle. Among them, a large open space, in which two Khajiit women passed to serve dinner. Morrigan, Cicero and Amun'e Phis sat close together, not far from Ma'dran, and enjoyed the food as if they were all normal people.

Morrigan was a little silent, though. Cicero had she was distracted, too focused on the bonfire in front of her. She was like trying at the same time to absorb the heat and escape.

He leaned toward her, speaking softly.

"Hey, little crow? Everything good?"

She made a vague gesture with her head and nodded.

"Um, aye. I’m a little afraid of fire, since..."

She didn’t finish the sentence, but Cicero didn’t need it.

"Don’t worry my dear, this is under control."

"Aye, I know. But... it's deafening. Would you ever have said that a fire could be deafening? When an entire house burns, it hurts the eardrums."

"Cicero knows, he himself had to escape from a fire. His first Sanctuary, you know... what a stupid accident. Everyone died there, even Galla. He knows what it means."

Morrigan said nothing more. She remained wary of the enormous flame, which she saw as a monster of fire, as if it had been summoned by magic. However she didn’t complain and, indeed, from that moment she committed herself to having fun.

After the dinner was served, all the Khajiit helped to clean up, the mothers put the cubs in their tents to sleep, and Ma'dran made an announcement, raising his hands to be heard.

"Khajiit, listen!" he wiped his whiskers, with a pass of his tongue, then went on, "we thank the guests tonight. Two foreigners who have nurtured the children of the caravan, and this the Khajiit do not forget. There may be problems between our races. Misunderstandings, ancestral antipathies, but the truth is that diversity is like the sun: it can both illuminate the path and blind the sight. Never let the light blind you, always take the best from each person, use the sun to follow the right path. And remember that this life is like a desert: if we do not travel in groups, it's the end for everyone."

There was a thunderous applause, and Morrigan and Cicero participated with pleasure. Morrigan struggled to clap her hands, she couldn’t feel them. Cicero felt a pang in his heart: it was becoming... difficult. Much more difficult than he had believed, at least for himself. When did it happen? He couldn’t remember at all how he had come at that moment.

He tried not to think about it and went back to look at the leader of the caravan, still immersed in his applause, with a half smile on his round face. He had made a nice speech: Cicero was exactly the type to appreciate the Khajiiti way of talking, full of metaphors, and above all full of good disposition towards others. He was starting to reevaluate the cats.

"But now enough, enough! Let's have music tonight, have fun before arriving in beautiful Solitude. Guests, I turn to you" he turned to Morrigan and Cicero, "tonight you will hear the music of the Elsweyr desert. May it bring you warmth and comfort in this cold province. Above all to you, Imperial one, who seem even more in trouble than Ma'dran."

A collective, hoarse laugh that could’ve been disturbing if Cicero hadn’t known it was sincere.

"Unfortunately, fate hasn’t provided Cicero with a fur coat."

Another laugh, this time closer, from Amun'e Phis. Sitting next to him, however, was the height of an adult Nord. Laughing, she twisted him with her huge tail, and Cicero felt the soft, well-kept fur all around his body, up to his face.

"Are you cold, Imperial? If you want, I'll make you a scarf, with the fallen hairs of tonight's brushing!"

Laughter, again, in which Cicero failed to counter because he was genuinely amused. He pretended to take off her tail, out of dignity. But the truth was that it would’ve made him comfortable, a Khajiiti fur scarf.

"Amun'e Phis leaves him alone, she’s torturing him since the caravan left Dawnstar!" Ma'dran intervened, pity.

"It's funny because he's afraid of me! It’s obvious that he’s afraid of me!"

And Cicero wasn’t surprised that she had noticed. As he said, cats could sense many things from smell, and even emotions were among those.

In the end, Amun'e Phis demorse and Ma'dran officially kicked off to the festivities.

Five Khajiit enlivened the evening with music. The only woman sang, something that more than a real song seemed like a series of vocalizations, first acute then guttural. Very strange, but impressive, which blended well with the rhythm of the music. The other four accompanied her with various instruments, some unknown to Cicero and Morrigan: a tambourine, a small metal object that they discovered to be a mouth harp, a very low-pitched flute and finally what looked like a hurdy-gurdy without a wheel, a rabab.

The music they created together was something that had never been heard in Skyrim. It was warm, rhythmic, exotic, sensual. It seemed to be carrying sand storms, and spice scents, and colored silks: a music made for those who wanted to stand up all night dancing, just to drive away the fear of the infinite that was the desert.

"Come on, Morrigan, let's go dancing!" Amun'e Phis suggested, perky.

Morrigan immediately became red, the same color of fire in front of her.

"Oh, no, no... I can’t, I don’t... my legs aren’t suited."

"Yes, I saw you're pretty stiff. But don’t worry, our dances don’t require footwork. Far from it: you have to hide your legs, and move your belly!"

As she said it, with one of her huge paws, to emphasize the speech, she touched Morrigan’s belly. She covered it all, could’ve grabbed her by the hips with one hand.

"Oh... even worse. I don’t know how to move."

"I’ll teach you! Forget fear, life is short!"

And it was, really, short. Especially for Morrigan, even though Amun'e Phis couldn’t know it. It was that thought which unlocked her and made her stand up, still intimidated and embarrassed. Amun'e Phis, for her part, could’nt restrain herself for enthusiasm.

"Good, good! Morrigan Qo Kah'jay, show everyone how sensual you can be! Come, I’ll lend you one of my mother’s skirts, you have to take off this shapeless dress!"

And they disappeared into the nearest tent: Amun'e Phis pushed Morrigan inside without even giving her time to realize what was happening.

Cicero tried to peek, more out of concern than out of curiosity. Honestly, it seemed too much for Morrigan, all that excitement. He wondered if she would survive without dying of a heart attack.

They emerged soon after, however, and although still embarrassed, Morrigan seemed more convinced. She chuckled, frightened, but with the desire to try everything. Perhaps she also felt beautiful, in her new dress: nothing more than a skirt, black, long, decorated with tinkling coins at the waist. Above, a bra, black, in tone with the skirt and also decorated in the same way, with coins to make noise with every movement. The belly was completely uncovered, and Cicero was pleased to notice that it was leaning a little, even if only slightly. Had it not been for the hands, the eyes and all the rest, he would’ve considered her healthier than ever.

The girl, framed by her long black hair, put both hands on her mouth, closing on herself. She dared not move, as if the noise of little coins with each step embarrassed her even more.

"No, no! Morrigan Qo Kah'jay, the first rule is that you don’t keep arms closed!"Amun'e Phis explained, dragging her to the dancing floor, as if Morrigan were just a small doll, "you see, this dance has to let you release energy from inside, from the belly! If you close your arms you keep it inside, but you don’t have to, you have to free it! In all directions, as if you wanted to embrace the world! You have to move, you have to sweat, you must feel alive! Do you know why we dance in the desert? To expel scorpion venom. And then dance as if a thousand scorpions have bitten you, Morrigan Qo Kah'jay! Dance as if you were to die now!"

She took her hands and made them spread out, in a sweeping gesture that was so far from Morrigan’s usual behavior, as the music accelerated with rhythm.

"Good, Morrigan! Now remember your arms. Your legs are hidden, the others don’t see them, do you understand? What they see are the arms. You always have to keep them wide open, or both up, or up and down, so you can frame your face and breasts. But never, never, never closed! Open shoulders, as if you had to fly! Like a crow, right? Since your partner calls you that."

Morrigan seemed slightly surprised by the definition Amun'e Phis had used for Cicero, but she didn’t have time to say anything, because the cat was already behind her, to show her the movements of the rest of the body. Since Morrigan couldn’t see, Amun’e Phis touched the affected parts of her body and tried to make her understand the movement. She was close to her, in contact, and Cicero found it erotic. But he knew they weren’t doing it for him. On the contrary: Amun'e Phis seemed to enjoy the proximity of Morrigan in a way that suggested a slightly deeper interest than mere friendship. Every now and then she glanced slyly to him, as if to say: "look, Imperial, look. Sensuality is something men don’t understand and will never understand". It wasn’t malice, but a challenge, a challenge that Cicero knew he had lost already. They seemed so comfortable, together, they were enough for themselves, they didn’t need anyone else. There was nothing that could make a man feel more useless than a Khajiiti dance. And Cicero wasn’t offended, on the contrary: he was delighted. Because, for the first time, he felt he was no longer useful to Morrigan. She started and ended only for herself, at that moment. Pure self-awareness, pure freedom.

"Now incline the pelvis a little forward. You have to make your belly look good." Amun'e Phis continued, now in a warm voice, talking to Morrigan in one ear. To show her what she meant, she put her paws on her hips and turned them forward.

"Now you do an eight with your hips, both horizontally and vertically. Make as if your belly was the center of everything. Don’t dance with your legs and don’t dance with your head, dance with your belly."

She showed her some more movements, and Cicero saw that now Morrigan's face had become serious. But not scared, rather relaxed. Neutral. A few drops of sweat were beginning to bead on her forehead, due to the effort and the heat of the bonfire. And in the end, when she got a little 'confidence, Amun'e Phis left her, moving away slightly. She watched her, with a smile, proud of what she had managed to do. Because Morrigan kept dancing, lightly, for the first time in her life without giving importance to her legs. She was following the rhythm, spreading her arms, as if she wanted to take off, and didn’t do it just to not deprive herself of the pleasure of the grass beneath her feet. She leaned forward, straightened, moved her hips in wide circles, and seemed completely, unquestionably, fatally sole master of her own femininity.

Amun'e Phis, admired, with huge, yellow-eyed eyes, clapped her hands together.

"Look! Look, Imperial! Look at what she can do!"

"Cicero has always known it."

"Without being afraid of her legs, look what she can do!" Amun'e Phis continued, undeterred, in her praise, "do you know what they say, in Elsweyr? That a bird will never be taken seriously, as long as we continue to judge it for its ability to roar."

Cicero was struck by that statement. And so, while Amun'e Phis threw herself on the dance floor and took Morrigan by the hand, making her laugh and entertain with her, Cicero stood aside, feeling almost an intruder, uncomfortable.

He thought back to Khajiiti way of thinking, to the wisdom of that ancient and maltreated people in the cold Skyrim. And he concluded that, although underestimated for so many years, in the end the crow was really learning to roar.

And soon it would’ve been the end of the world.

Chapter Text

Solitude was a city that Cicero had always appreciated, since he had arrived in Skyrim. Partly for the name, melancholy and nostalgic, which reminded him of himself; partly, however, because it clearly bore the sign of Imperial culture, in a province that was still too savage. Everything reminded him of Cyrodiil: the architecture, the domes of the Blue Palace, the atmosphere, the variety of citizenship, but above all the sea. A calm sea, that one, that had nothing to do with Dawnstar’s. The roar of the waters was tireless on the rocks and on the docks of the East Empire Trading Company. The saltwater penetrated the lungs, powerful, and the singing of the seagulls was interspersed with the bells of the moored ships, which swayed lightly with their furled sails. And finally, the magnificent arch, huge, in natural rock, which supported the city overhanging the ocean, creating almost an eye that framed the sun both during the sunrise and during the sunset. Solitude... the beautiful capital of Skyrim that, despite its name, never left anyone alone, teeming with citizens in every corner. Solitude... a place that reminded Cicero of his home.

For these reasons, when they arrived under the dark brick walls, Cicero was more euphoric than ever. He was giggling. The Khajiit ignored him, as they all did when he held less conventional behavior, while Morrigan smiled, happy that he was happy.

"You really must love this city." she stated, happy.

"Oh, Cicero loves Solitude, yes! It seems to go back in time!"

They stopped just below the walls, tired but proud of having arrived there without problems. The Khajiit immediately began to set up the camp, this time more accurately, because it should’ve held at least two weeks. They too were happy, because Solitude was rich and always brought them good deals.

The time for greetings came.

"Bye, Morrigan Qo Kah'jay!" Amun'e Phis hugged her, almost crying, "I'll miss you a lot!"

she pulled away, pulled back her ears, and looked at Cicero indecisively.

"You too, Imperial."

"Um, you're not good at liar, kitty."

He laughed, but she didn’t even try to argue.

"Don’t worry, we'll see each other again. We’ll come to say goodbye, before leaving again." Morrigan promised, and Cicero let her do it, even though he honestly had no idea either when they would’ve left, or in what conditions.

When the huge door opened wide in front of them, the magnificence of Solitude main square welcomed them. There were merchants and nobles, children and beggars, mercenaries and even those who looked like prostitutes, in a corner, in their clumsy and gaudy clothes. Despite being late in the day, those women awaited customers outside the lupanar, cheerful, but perhaps fake. Cicero thought that it was from their working hours that one could recognize the liveliness of a city. People were talking, children were chasing each other, guards were marching and the colored flags, stretched in strings between buildings, gave the idea that there was a fair going on.

Morrigan took a step back. Like children, when they’re afraid of something, she hooked herself to Cicero.

"A little different from Dawnstar, eh?"

"Even from Whiterun." she confirmed, frightened.

She was turning her head to the right and left, frenetic, trying to capture all the sounds and noises at once, without success. She was confused, out of context, and Cicero regretted that she couldn’t enjoy the city as he was doing.

He pushed her away a little, not coldly as he would’ve done with Galla, just to spur her on.

"Don’t worry, there's nothing to be afraid of."

"I don’t know, it's all so confusing... I don’t like crowds, I'm afraid of bumping into someone."

Cicero took her by the hand, promising to guide her. She, a little heartened, straightened up and began to walk, with little conviction.

"Let's see if I can make you happy, little crow: Cicero has a surprise for you!" he announced, perky, as they walked along the main street.

"Surprise?"

"Yes. Cicero didn’t tell you before, so as not to ruin everything, but... well, no inn, here in Solitude. Are you happy?"

She was. Cicero saw her glow on her face, her high and colorful cheekbones, her expression vaguely raised.

"So where are we going?"

"The Listener lets us use Proudspire Manor when we work here. He doesn’t live there, as he doesn’t live in any of his other possessions. He decided to transform them in small points for the Brotherhood."

"Is it a house?"

"Oh, yes, and what a house! You’ll love it! Three floors, lots of food, lots of privacy, lots of luxury... a place for a Princess, finally. Hm?"

She, now, was intrigued and proud, as if she knew she deserved a luxury home.

"This Listener must be very rich." she noted.

"He was an adventurer, before becoming Listener. These riches were paid for with the blood of all the bandits he found, he also bounty hunted for a long time. Oh... not that Cicero doesn’t appreciate money obtained by snatching souls from the Nirn, don’t take me wrong. But then he wasn’t doing it in the name of Sithis... how much wasted talent!"

But Morrigan looked not very interested in the exploits of the Listener, so Cicero remained silent. He continued to guide her, avoiding her to hit someone or something, and in the meantime he looked around. Who knows who had to look for, it would’ve taken a long time to scour the whole city. At that moment, he begged Sithis to send him an easy answer. He was so scared that Morrigan would’ve died before she could find her client.

It didn’t take long to get to Proudspire. It was more the time they spent navigating through the crowd than the actual road. At one point, in fact, the building appeared to their left, as they walked the route to the Blue Palace. Cicero announced that they had arrived at the sight of the high and dark estate.

Finally they could get out of the crowded street and climbe the stairs, free. Morrigan was dragging her feet a little, she didn’t seem to be very healthy.

"Hey? What's up?"

She shook her head, sighing.

"I'm so tired... must’ve been the journey."

But it wasn’t the journey, and they both knew it. But continuing to lie to each other was better than suffering.

"Now you can rest. There’s a nice master bedroom here. Silk sheets, only the best for the rest of the Princess of the Void!"

He patted her cheek as he helped her up.

They arrived at the door, massive, iron. For a moment, Cicero looked to the left, over the private balcony, towards the horizon and the sea.

"Do you hear it? We’re very close to the sea, here. Now you can really enjoy it."

"My mother would’ve liked it so much..."

Cicero felt sorry for her again, because she was taking refuge in the past, in nostalgia. Those thoughts made her feel worse, but... but maybe they were normal in her situation. A must, almost. Perhaps it is humanly impossible not to think about the past, when one approaches death.

"Come on, come on, let's go inside, okay? Cicero shows you where the rooms are, so you don’t get lost. And then we dedicate ourselves to work, without wasting time."

He took her inside, then, and he did it unnaturally violent and accelerated, as if he expected to see her die in those few minutes, on those stairs.

Inside it was dark and cold, and Cicero couldn’t see anything at first. Then he left Morrigan a moment in the hallway and ran to open the shutters, and then to light a candle. It was stuffy in there, but soon the air would’ve changed.

"Here we are at home, Princess!" he announced, cheerful, coming back to take her by the hand, "this is the entrance. On your right a small table and a wall, so be careful not to go crashing. Further to the right the dining room, and opposite the stairs. I won’t take you downstairs, there are only... bad things. Our stuff, for the Brotherhood. Upstairs there is the room instead, and also a pantry. You could even not get off from up there, there's everything you could need."

He led her to the upper floor, advising her to be careful with the stairs, because they were without a parapet. He showed her all he could, describing the atmosphere to the best of his ability: he spoke of the flowers in the blue vases; he spoke of the precious, clear marble floor; he spoke of the blue that seemed to flood everything, like an otherworldly light, coming from who knows where.

When they were in the room, he showed her the position of the huge four-poster bed, then the furniture, and finally the window, if she wanted to get some air. He showed her that there were clean clothes in the closets, it was enough to find one of her size.

Morrigan strolled in a circle, faint but curious, holding her head high like an animal smelling a new place. Finally, silent, she went to the window. For a moment, Cicero was afraid she might fall, but he saw that she stopped in time and sat down on the bench just in front of the glass.

She reached out a hand in front of herself, touched the stained glass, then immediately withdrew it. Sigh.

"Do you want to open?"

She nodded, and Cicero did it for her. He opened the window wide, and the mild air of Solitude hit them. Cicero sat in front of her, leaning against the other window frame. He sighed too.

"Try to stay happy, eh? Look at where you are, enjoy the moment. Soon we will find the client, we’re close."

Morrigan spread a sideways smile. Her eyes, empty, turned to the outside, dreamy.

"Sorry. It's a nice surprise, I like it here. It's not for you, I'm just tired."

She breathed deeply and closed her eyelids, remaining from there forward with her eyes closed.

"Oh, maybe the little crow needs a party! Tonight it seems there will be one, in the city. If you want an invitation you just have to ask, good Cicero will take you out willingly!"

And finally she laughed. Always with her eyes closed, always as if actually she was on the other side already.

"No, no, such a bad idea! I'm not a party type. Those are the typical things that you see from the outside and look funny, but when you're in it, you find out that it wasn’t worth it. That's enough... I’ll just look at the world from here. It's calmer and I can close the window whenever I want."

Cicero smiled, perhaps because he agreed a little, and looked out. He remained silent to study the people and, for a moment, he thought about how many they were. Thousands. Thousands of thousands, throughout Tamriel. Although he killed as many people as possible, they continued to exist. Was it not a miracle of Sithis?

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Morrigan asked an interesting question:

"What kind of people are there? Can you describe them?"

Cicero took a moment to look for someone interesting, in the endless crowd. In the end, in the confusion, he was struck by the immobility of a particular person.

"There's a girl, sitting on the front porch. She’s watching people go by and it seems like she’s wondering why they're all in such a hurry. She’s trying to sell roses, but nobody listens to her. Cicero should kill her, if only he were able... she’ll end up becoming a prostitute."

He realized that he had spoken too violently, so he changed his target and tried to get back to something cheerful.

"There's an old man who sells jewelry. He still has his wedding ring, he doesn’t sell it, everything else but not that. He must love her very much, his wife. Or... his husband, we can’t know, right, little crow?"

Morrigan chuckled, urging him to continue.

"There's a couple of young and stupid lovers. She’s the typical strong person, he is her doormat. She’ll end up taking him bounty hunting. Then there’s a man with a child, there is no mother, perhaps because they left her at home, they want to share something only their two, the first secret between men. And then... then we’re there, we observe and... we can’t be with them. Here, higher up, but it's not a good thing. We’re higher up because we are both closer to Sithis, but... it would be nice, for once, to go to the streets and do like everyone else, hm?"

He had fallen back into melancholy, why? It was as if they couldn’t do without it, as if Proudspire were cursed.

Morrigan, now, had a sweet smile.

"Some people have the blessing of having a window on the Void, Cicero." she said, unexpectedly, repeating the words he had given her long ago. Why, suddenly, did it look like their roles were reversed? Perhaps because the more Morrigan was ready to welcome the Void for herself, the less Cicero was for her.

"The Void, uhm..." he murmured, now with a bad mood, "sometimes the Void looks just like a great mockery."

That night he didn’t take her to the fair, although there was: they had heard the music coming from the most distant square, and then the smell of fried sweets. No, he didn’t take her out because she didn’t want to, it would’ve been more a spite than a pleasure, with all that crowd. Cicero, then, decided to go out alone to start investigating. The feast could be a good help, since all Solitude was on the streets. Among them there must’ve been the client, assuming that he was still in Solitude.

Cicero shook his head as he was about to leave, praying loudly to Sithis that the client was still there. They didn’t have time to move again, really.

"Cicero buys you a sweetroll, little crow!" he said, trying to forget all his worries, and announcing to Morrigan that he was going out.

But she hadn’t heard from the dining room. It was her hearing. It was leaving her.

"Bye, little crow." he said aloud, without repeating the whole previous sentence.

This time she heard and greeted back.

Cicero threw open the door, and immediately the shouting of the party struck him. He stood for a moment, partly outside and partly inside. He looked at the city, then again at the little crow, behind him. He didn’t know why he did it, just... he had a bad feeling.

He tried not to think about it and, scolding himself, he decided to leave.

Immediately, he realized that it would’ve been harder than expected to find a specific person in that chaos. He tried to make his way through the families, the vociferous kids. He couldn’t even hear his own thoughts, with deafening music and chattering.

As he struggled through the sea of people, he drew up a mental plan, also to help himself concentrate.

The first thing to do was go to inspect the cellar where the Black Sacrament had happened. Babette had explained the location.

The second was to try to ask around, even if discreetly. Usually beggars were good informers: eyes open in every street, every hour of the day and night, and also fairly loyal, if there was a good amount of money involved. Otherwise there were the innkeepers, undisputed lords of gossip, surely if someone had put in place the Black Sacrament, they knew it.

He decided to start from the simple, then, and went quickly to the point explained by Babette. The fair was gathering everyone downtown, emptying the streets, and that was good, because he could roam the abandoned houses without any disturbance.

He arrived in a narrow, damp alley with only one beggar asleep on the stone. The paving of the street had broken through the center by the weight of thousands of passersby and the moss was beginning to infiltrate the bricks of the old houses, spoiling the air with the stale smell.

He ignored the beggar and tried not to wake him up. He slipped under the small porch and checked the doors of the cellars. They were all barred, so he had to peek inside each one to decide which to start with. In the third, he thought he saw candles on the floor, lit only by the dim light of the moons.

He decided to try. He looked at the beggar: he was still sleeping, undaunted. Cicero had to break the boards, but he had to do it without being heard. The fair, fortunately, helped by providing sources of noise and entertainment, but the beggar worried him.

In the end, he convinced himself that he had to do something. Then, with a strong kick, he broke one of the lower beams. The noise was loud, but when he looked at the two sides of the alley he saw no one but the old man, still asleep. Cicero doubted he was dead.

The broken axis was big enough to let him pass, crouched, without breaking the others. It was in those cases that Cicero thanked to be smaller than other men.

He was inside and saw nothing, only the candle he had partially identified from the outside. He felt the walls and found a torch, fortunately. He lit it with flint and steel.

As soon as the light spread, like the love of the Mother in the Void, Cicero understood that he had found the right place. There were candles on the ground, placed in a circle. The black symbol connected them, like a circled star, drawn on the ground. There were bones and a book. No trace of human flesh, but that perhaps had been removed by the same client, not to stink and attract someone.

Cicero approached, circumspect. With one foot, he felt the ground and understood that the symbol on the ground had been drawn with coal, difficult to remove. That's why the client had left everything: he hadn’t been able to clean up.

A disorganized work. Which corresponded to the image that Babette had given him of the client: an agitated man, who didn’t seem convinced of what he was doing. Why?

He wrinkled his nose, annoyed by the dust and the smell of that cellar, which had to be empty and abandoned for decades. He looked up, tried to find some evidence, but there was nothing that could be useful.

He decided to leave, he would’ve used the emergency plan: ask around.

It was there that happened. He felt it, cold, like a thunderbolt in the spine, right inside the brain. Something that had penetrated his back, sideways, not far from the kidney, causing him a pain that now was making him see double. He remembered it, remembered that pain very well, because it was the same of the Anvil cat.

Cicero turned quickly, fast, feline, without being overwhelmed even for a second too long by the pain he used to call a friend. And, as soon as he turned, he saw them.

They were two, both out of the cellar, in the alley: one was the beggar, awake, more alive than ever, and the other... a Nord. A young Nord, tall, brown, shoulder-length hair.

It was him.

Chapter Text

An omen, that was what was left in Cicero. An omen that had accompanied him all day and to which he hadn’t well considered. Because presentiments were nothing but signals sent by the Mother, or perhaps by Sithis himself, to warn of an imminent death. But Cicero had underestimated the signal, he believed it was for Morrigan... but it was for him. Only for him.

And so, there he was, in that cellar, sure to be doomed. Something had hit him. It was serious. He knew it, because people know well when they’re close to death, especially if they’ve married death for business. No frills, no false hopes: pure and simple awareness.

Cicero was aware that he would’ve died. But he was also aware of the fact that he had to make good use of the remaining time.

He tried to recover, therefore, and to think. He tried not to forget where he was, the cellar, Solitude, or why he was there. He returned to look at his attackers and it took nothing to understand what had happened: an arrow in the back. It was still stuck, halfway up the shaft, he almost could feel it coming out of the front.

Pain. But he had to think, if he thought he could stay awake.

So, he had to concentrate. An arrow, very well, long but not so much, maybe it was for a crossbow. It was serious, he knew. But it hadn’t hit the lung, perhaps because of his enemy's poor aim. It was the Nord who hurt him, the beggar must have called him.

Cicero clenched his teeth angrily. He ran toward the exit, dropping the torch and drawing the ebony dagger. He had to do as quickly as he could, not only to capture the two men, but also because he would’ve soon fainted. He knew it, that was how it would’ve been, with such a wound. He had no time.

He plunged into the narrow opening of the planks, and he was immediately outside. The two men were now running the the opposite sides of the alley. The nearest was the beggar: Cicero grabbed him, holding him with his arm around his neck, that was enough because he was too old and weak to hope to free himself.

The other, however, the one that interested him the most, was running away. Cicero was far away, he couldn’t run after him without letting go of the beggar.

He threw the dagger. He knew how to do it well. He had trained a lot, on the victims tied to make as a target.

He hit him. The dagger stuck into his thigh, and the Nord stumbled. Cicero had gained time.

He turned back to the beggar, still in the grip of his arm.

"Well, you were really a sentinel! Cicero hopes he has paid a lot and you have already enjoyed your money."

"No, wait..."

But he didn’t wait at all, he couldn’t even if he wanted to. He snapped his neck in one quick movement. He let the corpse fall to the ground and left it there, running toward the wounded Nord.

Trying to run.

He arrived panting. He didn’t know who among them was worse physically, but certainly it was Cicero, now, the only one with the knife on the side of the handle. Literally.

He lowered himself, and the movement gave him a sharp stab. He grabbed the handle of his weapon and pulled it from the thigh of the unfortunate man, still lying on the ground.

When he had the dagger in his hand, dripping with blood, he pointed it in his face. They both were suffering at the time, together.

"Sh, sh, sh... hush... be good. Get up, come to the cellar. We need to have a chat."

"I... I can’t walk..."

"Cicero advises you to do it, instead, if you don’t want him to skin you alive here in the middle of the road. Get up. Now."

The Nord had to feel the threat, because he did his best to move. He wasn’t far away, luckily he managed to get in before anyone could see them. Cicero, agitated and in pain, decided to bring in the old man too, he didn’t want trouble in the road.

When they were all inside, Cicero, suffering, turned to the Nord. The young man was agonizing on the ground, blood that spread and mixed with dust, becoming almost a mud. Cicero must have opened his femoral artery, damn it... he would have died quickly.

Pain, again. Cicero couldn’t breathe, the arrow stuck immediately under the rib cage. He knew he couldn’t remove it, it was blocking the wound, that's why he was bleeding just little. As soon as it was removed it would’ve been the end.

He decided, however, that he couldn’t move with that long shaft, out of his back. He had to gather courage to break it, just enough to allow him to move without hitting objects and getting new pain.

He grabbed the pole, on the left, and laughed nervously.

"Oh my… my friend... this pain goes a lot... far beyond what Cicero knows how to appreciate..."

He swallowed, nervous. He breathed in painfully and convinced himself to do what had to be done: with a sharp blow, he broke the arrow, and immediately he seemed to faint. He flickered, his sight doubled. He stifled a scream as he threw away the broken wood.

He took a moment to recover, but felt a metallic taste in his mouth. It wasn’t a good sign. The stomach? Yes, it could be.

He turned, laughed rudely, bent forward in pain.

"We’re dying, my friend. It would be a great help if you collaborated, now, because we cannot afford the usual pleasantries."

But the Nord, complaining with disconnected phrases, writhed on the ground in his own blood. He couldn’t! He couldn’t let him die like that!

Cicero, clinging to the memory of his parent, of the beatings, of the humiliations, silenced the pain. Just a moment, just enough to deal with the Nord. Then he would’ve come back to Morrigan and rested... forever... in the Void. But not now, no, he had to solve the question.

He snapped at him, moving as if there was no pain, embracing it and loving it, because maybe it was the last time he could feel it.

He grabbed the man by the clothes and forced him to lie down on his back. He knelt beside him, holding him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him.

"Now pay close attention, young man" he hissed in a trembling voice, "Cicero will ask you a question and it will be better if the answer satisfies him immediately. Are you the one who performed the Black Sacrament for the blind girl of Whiterun?"

The Nord looked away, trying to resist, but it was enough to shake him more violently to make him speak.

"Aye... yes, it was me..."

"Why?"

"I don’t... I don’t know..."

Cicero remained speechless, frowning his thick red eyebrows.

"What do you mean you don’t know? Did you make a random Black Sacrament?"

"No, not ranom... I did... what they told me to do..."

And, suddenly, the whole world for Cicero seemed to become dark and clear at the same time. Dark because at that point he had no more time to look for the real client. Clear because it made more sense, yes, more sense than a stranger Nord of Solitude who wants a blind girl from Whiterun to die.

He sighed, felt the pain again, and the forces that were leaving him. But he didn’t have to faint, not there. He had to find out everything, and then at least reach Morrigan. At least reach her, see her just a second, even from a distance. Just a moment, right? Sithis could give that grace to him. After a lifetime at his service, the first thing he was asking was to see her before he died.

He felt the melancholy envelop him from inside, and he knew it wasn’t a good thing, if he wanted to stay alive enough to reach Morrigan. He squeezed his eyes, pushed back everything that wasn’t anger.

"You defiler! You... have performed the Black Sacrament on behalf of someone else! The Sacrament is sacred, the very name says so! It must be personal. If your master can’t take responsibility for the Sacrament, he can’t take it for someone's death. You’re... you’re cowards. Your contract is spoiled, the Mother knows, she has noticed. For this she stopped Cicero’s hand."

He couldn’t believe he had finally found the reason. Everything was so clear and confused, so... he could no longer think clearly. He had always feared that day.

"Why did you do it?" he asked, threatening, but less than he wanted. He felt his eyelids closing.

"He threatened me, he... threatened my sister, made me do things... various... I didn’t think he would come to ask me so much... I was afraid."

"Who is the client?"

The boy shook his head, suffering. Cicero felt that he was going. Both were going. He shook him as much as he could, slapped him to wake him up, and perhaps to wake himself up.

"Hold on! Hold on, you owe it to her! You almost killed an innocent girl, you owe it to her! You'll die anyway, tell me the name!"

The boy looked up, towards the ceiling, and suddenly became calm. Cicero saw the light leave his eyes. He was going into the Void.

"Please!" he had never come to implore a victim, "please tell me the name! Don’t go!"

He closed his eyelids, slowly, trembling. Then, just when Cicero thought there was no more hope, a last breath escaped his thin lips.

"Nazeem. It was Nazeem. Make him… pay…"

And he died, his face waxy for the lost blood.

Cicero let him go. The boy's now empty body collapsed to the ground, heavy. Cicero's head crowded, clouded. Those last words on his head, he repeated them, because he was afraid of losing them in the Void of his mind. But his eyelids were closing, he could no longer stay awake.

Nazeem, that idiot in Whiterun, the one of the apples. Really?

Nazeem. It had been Nazeem.

Black.

There was nothing but black.

Even he himself wasn’t there, because he couldn’t see his own body. He tried to look at his hands, but he hadn’t them. There was only… void. The Void?

Then, something: a light. Dim, not reassuring, somewhere in that nothing. Red, it seemed like the reverberation of pain.

"Am I... in the Void?" he asked, he didn’t know who.

"No. The Void is just Void, Cicero. If you have to ask, it means it is not."

It was a difficult to decipher voice, which was everywhere but anywhere. It could belong to anyone or no one.

"Where am I, then?"

No reply. But slowly some elements stood out in the darkness. The smell of an olive tree... the taste of blood in his mouth, but it also tasted a bit 'of apple. Somewhere, an exotic music, but distant and disturbing. He realized he had a body, all of a sudden, and that he was in the sand. Perhaps there had always been. The wind stirred, the dunes changed like a stormy sea, and skeletons came out of that macabre desert.

Then, there, the answer:

"It's your mind, Cicero."

"That's why it's so confused."

Silence, again, broken only by that distant music. Perhaps it was that of the Khajiit, or perhaps that of the fair, he didn’t know.

He watched the bones emerge from the sand, he backed away, and something touched his shoulder. He turned, suddenly. There was Modia Prodice.

"Parent…"

But she looked at him cold, impassive. She did nothing. As she had always done in her life with Cicero. She was standing there, with her brown curls, looking at him as one looks at a useless object.

"Go away…"

But she didn’t leave. Cicero tried to turn around, but she was back in front of him, in any direction he looked.

"Go away! Leave me alone! You’re dead!"

He turned, and finally she was gone. There was only the desert, and the sky, which was now dark, stormy, disturbing. A thunder ripped through the air, and at the same moment, a loud, mad laugh burst out. The same that had kept him company for years, the laugh of the jester. He wasn’t there, however, the jester. There was only his voice, which laughed and said to him:

"You’re a thief! A thief of personality! "

And he kept saying it, never giving up, and Cicero suffered every time. He wasn’t a thief. He didn’t want to be. He had never been. He was alone, he had taken his personality to have company. He didn’t want to steal it.

He backed away, his head exploding, trying to figure out where he was. But, pulling back, he hit something. It was a person, but not entirely whole. It was burned, a burned body, red, bloody, walking. Cicero knew it was Galla. She didn’t have any distinctive sign, he just knew it, because... because that was how he had seen her, the last time, when the fire in the bruma Sanctuary had died down and he had come back to look for survivors.

He screamed, scared. It was a nightmare, they were all there, ready to punish him. Everyone. Against him.

He tried to escape, but he couldn’t run, he couldn’t go anywhere. Instead, Modia and Galla approached, and the laughter continued to accuse him of being a thief of personality, again, again, again...

Then again, the reassuring voice, the one that was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

"Cicero, you must calm down. They're just images in your head, drive them away."

Cicero tried to close his eyes, but he realized he couldn’t.

"Think of something beautiful."

The first things that came to mind were two: Morrigan and the olive tree. Both appeared: the olive tree on his right, out of place in that desert tormented by the black and red storm in the sky, and Morrigan on the left. She didn’t look like Morrigan at all, though. She was on her stone throne, surrounded by skeletons. She stood straight, stiff, only the four, huge wings on her back gave the impression of being alive.

Cicero was afraid, again. They were beautiful things, yes... but seeing them there wasn’t beautiful at all.

Then, there, a hand on his shoulder. Soothing.

Cicero turned and saw a woman beside him. A Dunmer. She was beautiful, wearing a red velvet dress, which contrasted and made the black skin stand out. Her hair, the same color, caressed her half-naked back, held back by long pointed ears. Her sharp face was lit up by her big eyes, red in both the iris and the sclera.

She was calm, staring at him with a condescending smile. She kept stroking his shoulder, she was taller than him.

"Come, Cicero. Let's go under your olive tree."

And she led him to the tree, so beautiful and out of context.

"I loved this tree."

"I know. Sit down. You must relax."

Cicero obeyed and realized he didn’t have his jester's clothes. He had the old uniform, that of Bruma. He touched his face and felt it sharper, smoother, more... young.

"You’re Cicero the man, in here, in your head. Not Cicero the fool."

Cicero said nothing. Sitting against the rough bark, he looked up, saw the long leaves of his olive tree and thought he had returned home.

"It's quiet here."

"Yes, I know" answered the Dark Elf, approaching him with a motherly expression, "you have expressed the desire to see her again, there she is."

Cicero knew she was referring to Morrigan. He looked down, to the Princess of the Void, so cold, so detached...

"Not her. The real one."

"To see the real one, you must wake up."

"Am I not dead?"

"No, but you'll be soon, if you don’t wake up."

Cicero felt the taste of blood in his mouth, stronger. He put a hand on his lips and when he checked his fingers, feeling them slimy, he realized they were stained with red. He chuckled, showing the blood to the Elf.

"It's not a good sign, I think."

"No, but you're not dead. Wake up. You must wake up."

Cicero shook his head, slowly, demoralized.

"I always wanted to talk with you, Mother. I waited a long time for you to tell me something..."

The Elf smiled bitterly, tilting her head to the side. Her blood-colored eyes seemed to flash, in her dark face.

"Not being able to communicate with you was never a choice, really."

Cicero shook his head again. She was a hallucination. He didn’t want to be consoled by a hallucination.

"Exactly, Mother. Precisely because you can’t talk, I know you’re not here now. You’re just... a delirium. A delirium of a dying fool."

The Elf nodded, without even trying to reply. She approached, walking lightly, and she too sat under the olive tree. She rested her head on his shoulder, in a way that was both childlish and adult.

"If I'm just a delirium, wake up."

"You were beautiful, when you were alive. You know that?"

But she didn’t even seem to listen.

"Wake up. You who still can, wake up."

"I can’t."

"Wake up."

Every time she said it, she seemed thinner.

"Wake up."

She was getting thinner and older.

"Wake up."

She was dead. She was a corpse, decomposing fast.

"Wake up."

And she was a mummy, the same one that Cicero had cared for so many years. But suddenly, why was she scary? He had kept her so long, and now... she was disgusting, leaning on his shoulder.

"WAKE UP, CICERO!"

A scream, loud. Fear, pain.

Cicero opened his eyes.

Chapter Text

Cicero opened his eyes.

The first thing he realized was that pain had further increased, and the second that there was too much light. It wasn’t the torch, it had gone out: it was a gray light, which penetrated the door. How long had he remained unconscious?

He was lying on the ground, on his back, and he knew he had pushed the arrow deeper, when falling. He squeezed his eyes, didn’t have the courage to move even a muscle.

He thought of Morrigan. As far as he knew, he could’ve been closed in there for days. He wondered if she was well, if she was worried.

If he decided to move, it was only for her. Gathering courage, he moved his arm and tried to feel his wound. He held back a scream, pain was too much. When he saw the hand, it was stained with blood. At that point he didn’t even know if it was his or his victim's, still pale and stiff next to him. But the fact that it wasn’t dry yet made him think, unfortunately, that it was his.

He still had that metallic taste in his mouth. He collected saliva and spat on one side: red there too.

He didno’ know how he could still be alive. But he didn’t care: whether it was a gift from Sithis or a shot of fate, he had to take advantage of the little he had left. He had the chance to come back to Morrigan, tell her what he had discovered, and above all... see her.

He gathered his strength, but every muscle ached, as if the whole body was connected to that focal point. But he had to do it, he had to move. With an effort that he wouldn’t have said he could bear, he rolled aside to get himself on his elbows.

He couldn’t help grunting, pain pulsing in his side and spreading into his brain. As soon as he was on all fours, he saw the blood dripping, and he had the confirmation that it was his.

He stood up, staggering. He fell, he had to try again.

When he was straight up, he tried to control the agitated breathing, to concentrate on what he had to do. First thing: cover the tracks. Professional deformation, perhaps, but he didn’t intend to leave things in half, not even one step away from death.

He couldn’t get rid of the bodies, he couldn’t carry them, and besides, it seemed to be almost daylight already. He wanted to set everything on fire, but he didn’t have any fuel. He decided, then, to faintly simulate a fight between the beggar and the young man: he grabbed an arrow from the quiver of the latter and he planted it in the beggar's back. He hoped it was enough, because he had no other alternative. His head... his head wasn’t reasoning well.

Nazeem. He kept repeating that name because he was terrified to forget it, before seeing Morrigan. He was also terrified of forgetting himself. Nazeem. Nazeem.

Holding the wound and, trying to stem the flow of blood, he staggered toward the exit. Bending under the broken axis was dramatic, painful, a sufferance. He managed to roll into the alley, but he wasn’t sure at that point that he could manage to get up for the third time.

He had to cling to the uneven bricks of one of the columns of the gallery, but he did it. When he was standing, he rested a second, and looked up.

Clear sky. The worst nightmare of a fleeing assassin.

It must have been the sixth of the morning, the sun was rosing quickly, muffled by dark clouds that threatened rain. Not even a moment to think about it, in fact, and Cicero saw a couple of drops fall on his face.

There was no one around yet, fortunately. He couldn’t run the risk of being seen, maybe by people trying to help him, distracting him from the goal of seeing Morrigan again, and maybe discovering the two bodies. He couldn’t, absolutely couldn’t.

Suddenly frightened, he walked. He was uncoordinated, staggering, his vision clouded and confused. Several times he slammed against a wall.

He wasn’t far away, but it seemed to Cicero a very long journey, like that for the afterlife itself. Finally, when he saw Proudspire, he almost felt like crying.

He ran, or at least he tried, towards the entrance stairs. He saw two guards patrol the main street, and hid under a stone arch, panting. He noticed at that moment that he was spilling blood on the cobblestone, it was... it was the end.

He let the guards pass by, then finally dragged himself up the steps. He found the door open and was grateful, like a miracle. He pushed it, with all his weight, and fell on the inside floor.

He couldn’t get up anymore. He couldn’t do it, really, he had reached the end. He had the strength only to close the door, with difficulty, with a kick. But otherwise he couldn’t even drag himself.

He looked around, looking for her desperately, but didn’t see her. She wasn’t at the table, she wasn’t in the dining room. He couldn’t see her, he couldn’t think of anything but that. He couldn’t see her.

"Mor... Morrig..."

He realized at that moment that he couldn’t scream, indeed, he couldn’t speak. Only a strangled breath came out, perhaps because the position of the arrow didn’t allow him to inhale. And Morrigan, moreover, couldn’t hear very well anymore. The cruelty of destiny.

He felt tears mixed with blood, on his cheeks. It couldn’t end that way. He couldn’t die a few steps away from her, no. He prayed to the Father and to the Mother, it couldn’t end like that.

It was fear that pushed him and allowed him to scream. A single cry that almost brought him back into oblivion, due to the pain it caused him.

"MORRIGAN!"

"Cicero!"

The answer came immediately and Cicero felt relieved jusy hearing her voice. Suddenly, a thousand thoughts made their way into his head, a thousand regrets, among which the first was that he no longer would’ve heard her sing, after the first time. He should’ve asked her more, should’ve listened to her better, looked at her better, lived with her better, instead of being so stupid and always talking like an idiot. He should’ve played snowballs with her, danced with her, told her a million jokes, made love all the time, and instead... instead, he got distracted by the contract, the other murders, all those things that were not important, like... like a fool.

He cried again, it was too much.

"I’m... sorry..." he said, even though she couldn’t hear him. He said it anyway, because he didn’t know if he would’ve had time later.

Lying, he raised his eyes, pointing the ladder. He saw Morrigan coming down, badly, missing some steps, holding herself against the wall.

"Care... ful... don’t fall... don’t..."

But she didn’t care. She ran down uncoordinated. She landed on the floor and had to cling to the wall to keep herself in balance.

"Where are you?" she asked, hands forward looking for him, agitated.

Cicero managed to utter only a grunt, but it was enough for her to locate him, because she ran towards him and landed on her knees. She began to touch him, to study the situation. The fact that she was losing her sense of touch made her more violent and in fact, when she touched the wound, Cicero screamed and saw a white flash, like a shock. He was panting, strong. He wanted to talk, to say everything, but he couldn’t.

"Cicero? Cicero, what happened? What have you done?"

She was already crying, she must have understood the situation well without receiving an answer. But Cicero couldn’t console her or explain what had happened. He had to tell her the only important thing, the name of the client.

"Naz... Nazeem. He... the client... not this. Dead... this is dead..."

But she wasn’t listening. She was crying, violently turning her head to the right and to the left, confused. Cicero felt almost offended. Why didn’t she care? All that effort just to tell her... of course, he was flattered of her worry for him, for her love, but... she shouldn’t have felt that way for him. It would’ve been the only person to regret his death, the Nirn whole was looking forward to get rid of him.

"Cicero, you need help! I don’t know what you have, I can’t cure you, I need help!"

Cicero put a hand on her cheek. He tried to caress her, but just a violent and disordered gesture came out, which made stained her face of red.

"No..." he tried to say, gurgling, coughing blood, "no, not... help... only you..."

"I don’t know how to do it, Cicero! I don’t know how to do it!"

But he didn’t care to be healed, he just wanted a moment with her, to die in peace. He knew it was impossible, but he would’ve liked to see her calm, for the last time. Smiling and calm.

"Killed... dead... two hundred and forty... a good number... round... to die."

"You're delirious! Please, at least get to bed! You can’t stay here!"

He saw her get up and try to pull him up. He felt that she was grabbing him by the arm and putting all the strength she was capable of, but it wasn’t enough.

"Cicero, I can’t do it! Please help me!"

And Cicero tried, really, with all his strength. He managed to get up, but he only got to fall on her. He did not know how, Morriagan managed to hold him. She forced him to put his arm around her shoulders and began to drag him, while he did his best to alleviate some of the weight and straining his legs as much as possible.

From standing up, he could speak better.

"Two hundred and forty, my love... of which... five... just for you" he laughed, crying, screaming in pain, "you’re more demanding than... the Mother."

"Save your breath, don’t talk!"

She led him up the stairs. She failed to make both the ramps, Cicero slipped first. But he tried to go on alone, on all fours, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Morrigan was crying, she didn’t know what to do, yet was struggling to appear firm and tenacious. Cicero appreciated what she was trying to do, he was grateful.

Finally, he came in sight of the bed and climbed up. It seemed like a mountain to him, and when he let himself fall on his back, he felt the wound, incredibly defined, this time. He realized that the tip of the arrow was leaking to the front, it must have happened when he had fainted.

He kept his eyes up, didn’t have the courage to look, he was terrified to find out how serious it was.

Then, like an apparition, an oasis in the desert: Morrigan's face in front of him. Cicero smiled. He felt better.

"Now I'm going to look for someone, all right?"

He grabbed her dress at shoulder height, tried to hold it back. He shook his head, weeping.

"No... don’t leave me... if you leave... alone... I don’t want to die alone..."

Morrigan's eyes filled with tears, and Cicero was amazed for the second time that they were strange, two blind eyes crying. He was sorry to see her like that.

"No, don’t... don’t cry. I don’t like it."

He tried to wipe off a tear from her cheek, but he only got to further dirty her. Now her white skin was covered with vermilion streaks. It was there, blood on her face, as if... as if...

"Look..." he cried, loudly, "look what I could’ve done to you..."

He scolded himself, that time for real. He was sorry for what he had thought of doing her. Suddenly, all the pain he was experiencing became right. He deserved it.

"Let me at least look at the wound, I’ll try to do something!"

She said it convinced, even if Cicero knew she wasn’t. But he didn’t reply, even because he didn’t have enough strength. He felt that she was removing his jacket and felt a sharp pain, when she tore it, caught in the arrow.

He found himself shirtless and immediately felt cold. At that point, it was impossible for him not to see: the arrow, cut off, had pierced the whole flesh, coming out of the belly, at the height of the navel. It had penetrated a slanting line, from behind it entered exactly between the last and the second-last rib. That's why he couldn’t breathe.

All around, blood. So much, yet Cicero knew that it wasn’t enough for such a wound: the arrow was still blocking the bleeding. The stomach was definitely perforated, and perhaps even the lower part of the lung, and this explained the blood in his mouth.

"Cicero, this arrow must be removed!" Morrigan exclaimed, frightened, after she had touched and evaluated the situation.

But Cicero didn’t want to, no. He shook his head again, tried to move her hand away. He didn’t want to because, as soon as she removed it, he would’ve died. And at the same time, he didn’t want to because he didn’t believe he was worthy of being cured. His brain was in contradiction, he wanted and didn’t want to die at the same time, he couldn’t understand himself.

"No, no, not... a real gentleman... would precede you."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I should preced you... in... in the Void."

"Don’t say that! That's enough! Please, stop!"

But he didn’t want to scare her, quite the opposite.

"If I go first... you won’t ... you won’t be afraid... I don’t want you to be afraid of... the Void is a necessary rest. Sleep... I’d love to sleep, now..."

Morrigan shook her head, scared. She put her hand on his shoulder, crying.

"You're delirious. Cicero wouldn’t say that."

"You don’t know him, you don’t... you've never met him... the real Cicero. He's a horrible person, little... little crow. Cicero is horrible, so I have... covered him. With another person..."

But Morrigan shook her head again. She didn’t listen to him. She believed they were disconnected and meaningless phrases, she didn’t understand that actually Cicero had never been so sincere in his life.

She unexpectedly tried to smile. It was a dead smile, frightened, forced, but there was. Calmly, she put a hand on his wrist. She began to caress it, delicate. She used her fingers... Cicero knew she couldn’t feel, but she used them anyway for him, because she knew he liked it.

"Do you feel my finger on your wrist?" she asked, weeping, melancholic but controlled, "do you feel it?"

Cicero calmed down with her. He sighed, felt pain, but sighed anyway. He needed air.

"Yes."

"So just think of that. Your wrist won’t hurt, it will never betray you."

Cicero smiled as he felt his eyelids fall.

"You're good. Really."

She continued to caress him, smiling softly. Cicero stared at her, tried to analyze the details of her face for the last time. He wanted to remember it well, in the Void.

He saw the very slight freckles, he thought he could count them, like the stars in the clear sky of Cyrodiil. He saw the full moons she had for eyes, and the thin mouth she had for horizon. Her face, her eyes... now more than ever he thought she was the painting of the world.

"I’m honored to have met you."

He told her without pause, he tried, because it was too important.

She opened her mouth, said something, but Cicero didn’t hear. His eyelids closed, his eyes tipped back. He would’ve liked to embrace the Void and instead, from then on, it was chaos.

He saw her running towards the exit, there was only her left. The Baroness had died well, her throat slit. While her pale and empty body was laying in the bloodbath, her soul was bowing to Sithis and praying for mercy. Now it was time for the Baroness’ maid.

He ran after her, she was too slow, the skirt was hampering her. He grabbed her and pushed her against the wall. She was a well round girl, pretty, her chubby cheeks exploded in red. Were they so red naturally or was it fear?

Cicero smiled, disturbing.

"Hi, two hundred and sixteen. You tried, eh? My compliments."

"Let me go, I..."

"You’ll do whatever I want. Yes, yes, I know. I'm sorry, but what I want at the moment is the bonus. And to get the bonus I have to kill you, besides your mistress. Sorry."

He passed the dagger on her neckline, without pressing. Only for the good, old pleasure to scare her a little. Uhm… maybe even a lot.

"You know, the Baroness had to die quickly because she was the important target. It’s not professional to play with contracts, eh? But you... you're not really part of the contract, and we have a lot of spare time tonight. What do you say?"

She screamed, Cicero felt his eardrums pierced by the annoying, high-pitched sound. A chicken. To kill a chicken would’ve been the same.

She slipped out from under him and started running down the corridor, her breasts jumping around. He had left her on purpose: he liked the idea that the victim had a little hope, just enough to make the issue more appealing.

He followed her, walking peacefully, on the inside balcony that overlooked the luxurious entrance. He watched her with a smile as she descended the stairs and rushed to the door. She tried to open it, but it was blocked.

"Oh, you disappoint me. Thought you were more intelligent. You closed the door, don’t you remember?" he showed her the key he had stolen, swinging it like a trophy, "you forced me to enter through that uncomfortable window on the third floor. Closing yourself into the house is a double-edged sword, sweetie."

The girl shrieked and started running around the room, in the most complete panic.

Cicero began to go down the stairs, quiet, while he thought that, so chubby, so plump, she must have also a lot of skin. She really was the perfect subject to perform a good flaying.

A female voice, indistinct. He couldn’t open his eyes, they were too heavy. He still felt pain, so he wasn’t dead yet. Or maybe... maybe you feel pain, in the Void? Nobody can know it. But Cicero hoped so much, so much that the Father wasn’t so cruel.

Cruel... as he was. Cruelty. A curse for him too.

He remembered all his victims, all of the two hundred and forty, from first to last, and for the first time it seemed... wrong.

The baroness’ maid had been one of the most unlucky. Poor girl. If he had met her now, after his new personality, he wouldn’t have treated her like that. He wouldn’t have done it… right?

He wasn’t sure.

Maybe he was a horrible person, since always.

And forever he would’ve been.

He was about to leave from the window, concluding a new contract. The silk merchant, too, had died well: they always died well, the objects of contracts. Those who had to fear him were the accessories.

He was climbing over the sill when it happened: the door of the room creaked, the handle lowered. A little girl came in. Blonde, with braids... he would’ve remembered her for a long time, because she was pretty, she looked like Clovia.

Cicero sighed, closed his eyes. Damn.

"Daddy?"

She had seen him, his very face, and she had also seen her dead father. He couldn’t allow her to tell someone.

He came back inside, with the evenenig ruined. He didn’t want to, really, it was never nice with kids.

"Couldn’t you just sleep?"

Evidently she could not, Sithis had woken her up, he wanted her to be in the Void. And then, she would’ve reached her fatherl, poor little one.

"Hold him still! He’s conscious!"

This time he managed to lift his eyelids, just a crack. He saw only light, blinding. He didn’t know where it came from.

"Now you draw the arrow and I’ll try with the healing spell."

"Will he survive?"

The second voice was Morrigan, but he felt it distant, unattainable.

"I don’t know, don’t hope too much."

Silence, stillness. Pain was still there, it was always there, and the stronger it was, the more grateful he was, because only now did he understand how much he deserved it. It wasn’t even for being a killer: so many were in Tamriel. A hard world. It was for having fun doing it, it was for his being... crazy. Not since after Cheydinhal, those eight long years of solitude. No, he had always been crazy. Also and especially when he used to speak in first person.

"Let me... die... Morrigan... leave me... I'm horrible..."

He wasn’t sure he had said it aloud. Just as he tried again, pain increased tenfold. He felt the wood slide out of the wound, and blood warmed his whole back and stomach.

He shouted. Maybe.

He was no longer sure of anything.

Laugher. He always laughed, how did he do it?

Cicero often smiled, but usually didn’t make a good impression on people. They found him appalling, Cicero didn’t even know why. That jester, on the other hand, was loved by everyone. In his red and black robes, his double-pointed hat, his long brown hair. He was... nice. Yes, he found him nice. Can you admire a contract?

Laugher. He always laughed, even now that he had to die. He was on his knees, in the middle of the room, and he was laughing.

"Why are you laughing, jester?" he asked, curious, not annoyed.

"Laughing is the only way to endure this disgusting world, right?"

"Um. Yes. I would like to know how to laugh like you."

He looked at him a little, tilting his head to the right and left, studying him. He resembled Cicero himself, physically. Low, slender, his face sharp and eccentric, accentuated by his strange behavior.

"You're my last contract, you know? They changed my job, they want me to become Keeper of the Night Mother. You don’t even know who she is, but it doesn’t matter..." he confessed, he didn’t even know why, just to talk to someone, "I watched you so much and... you have a good life, you know? If mine had taken a different path, I would’ve liked to be like you. You're not like those stupid bards, who learn everything by heart. You’re a poet, aren’t you? You improvise?"

The jester widened a broad smile, with a sharp mouth. He didn’t even rebel, on the contrary, he seemed to appreciate the conversation.

"Oh yes, Virgilius always improvises! Never compare Virgilius to a bard, never! I must say that... it is an honor to share the hatred for bards with my killer. I bet it was one of them who commissioned my death."

Cicero shrugged, really sorry.

"I don’t know, sorry. I haven’t asked."

"Um. Don’t worry, boy. It’s ok."

Cicero knew he had to kill him, but he wanted to stay a little longer with him, just a few minutes. He knew that only he could understand him. His passion for writing had never gone away, despite everything.

"Do you read a lot? Do you write?" Cicero asked.

"I write, yes. Comic or erotic books... sometimes comic and erotic at the same time. The Lusty Argonian Maid, do you know it? About that genre."

He laughed again, gruffly. Cicero was entertained by that laugh, as if his mind was recording it... too well. Too much in detail. It wasn’t even that pleasant, to listen to, it was too sharp, and crazy.

"I would’ve liked to write," explained Cicero, "I just keep diaries, now, just to vent. But I wanted to be the author of a good book, poetry, or an essay. Not on the genre of The Lusty Argonian Maid, for sure."

The jester chuckled at his joke. He seemed sincere, not as if he was trying to idolize his tormentor.

"You can still do it. You can let me go, for example! I'll be your teacher, your guide, eh?"

At least he didn’t swear to do whatever Cicero wanted, like everyone else. He tried to save himself with a little 'intelligence, cunning, relying on what was interesting to Cicero and his skills. It was original.

Cicero spread an oblique smile.

"No, I'm sorry, there's really no chance that you come out of here alive."

"Um. Too bad, boy. Too bad. Can I at least tell you a joke before I die?"

Cicero pulled out the dagger, getting ready. He smoothed it on his pants, waiting for the joke. It was rare for the jokes to make him laugh. He was born with little sense of humor.

"Go, I'll listen to you."

The jester looked up a moment, as if he were thinking of the joke. He could only play one, after all.

When he began to tell, it was theatrical, exaggerated, accompanied by wide and extreme gestures.

"An old mad woman, trying to commit suicide, throws herself into a river. A man sees it and saves her. The next day, the man goes to the inn and talks about the accident to the host, who tells him: why did you save her? The old woman wanted to die, in fact this morning they found her hanged! And the other:  no, I had only hang her out to dry!"

He laughed, alone, and yet... yet this time Cicero felt almost entertained. Really, entertained, it was such a stupid joke... so why was it so funny?

He laughed too, one of the very few times in his life. He put his armed hand in front of his mouth and hid, vaguely embarrassed by that unprofessional behavior.

"Ah, I knew it!" exploded the jester, playful, "you’re one to appreciate some good black humor!"

Cicero valued him more, because he had chosen the joke well. He knew that on him the macabre humor was the only one with the least hope of working. He was intelligent, really. He admired him.

But the situation didn’t change: he was a contract, he had to die.

"Now we must end it, though. I'm sorry, seriously. You're nice." admitted Cicero, regretted.

"Ah, if the joke wasn’t enough, Virgilius has no more hope. Kill me, go!"

"Know, however, that I’m honored to have met you."

And he began to laugh. How strange, it had never happened to Cicero a victim like that...  how much did he laughed?

He decided to stop him. He approached him. He stuck his dagger in his stomach.

The jester opened his eyes and stopped laughing. He clung to Cicero's shoulders, as if he wanted to hold on to life through his killer. A trickle of blood escaped from the side of his mouth and finally he fell to the ground, lifeless.

Cicero stood beside him, looking at him with a certain regret in his heart. He was convinced that he would’ve forgetted about him, at most the next day. He didn’t know that, instead, he had just met his missing half of personality.

The jester would’ve never left him.

Chapter Text

Hot. It was a long, long time that he didn’t feel hot. Not a generic sense of mild temperature, but a real hotness, suffocating, so much he was sweating. He didn’t even know when it had been, the last time he had sweated.

He couldn’t open his eyes right away, but he knew he was alive. He still had pain in his side, and besides, it couldn’t be hot, in the Void. No, he still had to be in the Nirn, somehow. But why couldn’t he lift his eyelids?

He had to work hard, but in the end they opened: they were glued together, by tears and prolonged closure. How much had he been unconscious? They could be minutes as they could be years.

The first thing he saw was the wooden canopy of the bed, covered in dark veins that reminded him of the waves of the sea. Then he forced himself to turn his head and, confusedly, he could recognize the furniture in the room, and the dark bricks, and the colored light that was filtering through the precious windows. He was still in Proudspire Manor.

He turned his head to the other side and finally saw her: Morrigan sat next to him on a high, padded chair that almost looked like a throne for a princess. She was asleep, her head was abandoned on her side, her body disjointed, and her hair was falling disordered beyond the back, like a cascade of ink from an inkwell spilled over the parchment.

Cicero opened his mouth, tried to speak, but realized he couldn’t chanalize his breath out of his mouth. His side still hurt and he couldn’t breathe as he wanted.

He tried again: he inhaled more slowly and longer, until he had enough air to feed a word.

"Morrigan..."

She stood up instantly, her eyes still closed.

"Cicero?"

"You... forgot to open your eyes..."

Every word burned like a brand on fire, on his side, but it didn’t matter. Morrigan's reaction was enough to make him forget every suffering, every bad memory, every mistake, every regret. She got up, happy, began to cry profusely and slumped down on the bed, like a holy devotee, or a broken mother. She touched his face chaotically as she sobbed.

"You're alive!" she kept saying, in ecstasy, "you're alive! I wasn’t hoping for it anymore!"

Cicero hugged her tightly, on the healthy side. He closed his eyes as he kissed her forehead and buried his fingers in her hair, inhaling her scent and enjoying the sound of her voice.

"How much... how much..."

"Six days! Six days! You have to eat, you have to drink, we tried to give you water, but I was afraid to drown you, it was she, with a pipe, I don’t know what I would’ve done, I don’t know..."

"Hey, hey! Little crow... calm down."

Cicero struggled to speak as usual, both as power and tone, but he couldn’t perfectly. His voice was a bit hoarse, the effort in finding air made speeches difficult to build.

"I thought you were dying!" Morrigan was still crying, unstoppable, "there was no hope, really, there wasn’t! The Mother, or Sithis, I don’t know... someone must really love you!"

"Sh, sh. Calm down. Cicero... is hard to... break down, you know."

He gripped her more, clinging to her as to life itself, just as the jester had done with him many years before. The only way to be alive is to hold on to the soul of another person.

"Cicero had expressed the desire to... see you again, you know? He tried so hard. Even if he’s not sure... to deserve the prize."

Morrigan smiled, in tears. Without saying anything, she sat up, drying her cheeks.

"Now... pull yourself together and then... tell Cicero everything. With order."

Morrigan nodded, confused, as if trying to reorganize her ideas. She gathered her hair on one side and began to cuddle it, like a comfort, like little girls with rag dolls.

"You fainted and we healed you." she began, cautious, still lost in the maze of her emotions.

Cicero decided to guide her.

"You and who?"

"Amun'e Phis. She's downstairs, she’s sleeping. She stayed here."

"Did you call her?"

"Aye. Aye, I went to call her."

Cicero smiled, proud.

"Did you leave the city alone? All alone? How?"

"Aye, you know... one step at a time."

He stroked her thigh, encouragingly. He had always known that she was capable of everything. How much hidden potential, how much...

"Anyway," she said, "when we arrived, you looked dead, but Amun'e Phis said you weren’t. We took the arrow off and she did something, with magic, I don’t know."

Cicero, alarmed, pulled the blanket aside and looked at his side. He was bandaged, he saw nothing of the wound, but a red speck on the gauze. It wasn’t enough blood for the wound he remembered: Amun'e Phis had to be very good at healing magic. But Cicero let go to a noisy grimace.

"What's up? Does it hurt?"

"Yes, but... this isn’t it, little crow. Only... Cicero and magic... they don’t get along."

"Why?"

"He doesn’t trust it much. The Bruma fire... the Sanctuary mage... a stupid fireball..."

He couldn’t tell better than that, because the words hurt. He noticed that he still tasted blood in his mouth, but actually saliva was clean. Amun'e Phis had also healed him inside.

"Sithis forbid..." he chuckled, doubling the pain, "now I owe my life... to a cat, Morrigan! She gave Cicero one of her nine!"

Even Morrigan chuckled, without effort, however, not yet completely free from the anxiety of those last days. Sleep deprivation could clearly be read in her dark circles around her eyes and in her tight skin.

"And the corpses?" asked Cicero, fearing the worst.

"What corpses? You didn’t talk about corpses..."

Well, is she didn’t know it was good news. He wondered if they had found them... but if the news hadn’t spread, it meant that they weren’t raking the streets. No one was looking for a killer.

Cicero relaxed his shoulders, freed of a great weight.

"Cicero has killed... two people. A sentinel and... and the executor of the Sacrament."

"Who was he?"

"It doesn’t matter. He was nobody, he was just... a puppet. A good boy. A coward, but a good boy."

Cicero moved, complaining, trying to change position. Having been in that state for many days had begun to weigh on the pelvis, on the back, on the shoulders. Old age was also painful when at rest.

Morrigan was silent, too silent. Cicero turned his head, tried to search her, penetrating the shadows of her face. He squeezed her thigh a little, to call her, arouse her from that numbness. She, in response, turned her head back, with a heavy sigh.

"Was it true what you said? About Nazeem?"

Cicero remembered only in that moment of Nazeem. He had done well to tell her right away, he knew he would’ve forgotten it.

"Yes, or at least... so the young man said..."

"Are you sure he wasn’t lying?"

"It makes no sense... to lie when... when you die. Nobody does it. Never. And then... how did he know who to blame?"

She took it as a matter of fact, a scientific truth. She shrugged, dazed.

"I didn’t believe Nazeem capable of such a thing. I've never done anything to him, I don’t understand..."

"In fact he wasn’t capable to do it, he made... another do it. Don’t get... don’t think too much about Nazeem the idiot. Cicero bets... bets he did it out of boredom. A fool. A desecrator! Who wanted to play with the Brotherhood and... now he’ll see what happens to make fun of... the Mother and the great Sithis! Oh, he’ll see, Morrigan! I swear to you, Princess, he’ll regret his sacrilege."

He had spoken angrily, but a dull rage, strangled by pain, unable to breathe normally.

Morrigan, to calm him, laid a hand on his chest, with a feeble smile. Cicero could feel the cold of her fingers, on him, a cold that finally refreshed him, and for the first time was pleasant. He was sweating so much...

"Cicero... has a fever, right?"

"Aye. For many days now. But you're awake now, it will be better. Don’t think about Nazeem, it doesn’t matter now."

"Yes, it matters... the idiot... he almost killed you, he almost... made me…"

He was starting to get anxious, his breath was accelerated, furious.

But Morrigan didn’t allow it.

"Really, stay calm. I don’t care about Nazeem, we'll think about it when you're okay. I only care that you know are alive, and that we’re safe here in Solitude. Rest. I'm going to warn Amun'e Phis."

It took a while for the two women to come back upstairs. Cicero stared insistently at the door, vaguely alarmed. When they appeared, Amun'e Phis almost had to get on all fours to get over the lintels and not hit the ceiling. She moved silently, even in her greatness, but her fur was a bit ruffled, perhaps because of the annoyance of being in such a small environment. Her ears were straight, angry, annoyed, the tail agitated.

When, finally, she managed to enter the room, she seemed to fill it all up.

"Oh, hey! Imperial! You’re alive, great! I’d never have said it, if I must be honest!"

She knelt down and the impact remained muffled by her soft body. Cicero was almost afraid that she could break the floor.

"If Cicero was dead... it would’ve been because of magic, not because of his resistance!" he joked.

Amun'e Phis looked at him sideways, with only one ear lowered. She shook her head.

"Shut up, Imperial, please! You were much better unconscious!"

She approached, crawling on her knees and trying to avoid the furniture. When she was near, Cicero saw her face, that enormous face dotted with sun-colored eyes. The numerous braids and dreadlocks were in front of her shoulders and touched Cicero, tickling his exposed belly.

"How did you get in?" he asked, genuinely curious. They didn’t let Khajiit into the cities, in fact, they had the reputation, perhaps partially deserved, of being thieves. So, if it was difficult for a normal cat to cross the walls, he didn’t dare to imagine what Amun'e Phis had to invent.

"Oh, I jumped!" she joked back, "a good jump and I landed over the border!"

Cicero chuckled, but immediately realized that it hurt too much. Then he held his side tight and forced himself to be serious. It was still too strong, pain, to be able to appreciate it.

"Actually, I’ve corrupted the guards" the cat confessed, curling her nose, as if she herself disapproved, "I gave them some skooma."

Cicero smiled. Cats…

"Better, so you have less for yourself."

Amun'e Phis took it as a cruel joke, as if Cicero were happy to see her deprived of an expensive commodity. Actually, it was the exact opposite: it was perhaps the first time that he had said something nice and totally disinterested to her. Skooma... he hadn’t forgotten how disgusting the skooma was since the times of Modia Prodice. The less he saw skooma, the better he was.

Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, Amun'e Phis raised her ears even more. She turned to Morrigan, not far away, and asked her to go get a basin of water, explaining that it was needed for cleaning. Cicero was only amazed for a moment that she let Morrigan do such a complex thing, before he knew she had asked for it on purpose to send her away and keep her busy for a while.

When they were alone, in fact, the cat returned to look at him, with those piercing vertical pupils. She brought her ears back, as she did when she was uncomfortable, angry or annoyed.

"You couldn’t stay out of trouble even one day, eh?"

It was an accusation, this time, very serious. It wasn’t so much sarcasm, it was just anger. And Cicero, for his part, knew why. He had always known: that cat had smelled a lot of him.

He sneered, disquieting, without censuring anything about his expression, as opposed to what he had done during the journey with the caravan. He wanted her to understand well who she was talking to.

"Ah, kitty... Cicero knew you wouldn’t have approved. Just know that... it's one of the few times that Cicero hasn’t made the first move."

"I don’t care what you have or haven’t done. Morrigan has been very sick these days, she doesn’t deserve to live like that... in her conditions."

She also knew about the disease, so. Cats... he could know everything about cats, but in the end they always found ways to amaze him.

"Do you know what she doesn’t deserve in her conditions? Compliance. Being treated like a child, as you’re doing now, moving her away from a speech that concerns her."

He tried to say it all together, without pauses, in a serious tone, a tone that he didn’t always use, and which perhaps Amun'e Phis had never heard.

The cat, tightening her lips, looked down. She carried her sight on the wound and, with her huge claw hands, began to remove the bandage. She was very delicate, despite the conflict, Cicero had to admit it.

"I'm just worried about her, Imperial."

Cicero grinned, still, determined to show her how much he knew, how much his intuition could rival the Khajiiti sense of smell.

"Yes, of course, because you love her. Right?"

Amun'e Phis stared at an unspecified point in front of herself toward the wall. She remained motionless for a moment, without working, as if she had to dispose of surprise and anger.

"Love is a too big word" she said, finally, "I like her, yes. Is it a problem?"

"It's not a problem, no. It’s many problems. You're... a cat eight feet tall, Amun'e Phis. And you're a woman. You have nothing to do with her tastes."

"And you’re a murderer of the Dark Brotherhood, too psychopathic even for the standards of you psychopaths, you don’t really have the right to feel a better party than me!"

This time she had spoken in an angry, half-blown hiss, like a feline battle warning. She kept her eyes thin and pointed, predatory, scary.

But Cicero continued to smile. He felt safer, now that he knew her better. He always felt safer when he knew who he was dealing with.

"You’re a perspicacious kitty, Amun'e Phis. Well done."

"Even in Elsweyr there are Sanctuaries" she explained, calmer, "my mother told me about your dark cult when she wanted to send me to bed. Like a scary story, you know?"

"And now you're afraid Cicero can do something to Morrigan."

It was a statement, not a question.

"Yer. What do you want to do, eh? Why do you bring her around? I shouldn’t have saved you, I did it for her, but... you had to die!"

Ah, there was the problem: she had been too good with magic. There was what all that resentment was.

Cicero, however, couldn’t be angry with her. He still owed her his life, and debts were a commitment for him.

He smiled, not sarcastic, but easygoing. He sighed and tried to be as honest as possible.

"She’s not in danger. You don’t have to worry, Amun'e Phis. I know it will seem strange to you, but you can trust the word of Cicero."

She raised her head in a sudden gesture and a skeptical grimace. Then, calmly, she resumed removing the bandage. Cicero let her do it until the wound was free. The jester stretched out his neck, to be able to see it, and realized that it was frightening: the hole was still there, both on the back and on the front. It was bleeding less, yes, but it wasn’t closed yet, and it was surrounded by dried blood. All around, the skin was reddened and shrunken, in a great halo. The continued magic, in the same place, must have burned him.

Amun'e Phis changed the bandage with new, immaculate gauzes. She did it in an accurate manner, as delicate as possible, without causing unnecessary pain. Cicero was grateful to her.

"What do you want, kitty, eh?"

Amun'e Phis finished the bandage with a knot.

"Why should I want something?"

"Cicero knows cats... and knows you. Say that. What do you want, to keep your mouth shut about the Brotherhood and Morrigan?"

Amun'e Phis gave him an exasperated look, almost disappointed.

"I don’t care about the Brotherhood, or about you. I just want... that she's safe. I know I have no hope, she wants you, for some absurd reason. That being the case, I just want to be sure that... you won’t get her killed."

Cicero shook his head, put his right hand over his heart.

"I swear on Sithis, my friend, that hurting her is the last thing I want."

To Amun'e Phis it seemed enough. It wasn’t for the oath, in all likelihood. It was for intuition, once again: just as she had immediately understood Cicero's affiliation to the Brotherhood, she immediately understood his sincerity.

She said nothing. She stood up, her head bent under the ceiling. For the first time, she smiled, lighter, and ran a hand through the braids.

"Now I'm going to help her, poor thing. I don’t want her killing herself for a little water."

Cicero smiled, happy that she had lowered the tone of the discussion. The cat, without adding anything else, walked towards the door.

"Hey, kitty? Thank you. Really."

She gave him only a glance, with a slanted smile and her usual ambiguous and cynical attitude. Cicero felt as if he had finally made things clear with her. A brief, conflictual relationship, often made of unspoken accusations. Yet he admired her, very much, because he admired all those who were intelligent enough to stand up to him. He was sorry to have to say goodbye just now that he was beginning to appreciate her, even though he knew it wasn’t reciprocated. After that day, in fact, he never saw her again.

That evening, Morrigan and Cicero were alone again, in the great Proudspire. It was a quiet place for only two people. It could be scaring, especially for people like them, both used to tight and crowded spaces. When night fell, it seemed as if the spirits of the world were dwelling in the dark corners, sighing songs. It was too difficult a place to deal with, alone.

For that reason, they almost never left the bedroom. Cicero couldn’t get up yet, and Morrigan preferred not to go up and down the stairs by her own. In those six days, she had got worse, her hands had completely abandoned her. Her feet were starting with the same, sad fate: insensitivity was climbing up her body in a slow but inexorable pace. Her hearing was resisting, though; it seemed to be very variable, to tell the truth: sometimes she could hear perfectly, and sometimes she she couldn’t hear at all. It was a strange and... terrible disease.

They ate a stew that Amun'e Phis had left for them. It wasn’t very good, but Cicero devoured it, helped by the long fast. After supper, he laid down in bed, at rest, and played a little with Morrigan at the riddles. He told her a few jokes, he hummed a few songs. He tried to do all the things he knew he would’ve missed when she was gone. But why was he alive? He couldn’t think of anything else. Why? Why did Sithis not take his soul? It was true when he said he wanted to precede her. It would’ve been wonderful to welcome her into the Void instead of being welcomed, perhaps many years later.

When it was late and the otherwise ceaseless shouting of Solitude's streets went out, Morrigan started yawning, and so they decided to go to sleep. They had to recover their strength, both of them. Cicero didn’t know how much he could afford to linger, with Morrigan getting worse so fast.

He felt her under the blankets, next to him, naked. She hugged him, in an extrovert and self-confident way, that he had never seen before. So he closed his eyes, enjoying the moment.

"Cicero? Can I ask you a question?" she said, undecided, in a feeble voice.

How many times did he have to tell her that questions and curiosity were never to be censured? But he didn’t want to scold her. Simply, he gave permission.

"What did you mean when you said you covered yourself with another person?"

Cicero exhaled, agitated. He stared at the colorful window, half hidden in the darkness of the night. He felt uncomfortable and tried to dismiss the speech.

"Oh, Cicero doesn’t... doesn’t remember, you know... feverish delusions... of a madman."

"Ah. Okay, it doesn’t matter."

Cicero wasn’t sure she believed him. But she didn’t try to investigate further, and precisely the fact that she did not obliged Cicero to feel guilty. In the end, he changed his mind and decided to be honest.

"Morrigan, have you ever had the feeling of not being the protagonist of your life?"

He felt her get more comfortable, resting on his shoulder.

"Every day." she admitted, and Cicero felt sorry for her. Because if only she could experiment half the depersonalization he felt, it was a tragedy.

"Cicero... Cicero’s not the protagonist of his life, hm. He’s just a background actor. He lives in the background, yes, as if he’s not really part of the show. And his gestures, his speeches, his feelings, is all told by someone else, someone who’s not him. And he can’t do anything about it, hm..."

"That's why you speak in third person, right?"

He held her for a moment and at the same time squeezed his eyes. He was afraid of getting lost, losing his personality and dissolving in the dark, in the Void, forever.

"Yes. Cicero is back there, he's there, and he does nothing original and... it's better this way. He was a really, really horrible person, and you would’ve hated him. You would’ve hated him so much, with every fiber of your being. He would’ve hated you too. He would’ve told you terrible things, he would’ve offended you, teased you, while he was killing you. He would’ve humiliated you, your body, he would’ve torn your eyes and kept them to himself, and..."

It was becoming difficult to talk. Not for the pain, this time, or at least not that of the wound. Indeed, experiencing physical pain always helped him in those cases, because it gave meaning to his bad feeling. It was a justification, a physical proof of the suffering he felt inside, always, every day, every hour.

"Don’t worry" she whispered, approaching his ear, "calm down, you're here with me now. You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to."

But the reality was that he wanted to talk about it so much. He needed it, because he had never told anyone, except for the Mother. Not even Babette. Perhaps, not even himself.

"What you see today isn’t Cicero, that is... it's not me... it's the jester. It's him, you know, my last contract before becoming Keeper. He was a weird and funny man, you would’ve loved him. He would’ve made you laugh, because he was better than Cicero, he was better than me in telling jokes. Virgilius, he was called. Cicero... he's just a lie, a thief. I don’t even know... where he is... who he is... I don’t know, don’t... it has become difficult... to distinguish who of the two..."

He felt tears pressing into his eyes and he didn’t want to. He squeezed them harder, trying to stay present to himself. Darkness, silence and solitude didn’t help, it seemed... it seemed to be back to Cheydinhal.

"Sh, sh, calm down. It doesn’t matter. Calm down."

She held him close. She was speaking to him quietly, at peace with the whole world, directly in his ear. In a low tone, as she whispered she looked like both a mother's lullaby and a lover's sigh.

"I started talking to him to keep me company” Cicero continued, “at the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, you know... things were bad, very bad. The brethern were few, there was the war... all dead in the end. Cicero has remained alone with the Mother for a long time, a long time... eight years, before arriving in Skyrim. Only with the Mother and with the laugh of that jester. It echoed in his head, and I prayed so much, prayed so much that the Mother would take it back. And now you see this thing, a fusion of two people and I know that... you're in love with him, not me."

"No! No, I'm in love with you. You, Cicero, do you understand? You’re Cicero, you’re a single person, and I only know you."

He shook his head, annoyed, violent.

"You don’t know him, you never knew him..."

"If I didn’t know you, how would I know you love carrots?" she interrupted, almost laughing, dreamy, "how would I know you can’t stand bards? I know your favorite joke is that of the horker; I know you believe in Sithis but you’re more devoted to the Mother; I know you were born in the Imperial City, then you went to Bruma, and then to Cheydinhal; I know you loved a woman called Galla, even if you think you haven’t felt anything for her; I know you had a friend named Ademar; I know you adore Babette because she can understand your nostalgia, and because she reminds you how much you would like to have a daughter; I know you love writing, and reading, and telling storied; I know you love the Void, but it makes you much more afraid of what you say; I also know your favorite color is red, I remember it. For a long time I thought it was for blood, but now I don’t think so, you know? Do you want to tell me what it is for?"

Cicero closed his eyes, breathed deeply, a little heartened.

"The doors."

"Which doors?"

"The doors of my house, in Cyrodiil. They were red. Also the frescoes, the decorations, and the veil of my paren... of my mother. It was all red, there. That's why I like it."

He heard her laugh, blowing lightly against his ear, and his sunset-colored hair.

"Seen? You’re a person, you have memories. Some of them beautiful, despite everything. These are memories of Cicero, not of the jester. You haven’t stolen anyone's personality, it's just that you've always been like that, inside. You've always loved theatricality, appearing, talking well, the jester just gave you a reason to find that part of you again. The part a little more sensitive, too. The one you had as a child, that your mother didn’t cultivate, and that you eventually cultivated alone. You've always been a jester, just like I've always been a crow, or..."

She stopped, sighing.

"Or...?" Cicero urged, curious, enchanted by Morrigan's sudden ability to build long monologues.

"Just like I’ve always been a Princess of the Void, perhaps" she said, "it seems a bit presumptuous to say it, but you can understand what I mean. I spent my life denying, and in the end I just discovered that... the Void was already here."

The Void was already there, yes, there had always been. Cicero had been struck by those words: he felt so peaceful, so honored that she saw him that way. She wasn’t objective, perhaps. Maybe it was just the way of seeing a lover from the point of view of another lover. But it had never happened to Cicero to feel that way... himself, through her. It was as if, filtered by her milky eyes, he could return to being a normal person.

And then she, yes, she who finally admitted it, admitted she was a daughter of the Void. After so much time, after so much effort, there she was, in her kingdom. Where she always should’ve been.

"I hoped so much that I’d say it, and only now... I realize that... actually it wasn’t you, the one who had to find herself. Sorry. I'm so sorry to be so... crazy. Amun'e Phis is right, you don’t deserve all this. You should have someone more stable, someone to help you... really... without scaring you or telling you bad things... mad and violent."

But she took his face in her hands and kissed him, slow, only on the cheek. She was so calm, in those days, how did she do it? It seemed that she was no longer afraid of anything, less than ever of the future. Blessed her, because Cicero, for his part, had the feeling that he could block himself, because of fear. He could die, because of fear.

"Cicero, you’ve already helped me, I don’t need anything anymore. But if it's true that little is missing just before I need to go, I wish I could do the same for you."

Chapter Text

Cicero’s convalescence was slow, too slow. He had the feeling that the more their tension increased, the less the wound healed. They were in a hurry, with little time and much to do, between Morrigan who got worse every day and Whiterun that seemed so far away.

But putting up trouble didn’t help him, Cicero knew. He should’ve remained calm, trying not to think of life in terms of time, but of quality. For this reason he forced himself to be happy, to enjoy that forced break as if it were a glimpse of normal household life with Morrigan. Maybe it was a gift, right? Maybe it was an opportunity to try something they would hardly ever have experienced, otherwise.

The first days were the hardest: the fever was still high, the wound hurt more than ever and the bones, weakened by immobility, made him suffer further and prevented him from sleeping. Morrigan tried to insist on taking painkillers, but he refused them, not only because he wanted to deal with pain, but also because it was almost a moral obligation: he had been hurt by his own negligence, hadn’t he? Next time he would’ve learned to be more careful. If he had silenced pain, the wound would’ve been useless, it wouldn’t have taught him anything.

Then, finally, on the fourth day the fever died out, allowing the rest of the body to feel better, and the brain to think more clearly.

Now that the danger had passed, in fact, it was time to talk seriously about Nazeem and what they would’ve done with him. Cicero introduced the subject one evening, and specifically the first night he had been able to get out of bed and dine at the table. He knew that Morrigan had been waiting to talk about it for days, and in fact, as soon as he mentioned the matter, she sat up, her ears very attentive.

"Hey, hey! The little crow always makes me laugh when she does that! She looks like a marmot. When they stand with their eyes wide open."

She chuckled over the comparison and forced herself to look less interested, relaxing her shoulders and leaning back against her chair.

"Sorry, keep talking. I’ll listen to you."

"Ah, there was nothing to say, actually. Cicero was just trying to figure out what you want to do. "

"Me?" she was vaguely alarmed.

"You. This is your contract, after all, isn’t it? Cicero... well, he left the scene when he decided not to kill you. Now it's your turn."

She sat in silence for a while, with her head down, clearly puzzling on the matter. Her hands were left on her knees, as if they were now two useless appendages.

In the end, she tried to joke:

"I didn’t believe killers would give up on contracts so easily."

Cicero wanted to touch her nose, joking, but he couldn’t stretch his arm out of pain. So he stood still, trying to put even more comedy in talking.

"Well, Cicero is still the second authority, in the Brotherhood. He can give up a contract when he wish, and in fact, if you were part of the hierarchy, you couldn’t refuse or discuss the matter. Be careful when you accuse good Cicero of negligence."

"Not that receiving orders from you bothers me, of course."

She had said it with a mischievous smile and a defiant tone that didn’t suit her. Cicero was baffled by that new part of Morrigan, which had seen the light after the wound. Would she ever have ceased to amaze him with new aspects? He just wanted to have more time to know every facet of her.

He also adapted to her mischievous talk.

"Why does Cicero have the impression that we’re veering on something sexual?"

She shrugged, pretending to be innocent.

"I’m not responsible for what you read in my words, jester. The perverse mind is yours, I'm a good girl."

"Um, maybe. But surely you still have a lot of work to do on your double-face."

He leaned toward her and this time, despite the pain, tried to force himself. He touched her nose, as he wanted to do before, then her mouth still smiling, to show her where the error was. She couldn’t just hide emotions in her face, so she couldn’t even conceal malice.

Cicero sat down again, composed, with a grimace. He tried to return to calmer waters.

"Anyway, Cicero was serious. What do you want to do with Nazeem?"

She thought about it again, then sighed.

"Well, if it depends on me, definitely talk to him. I want to understand what the hell has jumped on his mind. I don’t really understand what I could’ve done to him, I talked to him twice in my life."

Cicero nodded and made a vague gesture with his hand, towards her.

"Deal. The Princess decides, so we'll talk to him. And then? Will you... kill him?" he realized he had said those words too enthusiastically. But he didn’t want to give her clues about what had to be done, so he forced himself to stay silent, to see her true intentions.

"I... no... I don’t know, Cicero. Do I have to decide now?"

"Oh, no! Absolutely, the Princess doesn’t have to do anything. We keep the dialogue good for now. Cicero thinks that Nazeem is to be killed, to be honest, and that it must also be done in a rather theatrical way. As a warning to others, so they understand what happens when they get around the rules and disturb the Mother and Sithis for their games. But this concerns the Brotherhood, Cicero can solve it later, after you’re... well... later. For now, let's think about your personal matter, um?"

She nodded, without taking a firm stance on the subject. In a moment of pause, Cicero noticed that she was stretching her neck with too much interest towards the sweetrolls, as if she were sniffing them.

"Would you like one?"

She nodded and thanked him as he handed one to her. She couldn’t even hold it in her hand alone, he had to give her objects and even close her fingers, so that she knew how much force to put in the grip. It was becoming very difficult to take care of her. This didn’t bother him: he had taken care of the Mother in even more demanding ways. He was born to serve, didn’t care to be at her disposal. More than anything, every time he helped her to do something, he had to deal with a debilitating sadness, and that was what discouraged him the most. He remembered how she used her hands when he met her, stroking apples, brushing against the walls and furniture to orient herself, or when she had learned to play the hurdy-gurdy... all pleasant details that would’ve never come back.

"A sweetroll, Cicero. Do you remember?" she asked, with a smile, while she ate, her lips covered with sugar.

Cicero woke up from his silent melancholy.

"Um? No, what are you talking about?"

"You told me that a carrot is worth a week of life and a sweet twenty years. I suppose you just gave me twenty years of life, eh?"

Cicero smiled, half sadly and for the other half really amused.

"Ah, yes, twenty years. Even more, if you want. If it depended only on Cicero, he would be your slave for a hundred eras!"

She raised an eyebrow, sarcastic. How could she do it? How could she be so calm?

"Beware of making promises, Cicero! When we're both in the Void, I'll remember!"

In the following days, they pledged to draw up a plan.

First they had to organize the journey to Whiterun, which was long and expensive in terms of time and physical effort, for those who were to all effects two sick people. So they decided to travel more comfortably and book a carriage. They sold the horse and, with the earnings, they paid the courier in advance to be ready to leave a week later.

Then obviously there was the problem of the Mother: Cicero had to go back and take care of her. But he didn’t have enough time to go to Dawnstar, so he decided to send a letter to Babette and ask her to do his work, if not with the most complex spells, at least for routine cleaning.

Finally, the real plan, the one that would’ve allowed them to have a chat with the much-hated Nazeem.

"He won’t organize a party for us." Morrigan noted, distraught.

They were seating, bent over the round table in the bedroom, with the window open and a pleasant air to caress their hair and their skins. Cicero, goose quill in his hand, was taking notes, keeping a Skyrim map underneath. Distracted, in the pauses, he was scribbling a corner of parchment. He had just finished drawing a small stylized skull.

"No, he certainly won’t be happy to see us, little crow! If he doesn’t take a heart attack. For all we know, he should believe you dead, since you've disappeared from Whiterun."

As he spoke, he stretched out the skull and also designed a body. He still remembered the names of all the two hundred and six bones of the human body, after he had studied anatomy, as a young man. He thought, not without some complacency, that he had killed so many people, that if he had taken a bone from each one he could’ve built his own skeleton. He should have thought of it before.

"So we have to take him by surprise, you say?"

"Of course, it would be better to kidnap him. We have to take him to a quiet place where we can talk."

"In my old house?"

"No, too central."

Cicero looked up from his drawing and stared at Morrigan, who had a concentrated expression on her face. He thought she was a good student.

"Come on, little crow", he urged her, "where could we take him out of Whiterun to talk with him?"

She lit up.

"His farm? It's out of town, he goes there every week, Sundas around noon. We could take him there, in fact, he’ll come to us."

Cicero, happy, smiled and passed the goose quill down under her nose, making her almost sneeze.

"Good, little crow! Very good! You're smart! Cicero’s sure you would be a good Sister! If you were born a little luckier, from a physical point of view, you shouldn’t have been a shieldmaiden for Sovngarde... you should have served the Dark Brotherhood! What a great luck it would’ve been, having you among our ranks!"

She grinned, pleased.

"I don’t know, I'm too fearful... a killer should be colder."

"Ah, but that’s learned, little crow! None of us was born a killer... well... Cicero, yes, but it’s a uncommon. The others were often just people who had nothing better to do, rejected by society, living on the road and instructed to pursue a greater purpose. Even Galla, oh, you should’ve seen her, at first! She looked like... a squirrel! It took a while for her to become a lioness. Cicero liked to teach her, as he’s doing now with you, you know... it resembles those moments."

Morrigan stretched her arms, tired. They had been sitting there for many hours, they were working hard. For that minds were starting to digress and bodies to complain.

"Tell me about Galla, please."

"What do you want to know?"

Morrigan shrugged.

"I don’t know how she was... and what sex was like with her."

Cicero spread a sideways smile, forgetting about the drawing. He put the feather on the table and settled back, curling his nose in pain.

"Morrigan, what’s your problem in these days? Are you in withdrawal symptoms?"

She challenged him, laughing.

"And even if it were?" she raised his head, haughty, waved the long, oblivious locks, "I want to be with you, you should be pleased... old man."

Cicero snapped his fingers in the air, playful and sarcastic.

"Ah! The little crow hits low, eh? Well then you should know that maybe Cicero holds back because you look like a four-year-old girl. Short, with that innocent little face... you don’t even have many hairs in your beautiful triangle, Cicero isn’t very sure of your age."

She took it as a playful offense. She moved her arms in a strange way, and Cicero sensed that she wanted to throw something towards him, if she had been able to grasp a blunt weapon.

"I’m twenty-one, I swear!"

"And Cicero’s not eighty, little crow. Half-age yes, but not decrepit. If he doesn’t lie with you it's just because he’s almost sure he has lost half a lung, half a stomach, half a liver, and half a kidney. Can you give him a few days to recover, um? Blood is needed in other parts of my body at the moment."

She, this time, laughed rudely. Cicero saw her wink and sway, with a sore stomach, almost to tears. She shook her head, her hair falling in front of her face. Strange, she had also changed way of laughing. Once she was shy, hiding her face, and now she was giving no sign of wanting to hide from anything, she was laughing with a broad smile, as if she had never laughed in her life.

Then, in the end, she calmed down, wiping a tear with her wrist.

"All right, all right, you won! Sorry, I'm a... demanding woman. You never would’ve said that, eh?" then she came back serious, "but I'd like to know about Galla, seriously."

"Why?"

She shook her head, vague, as if she herself didn’t know the real reason.

"I don’t know, people are so varied... just curiosity. To know what kind you liked, when you were younger."

Cicero chuckled, almost embarrassed. He looked out the window, saw the serene world, proceeding in its calm and slow motion, without bothering about them.

"Um, there's not much to say, little crow, our relationship wasn’t very deep. She wanted to know me better, but Cicero thought she was... crazy. She was completely mad. I know that said by Cicero seems hypocrite, but she was, trust me. But she was pretty, it was nice she was crazy. Then Cicero haven’t noticed."

"So you really liked her."

"I liked her as a Sister. That was the only yardstick, at that time. The fact that sometimes we laid together was an accessory, a... pastime. But we weren’t a well-matched couple, there was no balance. We both wanted to dominate, sometimes it ended up in brawl. Real beatings, not sensual. But... she was audacious, this Cicero liked. She allowed him to really do everything, even the most perverse things. Then she had the debatable tendency to want to try them on Cicero, which he liked less."

Morrigan laughed, a little amused and a little intimidated by the subject. But ishe was curious, Cicero was reading it in her face, so he continued to talk spontaneusly, avoiding her having to ask some embarrassing questions.

"She loved to experiment, she wasn’t afraid of getting hurt, in fact, if she didn’t come out with at least a few bruises, she wasn’t happy. She had a certain taste for the torture chamber. She was crazy, I told you. She was crazy and very nice, she would’ve liked you so much, and you would’ve liked her."

But Morrigan looked as if she couldn’t believe it, her expression oblique and almost regretted.

"Um... I don’t think I'll ever be able to match her performance."

Ah, that was the problem: a sense of competition. Cicero was both amused and annoyed. If he didn’t like jealousy, he didn’t like envy in the same way. Morrigan and Galla were two very different people, they couldn’t be compared.

"It's not a race, my dear. There is no race, in personalities. All souls are different, you could have what she lacked, and vice versa. Why do you want to compare yourself with her?"

Morrigan shrugged.

"I don’t know, it was just to understand what kind you would like. I wish I had more time to... learn, you know."

He wanted more time, too. Cicero was constantly thinking about it, but if there was one aspect he didn’t care about, it was the sexual one. But perhaps for her it was precisely because she hadn’t had enough experience to experiment. Maybe that was why she wanted to know as many things as possible, even with regard to the experience of other people. And, perhaps, that was why she wanted to make love as much as possible, before she couldn’t feel anything anymore.

Cicero understood her better after that thought, but still wanted to distract her from the idea of having to compete with Galla. She wouldn’t have wanted it either, he knew. She was resting in peace in the Void, and there she had to stay, without being bothered.

"Morrigan is different from Galla and would be in fifty years of relationship, Cicero can guarantee it. Why do you assume that I can only appreciate one kind? You’re more shy, sweeter, but that's okay, don’t blame yourself. Also because... Cicero isn’t so young anymore, as you’ve cruelly noticed. He would no longer have the resources to bear a young Galla. You’re perfect, you’re exactly the person that Cicero had to meet, at this point of his life."

Morrigan nodded, convinced, heartened. She sighed, half-closed her eyelids, enjoying the mild air. Cicero approached her a little, leaning over the table. He touched her forearm, stroking it.

"However, if you really want to be bold, do you know what Cicero would like so much? To see you dance again. You were beautiful while dancing. I could’ve died in that moment, and I wouldn’t have even noticed it."

She opened her eyes and Cicero felt himself drowning in the white. He saw a slight blush on her cheeks. He was a little pleased to see her like that, it reminded him of the first few times, at Whiterun, when she blushed for a trifle, a little compliment or an apple offered.

"I’m a bit ashamed…"

"Why? You did it with the Khajiit."

"Aye, but with you... I should do it more sensual, I think. I don’t know if I can."

Cicero rolled his eyes, amused, annoyed, exasperated and in love. He gripped her forearm more, encouraging her.

"You don’t have to do anything, how many times do I have to tell it? Dance as you want to dance, and that's it. Not as you would do for Cicero, no. Dance as you would do for yourself."

She squeezed her lips, undecided. Then at the end, she stood up. She was hesitant, stumbling. She first had to study the environment, covering the space she had available. Then, giggling, she tried to imitate the dance she had done with the Khajiit, her arms still wide, but with her hands falling more deadly than the last time.

"It's a bit strange without music..." she complained. But Cicero didn’t answer, looked at her for a moment, then resumed the parchment. He grabbed a charcoal and began to draw her, unpretentious, just... to have a memory.

She had to hear the noise of the tip on the paper.

"What are you doing? Writing?"

"Cicero’s drawing you, little crow." he explained, distractedly, as he tried to reproduce the hairline, dividing it into many wavy locks and fading with a fingertip.

"I didn’t know you were good at drawing."

"He once was better, but he had more macabre subjects. Don’t stop, continue. Cicero warns you when he has finished."

It didn’t take long. In the end, he was quite satisfied: it wasn’t the anatomically accurate work he would’ve done as a young man, but it was vital. In every sense, not only because it was the first living subject he drew, but also because it had more emotion, it was less cold, calculated. Imperfect and for this perfect. Like her eyes, which he had represented flat and white, without even giving it a slight tinge to make them seem roundish.

"Do I look beautiful in your drawing?" she asked, curious, pleased.

"Wonderful, my dear. But the real one is better."

He wished he could burn the drawing to keep her. Too bad it should be the opposite.

"You’re an easy to satify man." she joked, going to sit on his knees. She was referring to the fact that for him sex had never been very important, perhaps. It was because he wasn’t a slave to material feelings.

"Ah, but little crow, now you know how Cicero thinks. True sensuality is not flesh, or a beautiful naked body, no... it's ease, my dear, self-assurance. In this terrifying world, which tries every day to subjugate and enslave us, there’s nothing more attractive than freedom."

The week passed quickly. It could’ve been boring, with nothing to do, but the reality was they had a lot to think about, especially for Nazeem. Unconsciously, they both also were trying to understand in advance what the motivation for his hatred toward Morrigan was, but they didn’t come to anything new. Cicero was still convinced that he had done it for fun, out of boredom. Because he looked like a bored guy, yes. He hadn’t known him well, but he looked like one of those repressed troublemakers, looking for something that could make him feel powerful, something that could confirm his ego to deserve his social status. This was because, perhaps, if he reasoned objectively he knew he didn’t deserve it.

Cicero knew very well that kind of personality: they’re usually men, or at least old maids. They must necessarily feel satisfied by the glory, but they’re also cowards, and then they set up for themselves the challenges they know they can win. The old ones who beat the children or the young maids are of that kind, or the young people who fight, yes, but only with drunks, or weakest. False people, in short, who in the end are convinced they can do much more than they are capable of. They deceive themselves and overestimate themselves. On the one hand, Cicero considered them easy to kill: they often did everything by themselves, if he played a little provocative they could even attack first and give a nice alibi to the murderer. But they were also dangerous because their cowardice made them more cautious than normal, and they often surrounded themselves with traps or mercenaries. Weird, guarding and extremely arrogant types. A species that Cicero particularly despised. They reminded him a little of Cassio.

On the day of departure, Morrigan was agitated. Cicero no, not more than usual, felt only a vague heaviness in the sense of responsibility, since the contract was for Morrigan. Like a good teacher. Instead, she, like a student about to take an exam, was in a panic. She was silent, more than usual, panic in her face. They would’ve left in the afternoon, but she had awakened that the sun hadn’t yet risen, torturing her nails and lips for tension and wondering if she had prepared everything. She was very different from the other times she had left, first from Whiterun and then again from Dawnstar. But maybe it was because it was a forced trip... of work... that she wouldn’t have started if it hadn’t been for Nazeem. Perhaps it was also the tension of returning among her people, of what they would’ve thought seeing her reappear after months of distance.

Cicero watched her, tormented in silence, sitting stiffly on the bed. She was waiting for the hour of departure like a gallows. He instead, quietly, was biting an apple and was sorry she should feel like that.

"Hey, little crow, cheer up! We’re going get the idiot, aren’t you happy? We’ll solve everything."

"Aye, but... I feel like something is wrong."

It was a bad feeling, Cicero knew her very well.

"Don’t torment yourself like that, we don’t even have to kill him now. There are still many days left to travel, try to enjoy it."

She nodded her head, but with the expression and the rest of her body she didn’t seem at all to agree. She remained rigid, tense, almost like when he was about to murder her.

Cicero sighed, put the apple on the table and stood up, reaching her. He kissed her and, going over her, forced her to lie down. She had to relax, really, she needed it.

"Cicero is much better now. If you want, before leaving we can... bless Proudspire, hm? We never did it."

She giggled, finally calmer. She couldn’t wait. Despite the obvious desire, however, she tried to refuse.

"I... I have my monthly blood, it’s not..."

Cicero burst out laughing, without restraint. She looked confused and maybe even a little offended, frowning.

"Blood, little crow! It would be the best of all jokes, if Cicero couldn’t bear a little blood!"

"Not for you. I mean... I should be embarrassed, right?"

It was a question. She was really asking him if she should be embarrassed about it. Cicero found it even more ironic, as if the answer could ever have been different from a denial.

"Morrigan, hasn’t good Cicero tought you anything? You don’t have to do anything, especially you don’t have to be embarrassed for your body! Nazeem should be embarrassed for his stupidity, Cicero should be embarrassed for his madness, not you for your womb!"

He laughed again, really amused and at the same time exasperated. Then he thought about the matter, about sex and blood, and the situation began to intrigue him more than he would’ve thought.

"You know, Cicero has always had a certain taste for… bloody intercourse. Oh, it's usually about slaughtering your partner, but in your case, this is the closest thing I can get. Your blood could also please Cicero, you totally shouldn’t be ashamed! "

He kissed her, still with his mouth stuck in laughter, and it seemed to infect her a little. He undressed her, first with eyes, and then physically. She remained naked, clear but warm, in the temperate climate of Solitude. Caressing her breasts, and then her stomach, he felt that she was moistened, beaded with a light sweat. He turned her around, lying down, putting himself on top of her, making her feel his weight. He kissed her back, slowly, lascivious but calm, more eager to let her relax than to possess her.

Then, touching her thigh, he forced her to bend her leg and lift it up a little.

"Does the Princess allow humble Cicero to take a look?"

She was still a little tense, but she was brave: she nodded. Then Cicero brought his fingers down, brushed her buttocks. He penetrated inside her with his forefinger and middle finger, just for a moment, snatching out a short moan from her. He felt the warm, enveloping feeling, more viscous than usual. When he looked down, he saw that his fingers were completely red, much more than he would’ve expected. A darker red than the one of murders, and also of a less liquid consistency. He couldn’t hide it was exciting.

He chuckled, talking to her ear.

"Well, for example, Galla never allowed me to do this. Thank you Princess. I've never seen it before."

He kissed her again, but she remained silent, too stiff. Perhaps it was her previous mood, more than the actual situation. Maybe she was just agitated for hormones, it could be.

He put himself on top of her, freeing his manhood. He penetrated her gently, trying to be as gallant as possible, and she moaned with his movements, yes, but with little emphasis. She kept his eyes tight as he moved inside her, as if bothering her.

"Morrigan can also tell Cicero to stop, if she doesn’t want to."

Cicero didn’t want her to feel obliged. But she finally unblocked and managed to externalize the real problem.

"No, it's just that I'm worried. You’re weak, Cicero."

He approached her ear, laughing both sarcastically and disturbingly.

"Ah! Here's the problem" he whispered, allusive, "the Princess is not satisfied with the performance of old and wounded Cicero."

"No, no, I didn’t mean this!"

But Cicero had the feeling that she was lying, because she took off anyway, both from under him and from the physical connection, interrupting the act. She collapsed to the side so he could see her face. Perhaps she wanted to make clear how serious the speech was.

"I meant you're not ready to face Nazeem. You're still sore, you're not well."

Cicero squinted, tried to play with intimidation.

"Morrigan underestimates Cicero. It's still his job, and he's been doing it for almost thirty years, he knows very well if he can do it or not. You, rather... if I didn’t know you well, I’d say that you’re afraid, my love."

She looked annoyed, maybe not for the accusation of cowardice, but for his habit of using endearments only when he wanted to be sarcastic.

"I'm not afraid, it’s that... I don’t hate him, do you understand? Even if it was him, I don’t hate him. I don’t know how I'll deal with it, I don’t..."

But Cicero interrupted her, putting a finger on her mouth. She was also a human type who he had studied and, beyond the emotional knowledge, he also knew her as a personality, as a psychological classification. He knew what to say to her:

"Yes, of course you don’t hate him, because you need a reason. Not even Cicero hates his victims, and even for this reason assassins usually don’t want to know anything about them. As I said, anger is not good in our work, it makes us do stupid things. But you... you can’t inflict a punishment without someone deserving it. That's okay, Cicero accepted it now. You just have to wait, when he’ll say the reason... you’ll hate it. I can swear it, you'll hate him to death. Literally."

She seemed heartened, happy that at least he was convinced of it.

"Um, all right. I hope I can be brave when the time comes."

"You already are, little crow. You already are."

She almost seemed to take it as a suggestion. She smiled, in fact, again that mischievous way she had used a few days before. Cicero was happy to see it again and to be able to finally exploit it. The girl, in fact, taking an initiative that was very much suited for Galla but little suited for Morrigan, or at least so Cicero would’ve said up to that moment, made him lie down on his back and straddled him. Now she was laughing, and Cicero enjoyed that sight: her belly slightly striped by the curvature of her body, her round breasts, small but turgid, and her long hair that came to touch his arms, on the bed. Finally, having her over was satisfying. It was almost liberating, in a sense.

"Ah!" he said, with the tone of one who was caught, "as usual, Cicero has run too far, calling you shy. Forgive him. He’s very afraid of the punishment you wish to inflict on him."

It was a suggestion, and to make her understand it, he took her hand and placed it on his wound. He hoped, really. He hoped with all his heart. If she had accepted, if she had granted him that grace, he would’ve been ready to swear to Sithis that she was the perfect woman. He would’ve had nothing more to ask or teach her.

She felt with her wrist what he wanted, and at first tried to withdraw her hand, with a worried and undecided face. But Cicero said nothing, didn’t try to convince her in words, for once. He stretched slightly, stroked her face, made her understand that there was nothing wrong, that was fine. And she, for the first time, seemed to be convinced.

It was immensely pleasant and painful, when she settled on him, letting herself be penetrated, while pressing the wound on his side. Not too harsh, no, but enough to allow him to feel both those sensations, to bear each of them equally.

She still seemed undecided, but when she felt that Cicero's groan was more of pleasure than pain, it was as if she forced herself to to enjoy the moment. And it was there that Cicero understood that no, perhaps she would never have shared that taste with him, but certainly she had understood and accepted it. Wasn’t it that, the greatest aspiration of all Nirn’s souls? Being... accepted?

What else could he ask for?

Chapter Text

When they came to see Whiterun again, it was almost the end of Rain’s Hand. I cannot tell the year. I never know the years. I only know that it wasn’t as cold as it used to be, and they both seemed to like that new climate. I know the snow had melted, releasing the vegetation, painting the world of a dull green. I know that the forests and the windy prairies of that proud hold, crossed by the herds of wild horses, had returned to flourish. I know that, at times, clouds thinned out and let the sun glimpse; that sun, they say, Auri-El wounded with an arrow of his bow, thus letting the light spread in the Nirn. I know what, again, was happening in the world. Not because I was there, I was never physically there, but because thus I wanted to happen. It was the moment I had designated. It was right, once again.

It was on a cloudy and windy day that they saw from a distance the outline of the city, which stood imposing on the hill, in the middle of the valley. Winds were blowing from the east, warm but fierce, and were insinuating among the black locks of a faint Morrigan, almost always sitting sadly on that wagon, eyes closed.

She was tired, a lot. She was weak. She hadn’t talked much during the trip and indeed, the more days passed, the more the desire to live seemed to abandon her, as if her soul was now struggling to remain attached to its earthly body.

Cicero used to notice and suffer from it, without showing it to the outside. He was trying to stay cheerful, giggling, just to try to make that last period easier for her. But often she didn’t even hear him. Several times she had fallen asleep suddenly, in the middle of a speech, and Cicero had had to shake her, panicked, believing she was dead.

That day, Cicero was sitting on the woody and uncomfortable bench of the wagon, and Morrigan was laying, heavily abandoned with her head on his thigh. She was breathing deeply and slowly, like a bellows, keeping her now useless hands abandoned near her face.

Cicero, bravely, gathering the good mood to put it at least in his voice, announced that they had arrived.

"We're in Whiterun, Morrigan!"

"Um? What?"

She couldn’t hear. It was... it was a sufference to see her like that.

"We’re in Whiterun. Did you miss it, at least a little?"

He hoped she missed it. Maybe, coming back to her hometown, she would’ve got a little cheered up. But maybe it was also the journey that made her so weak. Cicero didn’t want to deceive himself that she wasn’t ill, no... but even when they had arrived at Solitude, she was very tired, but then she had recovered a little. For that reason, for the first time in his life, he couldn’t wait to find a place to rest, instead of immediately throwing himself on the contract.

Thinking about it, how long hadn’t he killed? Of course, he had killed the Nord and the beggar, but it had been for self defense, not premeditated and not so pleasant. But if he wanted to go back to the last person he had killed just for doing it, he had to go back to the inn's blondie. It had been so long... as the Mother had done before her, so Morrigan was taking away his interest and time for some old habits. And that was fine, it was nice that she had become so important that he couldn’t think of anything else.

"Whiterun..." she murmured, as if she couldn’t even remember what it was, "ah, aye. I can smell the prairie."

She spread a slight smile, weak and tired, that died immediately on her like a tree leaf in autumn.

"Are you happy to be here?"

"Aye. I didn’t think to smell this perfume again."

As if the Nirn itself wanted to make her feel at home, the wind blew louder, bringing to them the fragrance of cut grass, pine, wild animals. Then, suddenly, a thunder. And without delay, melancholic, the sky began to cry its despair over the imminent departure of one of its best daughters.

"Here, cover up."

He tried to cover her with her dark cloak, but she stopped him. With one arm, she removed the cloak. She turned her face to the sky, her eyes closed. Cicero could see her eyelids hopping when the cold drops hit her eyes.

"You’ll get cold, little crow." he tried to scold her, effortlessly.

But she let out a low moan, a little for indifference and a little for pleasure in the rain. Cicero immediately demurred: he knew she wanted to feel those drops on her face because she wanted to feel something. Who was he to stop her?

When they finally got off the wagon, Cicero had to help her. She no longer had a perfect sensitivity in her feet and had difficulty maintaining her balance. Once on the ground, however, fortunately she seemed to recover, just enough to still seem... alive.

She had a slight smile on her face, her pale lips ruffled at the edges. She was keeping her eyes open, now, out of habit, to seem stronger than she was. She breathed deeply, as they walked up the hill in the rain. Cicero held her arm in arm and advanced slowly.

They climbed the path, passed the first ring of walls, then continued on the wooden planks road to the city gate. Once there, Cicero pulled her hood over her head.

"We don’t want Nazeem to see you, eh? Keep your head down."

"We can stay out if you don’t want to risk."

But no, they couldn’t stay out, they didn’t have a place to sleep, and Morrigan needed it. And then it was good for her to see her old house again, it could be the last chance she had.

"Cicero doesn’t intend to sleep in the rain for Nazeem the idiot, little crow."

"But what if he recognizes us and runs away?"

He approached her, talking to her ear, half hidden by the dark hood.

"Then the Brotherhood will follow him throughout Tamriel, Morrigan. A hand that represents a thousand, across the whole continent, and a thousand eyes, and a thousand performers. Nazeem cannot escape anywhere. Just relax, now, hm?"

She nodded, heartened, too weak to try to retort or even to think otherwise. Then they opened the massive wooden door and they were inside.

The city didn’t seem changed, since they had left. Cicero remembered well that time when Morrigan, running half-naked, had appeared from the right and started to run towards him, begging him to take her away. He was in exactly the same place he was then. He remembered the cold, the sun… but most of all, he remembered how the first thing he had thought was that the blind girl was completely crazy. Crazy, along with him.

They didn’t stay out much. They went immediately to Morrigan's old house, Cicero carrying her arm in arm, slow and patient. It seemed to walk with a soul more than with a real person, there on the cobblestones of Whiterun, surrounded by wooden houses with elaborate inlays.

They stopped in front of the hovel and saw that time hadn’t been merciful: if possible, it was even more shabby than when they had left. It hadn’t been long, but it didn’t matter, it was as if it had decided to let itself fall, crooked. It wasn’t a beautiful house, it had never been, but Cicero realized at that moment that it had a beautiful view: in the front row in the presence of the Throat of the World.

"The Throat of the World makes you feel small, right?" He commented, studying the mighty mountain.

"Never seen it." Morrigan joked sadly.

Cicero felt heartless.

"Ah, sorry, little crow. Cicero sometimes forgets that you can’t see."

"It doesn’t matter, it's nice. It means you don’t care, do you?"

It was true, he didn’t care that she was blind. For him she was a person like everyone else, or even better just for that reason. And the fact that she couldn’t see and feel small before the Throat of the World, or any other natural greateness, was further proof of how dimensionless she was, how much she transcended time and space, and already belonged to another universe.

Resuming possession of the house wasn’t easy: it had been besieged by three beggars. They complained when they saw Morrigan and Cicero come in, insulted them as one insults death. Morrigan would’ve liked to be more sympathetic, but Cicero didn’t allow her to: he drove them away as he drove rats out of the Mother's body, and those beggars had to thank that he hadn’t used rat poison with them. First of all because private property was sacred, they had taught him well in the Brotherhood: respecting the property of the other Brothers and Sisters was one of the five tenets. And secondly because he would’ve driven away and killed even the whole Whiterun population, just to give a roof and a bed to Morrigan. That house was for her and no one else.

Cicero had to throw away some leather and some useless personal objects of the beggars, but otherwise the furniture had remained intact. The bed had been used, but he didn’t care: he changed straw and blankets. He didn’t want himself or Morrigan to get fleas.

Morrigan, who was now sitting on a chair in the corner. She was awake, alert but tired, she was moving her head following the noise of Cicero working.

"I'm sorry I can’t help you..." she murmured at a certain moment, distraught.

"No! The Princess of the Void could help me, she doesn’t because she doesn’t want to! Right, Princess? You’d never get your hands dirty like this, and you do well! Let your slaves take care of your own good. Cicero must thank you that you don’t have a whip!"

She giggled, finally with more vitality.

"You're right, slave. Work! The Princess is getting impatient for your slowness!"

Cicero turned to her and gave her a deep bow, a foot forward and a waving hand. She couldn’t see it, but he didn’t care.

"Humble Cicero lives to serve."

She laughed again and stood still, in her corner, with a dreamy expression. It seemed almost as if she were imagining it, her palace. A rich and flourishing castle, full of life, of which she was the one and only leader. Cicero could almost see it, there, in that abandoned, cold and falling hovel. He told her, asked her if she was dreaming of a luxury home, but she surprised him.

"No, not a castle. Just... a normal house, maybe in Cyrodiil. With a beautiful courtyard and an olive tree. I’d like it so much."

Cicero stopped for a moment, swallowed, tried not to cry. He thought that, soon, she would’ve been wherever she wanted.

In the evening, after having lit the fire and eaten, they both went to sleep, squeezed into the single bed, defying the cold that still lashed the valley, during the night.

Morrigan was agitated, Cicero saw her, lying next to him. The next day they would’ve dealt with Nazeem, the idea was ruining her and giving her concerns.

"Hey, little crow?" he asked, pretending to be cheerful, "do you remember when Cicero was about to kill you? We were here."

He realized only too late that perhaps it wasn’t a happy memory for her. And instead, Morrigan smiled sweetly, as if she were remembering the first kiss.

"Oh aye. I was hoping so much to see you again, you know? I really had a crush on you. I liked that you complimented me, you had a so refined behavior compared to the usual mercenaries..."

"Gallantry is always the winning card with beautiful girls. You couldn’t wait to have Cicero getting into your room, admit it!"

She giggled.

"Aye, I admit it. I hadn’t foreseen the attempt to slit my throat, though."

Cicero was about to reply, when suddenly she seemed to remember something very important. She reanimated, seemed healthier and more alive than ever, for a moment.

"Hey, hey! Look in my drawer, on your side!"

Cicero turned and, intrigued, opened the drawer.

"Is it there? Is it still there?" she asked frantically.

Yes, it was still there: a rag doll, old, ruined. It was gray, two black buttons for eyes and strands of faded yellow wool for hair. It was unstitched in some points, from which bits of raw wool came out.

Cicero took it in his hand, looking at it strangely, having the sensation of holding an ancient object, a sacred relic, a reminder of a lost world and age.

He passed it to her and she felt it with her forearms. Then she took it, brought it close to her face. She continued to study it by touching it with her nose, inhaling the smell. It smelled like something old, but Cicero could bet that for her it smelled like home.

"My mother made it. How stupid I was not to take it... how stupid..."

Strange, they were the same things that Cicero used to say about his olive tree.

Morrigan hugged the doll and closed her eyelids, sighing, as if everything had returned to normal after that reunification.

Cicero stood in silence looking at her, worried, scared. He saw her there, curled up with disheveled hair, half-smile and her doll, and realized how young she was. She must’ve stopped believing in ghosts just a luster before, she must’ve had the first blood at most a decade before. It hadn’t been a long time since she slept with dolls, and suddenly Cicero felt... old. But not as usual, first it was only for personal age. Unexpectedly, now, he didn’t want Morrigan to go into trouble.

"Little crow, are you... are you sure you want to deal with Nazeem? Suddenly, it no longer seems a good idea to Cicero, what a fool he was to offer you..."

He felt like a monster. He turned to the ceiling, trying to calm down. But Morrigan, as always in those recent times, gave no sign of uncertainty or doubt. She was anxious, yes, but firm.

"Cicero, I need it. I chose myself, it wasn’t your idea."

And yet, Cicero had the distinct sensation of having pushed her to that choice. He just hoped... he just hoped everything would’ve gone according to plans.

The next morning was Sundas, the last day of the week, when farmers weren’t working and the streets were too crowded for an assassin. Cicero hated Sundas, like all his brethern.

It was seven o'clock in the morning when he decided to leave the house to implement the plan. Morrigan was restless and worried as he led him to the door. Before letting him out, she hugged him tightly, as if she feared to not see him again. Cicero let her do it and tried to reciprocate, even if he didn’t like it, it looked like a goodbye.

"Are you going so early?" she asked, pleading.

"Cicero must track him a little, he must study him. If he didn’t do so, he could risk underestimating him. Don’t worry, I’ll do nothing, I’ll just follow him."

She nodded against his shoulder, but held him stronger.

"Why do you worry so much? Cicero has been doing this for a lifetime."

"Aye, I know, but... I have a bad feeling."

It was terrible, having bad feelings. Cicero knew it well, since he had ignored one of them in Solitude. Not that he wanted to run into the same mistake, but this time he felt she was scared more for herself than for him.

"Little crow, breathe. Slowly, like this."

And he made her calm down, forcing her to control her breathing. He felt her chest rise and fall on him, and the air purifying her.

"Does your hip still hurt?" she asked, now a little quieter.

"Yes, and it's good! Less chance to get distracted!"

He chuckled, he hoped it would infect her, but it didn’t. So he pulled her away and took her face in his hands, looking directly at her, very close.

"Um, you're really pretty, you know?"

She finally blushed. She was lighter, compliments were always useful to reassure her. It was nice to see her like that.

"And now remember, don’t get out of here for any reason. Cicero follows Nazeem, makes him harmless and then returns to pick you up, okay? All you have to do is relax, Princess. Soon you can finally be free."

She nodded. Cicero looked at her, and unconsciously he too did it as if it might be the last time. Her agitation made him nervous too, though he didn’t want to show it. So he looked at her face and made sure to print it well in his mind. He gave her a quick kiss, on her cold lips. He touched her nose, made her laugh, and finally got out the door.

The contract was about to end.

Chapter Text

She didn’t matter. She had been told so many times, from birth to her sixteen. As long as her mother had been there she had had the strength to ignore that malice, because she knew that Sigrid cared about her. But after her death, indeed, Morrigan felt she no longer was important to anyone. She didn’t matter.

Her father never failed to remind her of it, in the morning as soon as he got up. How he could wake up already drunk, for Morrigan it was a mystery.

"Did you hear what I told you, little bastard? You don’t matter. Nobody cares about you. What’s this story now that you want to work?"

Morrigan lowered her head, submissive. She took a step back, didn’t want to be too close to him if he got angry.

"I don’t know... I thought it was a good idea, we would have more money."

"You're a woman, you're only useful for one thing. And you not even for that, since nobody will ever want you, you're too ugly. That's why your only purpose in your life will be to serve me until I die. And you can bet it will be in a good while!"

He began to laugh in a rude way. Morrigan couldn’t hide her disgust, she had to turn around to try not to get noticed. She had learned to hide her face from her father when she didn’t want to show him the emotion she was feeling. The straps had helped her to understand that concept, despite being blind.

She reached the kitchen cabinet, pretended to check the provisions. She swallowed, anxious: she didn’t know whether to insist, because she cared so much about the possibility of getting a job, but she also cared about her bones and her life.

"Please, The Hammer, listen, I won’t stop doing hoseworks. I just want to... be useful in another way, try new things..."

She said it in a low, half-hearted voice, panting with a palpitation heart. She really didn’t know what reaction to expect, she had never tried to propose such a thing. The fact was that she couldn’t bear it anymore, really, she couldn’t stand at home all day. She wanted to go out, change environment, she didn’t care that it was just to go to work somewhere else. She needed to breath.

She heard her father get up, his chair crawling on the wooden floor. She stiffened, aware that he was coming to her side. She speeded up the movements, drying the freshly washed dishes. She winced when she heard him next to her. She panted.

"What did I say, you little idiot? Eh? Repeat it."

Morrigan shivered, swallowed, tried to stay calm. She had to put the plate down because she couldn’t control her hands anymore.

"I... sorry..."

The Hammer was beside her. He wasn’t tall for other people, but compared to her yes, and this intimidated her. She stood still, saying nothing, and she remained rigid, hoping it was all over.

"Did I ask your apologies?"

Morrigan shook her head, quick, contrite.

"No, exactly. I want you to repeat what I told you."

Morrigan swallowed again. She clung to the furniture, afraid that her legs would give way.

"I’m a woman and my only purpose is to serve you."

She hoped he would leave her alone, now that she had contented him, and instead he suddenly grabbed her hair from behind her head. He held her tight and pulled up. Morrigan shouted, tiptoed up, trying to ease the pain. But he was pulling up more and more. Morrigan began to feel tears streaming her eyes as she raised her arms and tried to free her hair.

"Exactly! Exactly! You're my daughter and you have to stay here! Don’t ever dare to say that you want to do something, never again! You're not good at anything and you don’t matter to anyone!"

He pushed her to the ground, making her kneel and then collapse on herself, with her forehead on the floor. He pressed her head down while she whimpered, moaning in pain and humiliation.

"Does this floor looks clean to you?" laughed the Hammer, "ah, yeah, you don’t see it. Try to remember it next time, I never want to see the floor again in these conditions. Did you understand?"

"Aye! All right, I'm sorry!"

The Hammer finally let her go, laughing grimly, and Morrigan stood still, panting. She was crying, she was afraid, she couldn’t think of anything else but her life... it was over. It had never started. It was too much, she couldn’t take it anymore. But what could she do? She wanted to run away, but it was true, she didn’t matter to anyone.

She didn’t matter to anyone.

Cicero saw the contact coming out of the inn at ten in the morning. He used to sleep there, Morrigan told him. He was with his wife, but they parted ways immediately. Nazeem did nothing but move slowly and monotonously towards the market.

Cicero tried not to be seen, he was almost certain that he would’ve otherwise recognized him. He followed him at a distance and, when he realized that he would’ve stayed in the market for a long time, he sought a raised and hidden position to continue observing him, undisturbed.

He was exactly like Cicero had expected: a cowardly but ambitious man, weak but shrewd, harmless but presumptuous. From a physical point of view, then, he emphasized all those aspects of personality: not very tall, dark complexion, exotic, shaved hair and hairless face. The roundish head made one think, to tell the truth, of a person with pleasant communicativeness, and instead he had sharp words almost for everyone he met. In fact, all morning he stayed at his stall, and it seemed that no one got along with him, nor the other merchants, nor the patrons. He often boasted of his social status, which for Cicero was a godsend, because it allowed him to find out more about his work.

He wasn’t a merchant, originally. He had started with his farm, then left it in the hands of laborers, who fortunately didn’t work on the last day of the week. He had bought the stand to sell what he himself produced, and earned good money. He might have looked poorer than anyone who owned a real shop, but the reality was that most of his business took place outside Whiterun, of export, and this justified the more refined robes he wore than the other people.

He looked serene. Coward, of course, but he wasn’t suffering for what he had done. Maybe it had passed too much time? Had he ever had any qualms? Cicero still couldn’t understand what Morrigan could’ve done to him. Of course, his psychological profile foresaw that he was presumptuous and that he could probably hate someone who touched the fruits of his land, but enough to perform a Black Sacrament? Indeed, enough to threaten a boy of Solitude to perform it in his place?

Cicero twisted his nose, undecided. But he stood in silence, patient, while life around them flowed cheerful and normal, children chased each other, clouds glided over the sky, and water roared towards the valley, from the source of the Dragonsreach.

Morrigan could hear the children chasing each other, along the streets leading to the market district. They were happy, festive, as she would’ve liked to be. She was only sixteen years old, yet she often felt that she had already lost all the possibilities, that she had already said goodbye to every faint hope, to childhood, to lightheartedness.

She walked slow and silent on the cobblestone, without expecting anyone to help her. Why should they? They had never done it, they wouldn’t have started now.

She put one foot in front of the other, a little at a time, tired, with the scalp still aching. She put her hand behind her head, feeling the affected spot and hoping that the Hammer hadn’t torn off her entire lock. But no, fortunately not, hair was still there. At least it was still good, the only thing she cared about her body.

She crossed the road and arrived at the market. People were talking too loudly for her ears, she was scared. She shrugged her shoulders, tried to avoid everyone, not to bother them, because she had the feeling that otherwise they could’ve yelled at her, in chorus, that nobody cared about her.

Thinking about those things in public wasn’t good, she could feel her mouth sag and tears pressing. But she tried to hold back, because it wasn’t worth it for them. They certainly could hear her screaming while being beaten, yet they never did anything.

Once in the square, she reached the central well, touched it to better orient herself, following the stone curvature. Then, when she knew she was in the right place, she went to the stalls. She had to shop for the Hammer, she had to get the fruit he loved so much. She had to do it, yes, even if she was afraid of the owner of the stall, because... of her father she was afraid more.

She approached with her head down and Nazeem snorted. Perhaps he thought she couldn’t hear him at that distance, but there were few things that escaped her ears, with her more developed hearing. She pretended not to notice, however, and armed herself with the most sincere smile that she managed to simulate.

She swallowed once she got to the stand.

"Good morning. I need... I’d..."

"What? Speak louder, little girl, I can’t hear you!"

Morrigan inhaled, squinted, tried to take courage.

"I'd like some apples."

"How much?"

"First I’d like... I'd like to touch them, you know..."

"Speak louder, I said!"

Morrigan was panting, she felt the whole world fall on her, her heart palpitating and screaming for help. She was afraid of fainting. By now her whole life was authentic and simple fear of fainting.

"First I have to touch them!" she said, all in one breath, almost shouting, "I have to touch them, my father wants me to buy them mature."

He wanted her to buy them mature, yes, he was really uncompromising on that point. Intransigent. Once he had given her a backhand so strong that it flattened her hearing from an ear for a week. She really couldn’t come back with unripe apples, she had to touch them. It didn’t matter if it bothered Nazeem.

"You can touch one, if you buy it. For the others you’ll have to trust me."

Morrigan understood that it would’ve never ended and a general weakness took possession of her. She agreed. Why did she do it? She was no longer able to keep up with the others, not even to avoid beatings. So there she was, accepting five apples she had no idea how they were, before paying.

Life was disgusting, really, too much for someone like her. She would’ve liked to end it.

Nazeem left that the eleventh hour had passed. He walked, in his brown robes, padded and refined, and Cicero behind him. He couldn’t wait, finally! He couldn’t wait to hear him speak, to hear him implore, to hear him expire.

They walked along the cobblestone streets, where Cicero imagined a young Morrigan walking. It was a nice place to grow up. It would’ve been, actually, but it was always people who ruined everything, with their harmful presence. The Hammer, but not only him, also all the others.

They crossed the city gate with a few minutes difference. Cicero knew where his farm was, not afraid to lose him. But he was afraid of the sun, yes, of the bright day. Although the farm was located outside the walls, it was still in a busy area, especially frequented by patrol soldiers. He had to take him and neutralize him right away, he didn’t have to let him scream.

He watched him from afar as he walked the barren prairie. He was slow. He hated that he was slow. They had to finish, he had to go back to Morrigan because... he was scared for her, he didn’t want to go home and find her dead. Not after all that had been.

That thought put him in a hurry, so he came closer, running the risk of being seen. But he didn’t care: in any case, Nazeem the idiot had the time counted. There was a corner, in the Void, that was waiting only for his soul. There was Sithis waiting for him, impatient, ticking his long fingernails on his torture chair, for he sure felt mocked by that deceiving mortal.

And then, finally, there was the long-awaited moment: Nazeem who opened the massive wooden door and put the first foot in his property. Cicero looked around, fast. There were no guards. They were far away, not there, they wouldn’t have seen him.

And then he decided, he did what a killer should never do: run, standing, in broad daylight, toward his goal. He was quick, put a foot between the door and the jamb, preventing Nazeem from closing.

"Hey? What…?"

But he didn’t give him time to be surprised: he pushed the door open and get inside. He immediately jumped on him, covering his mouth. He knew him, he knew he would’ve screamed. Then, without giving him even the time to understand what was happening, he hit him on the head with the base of the dagger handle.

Nazeem's bald head immediately fell to the floor, with a cut just above the temple. Cicero checked quickly that he hadn’t exaggerated, that he was still alive. He was.

Now he just had to tie him up and bring Morrigan there.

She was about to leave, go home, but something held her back. The inn. She didn’t see it, but she knew it was there, she felt like it was calling and judging her, from its raised position. Her mother had worked there, but Morrigan never came back after... after...

She shook her head, forced herself not to think about it. She just wanted to get away, get away from Nazeem. She wanted to leave, yes, but she didn’t want to go home. And then she headed to The Bannered Mare. She didn’t have to, she knew, but... why not? Perhaps one of those days she would’ve killed herself, and she didn’t want to do it without ever knowing if she could’ve accomplished something in her life. Just to try, just to know if there was any hope that someone wanted her.

Then she took the first, most difficult step, toward that mirage for the mind that was the inn. A place that she feared, as she feared many, but at the same time that she saw as an opportunity to stay away from the Hammer.

When she reached the steps, she almost tripped over the first. She remembered that as a child she had broken an arm, making a ladder too quickly. Then she decided to go with more caution, always bringing both feet on each step, before proceeding to the next one.

It took a long time to get to the top. But she was afraid, she had always been, and every day she was more and more, for more and more varied things. She knew that she would’ve never been free of fear, just as she knew that no one would’ve ever wanted her, no one would’ve ever loved her eyes, no one... would’ve ever cared.

When she opened the door, she had proof of that last thought. She couldn’t see the crowd of clients, but she could hear it nonetheless, she could sense the great bodies of the hunters and the warriors in contradiction with her own. She could hear armors clashing, drunks laughing, a lute playing. There was the smell of burned meat, smoke, cider and garlic.

"Oh, look who's there! Hey, little bird!"

Someone with a husky voice had turned to her, she could feel it, couldn’t see it and didn’t want to see it. She tried to pull away from the source, walking along the wall, holding the apple basket tightly: she was afraid they could steal it, and if it happened, her father would’ve killed her, she was sure.

"Hey! Little bird!"

She moved away more, trembling. It hadn’t been a good idea. It hadn’t been, no, no. Maybe it was better to leave, pretend it never happened. She couldn’t see who was addressing her, didn’t want to see him, and yet she wanted to be able to identify him better in space. Now that he wasn’t talking anymore, she was afraid he would’ve come up behind her and caught her by surprise.

"Hello, little bird!"

There, he was close to her. Morrigan got scared, winced, when she felt a big, warm hand on her shoulder. She had to leave, she had to run away. There it had to be full of people like her father, she felt that everyone was watching and judging her.

"Please! Please leave me alone!"

It came out with a more pleading tone than she wanted. The man took his hand away and Morrigan was grateful to the Nines.

"Hey, come on, leave her alone! Can’t you see how scared she is?"

It was a female voice, now. A voice that was approaching. In the end, someone else touched her: she must’ve been the woman, because the hand was smaller.

"Don’t listen to Ulrich, he's an idiot, but he's harmless. He doesn’t realize when he's being inappropriate."

She was talking to her. Morrigan remembered that voice: the owner of the inn, she had known her in her mother's day.

"I'm sorry, I... I'm nervous, I'm... I didn’t mean to be rude, it's just that I don’t know how to react when I'm in a new place."

She heard the innkeeper giggle, easy but not mocking. She continued to cuddle her shoulder to calm her.

"You don’t have to fear here. It’s not the most refined clientele of Tamriel, but they’re almost all good people. They would protect you with their life, really. But you..." she changed subject, with undecided tone, "you're Sigrid's daughter, aren’t you? It was so many years since I saw you."

"Aye, I... it's me."

"What are you doing here? Would you like something to drink? Or did you go in the wrong place?"

She said it innocently, not to scoff at her. It seemed funny to Morrigan and she began to relax her shoulders. She smiled.

"No, no, I wanted to go in here. I wanted... I wanted to ask if by chance you could hire me as a waitress."

Silence. The woman didn’t answer and Morrigan could imagine the disappointment on her face. She didn’t know how it was, actually, but she knew how it sounded, and she expected that tone as soon as the owner answered.

"Listen, Morrigan... your name is Morrigan, isn’t it? Listen, no offense, but you don’t seem to be cut for this job."

"Oh, no! No, no!" she tried to justify herself, fast, "I know I'm blind, but I can work! At home I always clean the floor, the table, the appliance, I wash the dishes, I cook and I make the beds. Really, I'm good, I can do everything, I just need one chance!"

A reassuring giggle, again. But that day, Morrigan was determined, perhaps for the first time in her life. She wanted that job before she died. She wanted to prove to herself that she could do something that wasn’t to let herself be beaten.

"Honey, I didn’t mean for blindness. Your mother was like you, I know she could work well. That's not it, it's that... you look so out of place, if you understand what I mean."

On that she couldn’t blame her, but she didn’t want to give up.

"I know, but it's only because I'm in here now, after so many years, I need time to... learn the sounds. I swear I'll get used to it quickly. I'd just like you to give it a try, then you can decide if I'm worth it or not. Give me a week."

Silence, again. Morrigan held her breath, while her heart that was about to burst. She didn’t know if she could’ve survived until the evening, at that pace. She was beginning to feel weight on her ribcage.

"All right, honey, let's try. Come here Morndas, around eight in the morning. We'll see how you handle it, eh?"

A last squeeze on her shoulder, encouraging, then Morrigan heard her leave. Instead, she remained motionless, smiling, incredulous. She had done it! She didn’t matter to anyone, perhaps, but anyway she had a job. Well, almost... but she had proveed to be worth something, just a little, the minimum to know she could survive in that terrifying world even without the Hammer.

When Nazeem opened his eyes, he was seating, the chair leaning against the wall and his limbs tied. His mouth was gagged and he kept shouting, against the fabric. Nobody would’ve heard him for now. But Cicero hoped he would stop, at least to have a meaningful conversation with him. What could they do if he had attracted the city guard?

Cicero tried not to think about it, to convince himself that if they had done all things right, they wouldn’t have had any problems. Then he took Morrigan by the hand, on the edge of the door, and led her inside. He checked that no one had seen them from outside, then locked the door. Finally, he felt calmer.

Morrigan was stiff in the middle of the room and Nazeem, now, had wide, dark, frightened eyes. He screamed more, but not much came out of the gag.

"Little crow, it's your turn, go. Talk to him."

She opened her mouth, but couldn’t say anything. Cicero touched her elbow, tried to encourage her, but she was petrified. Then he decided to open the dance himself.

He walked theatrically towards Nazeem, with an exaggerated but forced smile. There was little to be happy, and that was why he wanted to look so as much as possible.

Once he was in front of him, he tilted his head, studying him closely. He reminded him a lot of the Breton whom Galla had fallen in love with.

"Hello, Nazeem" he began, playful and disturbing, as he was with all his victims, "you know, normally Cicero would’ve already slaughtered you, because he knows you're quite a talker, one who has a bad tendency to rant! But you know, we need you alive and with the gift of speech, today, so may Cicero ask you not to scream? He has to take off your gag so you can answer his friend's questions. If you try to scream, we’ll be captured immediately, you can be sure... but you’ll die with Cicero’s dagger planted in between your balls, so it would be better if you avoid this tragic ending to all of us. Hmm?"

Nazeem nodded, fast, scared. Good. Better, that he was scared, it meant that he was understanding the gravity of the situation. Those like him had a tendency to underestimate others and there was always the risk that, not understanding how close they were to death, they behaved more boldly than expected. A little fear would’ve served to keep him calm.

Cicero sighed, hoping that the threat concerning his testicles was enough, and took the gag off. When he was free, Nazeem breathed hard, but didn’t shout.

"I know who you are!" was the first thing he said, "you're the idiot who shouted to the dragon at the market! I remember you!"

Cicero lit up, smiling. He bowed in a deep and contrite manner, one foot in front of the other and a waving gesture of his right hand.

"Oh, it's always a pleasure to be recognized, really!"

He stood up, giggling, and returned to check on Morrigan. She was breathing a little more calmly now that the situation seemed to be stabilized. Her gaze was lost, however, as if now more than ever she couldn’t understand how she had come to that point.

"You're the one who had to kill her, right? Are you from the Brotherhood?"

"Ah, good! Chatty, flattering and even smart! What an interesting victim, today!"

Cicero chuckled. Nazeem, hearing the word ‘victim’, tried to tug at the ropes that bound him.

"Ah, nah, nah, you can’t free yourself. Cicero has had the knots taught by the sailors of the Imperial City Waterfront, he’s an expert. An essential knowledge to bind victims or... women during carnal pleasure. Morrigan, we've never tried, damn it!"

He tried to joke, pinched her shoulder, to move her. In part, it worked: she didn’t laugh, but she took a step closer, eyebrows frowned. She no longer seemed intimidated, only deeply curious.

"Nazeem... really? Did you really ask for my death? I hoped until now that it was a mistake. I really can’t understand."

Morrigan was facing him like a mother who can’t understand her son's behavior. She was judging him from above, and she could do it, because she was the Princess.

Nazeem spread a nervous smile.

"I knew it, I knew I couldn’t trust you! The Brotherhood... a bunch of pychopaths!"

Cicero didn’t intervene, he didn’t care. He stepped aside, let her talk. It was her contract, he wanted to see how she would’ve behaved.

Suddenly, Morrigan took on a ferocious expression. Just a moment, something that was rare to see on her. The Princess of the Void, the true and complete one, who stood on the souls of Nirn and judged them without mercy.

"Nazeem, talk with order. Don’t be dispersive, I want to understand. Answer only this question: why? Why did you ask for my death?"

"I didn’t do it... it was the boy, I actually did nothing..."

Cicero felt annoyance rising up the spine. He wanted to snap and plant the dagger in his face, but he couldn’t, not yet. He allowed himself, however, to give some advice to the pupil.

"He's cursing, Morrigan! He’s insulting the Mother! She knows and sees everything, he can’t try to hide his cowardice with these bleak excuses. Don’t let him talk like that to you, neither to the Mother, nor to Sithis!"

She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t do anything besides talking harshly.

"Morrigan can’t act alone, all right. Then Cicero is her hand. Heard, Nazeem? Don’t make her angry, because if she orders to skin you alive, Cicero skins you alive. Try to treat her well, because your future depends on her now."

Morrigan raised her head more, more self-confident now that she had a physical threat available. She repeated the question, even more severely.

"Nazeem, tell me. Why did you invoke the Brotherhood?"

He swallowed, shook his head. But, finally, he answered.

"Because I had to try."

"Try what?"

"The value of this Dark Brotherhood that everyone is talking about. Voices, I thought, nothing more. I wasn’t sure that their fame corresponded to their skill, I had to see with my own eyes. I knew... I knew that soon I would’ve needed assassins, competition in high places is too much. There’s the East Empire Trading Company, Maven Black-Briar, many shady interests, usurers... I needed an armed hand to trust. And well... as is obvious, I’d say that I was right not to trust!"

Morrigan was increasingly shocked. She gave the impression to haven’t understand a word of the speech and Cicero didn’t blame her. He too didn’t understand. If nothing else, however, the basic reason for the Black Sacrament hadn’t been pure and simple fun, there were economic interests at stake. It made more sense.

"Aye, but... what have I got to do with it?"

Nazeem chuckled again, dropped his head forward, shaking it right and left. It was as if he was mocking her with the sole gesture of his head. Cicero felt his hand quiver, look for the blade, run to his neck. But he stayed for her, because it was finally the crucial moment.

"You?" he said, laughing, "you have nothing to do with it! That's why you were perfect, you know... you were a cheap contract, just to try… and who would’ve ever noticed your death?"

He laughed again, but Morrigan was petrified, her mouth wide open.

"What… what…"

"You’re the most useless person of Whiterun, girl!" Nazeem said to her, cruel, arrogant, feeling better even if tied to a chair and near his end, "you could’ve died and nobody would’ve investigated, no one would’ve asked questions. The choice was between you and the beggar, I don’t even know his name. But you know, he at least walked around, someone would’ve missed him. But you, well... you don’t really matter to anyone."

"You don’t matter to anyone, haven’t you understood it yet?!"

The Hammer beat her hard that evening. Morrigan had tried to keep the information of her new job hidden, but rumors were turning quickly in the city, the Hammer had known it thanks to people’s stupid gossip. He had entered the house, slamming the door and already had the belt in his hand. He had started to strap on her back, leaving on her cuts and bruises, without even giving her time to try to run or hide.

"You must do anything else but taking care of this house, do you understand? You don’t matter to anyone! To anyone!"

He stopped beating her, but Morrigan knew it was only a moment, he had to catch his breath because he was too old. She remained on the floor, curled up, rigid, expecting at any moment to die. But at least she had tried to do something, right? She would’ve liked to be able to prove to her father that she was also worthy of a man's company, but that she still thought was impossible, her sense of inferiority was too deep-rooted. I know it, because I know everything, but she couldn’t know that Cicero at that time was forty years old and was crossing the border in those days, coming from Cyrodiil. I already knew that they would’ve met and I cried that she should suffer so much in the meantime.

Morrigan, feeling that the straps were no longer coming, stood up. She crawled up to her bed, groped for the doll, the one her mother had make for her. When she found it, she hugged it tightly, as she felt the Hammer reach her.

"Mom" she whispered softly, so that only she could hear her, "I did something by myself. I did it. Did you see?"

She felt the steps closer and closer, uncertain because of too much alcohol. But she didn’t care, because soon it would’ve all been over: she pulled out a razor blade from the doll's dress. She had kept it, it gave her a sense of peace knowing that it was there, within reach, if she needed it.

She grabbed it firmly with her fingers and carried it to the forearm, at the elbow joint, from the inside. She should’ve opened a nice gash to the wrist. She had to do it, she had to do it, to be brave. And then the other arm, and then... it would’ve been Sovngarde, right? Or maybe nothing, because she wasn’t suited for Sovngarde. But she didn’t care, everything else was fine, just not to stay there.

She put the razor blade on the forearm, felt the sharp cold, and then... then, suddenly, an idea. Why? Why should she die? Why not... him?

Her mother had told her, she had recommended it. She had never thought of doing it, but now... oh, now there was something more at stake, not just a belt. There was her future. She felt that life couldn’t continue with both alive, in that house. One of them had to leave that evening. And since she didn’t matter to anyone, well... Morrigan had decided to matter to herself.

She dropped the razor blade, fast, firm. She jumped up, took the doll with her because she didn’t want it to be destroyed. She ran to the furniture, grabbed the liquor and started pouring it to the ground.

"What are you doing, you bastard?"

"The floor! Can you see it, this fucking floor? Clean it yourself! I bet you're going to lick it like a pig, not to lose even a drop of this fucking alcohol!"

She had never talked like that and it made her feel good. She laughed, almost... it was comical, wasn’t it? It was very strange to say those words without having the least fear of consequences.

"Morrigan, but... what the hell..."

He was also surprised. Good. He had to be, because he was finally going to see the real Morrigan. Morrigan Death from Above.

"Don’t call me by name, dirty old bastard! Don’t even dare! You killed my mother, you're the worst person of the Nirn!"

"I didn’t kill that slut, I just pushed her! She was delicate, she started to bleed... it wasn’t my fault!"

"Ah no, and whose was it? You know, certainly it wasn’t mine. And I’m over taking this punishment! I’m over!”

She bent over the fire, took a handful of embers with her bare hands.

"MORRIGAN, NO!"

She threw them on the liquor on the ground, and immediately heard the sound of the fire burning, big, bigger, bigger and bigger. She felt hot and realized that the straw roof was already catching fire.

She laughed, free. She held the doll tight, even with burnt hands.

"You're on the wrong side of the house... daddy!"

She said it with all the malice she was capable of, and finally headed out. She opened the door wide and, as soon as she did, air fueled the fire even more. In a second, it flared up, eating the whole house up to the ceiling.

Morrigan walked away, stepped back, as she heard the deafening noise of the fire, destructive. People were starting to gather, some women were shouting. But she smiled, free, finally... free.

"What... what did you say?"

It seemed like she hadn’t heard. Now she had a hand on her forehead, as if her head were spinning.

"That you don’t matter! Are you deaf? You don’t matter! That's why I chose you, because nobody would’ve worried about you! Haven’t you believed it was for those stupid apples, eh?"

Cicero saw Morrigan shaking her head in disbelief and confusion. He knew how serious those affirmations were to her and he feared she was sick. But it was just a moment, because suddenly her expression changed. She leaned her head forward, serious, breathing with strength and conviction. Her eyebrows arched inward, becoming two straight lines, two perfect accents that made her look like a warrior elf.

"I matter." she whispered, between her narrow teeth.

Nazeem now no longer spoke or laughed. He had noticed very well the expression of Morrigan, even he had never seen it. No one had ever seen it, not even Cicero. The only one who had had the pleasure was her father and he hadn’t lived to tell the experience.

"I matter!" she repeated louder, even more convinced.

She approached a step, frantic. She wanted to do something and Cicero joined her. As soon as he was near her, he felt her hand running to the dagger. So he unlined it and handed it to her, making her fingers squeeze against the handle.

"Nazeem, do you know what I think?" she continued sternly, undeterred, as if possessed by another person, "I think that the Mother really is very offended by your behavior. Try the Brotherhood, you say? Try? It isn’t an alchemical experiment, it’s the Dark Brotherhood! It’s Sithis, and the Void, and death of everything. You didn’t even have the courage to do it by yourself, see... this is disrespectful. For everyone: the Mother, Sithis, and for me too. You know? I’m blind and at sixteen I still was braver than you, I set my old man on fire. And you? You did all this, and for what? For an experiment? To kill... me?" she laughed, genuinely amused, "oh, buddy, you should’ve better picked your first and only contract!"

Cicero was bewitched, he couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. It was her, she was totally her, yet she seemed so similar to... Cicero himself, now that she spoke with conviction and disgust. He adored her. He felt that he loved her infinitely for everything that she was, that she had been, that she would’ve become. She was a complete person at that moment. She was Morrigan Death from Above and he too feared her. She could’ve killed him at that moment, he knew. Those were the eyes of an assassin.

"You know what, Nazeem? You did well. I deserved that contract. Maybe not for the apples, but I certainly deserved it for what I did to my father and what I'm going to do to you now."

She laughed and approached. Nazeem tried to scream, but Cicero stuck his mouth, pressing his chin up.

Only at that moment Cicero noticed a certain indecision, but not on what to do, only on technique. Then he rushed to help her, but no longer as a teacher, no: as a servant.

"Morrigan, this one needs to have his throat slitted. Take the dagger like this, flat. If not, he screams."

He turned the blade between her hands and she let herself be advised, incredibly calm and calculated. Cicero kept Nazeem’s mouth shut and led the tip of the dagger to the right spot, guiding her. Then, however, he left her. He wanted her to do it, he knew she could do it.

And she did.

She did it, and in an incredibly smooth and controlled way. She was calm, precise, and had a smile on her face, as if she were enjoying the moment. And Cicero rejoiced, excited by that smile, because he could see himself in her, he knew that only now Morrigan was able to understand him.

She sank the blade with studied slowness. The tip in Nazeem’s neck, and blood began to splash. Nazeem tried to scream, but first he didn’t succeed because of Cicero pressing his chin, and later because the knife, flat, went to slaughter him, blocking the air.

Morrigan sank, firmly, until the dagger stopped, blocked by the handle. Nazeem wriggled only a little more, and then it was calm, peace, the Void.

Cicero let go the victim's chin, walked away a little. He was panting with emotion and effort, and Morrigan was panting with him. He looked at her, devoted, he wanted to bow to her, because now really she was a Goddess. The Princess of the Void, if he had ever had any doubts, there she was, in that room. In the ages to come they would’ve adored her and he had had the grace to live in her own age, to love her, to receive her love in return and to lie with her. He felt deeply unworthy.

"Morrigan... Morrigan, the Hand..." he couldn’t speak, out of emotion.

She turned, calm, severe. Cicero was afraid. He bowed his head.

"What?"

"The Hand, my love. We must do the Hand."

He took her wrist, even more delicately than usual, for fear of making her angry. Now more than ever he had awe of her, it was like being in the presence of the Mother herself.

He led her to the victim's neck. He pulled out the dagger, he took it back, and had Morrigan's hand resting on the open wound. It was a pity she couldn’t feel it, really. One of the most pleasant sensations of life was to dip the hand in the warm and still pulsating blood of a victim.

Once it was dirty, always holding her by the wrist, he had her hand on the wooden wall, with the fingers wide open. He pressed hard, to give a precise shape to the figure. When he pulled it off, Sithis’ Hand had branded that farm, red, vivid, but a little smaller and more delicate than the ones Cicero had left on his own.

It was finished. It was all over.

Cicero cleaned the blade and sheathed it. He looked at Morrigan: she was still serious, but more like the normal Morrigan, the same as always. She was starting to relax her shoulders, more quietly. Perhaps it was because of the ordinary sense of emptiness, happiness and exhaustion, typical of the moments just after the ecstasy. It was common, Cicero always felt it, as after sexual pleasure.

He approached her, breathing lightly. He took her face in his hands, cuddled her hair.

"Morrigan Death from Above, you... you're a perfect assassin! Perfect!"

She was getting weaker, lowering her eyelids and her head a little. She was losing energy like after a marathon.

"I matter. I... matter, right?"

"Of course, of course, Morrigan! You matter to the Mother, to Sithis... you matter to me! You've just made me the happiest man in the universe!"

She smiled, tears began to rub her cheeks stained with vermilion splashes. He seemed to collapse like an empty sack, she laid against Cicero's chest, without the strength to stand up. She cried. But Cicero was happy, because it was not a cry of sadness or fear. It was a cleansing cry.

He squeezed her, cuddled her head, inhaled the smell of her hair.

"Can you feel it now? Can you feel pure freedom?"

Chapter Text

Freedom. What a great concept, that of freedom. Ranks and ranks of martyrs who gave their lives to obtain it and guarantee it to future generations, and activists, and religious, and in the end? What had they got? A partial freedom, which was simply a kind of non-slavery. But not being a slave doesn’t mean being free, and Morrigan knew that very well. She had said goodbye to slavery at sixteen, but it took her five more years to get that purer, more mental feeling that was pure freedom. Freedom from everything: from the schemes of society, from the cage, from fear, from pain, from herself. Freedom intended as total and indispensable self-awareness and discernment of one's actions.

Because of this, Morrigan never returned to be the same after that day. Or rather, she returned to behaving as usual, but Cicero realized she was a new person, a... woman. Maybe before she wasn’t yet.

Now that she was free, the woman was dying with dignity, with gratitude to the whole world. Because freedom was also from bad feelings: she no longer hated her fellow citizens of Whiterun, she no longer hated Nazeem, she no longer hated the Hammer. She remembered him with curiosity, indeed, and wondered what it would’ve been like to talk to him again. She wished she could do it, really.

After killing Nazeem, they had left the corpse in plain sight, to serve as a warning. They had left undisturbed, Cicero with only a semblance of worry in case anyone had investigated, if they had to live there. But actually, as soon as they were back in the hovel, Morrigan stopped. She stayed in front of her old house, before entering, stuck in front of what had been her reality for years. She tilted her head and really seemed to have her vision at that moment. It was as if suddenly, after having grown up, to her that house seemed distant centuries back in time.

Cicero held her hand and tried to encourage her to enter.

"Little crow? Come, come on. You must rest."

But she withdrew her hand and didn’t move a step. She stood still, sighed as the wind from the east passed through her hair. She was still and peaceful, like a statue of a tombstone.

"I've always lived here, I don’t want to die here as well."

She said it with a simplicity that scared Cicero for a moment. All of her intimidated him, in those last times: the calm with which she was crossing the threshold of the Void, but also the way she was living those last moments in the Nirn. It was as if she were no longer human, if she had abandoned every emotion. Not in the negative sense, on the contrary: she didn’t show any because she included them all. Neutral as white light, as the horizon when it fades with the sky; as neutral as the thin line between good and evil, between mercy and cruelty.

Cicero didn’t have the courage to contradict her and he would’ve never have it again. So he accepted her will, as he used to accept the will of Sithis himself. So he came back: he took her by the hand and began to lead her again, this time outside Whiterun.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked her contrite, as a servant asks for the will of his mistress.

"I’d love to see the Mother. Is it possible?"

"Sure, Morrigan. It is now. You’ve done the will of Sithis, you’re a Sister."

She smiled and raised her chin a little, squinting. She said nothing more and was like an order: they had to go to Dawnstar, then. Towards the Mother, for a last pilgrimage.

The journey was slow and uncomfortable. Cicero wanted to rent the carriage again, but Morrigan prevented him: she said she wanted to ride, she liked it, it remembered her when they had met. And so it had been: they had taken a horse and had set out again, backwards, as if everything had begun all over again, in a cycle of interminable and eternal beginning and end.

Like the last time, the weather stiffened as they progressed and deepened more and more in the cruel lands of the ancient Nords. The snow returned, because it never left those lands that didn’t know summers.

They crossed the border with the Pale in two days, sighted Dawnstar in five. Like the first time she had been there, Morrigan seemed happier in that climate. It was always snowing and she seemed to dance, albeit still, with the sky in a storm. She was leaning against Cicero's chest, her head tilted back on his shoulder, and she closed her eyes, receiving snowflakes in her face from the sky. She took them as gifts and rejoiced to feel them again, as they melted on her pale cheeks.

"We're almost there, Morrigan. Are you happy?" Cicero asked her, squeezing her side, to encourage her. But he was the one discouraged, feeling that she was returning to be skinny, her hip bones protruding. She still ate, it was the body that no longer wanted to live.

"Jörumngandr is agitated, tonight." she announced, distracted. Cicero wasn’t sure it was an answer to him, maybe she hadn’t heard his question. It was happening more and more often.

He leaned closer to her ear, blowing his words directly into the eardrum.

"The serpent of the world is happy to see you, Princess. In Sovngarde they’re celebrating your return to the land of your fathers."

He tried to indulge her, now that she had to die. He had done so much to convert her to the Void, yet now it had become difficult for Cicero to try to assert his beliefs without feeling guilty.

Unexpectedly, Morrigan didn’t seem to care at all. She shrugged.

"Sovngarde doesn’t exist."

"But you believed in it so much..."

"No, I never believed in it, I'm afraid. It was a promise too good to be true."

Cicero found it both satisfying and sad. But she smiled, calm, resigned. She had the ability to make it look like everything was going well, even at that tragic moment.

Arriving in front of the Black Door, he helped her down and brought her closer. She, like the last time, tried to touch the bas-relief. She couldn’t feel anything, Cicero knew, but she still smiled. She was breathing more excited, now that she was so close to the Mother. Perhaps she could already feel her presence? Cicero yes, it always did that effect to him.

He entered alone, just for a moment, just to inform the Listener and ask for a permit that he really didn’t think he had to ask. He did it only out of respect for the hierarchy, but he knew that Morrigan belonged there.

"The access should be precluded to strangers." the Listener tried to say, with little emphasis.

But Cicero was serious, far more serious than the Listener had ever seen him. He told him that Morrigan had killed in the name of the Brotherhood and that she had left the Hand. She was ready.

Then he added, as a last personal plea:

"She's dying, Listener. She just wants to pray to the Mother before leaving. Not even an assassin would deny this grace to a victim."

And, in fact, he didn’t deny it.

They let her in. Cicero could see the joy in her eyes when she heard the door move. Then he led her in, and then down the stairs, happy. It was great to finally have her there, at home. Cicero felt that finally everything was in the right place: she was where she should, among her people, close to her true creed, and the contract concluded. Too bad that it remained so little to enjoy that rediscovered order.

Even before she had reached the bottom of the stairs, Babette came to welcome her: she hugged her, in a movement of feminine affection that Cicero had never seen before. She introduced the others, including the Listener and Nazir. Nazir who, Cicero had to admit, was a gentleman. Cicero hadn’t hoped for it, if he had to be honest. But fortunately the antipathy between the two of them didn’t undermine Nazir’s relationship with Morrigan.

Finally, while Cicero held her upright, the real Sanctuary opened wide before them. And on the right, the altar of the Night Mother, surrounded by flowers and candles, the metal sarcophagus open as a hug for her children. The dark skeleton of the Unholy Matron was the same as it had always been, wrinkled and fragile, but every person who looked at it swore to see every time a different light.

Morrigan stopped at a distance, as if she had felt her. Cicero noticed her arm stiffening, in a mixture of excitement and awe.

"Is... is she here?"

Cicero went to her ear, not to let her miss a syllable.

"Yes, the Mother is here. Do you want to greet her?"

She nodded and let herself be led. Once she had reached the stone steps, she wanted to kneel. She stayed there, motionless, just as she had remained motionless and her head tilted in front of her house. She didn’t say anything for a long time, she just closed her eyes, in an expression that exuded serenity, resignation, well-being... in spite of everything.

"It's... a good feeling... stand by her."

"Yes. A good feeling. It's like never being alone, is it?" or at least for him it was like that.

Morrigan nodded, agreeing. Then, however, she retracted:

"It's like never being sick."

Cicero, standing next to her, stroked her cheek. He knew, he really knew she would’ve given her that feeling. The Mother erased all the problems of the world, with her loving presence. He would’ve liked to let Morrigan know her a lot earlier.

The girl suddenly frowned, just for a moment.

"She really seems like a good person," she admitted, "I’m much more afraid of Sithis."

And Cicero understood at that moment, with those fearful words, that he hadn’t talked enough about Sithis with her. His immense devotion to the Mother, perhaps, had misled him, had made him forget the basics. He felt very human and very sinful for that mistake.

"Oh, but Morrigan, Sithis isn’t to be feared."

"You and the others do nothing but talk about his wrath, though."

"Yes, but... it's not a bad wrath, it's..." Cicero sighed, looked for the right words to describe such a difficult concept, "Sithis's wrath is not aimed at spreading cruelty, it's only for the Void, do you understand? The Void isn’t cruel, precisely because it is Void. Sithis is not even a person, you know, he's not even a man. We call him Father because we’re too imperfect and mortal to fully understand his essence, but... if there’s one thing Cicero’s sure of, it’s that Morrigan doesn’t have to fear him. Sithis is just a force, he is the non-being. Many think it's a bad thing, but non-being sometimes is the greatest liberation. Do not be alone, do not be sick, do not be crazy, do not be shy... the elimination of everything, of all the problems that make up this terrible world. You've already experienced all the cruelty of the universe, there can’t be anything worse. The Void, on the contrary... precisely because it can’t be anything and can’t contain cruelty, it’s the most peaceful place ever."

He approached her, raising her chin cheerily.

"Don’t be afraid of Sithis, he’s the very concept of freedom. He’s not waiting for you to punish you. He's waiting for you because you deserve to be in peace."

Cicero left her alone, it was right that she had her privacy with her mother. He controlled her from a distance, occasionally looking up at her position from the main room, but Morrigan didn’t move an inch: she was still on her knees, straight, her head bent and silent.

Cicero sat down at the common table, while Nazir was preparing dinner with an initiate. Babette was leaning over a book, her legs dangling and the expression a little distracted.

Cicero studied her face. He tightened his lips, swallowed. Then he decided and asked the fateful question:

"There's no way to cure her, is there?"

Babette looked up without changing expression, as if she was waiting for nothing but that subject. She stared at him, her eyes red. She curled a corner of her mouth, mortified.

"I did some research, but..."

"Okay" he interrupted her, nodding violently, "okay, I get it."

He leaned his elbows at the table, took his head in his hands. He tightened his lips, closed his eyes. He felt a foot begin to jump by itself and he tried to control it, one of the many tics that arose when he was agitated.

He lowered his head, ran his hands through his blood-colored hair. He couldn’t help himself: he sobbed.

"Hey! Hey, hey!" Babette said with a motherly attitude.

She approached and put her arm around his shoulders. So small, she couldn’t surround them in full, but she squeezed him hard as far as she could. Nazir and the new recruit, meanwhile, had stopped to watch the scene, embarrassed. Cicero bothered, especially for the initiate: it’s never good to be seen so, in front of the lower ranks.

"Cicero, calm down, come on."

But he couldn’t help himself now that he was away from Morrigan. He turned around for a moment, checked her from a distance to be sure she wasn’t hearing him: he didn’t want to be seen like that, he didn’t want to take away all the confidence she had so hardly got. Fortunately, her hearing couldn’t reach him there. It was almost comical, that he was thanking for her serious deafness, but he was glad she couldn’t hear him cry.

Then he returned to look at the table, broken. His heart was hurting, and the lungs with it. His stomach contracted as he tried to stem despair.

"It's so difficult, Babette. So much! Cicero can’t do it, he can’t do it..."

"Yes, you can do it. You must be strong for her now."

"But it's so difficult and... he didn’t think... he didn’t think so. Death is really disgusting when it plays dirty."

He knew he was sounding hypocrite and that he deserved it, too. Because he had helped death to play dirty another two hundred and forty times. And no, maybe it wasn’t bad for the victims, they were free in the Void... but it was bad for the others, the dear ones who remained, if it was true that they too had experienced the pain that he was feeling in that moment.

In the following days, it seemed that the Sanctuary was still. As if the air had been replaced by honey, which made the movements of them all slow, muffled. Morrigan, in particular, was less and less part of the world around: she was sick, she was suffering. When Cicero asked her what kind of pain she had, to look for a palliative remedy among Babette's potions, she replied that she was aching everywhere. Her bones, muscles, eyes, ears, teeth, fingernails, breasts, and abdomen were aching.

"Don’t worry" she said, "it's not such a strong pain. You taught me to bear it, you know?" and she smiled, despite everything, while Cicero was increasingly panicking.

The loss of touch seemed to have stopped, after hands and feet, but not the same could be said of hearing. It continued to get worse, until it became impossible not to speak directly into her ear. She described it not as an absence of sound, on the contrary, but as a deafening sound, a buzz that covered the voice of the others and even her own. But she also said it was a pleasant buzz, in a way. A whistle, almost like a siren. The music of silence that reminded her, in spite of everything, that she was still alive. And for this she loved it.

In the end, after a week, she began to refuse food, and in the moment Cicero realized that the Void was near. He knew it, of course, but food... the apples... he remembered when he had given her the apple, in Whiterun. He remembered how her belly and her limbs had become softer, after starting to eat regularly. She looked so healthy, then, that  it seemd impossible she had so little time left.

The first time she said no to food was at dinner, a gloomy evening of Second Seed. They were all gathered in the refectory, strictly observed by the Mother on one side and by the red and circular iconography of Sithis on the other. All together: the Listener, Babette, Nazir, and also all initiates. They were eating a soup and Cicero was trying to help Morrigan, holding the spoon close to her mouth: she couldn’t hold cutlery anymore. But she shook her head and pulled back, looking disgusted, annoyed.

Cicero had approached her ear.

"If you want we can go to our room, little crow." he believed, indeed, he hoped that her reluctance was due to pride, not wanting to be seen fed in public. She was a proud crow, after all, she had always been.

Morrigan, however, closed her milky eyes and didn’t answer. Cicero understood that the problem wasn’t the place, it was that she no longer wanted anything, not even to live.

The guests looked at the scene in the background, in an embarrassed silence, while Cicero tried not to get discouraged, putting the spoon back in the bowl.

Then, suddenly, Morrigan raised her head. She turned to the table, not only to Cicero. It was strange because she had no pupils to point, but the guests understood that she was hugging everyone with the sight which she had not, which she could just simulate. She moved her head a little, as if she were covering the figures of those present. She looked serious and unearthly.

In the end, she returned to Cicero, with a feeble smile.

"I know you're suffering. I'm sorry, you don’t have to."

Cicero looked around, displaced. He didn’t know why she was bringing up the issue at that moment, in front of everyone. But she seemed to know what she was doing, as if a truth precluded to ordinary mortals was now clear to her.

Morrigan reached out a hand and placed it on Cicero’s knee. She struggled to find it, but she succeeded, and for a moment she almost seemed to have regained her sense of touch.

"You don’t have to suffer. These days I think a lot and I think of beautiful things. I think about where I’d like to go once I pass the border. It's a nice place, you know? A place that is neither Sovngarde nor the Void. I know I won’t go there, but it doesn’t matter, because if it exists in my head... it exists everywhere, isnìt it?"

Cicero swallowed. He looked down, tried not to get caught up in the emotions. But he was already panting.

"This place makes me feel good especially because I chose it" Morrigan continued, "it's not something my mother promised me, like Sovngarde, and it's not something you've promoted, like the Void. And I'm sorry to talk about it now, I don’t want to offend anyone with this thought. Because believe me when I tell you that I am convinced of the existence of the Mother and the Void, I’ve felt them. But equally I’m convinced of the existence of my place in the universe. Something in which I like to lose myself before going to the other side."

Everyone was listening in religious silence, now. The same music of silence that Morrigan used to hear, that interminable whistle, seemed to take possession of the cavernous Sanctuary, filling the air like a red thread, visible, palpable.

Morrigan raised her head a little, looking up, as if she could reason better towards the infinity of the firmament.

"In this dream of mine, I'm in Cyrodiil. The air is warm and pleasant, it’s a morning of late spring. The sun is approaching the zenith and people start thinking about what to prepare for lunch. Something fresh, maybe... vegetables, fruit, cheese. Something that helps to endure the heat that surely will fall on the world in the afternoon and will make it difficult for everyone to work. We’re in a house, you and I, Cicero. In your old house. There is fresh water in the impluvium and the shadows of the columns of the courtyard stand out dark and sharp on the walls, painted in purplish red. There's a smell of cut grass, and the croak of seagulls comes from the Waterfront."

Cicero put a hand over his mouth, holding it tight, suffering. But Morrigan went on without mercy. He knew she was doing it to help him, but it wasn’t working. She in Cyrodiil... she in another life... everything he wanted and could never get.

"I have eyes" she continued, sternly, "I have beautiful blue eyes, which tell everyone I'm a foreigner, but that's okay, Imperials like blue eyes. And there’s also my mother, she’s still alive. She's beautiful, She hasn’t aged a day. She’s making homemade bread while she sings a song. She lives with us, she came to help us with the children."

Morrigan lowered her head. She was suffering too now, with expressive, painful eyebrows. She shook her head, dreamy and desperate.

"We have three, two males and one female. The female is your favorite, even if you don’t want to admit it, because she’s the smallest and is the same as you: she has your hair, she likes to read, and she talks... oh, how much she talks! She never shuts up, her brothers sometimes run away from her so as not to hear her. Her name is Maighréad. Her brothers, however, are more like me, they have dark hair and a shy look. But for them you wanted to give them imperial names: Virgilius and Galliano. They’re all running in the courtyard, laughing, playing. They're happy. Can we ask anything else for children?"

Cicero closed his eyes. Now that he was in the dark, he could see everything of what Morrigan had told. It seemed to really be there, as if there was a place, and it was for them in another life.

"You, Cicero, are under the olive tree. Your olive tree, remember? Would you ever have said that the Tree of Life could be an olive tree? You're writing something, some notes. Because you work at the Arcane University, you’ve published medical essays and poems, and they all look at you as an example to follow. You’re not crazy. You're not even an assassin, you've never been. You're normal, and I'm normal. Everything is normal, there" she stopped, sighed again, then concluded, "it's perfect. Really perfect."

Silence. A deafening silence, that nobody dared to break. A silence so sacred that, indeed, only one person could afford to desecrate: the Mother.

And she did.

She broke the silence, through the Listener.

In fact, he stood up. He was agitated, suddenly, overcome by emotion. He put a hand on his forehead, breathing hard.

"The Mother has spoken." he announced, and as usual all the interest was on him, the messenger, the intermediary. Morrigan also listened to him, holding her breath.

"The Mother spoke... spoke to you, Morrigan."

A great emotion seemed to take possession of all of them. Especially of Cicero, who now clutched the hand of his girl with hope, and devotion, and immense joy.

"What... what did she tell me?" Morrigan asked in a low voice, almost afraid of breaking the sacredness of the moment.

The Listener had to sigh before speaking. No one had ever seen him so lost, so... a believer.

"She said: the Beauty of the Void lies in the fact that, being nothing, it can be anything."

Morrigan breathed, excited, incredulous. Cicero himself did the same and, perhaps, everyone did the same. Because that was the voice of the Mother, a voice that for the first time, as well as a dealer of death, was incredibly reassuring. A voice that spoke of the afterlife and that suggested the hope, in spite of everything, that the Void was worth to be coveted.

"Thank you..." Morrigan murmured, with a tear running down her reddened cheeks, "thank you, Mother. I needed it so much."

Chapter Text

End. Another strange concept, that of the end.

Souls born and die, worlds agglomerate in the universe and then explode, people descend into war and then it is peace. But new souls are born after death, new worlds after cosmic explosions, and there is always a new war to be fought, after apparent peace. So it's a true concept, that of the end? Is there the end?

Maybe not, the end doesn’t exist, but there are the last things in a person's life. The last times: they have a particular value, as much as the first ones. I know that Morrigan's last meal was an apple, three days before expiring; the last time she made love with Cicero, a month before; the last kiss only five seconds. And the last time she heard a sound? That happened two weeks before she died, and it was terrible for everyone.

Morrigan no longer existed. There was, she was alive, Cicero fed her, but she didn’t interact with the environment, she received no stimulation. She didn’t feel anything and it was as if she wasn’t really there. She was always laying there, empty more than the Void, and she was waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

She was waiting for Cicero to make his move, because by now it was obvious to everyone, what was the move to do. The move he didn’t have the courage to put into practice, though.

Cicero prayed to the Mother for a long time, every day. He was distracted, his head elsewhere, he couldn’t reason. He couldn’t think of anything but death, his, Morrigan's, of the whole world’s. So he used to pray for death to come by itself, to take her away, finally, to make her stop suffering. To free them all from that excruciating burden.

The others watched in silence. They kept working. How did they do it? How could they ignore such a tragic event, a Princess of the Void who passes away? Cicero couldn’t understand it and therefore he hated them in silence.

Cicero began to fear his room, where Morrigan laid abandoned. He was devoted to her, he wanted to continue to deal with her, but seeing her in those conditions was becoming impossible. So he often went to the Mother, knelt, and prayed again, prayed that Sithis would take her away and stop torturing her. But Morrigan wasn’t dying. She was so sick but Sithis wasn’t coming.

"What do you want me to do, eh?" cried once Cicero, in front of the Unholy Matron, standing up from his kneeling position, "do you want me to kill myself, eh? Do you want Cicero to immolate himself, to set himself on fire for you? What the hell do you want to take her away? Speak! DAMN IT, SPEAK!"

He wanted to take the body and shake it, break it, say goodbye to everything. After all he had done for her? How could she grant not even the grace of a feeble answer? Not even one day less of agony? The Mother was good, so good, but sometimes Cicero had the feeling she was cruel just to him, on purpose.

Babette and Nazir, by mutual agreement, approached him when they felt that the limit had been overcome. Cicero was sitting on the ground, his back tiredly leaning against the corridor wall, outside his room. He was breathing slowly, emptied. Black rings darkened his eyes, agitation had highlighted the veins of his arms, temples, forehead.

Babette leaned in front of him, with a sad smile. She touched his knee, trying to give him courage.

"Cicero, it's time."

Cicero shook his head, broken, without strength. It wasn’t time. He wouldn’t have done it, never, it was out of the question.

"She's suffering. What’s the point of this useless pain?"

The jester opened his eyes suddenly, cruel, and Babette could see for herself the look of the madman, the assassin.

"You’re asking me, what's the point? I don’t know! I DON’T KNOW!"

Babette turned away from the shock of the cry. But she didn’t get offended, she sighed and attacked again.

"Cicero, listen to me very well. It's... it's life. It goes like this for everyone. Now, you have the incredible opportunity, the honor of alleviating her pain. You've done it many other times, it's the same."

Cicero stared at her, infuriated. He breathed hard, snorted from his nostrils, holding his anger. With a blow, he pushed the girl's hand away from the leg. He pointed a finger at her, trembling.

"It’s not the same. You know."

Then he felt the madness seize him again, after that brief moment of lucidity. He grabbed his head, tried to drive it away.

"No. No, no, no, no, no. It's not the same for Cicero, Cicero is crazy, he did it so many times but this time... he just wishes he never knew her."

Nazir rolled his eyes, understanding but tired. Babette, however, was tenacious and tried to insist.

"You say so because your mind’s clouded by pain. Soon it will heal, you’ll remember the beautiful moments spent with her and you’ll understand that you needed her much more than she needed you. You had to know her, it was a great gift."

And Cicero had to agree. Because yes, it had been a gift, a great and magnificent gift. But false. Ephemeral. It’s not good to give something and then taking it back, is it... Mother? Why? Why make him suffer in that cruel way? A few months, this was the temporal value that the Mother gave to love?

"You have to let her go now. She’s ready, she was even before. Do her this favor."

Babette stood up, looking at him with an expression unsuitable for a child, a mixture of suppliant and suffering. Even Nazir, to Cicero's surprise, had that expression. And, with even greater surprise, he was the first to offer himself, with that low, baritone voice.

"Listen, Cicero, if you want, I'll do it. It takes me a moment. Or Babette with a poison, you can decide."

Cicero got up, suddenly scared. He stood between Nazir and the bedroom door, his hands outstretched, blocking his way and every little initiative.

"No! No! No, not you!"

He shuddered at the thought of Nazir killing her, cold, without even giving her time to say goodbye. She was a delicate little crow. First it was necessary to reassure her, because it was true that she had accepted her destiny, but she was afraid, it was humanly impossible not to be. He didn’t want his little crow to be afraid, under the cold scimitar of Nazir. She didn’t deserve it.

"I just wanted to help you, jester. I know it's hard."

Cicero lowered his hands, trying to calm down. He knew he wanted to help him, he was a good Brother, after all. They were disagreeable, but their differences, they both understood it, were something incredibly small and useless compared to the magnitude of the situation, the death of a Princess of the Void.

"Cicero knows, he knows, excuse him. But you can’t do it, she... will be afraid, she... and poison, oh, poison... that method... frigid and... dangerous! Just because it seems to us that victims don’t feel pain, doesn’t mean that it is so. I don’t like poison. No. No. No, no, no, no, no..."

"All right, Cicero, calm down!" interrupted Babette, "no poison. We won’t do anything if you don’t want to. But calm down, breathe. We’ll not kill her secretly, okay? We just wanted to push you, give you courage, make it the easier."

Cicero nodded, frantic, scared. But he had to agree, to admit that his Brother and Sister saw the situation more lucidly than he could do. He imagined himself at the age of twenty and, for the first time, he envied the self of that time. He wouldn’t have cared. He would’ve slaughtered her without any qualms. Lightness. What the feeling of lightness like?

"No, no..." he resumed, messy, confused, pressing his forehead, "death is a responsibility. It’s Cicero's responsibility, not Nazir’s, not Babette’s. He has to do it, he knows, just... one day, just another day..."

"What will change in a day?" Babette was ruthless, logical and cold as a mathematical calculation, "one more day will only prolong her agony, it’s not useful to anyone but your ego."

Once again, Cicero had to agree. But, while he was in agreement, he shook his head in denial. He didn’t have the courage to accompany it with an unnecessary argument in words.

"Be brave, Cicero. She has been for you."

And suddenly, there it was, the point of everything: winning fear of killing someone he didn’t want to kill. He had told Morrigan that that was the greatest example of courage, the courage of the Mother. He had also told her that he hadn’t been able to pursue it. Would he have succeeded, now, in winning that fear? It was to make her feel better, he repeated himself. It was not to make her suffer.

Cicero nodded, suffering, nauseated.

"All right. All right, just... give me a moment."

Babette let go of a dead smile as she walked away and left him alone, accompanied by Nazir. Then Cicero drew a deep and strangled sigh. He turned, saw the wooded door in front of him. He closed his eyes, to be brave. Was it really time, then?

Yes. Yes, it was time.

The room was cold, wet. The fire was almost dead, but Cicero didn’t rush to renew it, because he knew that the temperature was fine for her. And then it was only for a little while. Just for a little while.

He approached the bed slowly, staring the ground, closing the door behind him. He didn’t have the courage to look at her. He liked to remember her alive, healthy, as he had seen her the first time. On horseback, happy, naive, lit by the northern lights. He would’ve given his life, so that he could return to that moment.

He was in the presence of the bed, he noticed it because he saw its wooden feet, and a blanket half-fallen. He had to look at her now. He had to.

He raised his honey-colored eyes and at the same instant he felt a dagger hit his heart, sinking, turning over, painful. Morrigan was... beautiful. Much more beautiful than expected, even in death.

She was ill, Cicero could see she was sick. But there was something elegant about her way of dying. A veiled grace in her abandoned arts, in her thin body, in her tired face. The same macabre grace that he had fallen in love with at first sight.

She hadn’t heard him come in because she couldn’t hear anything anymore. She had gone. She had already gone, what Cicero had to do was just... let go her soul as well. She was trapped there, in a useless and painful cage of flesh, and who knows how long she could’ve stayed there. Now that he saw her, he was more convinced. He had to help her get away. The Mother had said it, right? He would’ve ended up killing her. Oh, merciful Mother... cruel Mother! She knew, she had always known.

Cicero swallowed and sat next to her. Near her, their bodies touched, and Morrigan opened her eyes. She smiled. How could she still smile?

"Cicero?"

"I'm here. It's time... it's time, my love."

She was breathing heavily, the noise that her lungs was emitting was scary and unhealthy. It must be really painful for her to breathe.

"You know, little crow, there’s... there’s a limit to the pain that can be embraced. I think you've crossed it and I don’t want to... see you like this."

She didn’t answer. How could she? She was deaf. But Cicero had hoped that she would’ve used her incredible intuition to communicate with her thought. Sometimes she seemed to know how to do it, it would’ve been nice to find out that it was possible to say goodbye.

He touched her side, squeezed it, to make her understand that he was there, since he couldn’t do it in words. He went higher, until he touched the side of her face. She was cold, pale, thin. She squinted her eyelids, enjoying the touch, almost purring.

Then, suddenly, she took a deep breath, charging her lungs with difficulty. When she released them, she sang. She was out of tune, because she couldn’t hear her own voice, but to Cicero, however, it seemed the most beautiful sound in the world.

"Når eg på Helvegen går, og dei spora eg trår er kalde, så kalde..."

Cicero frowned.

"What does it mean?"

She, by her own, translated. And it was as if their dialogue, in some magical way, made sense.

"When I walk on the path of death, the tracks I tread are cold, so cold. It was my favorite song. I imagine death being like that: calm as those musical notes, and cold. But it's nice that it's cold. You know I like the cold."

Cicero sighed. He was sighing a lot, in those days. Perhaps to try to take more air, to throw out bad feelings.

"I should’ve asked you more often to sing. I know you didn’t for shame, and yet I never insisted. How many things I’d do differently, if I could go back..."

He continued to cuddle her face, then began to smooth her hair, placing it behind her ear. Finally, he touched her nose in that playful way, so deeply meaningful for them. She giggled, coughing.

"I remember the first time I saw you, those eyes... they reflected everything, even the soul of the universe. I remember how you blushed just because I teased you a little, what an idiot I was... I remember how you ran away, and how you saved me from the storm, and how you were just afraid to let me touch you. I remember the first time we made love, and... how shy you were. I remember how you danced, how you cured me, how you saved me. You've done so much, it's time for the favor to be returned, even if it's difficult. You know, don’t you? You know it's difficult? I’d never do that."

He felt his heart beat faster, but he forced himself to be tenacious. While he continued to caress her, reassuring her, with the left he drew the ebony dagger. He did it softly, so as not to make any noise. He didn’t want to scare her. Even if she couldn’t hear it, it didn’t matter, he didn’t want to take the risk.

He hadn’t even touched her and was already crying. He would never have said it could be that hard, doing Sithis' work. Tears clouded his eyes, he had to squint and wipe them with the back of his hand. He didn’t have to make a mistake. He needed a precise work, now more than ever, to make her suffer as little as possible.

"You know I’d never do that, do you? Just because I'm... what I am... I wouldn’t do it on you. I told you so many times I would’ve liked it, but it wasn’t true. You know? You know, that it wasn’t true?"

He squeezed his eyes. The hand he was caressing her with was shaking, and she had to notice it, because she had frowned eyebrows.

"What is it, Cicero?"

He couldn’t do it. Just hearing her talk, just that... he collapsed on her, leaned his forehead against hers.

"You have to go, little crow. You have to go. Don’t be afraid, I promise you it will take just a moment, I won’t hurt you. I swear, I won’t hurt you. Soon it will all be over."

And then, suffering, he decided. It took superhuman strength, it was the greatest fatigue he had to do in his life: he brought the blade to her throat. Just as it should’ve been the first time, as he would’ve never wanted it to be.

She jumped a little, sensing the sharp cold of the dagger. She had already felt it, and Cicero wondered if she remembered... he wondered if she was scared, despite knowing that sensation.

Then, however, after a first moment of surprise, she relaxed her face and shoulders. A faint smile was drawn on her thin lips.

"Thank you."

Cicero was afraid. She was feeling thankful for what... he was about to do... but it meant she wanted it, right? Which was better for her.

Cicero was breathing hard, tense, his heart beating wildly. Terror. There was what he felt, the executioner: terror. While the victim, this time, she was calm and relaxed, at peace with the world and the Void.

"Hey, Cicero? Don’t be so nervous. Your corpse will end up getting tense like a hurdy-gurdy's rope, hm?"

She laughed weakly, he laughed in pain. Cicero was obliged to dry his eyes again.

"You do nothing but steal my lines, little crow. You thief."

He continued to caress her head, he never stopped. Even when the smile of both died, even when he knew he could no longer wait. If he waited a second longer, he wouldn’t have done it.

"Don’t worry. We'll see each other on the other side, sooner or later. Under the olive tree in Cyrodiil."

Cicero nodded. It was what he needed to hear. He lowered himself, kissed her, pressed his lips for the last time on her cold ones.

"Farewell, little crow. It was an honor."

And he sank. He passed the dagger on her neck, from side to side.

He cried. It was the longest second of his life. The strength was missing in his arm, he felt the skin of her throat opposing a terrible resistance. He feared not to finish the cut, to stop halfway. He didn’t do it just because he knew it would’ve been worse for her.

He cried. He couldn’t help but cry, saw his own tears fall and mix with Morrigan's blood. The blood of the little crow.

He forced himself to look at her eyes. He saw them still alive. For a moment. White and alive. And then life began to flow, slipping away like the light of a ship on the waters of a nocturnal ocean.

Cicero dropped the dagger on the ground. Now, yes, he was crying desperately. He didn’t even try to stop, because it was the end, it was the end of everything.

He hugged her, made her sat up to hold her close to him. He squeezed her as hard as he could, aware that it wouldn’t have been useful to keep her in the Nirn. He felt her suffer and startle, her lungs drowning, gurgling, in desperate search for air. Blood was dripping, Cicero felt it, hot, on his shoulder, on his chest, everywhere. He got dirty with her blood, he felt like an assassin, really this time. He almost tried to stop it, pressing his hand against her throat. But why? He didn’t have to stop it, he had to speed it up. So he held her, straight, leaning on his shoulder. He continued to caress her, while blood was leaving her brain, because she was still there for a few seconds, and Cicero didn’t want her to be scared. He dangled, holding her close to him, cradling her.

"Don’t worry, little crow. Don’t worry. Soon it’s over, soon."

As the blood spread around them, her eyelids lowered, undecided, like an induced sleep. Her hands relaxed, her body lost its strength. It took only another moment and finally she became free. She collapsed against him, because she no longer needed that faulty body. She was in the Void, now. She was on her throne as Princess, at the right hand of the Mother and Sithis... but just a part of her. Just a part, because the other one was in Cyrodiil, on a late spring morning, with her mother, her children never born... and Cicero would’ve joined them. Soon. Infinitely soon, in the infinitely large context of time.

She was in peace, finally.

When Cicero left the room, he was completely covered in blood. The others saw him and had the decency to say nothing. Babette, in silence, was the only one to approach him, to hug him, and Cicero willingly stooped to hold her close, because he felt he could dissolve into the air, alone, without clinging to anyone.

"I did it, I... yes... done, now. Done. Done."

"Sh, I know."

"We have to clean... and then a dress... before she... yes... she gets rigid..."

Tears again drowned his eyes. He buried his head in Babette's shoulder as she held him.

In the following hours he was the one who cleaned Morrigan and composed her. The others tried to offer but he didn’t allow them. He didn’t want them to see her like that. It wasn’t her.

He undressed her, wiped her, until the wound was clear and clean, nothing more than a cut. It seemed almost harmless. It looked like a harmless scratch on a sleeping person. He put a white dress on her because she had never dressed in white and he was sure she would’ve liked it. He wrapped her neck to not see what he had done. He closed her eyes to not see the Void in which he had sent her. And finally, he put some flowers in her hands, clasped on her chest. He wondered if they were better purple or red. Red. She would’ve liked them, red. She would’ve liked them.

They buried her that it was the sunset. It was a beautiful day in Dawnstar, rare for those lands. The sun was bleeding the horizon, to the west, reflecting on the frozen sea and lighting up the orange clouds. It looked like a slitted throat, while the pungent cold penetrated the skins of those present like a thousand needles. I know it because I was there, with them. Above all, I was there with Cicero.

I could see him, he was desperate. Life had already tested him several times and I was mortified that he had to go through that mourning too. He was afraid to get out of it even more crazy, while staring with wide-open eyes the earth being moved, and thrown on Morrigan’s body, which he had so committed to make perfect and beautiful.

"Hey!" he complained, crying, still with his blood on him "hey, careful! Be careful! The little crow... you’re hurting her, you..."

He couldn’t finish the sentence. Babette tried to hug him, but he slipped away. He sent them all away: Morrigan had to be buried gently. Delicacy, yes. Not as if she were a waste. And then he continued, alone, moving the earth with his bare hands and resting it on her, slowly.

When it was over, the sun was dead behind the horizon. Dead like Morrigan, and like all the hopes of Cicero, or so he would’ve said.

He remained a long time on the grave, even after the others had returned back inside, and also the next day, and the next after that. He did nothing but think of the best way to give her a homage: he had promised to sculpt a statue. Maybe a statue that took inspiration from that drawing he had done in Solitude. And on the pedestal he would’ve written: Morrigan Death from Above. Her cold body lies in the snow of Dawnstar, her warm soul rests under an olive tree of Cyrodiil.

Cicero remained a long time on that grave, without knowing what else to do with his life. He got sick. He prayed to die, but he didn’t. You didn’t die because it wasn’t your time, Cicero. You cannot speed up a fate already written, you know?

I know you're still suffering, Cicero. As much as I tried to make the experience as beautiful as possible for you, I know it was cruel to take her away so soon. But if you believe in me at least a little, trust me. Trust this voice you'll never hear or listen, trust me anyway, because I've always been next to you. It’s difficult to understand, I know, especially for you who have served me, for you who have become crazy to serve me. For you who call me Mother. I know you hate me now. I know you think I give with one hand and then take away with the other. I know. But... Cicero... you must try.

You must try, you must do it for yourself. She succeeded. Morrigan has succeeded, why can’t you make it? You must try to see the Beauty.

The Beauty that is in the most unthinkable and dark corners. The beauty of when a child is born dead, to allow the mother to survive and not leave the previous children orphans. The Beauty of a deer who sacrifices itself to feed the pups of a she-wolf. The Beauty of a natural cataclysm that sweeps away everything, only to allow nature to create new species. The Beauty of the apocalypse that destroys the universe, with all its errors, just to create it from the beginning. The beauty of madness, which makes you a stranger to everyone but frees you from everything. The Beauty of old age, which deteriorates the body, but brings meditation and wisdom. The Beauty of death, which makes life the most beautiful experience to live.

I'm talking about the unexpected Beauty, Cicero. That is a bit more difficult to see than the trivial beauty of the world, a dawn, a mountain, a woman. I'm talking about that kind of Beauty hidden in a bad episode, which you can notice only if you look very carefully. If there’s one who can notice it, it's you. Like her eyes, do you remember? The Beauty of blindness: a misfortune, but which stopped your hand and made you love her so much!

Yes, Cicero, this is the Beauty of which I speak, the one you must try to see. When you see it, you'll be better. Because she’s here, she’s in peace and waiting for you. A reunification that will be magnificent, I promise you, you just have to be patient and see how lucky you were to have her close, even if not for long. This is the real beauty.

The Beauty of the Void.

THE END