Work Text:
Eight years could putrefy and wither before your eyes, here, in the dark.
Stolen years. Should Cicero cut off the hand of the thief that took them? He breathed the dust of their absence in and out. A Sanctuary, once. Maybe. Sanctuary from what? Sanctuary of whom? Sometimes he wondered if it had ever been a Sanctuary at all. The sole survivor, the chapel and the lone priest, the corpse-god and Her apostle. Last apostle, as far as he was concerned.
Oh, Cicero had heard the rumors. Of Falkreath and blasphemers. That was the point of it all, of today, of the way he swept the floors and watched the doors and the shadows that long stretched as the hours ticked and tisked and tapped their feet and fingers at him. His palm clenched the wooden handle of a broom as he tidied this place, this home of theirs. Idle chores, dull things, keep the Keeper busy. On one hand, these tasks - endless, relentless - kept him from the side of his Mother, and that left him... restless. On the other hand, they pleased Her, tending the Sanctuary much the same way he would tend Her body, purify the space that held Her remains.
He'd come from Bruma. Once, when he was not the Keeper. A ruined Sanctuary, a dead Sanctuary. Could a place be killed the same way of a person? The bodies of his brothers and sisters, dearest brothers and sisters, strewn about like ribbons in the workspace of a tailor. But what of the Bruma Sanctuary? Did the presence of his Dread Father flee as Cicero fled? Did Sithis' will, entwined with such places, sever off from the fallen Sanctuaries, one by one by one by one? His amber eyes grazed the stones and crevices, the cracks in their surfaces. Cheydinhal, his home after Bruma, welcomed in by the warm arms of Garnag and Andronica and Pontius and...
His fingers curled tighter. Rasha. The false-Listener, the liar, the betrayer! Oh, how Cicero seethed with anger at the thought of his smirking face his lying disgrace, how dare he take up a mantle he had not been chosen for! But... Well, sweet Garnag, loyal Garnag, he had taken Cicero's warnings into his strong hands and moved the blade with ease. Dutiful brother, dear, good brother. He'd listened, he'd heeded Cicero's word, honeyed and sweet until it stuck in his ears, until no tears flowed when the deed needed to be done.
His grip loosened. His smile returned, creasing the edges of his eyes.
The work was tedious, but he would do it anyways. To ensure everything was set in its place, exact, to give the remnants of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary its deserved care. He spent days tidying every room, every corner. Now he worked his careful hands along furniture and walls, checked the torches in the halls, kept this little world aloft. He could not bear to leave it in the despair of dust, for surely there would one day be a revived Dark Brotherhood, a renewed Dark Brotherhood, whose hand would stretch all across Tamriel once more, a strong and blessed Dark Brotherhood. He squinted into the dim and reminded himself to acquire more candles soon and then laughed, shook his head, and sighed. His shoulders slumped, his levity with it for one small moment.
This was the last time he would laugh in this room.
The sweet scent of cedar spread throughout his lungs. The main component in one of Mother's oils, something that preserved Her to the exact specifications of Keepers that came before. It clung to him. A perpetual reminder of his role, as the Keeper, never the Listener. Mother, sweet Mother, She never spoke to him through all his begging pleading crying praying, through all the lonely Fool of Hearts' years spent in here with Her, loyal solely to the will of his Night Mother and Dread Father, dutiful and unwavering even when fevers took him and the years hardened like once-broken bone. If only She would speak! She could! He knew She could! And yet She had chosen not to, for She only spoke to the Listener.
And the fact remained, he was not the Listener.
Anger curdled in his stomach. He pushed the smile sternly up his mouth and hummed a song, creaking in his throat like wooden doors on unoiled hinges. Joking, the tiny words smaller still. This was the last time he'd sweep these floors, check these doors, pick through chests and drawers for any belongings he'd need to bring. He'd written the letters to Astrid in Skyrim - so official, so polite - and the proper arrangements for his arrival had been made. He had prepared the coffin, the wooden crate unceremoniously swaddling the stone. Hammering the wood into place himself took days to get just-right (everything had to be just right for Mother, he would accept nothing less than perfection) and inspected every angle with his scrutinous gaze. Cooing softly to the Night Mother day after day of the details, what this entailed, the future ahead bare with its possibilities.
The shrine's most important elements were already packed. He gingerly tucked the rest into place, finding corners inside the wooden crate where the sticks of incense fit just-so, where the bottles of oil would not clink and clang against one another loudly through the trip, risk damaging, breaking, spilling and ruining. He called out to his Mother that they were soon to head off, soon to see the sea, but no reply came, as per usual. Solely the sound of his voice bouncing off the walls, echoes in the halls, permeating silence, silence, in his head, followed him from morning to bed, that silence, what he'd said so long ago, how did it go? The words, lost to memory. Records unknown. His own void.
The silence could make a man feel empty.
Inhale. Exhale. A reminder he was still alive. His lungs were in the right place, his heart still beat in his chest. His soul wrapped his bones like his Mother's funeral shroud encased Her body. He knew his place. Yes, as much as the pain wriggled through his sternum, he knew. As long as he were alive, he was the Keeper, and it was his duty above all else to carry out the will of his Matron.
Tidying the Sanctuary, at its heart, was a useless task. Cheydinhal was the last in Cyrodiil, there were no more brothers or sisters to call to in this province. Yet, he did so. It felt… Wrong, to leave it in disrepair, to leave the air unperfumed by the holy oils and incense, the scents that he breathed deep, a place to keep the world at bay. Knocking on the door long-dead.
Would this place miss him when he left? Do places miss people, as people miss places? He still dreamt of the Bruma Sanctuary. Would Cheydinhals Sanctuary dream of him? He looked at the door. Flitted his gaze back to the crate. To leave, to abandon, it made him shiver. Palpitations in his chest the same of the first kill. He only left under cover of nightfall to gather meager supplies and replenish whatever the Night Mother required, but now, he would leave in the broad light of day. Uncertainty clawed him open. But his Mother needed a Listener, the Dark Brotherhood needed a Listener, and if loyal Cicero, dear Cicero, did not find one, then what son of Hers was he?
He worked the crate carefully up the stairs, into the abandoned house that covered the entry to the Sanctuary. As much as the wood creaked and groaned, it never budged. A sense of pride swelled within him, that he'd done this right! He'd done something tangibly right for his Mother, that much was clear! If this crate survived the long trip to Skyrim, surely, Mother would be proud! Maybe She would even speak to him? Perhaps She needed to test him one more time, a last trial, to name him the Listener, after all!
Did Keepers before him feel this uneasy sensation that Cicero knew now, an anticipation for something that would never come? Did the Keepers of centuries before know the twinge of heartache, the burn of something he would not dare to name, that the Night Mother did not speak to them? This... no, he could not name it, would not dare think it, that word that shredded the tip of his tongue. Flirtations with jealousy. With resentment.
He shrouded every thought in the comfortable darkness of his squeezing eyelids. He opened them again and examined the crate. Up the stairs with no problem. And now, the door, a mouth to the world outside, to spit him out after eight long years in its gut, twisted like a blade.
His palm brushed the door's surface. The soft murmur of birdsong, of chatter. People, no doubt, going about in the daylight, in the bright sun he'd denied himself for the sake of sitting by Mother's side, keeping candles alight, biding time. Even if he did not have high hopes for Falkreath, if they laid their eyes upon their Mother, maybe they'd realize their mistakes, change their ways! He would only hope.
The door squeaked meekly open. He pushed it further, cool air turning colder. He moved to the crate and began the process of dragging it over uneven stone floors to the door, careful as the weight of it exerted him. He would never again see this place. Something inside him knew it more than he would admit to himself. Cheydinhal had been his home for so long, to leave it dug a strange sense of grief into him. The wagon waited outside, and as the scent of flowers close to wilting clumsily blew into the building, he turned his attentions away from the Sanctuary.
His Mother was his charge, and he would serve Her in any way She demanded. Finding a Listener, then, was his duty, even if it meant crossing into Skyrim to a Sanctuary tainted in the absence of the Night Mother's voice. He would bring Her there, and find a Listener, and all would be right with the world, everything as it should be.