Chapter Text
Rain poured down from the dreary grey sky. An otherwise beautiful day had taken a turn for the worse, as if it was catering specifically to you and your actions. You are the famed adventurer—slayer of Alduin, destroyer of vampire legions, the one who killed gods. Tales of your victories stretch across the province. And yet, here you are—haunted not by monsters, but by a boy's voice, trembling with grief, mistaking your name, mistaking your purpose, begging you to do the wrong thing. The old woman fell easily onto your blade. She never even raised a hand. You tell yourself again and again, "I am good" repeating it as if it were a prayer. But the guilt stays–clinging like the rain.
The gates of Whiterun creak shut behind you, the sound of rain slapping the cobble streets in sheets. The place where it all started. The hold in which you were given your charge, the start of your greatest adventure. It's almost funny, these walls seem smaller than they used to be, they show their age, worn by weather and the recent war. Your first home. Guards glance up as you pass, then quickly pull their gaze away. Your armour may not shine like it used to, but your name carries more weight than steel.
Mud clings to your boots as you wearily trudge uphill through the market. The smell of wet straw and smoke drift in the cool air filling your nose. The ache in your shoulders settles more deeply with every step. Rain drips from your cloak to your collar and down your back, but you don't care. Not tonight. You just need one drink.
The tavern isn't quiet, but there's a sudden hush that settles once you enter. You're being watched not in fear, or awe, but in recognition. The Bannered Mare, you've been here before. It's the kind of place where laughter is as thick as smoke, and whispers of legends and recent rumours float around underneath it all before being asked to pay their tab. Rain drips from your cloak, spattering across the worn wooden floor as you stride toward the bar. You slam down a handful of septims unto the counter, and almost at once, a tankard of mead slides your way. You raise the tankard and drink deeply, letting the mead wash away the cold. As you loosen your lips from the cup's edge, the idle chatter of those beside you catches your ear.
"I swear it, look over there, Uthgerd was right. There really is a merry man." a man says in a hushed tone, discreetly pointing his thumb over his shoulder.
The other man quickly turns his head to observe the man's claim, "Well, God's be. There haven't been merry men around for years, And you said he had a cart?"
"Yes, yes. Supposedly he's carrying around his mother's corpse."
That's enough. You turn from the bar and lean back against it, eyes sweeping the room. Searching for the jester. Then you spot him. Slouched in the corner as if he owned the room. Mismatched silks hang off him like a forgotten motley, bells dull and quiet. His hat lies beside him like a discarded crown. So they were right, he's real. Out of everything you've seen in your lifetime, he's definitely one of the more curious. He's twirling a dagger lazily between his long fingers, half-lidded. Watching. Not like how the others watch you–curious, reverent, afraid. But as if you were a story, he already knows the ending to.
You blink. His lips curled upward in a way that felt more like a warning than a greeting.
"Well," his voice a strange sing-song rasp, "The great one has finally decided to grace us."
The crowded tavern turns to look, you shudder at the sudden attention cast upon you, but he doesn't seem to care. He leans forward on to his elbows, resting his chin in his hands like a child waiting for a story.
"What brings such a famed blade, a legend even to such a place like this? Certainly not the ale, or the company."
You're taken a-back. Straightening yourself, you take a step forward. He doesn't flinch, "Do I know you?" you ask.
He tilts his head, grinning wide, "No, not yet." His eyes flickered with something too old for his face.
"They say you never stop moving," he says, tapping his temple, "That you never stop chasing the next monster, the next adventure. Your next tale, is that true?"
"They say a lot of things." you reply.
"And most of them are lies." He hops up from his chair with a feline grace and saunters toward you, "But I am a very good liar too, so perhaps we'll get along?" He extends his hand out in front of him, waiting for your hand.
This feels wrong, you should walk away. He's strange, unsettling. He's too aware, and smells like that kind of trouble in the city that doesn't just ruin your night, but everything. But something in you–curiosity maybe–keeps your feet planted.
"Name?" you ask.
He quickly pulls his hand away and plants it firmly against his heart, bowing, "Cicero. At your disservice." Then, with a wink, "And yours?"
"I think you know my name." you shoot back.
"You wouldn't be wrong in assuming such." He smiles, throwing himself back into his chair. He motions for you to take a seat with him. Most of the taverns patrons have pulled their eyes away from the two of you. Reluctantly, you sit.
"Now that we are the best of acquaintances, shall we proceed to the heart of the matter, hm?" His smile slowly drops, leaving you in unease, "We know."
"What?"
He subtly looks around before continuing in a low whisper, "The guilty thread that hangs upon your conscious. That poor little lady, never even raised a hand. She fell too easily."
His words feel like a cold blade slipped in between your ribs. You can barely utter a word except, "How?"
"Whole province is talking about it, a woman slain in her own orphanage. Hardly something you'd think would only be kept local, hm?" His smile returns as he reaches for his hat, placing it securely on his head, "Nasty woman anyway, you shouldn't worry about it. Been hearing that they're quite impressed."
His words ring in your ears, has news of your slaying really spread across all of Skyrim? You almost miss his last few words, which cling unto your mind, gnawing at it.
"Who is impressed, how do you know all of this?" You try to not let your unease claw its way into your voice, after all, these could just be the ramblings of a mad man.
He leaned back on his chair, it's legs creaking softly as he rocked, "Mind you, guards say they don't know whodunit, all that matters is they do."
He speaks in circles, blatantly ignoring your query, "I said who." you say more assertively.
The chair falls back down unto its legs as he stops rocking, his smile fading once again, "Them, who he thought you were."
Pausing for a moment, you consider his words carefully. "Them, who he thought you were." Recent memories flood back into mind, the boy, Aventus. You recall him mistaking you as a blade for the Dark Brotherhood, a league of assassins. Despite now understanding his words, it still doesn't make sense.
You lower your head before speaking, leaning closely toward him, "What could they possibly want with me?"
Mimicking you, his head slowly tilts until his eyes meet yours, "Do you find joy in the art of killing? Whether it be beast, or man, does it matter so long as the blade sings?" There's no warmth in his gaze, just a stillness that makes your skin crawl. His words are smooth, but you can feel them circling something deeper, something darker.
"I don't kill people without just cause."
He smiles faintly as if amused, "What a convenient little thing, 'just cause' is–so flexible, so...personal." He rises from his seat, his steps slow and deliberate toward you. His hand brushes your shoulder as he stops just behind you, his presence like a shadow leering over you.
The world falls quiet as his voice whispers into your ear, "I've seen people kill for less. A coin, for sport, out of fear. You say you don't kill without reason. But people change. Where others see threat, they see potential."
He leans in closer, his breath brushing your skin like a promise or a warning, "Southwest where it's quiet. Falkreath. If you go, remember silence is the answer."
His lips are near your ear now, "You don't understand yet. Not yet. But you will."
He lingers for a heartbeat longer, as if there were more to say. But then his breath slips from your ear–and so does he. When you shake free of your stunned haze, not a minute has passed, you spin around searching for the madman. But he's gone. As if he vanished into thin air.
* * *
You've crossed swords with undead kings, fought living gods. Walked away from burning temples without looking back. So why is this what sticks? A man draped in dirty patched velvets surrounded by riddles. And yet, he and his words cling to every corner of your mind like the scent of smoke you just can't wash out. You try to convince yourself that his words didn't cut beneath your skin, leaving you unnerved. But as you lay here on a bed that isn't yours in a room that smells like old wood and someone else's regret, you hear him.
"Not yet. But you will."
Your eyes are fixed on the ceiling. Instinct tells you to run away, this man–Cicero–is dangerous, he'll only bring trouble to you. But not the kind where you'd draw your weapon, no. It's worse. It creeps in quietly, you don't notice it until after you let it inside. The kind that calls your name, even if you may have forgotten it. You should leave in the morning, and avoid Falkreath at all costs. You turn onto your side, eyes fluttering and consciousness slowly fading. You won't. But you should.