Weep 5- The Solitude Ends

Cicero fumbled with his torn hat, stressing it in his hands as he nervously paced the hall outside his meal area.

The weeper, Critare, was in there. And he couldn't bring himself to face her after the day before. He peered through the door, looking at Critare once again. The slave was still seated at Cicero's cratered table, absorbed in her present task: mending her baby doll.

After she had fully recovered from her freezing state, the Pretender started her interrogation. She wanted to know where she went and what she had done. She conducted her assault in the lobby, placing the frail girl in the center of the Brotherhood, circled around her. For the dog, the show was a total bore. But to everyone else, excluding the grey-snob who was still not present, the matter had been a source of extreme discomfort. Having formed an attachment with the girl, they all were bothered by having to watch her as she was ruthlessly bullied. Perhaps their unease could have been relieved some if they had been allowed to defend the girl, who seemed incapable of doing so herself. Sadly, the Pretender had forbidden them from speaking during the ordeal. But this wasn't going to stop the un-child.

It was when the Pretender was yelling, face inches away from the sobbing girl, that she finally decided she had enough.

"What the hell, Astrid!" she exclaimed. "She didn't try running off!"

"She had a bag of coins and her satchel with her-"

"She went to the market to get that whatever it was Cicero wanted!"

"And then she decided she didn't want to stay with us any longer and tried to flee further east of Falkreath!"

"She was looking for flowers!"

"Where are they then, these flowers? Her story is bullshit! She tried to run from me!"

The little monster made the funniest roar Cicero thought he ever heard and marched to the pile of straw the slave was given for a bed.

"She didn't leave," the un-child shouted briskly, plunging her hand into the straw.

Without taking a moment to fish around, the blood-drinker pulled the baby doll out of the hay.

"If she did, do you think that she would have left this here?"

"Are you kidding me, Babette? That's just a damn doll!"

"She's my baby!" Critare wept.

"It's a doll," the Pretender exclaimed again. She turned back to the un-child, "That little toy proves nothing."

"Neither does your theory."

No one gasped, but three of the little monster's brothers looked dumb-struck to have seen their sister stand up to the tyrant- if not a little fearful for her. The last brother, the dog, seemed surprisingly smug to see someone talking back to his mate.

Everyone watched as the two defiantly stared each other down for the next several minutes. Then finally,

"You win, night-spawn," the not-Speaker said cooly. "This time..."

The woman began making her way over to the small creature as she spoke, setting everyone on edge.

"But as for now," she said, taking the doll from her small hands, "she's going to learn to never leave this Sanctuary without my consent again."

The Pretender stepped away from the un-child, the baby doll in hand. With the other, she removed a dagger, poising it over the doll's back.

"What if she had gotten kidnapped? Or killed?" The woman brought her blade down to the doll, lightly cutting a few stitches.

Critare gasped, her sobs starting again.

"What would we have done? How we would know where to look, or who to kill?"

She cut another few stiches.

"Please... please..." Critare begged quietly.

The Pretender went on, "Or what if she had been mauled by a sabercat? What if she had fallen into a spike pit? What if she had gotten caught in a river's current- and drowned this time?"

Another five or six stitches.

"Think about all that time we would have wasted looking for you. Worrying about a loose knot. It would have been a great inconvience to us all, Critare."

Finally, the Pretender ripped out the last remaining stiches along the doll's back, exposing the tundra cotton stuffing and absolutely mortifying Critare. She tossed the doll on to the ground, allowing the girl to dive down and retrieve it. Once she was fiercely craddling the doll in her arms, the not-Speaker crossed over to her.

She grasped the girl's chin in her hands, tilting her face to look up at her's.

"Don't do it again."

Critare nodded, "I won't. I won't, I swear!"

"You had better."

The Pretender stepped away from the girl, looking at the rest of her family.

"You can all go, now," she dismissed, retreating to her room herself.

"I have somethings to think over..." was the last thing she had muttered before disappearing.

For the remainder of the day, the girl had been inconsolable. She could do nothing but weep over her torn doll until the un-child had handed her a needle and spool of thread around midnight, once she had finally left the Pretender's room after a brief visit for something. She had calmed down after that, focusing on repairing her toy one careful stitch at a time, as she did now.

That was nearly an hour ago, and Cicero was still trying to straighten his nerves.
He had never seen her refuse to do something once someone had said to do it. He had never seen her... anything but sad or passive with a person, either. Cicero knew he had nothing to worry about, but still... still what, exactly?

He had asked the Pretender once or twice for Mother's oil, after he had asked the city merchants. He had asked that farmer-man to fix the wheel on Mother's cart. He had stopped to ask for directions, a map, a place to keep Mother for the night as he carried her across Tamriel... Every time Cicero was ignored, refused, chased away, or mocked.

A giggle bubbled out of Cicero, "Foolish, foolish Keeper... what's to fear, hmm? It's all nothing new..."

He stepped into the room and slowly stepped over to the seated girl who, as far as he could tell, had not yet noticed he was there.

Cicero weakly cleared his throat, "Weep- Critare?"

The girl stopped the movements of her needle, looking up at him quietly. He thought she would be angry or irritated or scared of Cicero and would want him to leave. But instead- instead she was none of that. Instead she just looked at him with big, teary eyes full of nothing.

Cicero hopped lightly from foot to foot, his gaze transfixed on a corner on the floor.

"Cicero," he said, "Cicero was wondering if Critare would please mend his hat?"

His eyes swept back to her face, which only stared back at him.

His words came out in a nervous flurry then, "She mends very well. Very well. And Cicero- he doesn't. He mends, but terribly.

"See," he pointed to a few patches of fabric he had crudely sewn onto his jester's attire.

"Cicero could mend his hat he supposes- another nasty patch but he has to remain presentable at all times for Mother and this- this is the first time he's ever torn his hat and he wants to keep it looking nice, not all tattered and patched like the rest of him, so he just wanted to ask Critare if she would help him by mending the hat for him... Please?"

Cicero waited, his heart pounding.

Critare stuck the needle in the spool, fiddling with it in her hands. She was quiet for several seconds before she finally spoke with a voice as soft as a wind-chime.

"I- I will... but... but I want to mend my baby first..."

She was quiet again for a moment before her head suddenly swept up, looking him worriedly in the eye.

"If that's okay," she finished.

Cicero giggled nervously, "Of course, of course! Let the weeper- Cicero means, Critare- fix her toy doll. Cicero can wait."

Critare frowned for some reason, but went on mending her doll. She was by this point done with mending three-fourths of the exposed back.

The jester had stopped his bouncing, wringing the un-torn end of his hat again. He had something he needed to ask.

"Critare?"

"Yes, Cicero?"

"... Cicero has been meaning to ask Critare," he took a deep breath, "does- does Critare prick her fingers a lot when she sews things?"

"I never thought about it."

"Oh..."

Cicero was quiet again, inspecting his feet.

Finally, he cleared his throat, "Cicero was... also wondering if Critare- if she had meant it when she said she liked Cicero's songs?"

She stopped the movement of her needle and stared up at him with a curious look in her wide eyes, as if she didn't understand why he was asking what he was.

"I did," she said slowly.

"And... that she liked his jokes? She thinks they're funny?"

She girl nodded.

Cicero chuckled, "They are good, aren't they?"

"I think so," she whispered as she returned to mending her doll.

"Would Critare like to hear another one?"

"Okay."

"Alright! So Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak is sitting at a table with all his generals. 'We're going to kill 500 Dark Elves and a carpenter tomorrow,' he says. 'Why the carpenter?' asks a general. 'See,' says Uflric, 'nobody cares about grey-skins.' Get it?"

"No," but she smiled anyways.

"Oh... Well, what about this one: what do you call a dog with no legs?"

"I don't know."

"It doesn't matter, it can't come when you call it anyways!"

Cicero slapped his knee, while Critare furrowed her brow in thought for a moment.

"Oh! I get it," she said after long enough, smiling despite her watery eyes.

"See!" Cicero chuckled, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Cicero told a few more jokes, each eliciting a smile from Critare, whose eyes only got more and more watery with each funny. By the last one, Critare was actually making the faintest stream of broken giggles while Cicero was on the floor, laughing so hard he was out of breath.

"And he said, 'That's- that's not my horker,'" another fit of laughter brought him to a complete pause before, "'that's my wife!'"

He let the laughter take over him as he pounded his fist on the ground, roaring. He thought he heard someone in the Sanctuary shout, "Shut up!" at him, but he didn't mind.

He just laughed and laughed and laughed until he could no more.

He was experiencing that tired sensation in his stomach and cheeks after laughing hard enough- something he hadn't for a while now- when it all finally died down. Finally back in control of himself, he sat up and crossed his legs, looking at Critare. She was done mending her doll as it looked and had already gotten started with fixing his precious coxcomb hat. Cicero watched her quietly for a moment.

He began to feel uneasy again. He was at a total loss for what to do.

It had been a long time since anyone had ever done what he asked. He knew that it was the socially acceptable thing to say thanks. He was just... so unused to having his way. He was uncertain of what to do about it.

"Erm, Cicero wishes to thank, Critare... For fixing his hat. It was... nice of her to do."

She looked up at him surprised.

"You're welcome," she said.

Cicero nodded, his discomfort having not been eased a bit. Was that it? Was that all you ever had to do? Just say 'thank you' and be done with it? The Night Mother had never thanked Cicero- not that he was complaining about it. No, he would never think ill of his Unholy Matron. Never.

"Cicero," asked Critare, suddenly.

"Yes, Critare?"

"Why does your mother need that oil? You never said."

Cicero remembered the little bottle he had which still remained corked in his pocket.

"Cicero needs it to oil his Mother. To keep her skin fair and lovely as always. It has been a long time since Cicero kept her. He has been feeling awful- terrible and worthless because of it."

"Why?"

"Why? Because, you silly- Cicero meant to say, um- he had meant to say 'you Critare'!"
Cicero cleared his throat, "Because Cicero is Mother's Keeper. If he doesn't keep her, than what is he? He... He's nothing..."

"Oh... "

A few moments passed in silence after that, until finally Critare held Cicero's hat out to him.

"Your hat is done, Cicero," she said.

The jester stood and retrieved his hat from the girl. His smile grew as he examined the area which had been torn. There was nothing but a sturdy, albeit scarcely visible, grey line left now. Cicero beamed, happy with his decision to come to Critare.

The jester bounced on his heels, "Ooh, Cicero is so happy with Critare's mending. He thanks her- he does. Oh, he wishes he had some way to repay her for her kindness!"

Critare lowered her head, shyly.

"That's not necessary. I'm hap-"

"Cicero knows! He'll take Critare to see Mother when he oils her right now! That's how he'll repay her!"

Cicero grasped her hand and began to lead her out of the room.

"Um... Are you sure I really want to do this?" she asked carefully. The hesitation she voiced seemed to betray her movement, as she offered no resistance against Cicero. She simply allowed the fool to lead her to the Night Mother's audience room.

"Of course you do!" Cicero chortled. "Everyone wishes to see the Unholy Matron of the Brotherhood!"

Cicero stopped them once they were outside of Mother's coffin.

Earlier, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. For some reason he just couldn't face Mother so he could finally oil her like he had been waiting to for all those weeks. At least not until now.

"Behold," Cicero said, "our beautiful Mother."

Cicero gently opened the coffin doors to lay his eyes on the Night Mother after what had felt like an eternity.

What he saw was enough to make him want to either cut his throat at Mother's feet, set fire to the graveyard-city, or just run through the woods laughing and shouting and laughing, like... a maniac.

He didn't know which was most appropriate though, so he just kept staring.

"M-Mother?" he whispered.

"I told you... It was a mother spider." Critare whispered, but Cicero did not hear her. His mind was still trying to process what lay before him.

The Night Mother- his Night Mother- knelt in her coffin, covered head to toe in cob webs. They were all over the interior of her sarcophagus, thick as a fog. Cicero could still see them, the culprits of this unspeakable offense. They were crawling all over Mother's helpless body, all over their web, all over their clusters of egg sack. They were everywhere. Everywhere! Cicero had to do something. Cicero had to-

"Cicero shall kill you all- tiny devils! He so swears it, on his life!" the jester shrieked.

"You," he shouted at Critare, not noticing how she lept with alarm.

"Get me something to clean this with and a rag- no, a jar! I want a jar. These wicked fiends will suffer for their transgressions!"

Critare hurried off obediently as Cicero disolved into a hysteria of laughs.

It wasn't long before Critare returned, carrying a bucket filled with all the things Cicero had asked for and more. Cicero began his work on Mother's coffin as soon as Critare had set the items down next to him; his behavior more like that of a ravenous wolf than a human. Even a mad one.

Cicero would not allow Critare to help, shouting at her every time she offered or tried. He was the Keeper. He was the one who would handle this. Who would save dear Mother. It made Critare uneasy, being forbidden from work and so she would have nothing to do but watch someone else as they did it. This was the first time something like this had ever happened to her and she didn't know what to do about it. She just held her baby doll to her and sang or crooned to it as she watched Cicero tend to his mother.

And the jester tended to her furiously. He used a small stock of straw which had been bound together by Critare to sweep away web- but carefully. He did not wish to harm Mother or the spiders. No, not the spiders. He was collecting them all in a jar... for later. He muttered frequent curses against them- the fiends which had invaded Mother's sacred coffin- amongst new thoughts on punishing them and oaths of eternal animosity against all spider-kind.

"Cicero shall feed your sorry legs to his pet rat- no he lost his rat... have to find a new one... after the rat he'll roast most of you in an oven, bake you into a bread for the birds... Or should he just take a few of you and light your legs up, one by one, like the wicks of a candle... He could drown you... or just thread a wire through all of you and ask the wizard to give it a wee shock... Oh, so good, so good... So many options... Good thing there's so many of you... otherwise Cicero would never be able to choose..."

For cleaning bit of web off of Mother, Cicero used the two large feathers so thoughtfully provided by Critare to gently sweep away the awful webs.

It was all therapeutic for him, somehow. Once he had placed the lid on the jar of spiders and spider eggs, he had calmed down and was ready to start the ritual of keeping Mother's remains. Cicero closed the coffin then and carefully lowered it to the ground- so Mother wouldn't be at risk of falling out when she was being oiled.

"Cicero?" Critare asked as the jester un-corked the little bottle of oil.

"Yes, weeper," Cicero cleared his throat, smearing a drop of the liquid over the tips of a few gloved fingers. "Erm, Cicero meant to say Critare..."

Critare took a moment before speaking, thinking over her words.

"Who is the Night Mother?"

Cicero halted his progress along Mother's foot.

"Who. Is. The. Night. Mother?" He asked incredulously. How could anyone ask such a question?

"You don't know who the Unholy Matron of the Dark Brotherhood is? And you've been living with us for how many months?"

"Well," Critare said, slowly ticking off fingers on a hand free of the baby doll.

"Cicero wasn't being serious."

"Oh... Then why did you ask-"

"Because he doesn't understand- oh, but no matter! Cicero shall teach you! And you shall know! Come, come here and see the Night Mother."

Critare did as she was told, crouching down by the side of the coffin opposite of Cicero.

"Is she not the loveliest of all!" said Cicero sweetly.

"Um..." Critare looked uncomfortable having to answer that question, but Cicero started his lesson regardless.

"The Night Mother is the matron of the Dark Brotherhood. And that is it, see. Simple... Ooh! Simple, but grand!"

"Why is she the matron?"

Cicero looked at Critare as if she had asked him some ridiculous question, like why water was wet.

"Because, you foolish girl, she was the wife of Sithis. Bore him five children and sacrificed them all to him."

"Sa-sacrificed?" Critare asked, holding her doll closer to her. "She killed them?"

"Well, of course," Cicero beamed as he gently lathered oil around Mother's ankle.

"I don't think she did that," said Critare, though she may have been speaking to her doll, which she now touched in a tickling manner, rather than Cicero.

Cicero shrugged. Fools will be fools, he thought.

"The Night Mother is also important," he went on, "because she hears the prayers of those who perform the Black Sacrament and-"

"What's that?"

"Hush! The Black Sacrament is the ritual, you know... Oh, you don't. Well, a person stabs a pretend body with a blade rubbed with nightshade while saying the incantation. 'A kiss, sweet Mother,' and all that! Anyways, the Night Mother hears the prayers of those who call on her- a prayer for so-and-so to die and then tells the Listener, then the Listener tells a Speaker, then the Speaker makes a contract and gives it to one of his family.

Then," Cicero giggled, "then, we serve Sithis."

"You mean, you kill them?"

Cicero rolled his eyes, "Yes, we kill them."

"That's not very nice."

"Oh, potato, patato!"

"So, you're a listener?" she asked.

Cicero stopped oiling Mother, drawing back from her coffin a bit. Critare looked on at him, worried she had said something to upset him.

He stared at Mother distantly for a moment before he finally spoke, "No, Cicero... Cicero is Mother's Keeper. He just... keeps."

"I don't understand... You don't listen to her? She never talks to you?

Cicero sighed, "Cicero is not the Listener, weeper. Didn't he just tell you that?"

"But you have to hear her when she talks."

"No, but that doesn't mean Cicero doesn't try... He tries so hard to hear her. But he never does."

"See, you're a listener. You listen for her."

"No- ooh! Cicero sees! You think anyone can 'listen' to Mother. Oh, but it is not so. It is not so," Cicero chuckled at Critare's ignorance.

"Mother only has one Listener at a time. And only they can hear her sweet voice. It is the highest honor of all to be Listener."

"Do you want to be the Listener, Cicero?"

"Yes. Yes, Cicero wants to be Mother's Listener. He wants it more than anything... If Cicero was the Listener... everything would change for him... Cicero tries to show Mother he can be her Listener. That he is the most loyal. Most humble. Most obedient. He wants her to know that he will be the best Listener and take care of her always. He loves her so very much... She was all he had when the family fell apart. He has waited a long, long time... But Cicero knows that one day she will speak to him."

Cicero looked at Critare, who was looking back at him intently.

She wasn't ignoring him or interrupting him or mocking him or telling him to leave. She was just listening.

Cicero thought this over some more before bursting into laughter.

"Want to hear a joke?" he asked.

"Okay."

"So, an old Altmer lady, a young Nord man, an old war maiden and her daughter walk into an inn. They talk about plans to sneak into an embassy. The daughter asks, 'How does an fugitive Altmer hag, a wanna' be magician, an ex-dragon hunter and her daughter- all also fugitives- walk into a Thalmor embassy unnoticed?' 'I don't know,' says the high elf, 'ask the preist!'"

Cicero errupted into a fit of chuckles.

"What the hell is going on in here?!"

Cicero and Critare turned to look at the Pretender, standing at the left entrance to the audience room.

"Oh, look! Our dearest Pretender," Cicero sang out, sweeping down to grasp the jar of spiders.

"Nothing much," he answered cheerfully. "Just these wicked fiends disgracing the Night Mother. No need to worry yourself, though. Cicero plans to punish them by sticking teeny pins in their eyes."

"Mmm. Have fun with that."

Cicero glared at the Pretender, then turned away from her to gaze menacingly at the spider-jar.

"Critare- you weren't in your bed this morning."

"I- I wasn't trying to leave."

"Nevertheless, not being right where you should have this morning was a very bad decision. Not that it wouldn't have been a problem to begin with if someone had done what they were told and chained you last night."

"Bite me!" shouted doggy from the other room.

"Now, listen up, girl. I have some good news for you."

"Ooh, good news!" Cicero clapped his hands, mockingly. "Let Cicero guess: you've come to realize how lost you are without the old ways and now plan to return to them, whole-heartedly."

"No."

"A fool can hope."

"Don't you have some spiders to pin or something?"

Cicero frowned but lowered back down next to Mother.

The not-Speaker turned back to Critare, "After much thought, I've finally decided to make you a full member of the family. Congragulations."

"What?"

"Exactly: what?!" Cicero exclaimed. "The Pretender has reached a new level of idiocy if she thinks that Critare is at all fit for killing!"

"I'm going to kill people?" Critare whimpered, squeezing her doll tight against her.

"Yes," the not-Speaker answered, "you're going to kill people. And you're going to like it."
She turned to Cicero, "I presume you have a problem with this arrangement."

"Problem? No, Cicero has no problems. This one here, though, does. The weeper was telling Cicero all about it just now. She has issues with killing, thinks it's not nice. One of those moral sorts. Pfft!"

"Like I had said, she's going to do it."

Critare lowered her head but remained silent.

Cicero scoffed, "There are other things too, your foolishness! Think about if she's caught- which she will be. What then are you going to do? Who's going to go to the market to get your precious skin tinctures and wrinkle ointments? Or food? And Mother's oil? That's the whole reason you had her shop and no one else."

The Pretender smiled that smile that just made Cicero want to cut out her jaw.

"First of all, fool," she said, "when it comes to murder investigations, most guards usually suspect the weak, helpless, starving, mad young ladies living in poverty, last."

"Cicero had said 'caught' not 'suspected'-"

"Secondly, she won't get caught."

"Hmpf! That's what you think!"

"Oh, I don't think; I know."

"Is that so, you stupid, stupid not-Speaker of blasphemy?" Cicero was becoming more and more strained to maintain his self-control. All he wanted to do now was stab, stab, stab!

"Critare," the Pretender asked, "two days ago, when you 'went to the market and looked for flowers,' where had your flower basket been?"

"By Babette's bed, in the bunk area," Critare mumbled.

"And where did you find the satchel I had given you?"

"From the common area, the one with the enchanting and alchemy tables."

"And lastly that coin pouch you had taken- the one which you're given whenever you go to the market. Where was that?"

"In your room... on your night stand."

"And how did you get in my room?"

"... I picked the lock..."

"Who even taught you to do that anyways?"

"Everyone knew how at the... the Honor Hall place."

"What?" the Pretender sighed, "Did someone here teach you, or not?"

Critare shook her head.

The Pretender nodded and turned to Cicero, "I know that you're insane Cicero; so please, if you think that someone who can sneak out of a den of assassins- one of which is a werewolf- after sneaking through most of it as it was 'patrolled' by a vampire, I suppose I can understand it."

The Pretender turned and left with one final smirk.

Cicero fumed. Making the weeper an assassin was a bad idea, he just knew it!

His thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the sound of quiet sobbing behind him.

He turned to look at Critare curiously.

"What in Sithis are you crying for? This is an outrage!"

"I d-don't want to kill anyone," Critare choked through miserable sobs.

Cicero sighed, having no idea what to do about her.

"Umm... Here, let Cicero tell Critare another joke."