"I don't think we should take Marcurio to The Night Mother." The Listener mumbles, twirling a strand of ebony curls between her fingertips absently.

It takes a moment for us to re-calibrate, I confess, having this news sprung upon us so suddenly.

Ulalume glances up, blue eyes flashing against their thick frame of lashes- almost in a challenge. The sort that said she 'dared me to speak against her.' The red of her mouth pulls into a frown as I look upon her for a moment more, then finally we give her the sweet relief of a response:

"Excellent. I agree." We turn bodily towards her, giving her our full attention. "When do we kill him?" The jester's heart flutters when she blinks up at us, confusion suddenly painting her features grim and crooked.

Ula's voice comes out stilted and hesitant, clearly disturbed by this turn of events."...W-what do you - what do you mean?"

We roll our eyes. "Isn't it obvious? If we aren't taking Zappy to The Night Mother, he's nothing more than a tag-a-long, My Listener. Cicero thinks he's a liability - at the least of it."

She frowns deeper, definitely angry now. "And at the worst of it?" We're silent for a while, and the rational part of me wants to keep my mouth shut - but The Keeper's in control of speaking presently and he can't help himself.

"At the worst, Cicero believes you've made him an accessory in breaking a Tenant. We've already discussed this, however - and the remedy is fairly simple. We kill the infraction, and no secrets are betrayed."

"We're not killing Marcurio." Ula replies, "I hadn't finished my thought yet."

"But we must - "

"I don't want to take him to Mother - yet. That is the difference."

Our mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking together by the force. I manage to speak through the clench of it, "What? Why not now, Listener?"

"..." She suddenly loses steam and glances away. "...I've thought about it a lot, and I've meditated on it for several days. It's going to sound stupid, but - I don't think the time is right yet."

"And what does that mean, Listener?" I ask, anger rising like bile in my throat.

"..." Her eyes are on me again, watching the knuckles of the fists at my sides turn white and how our mouth is curled down into a scowl. She seems to brace herself against our fury, which only serves to make me angrier - before she's speaking again. "I don't think we're the right people yet, if you can understand that."

She's barely finished speaking before I'm replying: "-Do you know what Cicero thinks, Listener? He thinks that perhaps you are stalling - as you've been stalling, and do you want to know why Cicero thinks you're biding your time? I'll tell you: You're avoiding going to The Night Mother because you can't face the truth that you might be wrong."

"I'm not killing him." She answers quickly, "And I've not been stalling. I'm not going to ask Mother about him yet, and I'm not going to budge on this decision."

We're flabbergasted, truly - "You don't have to ask, you know. You can't avoid it. What if Mother just tells you to kill him? What if you go in there tomorrow, and she tells you to kill the wizard? Would you do it?"

I'm relieved she doesn't hesitate - because if she hesitated at all, it'd be hopeless to argue with her any further. "I would do it, of course - ...But I'd pity him; He did nothing wrong."

I scoff at that, but what manages to come out is a strange hybrid of a hysterical laugh and a sigh.

"It's not funny - it's true." She defends.

I finally manage to speak through the jester's forced grin. "You'd grow bored of him, you know. You think he's interesting and fun to have around, but soon you'll grow tired of it - like any other trinket you've collected on your travels. Except this time you can't put him in a box, or shove him in a drawer -" The Laughter chimes in at the end: "- Not unless we cut him up into tiny pieces first!"

She looks me right in the eyes, and I'm terrified that she can see through The Fool - terrified her icy blues are zero'd in right at the core of us, right down to Cicero The Man, gazing into his bare freckled, jealous face - "Then allow me to grow bored of him, Keeper."

The way she speaks the words are no different than her normal tone when we are arguing, but something about the way her mouth framed them sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.

Marcurio is a toy to her. He's an object, something of value - but something less real than Cicero is. I can work with that, twist it against him if need be. It brings a smirk to our face.

"I'll even allow you to do the cutting if need be. Is that the answer you seek?"

I don't answer that, because if I tell her the truth - she wins that round."...What infatuates you so about the wizard, Listener?"

She contemplates this for a moment, a softness coming to her features that disgusts us. "...He doesn't speak in riddles and deceit. He can't help but to be honest, and his face betrays lies easily. There is no double-talk, and he wears his heart on his sleeve."

"How fortunate is he, then, to feel as though conversations are not made of eggshells beneath a bare foot." I answer immediately, "And how miserable and stupid he is not to realize it."

"He's refreshing." She mumbles.

We make a dismissive gesture. "As I said, you'd grow bored of him. Why waste time between the two points, when we could kill him now? I don't understand why you're so hesitant to just be done with all of it already. The reality of the situation is that he knows to much about us - Ula may not have said the words 'We are in The Dark Brotherhood,' - but as sure as The Void is cold, he knows it."

"I have an idea."

"No, Listener," The Keeper interjects, "Listen to Cicero - You asked him to pull you back when you went too far? This is that moment."

She makes eye contact again, and I feel our body suddenly go weak. Her gaze makes us feel vulnerable, like she could strike us down at any moment - the thought thrills us, makes our heart flutter like a bird trying to escape it's cage.

The Listener is angry.

"You're not listening to me, are you? I haven't even finished what I've been trying to say!"

"It doesn't matter!" I manage to squeak out, which causes the jester to laugh without abandon. I try to finish between splayed fingers and the giggles that seem to punctuate every vowel I speak: "No matter what you say, it doesn't change the reality of the situation. Present him now to The Night Mother, or later, but you must accept that there's a possibility she'll tell you to kill him whenever she wants! No matter what you do!"

"And if it comes to that - "

"And when it comes to that, Cicero will enforce Mother's command."

Suddenly, she changes gears. Her expression changes from one of irritation to one of passive amusement. I immediately feel myself tense. The jester begins to play with the loose strings of his velvet gloves, picking at the fingers to avoid more eye contact. The distinct feeling of being manipulated begins to wash over us, though I can't seem to pin-point when it began. We're usually good at avoiding it.

"Look at me." The Listener commands, but her tone is gentle. "Keeper." He can't resist, though I fight against it. He's weaker than the rest of us, bound by duty. It's over as soon as our eyes meet. "I need you to trust me. Just once. Trust that I've thought long and hard about this, and that I am not running from responsibility. I'm trying to take control for once, follow my instincts. I don't know if it's right just yet, and I appreciate your valued input, but even if I'm wrong - it won't bring the fall of everything you hold dear. I'll make sure of it."

The voice that is produced from our throat is small, cracked. "...What if he betrays us?"

Her eyes are still locked with ours. "Then he will die. Without question, without hesitation. We'll pick up our operations and move them elsewhere. I'll make sure to shoulder the blame, and even if I die because of it - The Dark Brotherhood will continue onward, guaranteed."

"That can't happen, My Listener. We're already stretched so thin, and we've only just found you -"

"It won't."

We don't argue about it further, because she's clearly made up her mind. Perhaps I could poke holes instead, drain her desires through straining them.

"...What do you plan to do in the meantime?" She leans back a little.

"We need to bide our time, until I feel like things are right. I've been thinking about embarking on a...Project of sorts."

We're immediately dubious at this prospect; It sounds like a set-up, and the anger comes back as quickly as it left. "...I don't like where this is going."

She continues, almost hastily, as if she could speak faster than the irritation filling up my chest."The three of us worked well as a team, you know, in that cave - "

"Just say what you've been meaning to say." I interject, "You don't have to hype it up, I'm probably going to hate the idea anyways."

She regards me for a moment, frowning. "...Something is brewing on the horizon, Keeper. I can feel it. I want to be able to cash as many favors as possible when the time comes. I want to focus on retrieving all of the Daedric Artifacts we can possibly get our hands on, and I think Marcurio will be a valuable tool in obtaining them."

We're quiet for a moment, she and I and the various other voices that have taken residence in my skull.

Ula waits patiently for us to process what she's said, looking at us expectantly for a response.

"...You want to divide your attention into getting all the Daedric Artifacts you can? Some...Hobby? It sounds selfish, self-serving - like - like - " I wanted to say Astrid but I couldn't bring myself to do it without feeling like we'd start frothing at the mouth.

She interrupts me before I can work myself up to it.

"If Marcurio wasn't part of the equation, would you protest?"

We thought about it for a few moments."...Cicero does not care what you do, or what you have him do, so long as it doesn't interfere with our work and progress as being part of The Dark Brotherhood." She opens her mouth to speak but I'm faster: "However, this whole business with the mage is absolutely within that criteria. Cicero doesn't understand why we can't take Marcurio to The Night Mother right now, and focus on your silly hobby later."

She's angry again, brow furrowing with silent rage. We can feel her veins thrumming with violence at our continued lack of cooperation, and there's a horrible part of us deeply rooted within that is thrilled with the idea of her striking us.

"I already said: It's not the right time - "

"And I've already said, it's only because you're afraid you're wrong - why draw it out?"

Her cheeks are stained red, frown deepening as she advances towards us. "I'm not wrong, and I'm tired of you instilling doubt within me. I thought you were supposed to be supportive? You've waxed on and on about how you're supposed to keep me happy and safe, and I'm not happy, Keeper!"

"My job as Keeper is to provide wisdom and support, yes, but only for things Cicero deems worthy. I do not like this wizard business!"

"And I say you're undermining me for no reasons other than personal."

We gasp, literally - and though it sounds exaggerated, we mean it. "Are you saying Cicero isn't doing his job properly? Is that what you're saying to him? That you think I've been compromised?"

"Yes!"

"Then surely you are compromised as well! Your feelings for the mage have blinded you to the situation at hand! "

She makes a gesture not unlike clutching at a pearl necklace and rears back. It might have been funny any other time, but now we're curious as to why she seems so offended - she's already plainly stated that she feels some semblance of infatuation with him; Or perhaps a kinship or simple desire to befriend him - whichever, I couldn't remember, it didn't matter -

"Your solution to the problem doesn't take into account that I want to eventually take him to The Night Mother. I still plan on questioning him, but I also want to utilize him for the artifacts - "

"Is that what this is really about? Tell me the truth. You just want to draw it out so you can be sure you have him for the artifacts."

"That's not true - it's merely a bonus."

I drag a hand over our face, feeling a headache coming on.

This horrible woman, with her terrible ideas and naive understanding of her own emotions infuriates me like no one else on Nirn can. My palms ache to feel the flesh of her throat being crushed beneath my fingers so that she might be quiet for a while, but that was too drastic of a solution.

She switches gears again, though this time the shift is a bit more subtle.

Ulalume reaches for me, her hands cautiously grabbing one of mine. The contrast between her skin tone and mine is jarring - I always believe her to be rather pale, but Cicero's skin is ghost white while hers looks more olive toned - her fingers are blunt, but feminine whereas mine are spidery and crooked -

Small hands, so delicate, framed by the disfigured monstrosities of mine.

She presses my palm against her chest.

"...Cicero," She mumbles, her voice dropping into an intimate tone - and I swear it's like a spell has been cast over me - "If you don't believe my words, feel my intent."

We hesitate for all of one second.

I do as she says and focus, narrowing down first the sensations I can feel physically. The heat of her skin seeps through the velvet fabric of my gloves, the gentle thrum of her heart against my palm.

I can feel determination, there. And the anger - ? No. irritation, really, nothing more. And something else. Not confidence, but a sharp little twang of fear; She's trying to hide it, but I can feel it.

It's oddly comforting, because although she seems certain, it's good to know that she's not committed to being right for once.

"I'm sincere." She speaks softly, eyes heavy lidded, gazing up at me through her lashes - and I feel her warm breath ghost across my face. "Can you feel it?"

This close, I can smell the lingering scent she always seems to carry. Mountain flowers, and soap, Underneath, an undertone that reminds me of almost of a Khajiit sweet-spice. It's a particular sort of musk that reminds me of dragons and fire and smoke -

"...Yes." I mumble, ruined already.

And this horrible, awful, beautiful woman. She smiles at me reassuringly - pressing my palm flat against her skin, the tips of my long fingers grazing her collarbone. "You have to trust me, Keeper." She tells me, the soft melody of her voice compelling me to agree. The warmth of her beneath my hand. The red curl of her mouth. All of it, casting a spell to push me into submission. "...Trust me."

Weak weak weak weak weak WEAK weak -

"Yes, of course, My Listener."

I'm angry, at myself and at her.

Going through and replaying what transpired in the morning hours while I tended to Mother that night - (A sacrilege, no doubt; I'm furious at myself for being so distracted while performing the Rites!) - I analyzed what everything meant. What we agreed to.

We were played like a gods-damned lute, Void take her!

The expressions, the sweet voice. She lead us through that conversation and we followed the dance to the beat like a puppet without even considering the ramifications.

We were outplayed.

Curses! Why hadn't I asked more questions?

What sort of thing did she expect was on the horizon? When had she began feeling this? Was it in relation to The Dark Brotherhood, or was it just a lie: Fabricated to make it seem like her collecting was justified?

She had never spoken once about it before, though she had seemed troubled lately - the woman is always some form of troubled or indecisive, that's just her nature. Perhaps, in guarding myself against her emotions something slipped by? Something I didn't notice?

We tried to think about it, but nothing came up. There'd been lots of arguing between us and The Listener, but there was nothing there that stood out as a sign.

And did that mean that this was somehow my fault? Part of me wanted to blame myself. I was ineffectual in convincing her onto a better path or giving her any sort of guidance, which surely meant I was to shoulder some of the responsibility if things went wrong in the future - which they most assuredly will, if the past taught Cicero anything!

In the silent room of Mother's altar, I sat for a while longer after I'd finished performing The Rites.

Perched between that place of Keeper and myself, where it became most thin. Sometimes I listened into that stinging silence with such fevered anticipation that the quiet itself seemed to start to ring in my ears, like a constant chime.

Sometimes, I wondered if I just couldn't understand Mother in these noises, and she'd been trying to speak with me all along. Failing to interpret her Unholy Words. Other times, I realized it was just fanciful thinking, the sound of blood rushing when no other thing was able to be heard. I'd strain to focus on literally anything else - any other sensation or sound to fill the space instead.

But sometimes it didn't work, and The Silence filled my ears until The Laughter pushed it out.

...What was the common thread? All of this failure - The death, the destruction of the Sanctuaries?

Me.

It was me.

Was I to blame? Was it my fault? It was Cicero The Keeper's presence at Falkreath which (rightfully) threatened Astrid into action to betray our secrets to the Penitus Oculatus. It was Cicero The Assassin's words which ultimately left Bruma in ruins, and Cheydinhal - Surely, sentiment and weakness is what made the others sacrifice themselves to save me, who was weak and foolish and young.

Which means perhaps this path Ula walked was because I'd pushed her to do it. To rally against my wisdom for the sake of it rather than because she believed in it. And even if she truly wanted to continue, perhaps her gut feelings were better than ours.

Maybe we were preventing her from Destiny.

...I felt the tears too late when I apologized to Mother. I told her I'd do better, be better - even if it meant trusting Ulalume, even if it meant swallowing our pride.

It couldn't happen again. None of it.

As an organization, The Dark Brotherhood was on its last legs. The outcome of Ula's leadership would make or break the entire group - for better or worse - and The Night Mother knew that, of course. She knew what once was and what is, and what's still to come. Mother trusted the life of her entire Family into the hands of this woman, spoke to her in the midst of trying times, and granted her the power to destroy or breathe new life into it.

And we had trust in The Night Mother to only do what's in our best interest, as she had since the beginning.

And so Cicero did.

Ula's POV:

The altar room was silent, smelling of incense and fresh flowers. The dull scent of melting wax and preservation oils clung to the cobbled stone of the walls, lingering in my lungs for a few moments with each and every quiet breath.

I stood in front of The Night Mother's coffin, too many thoughts jumbled in my mind to reach out to her in prayer just yet. I tried to calm down, center myself - clear my head, but there was so much swimming in my brain that it felt like my head might explode.

I kneeled in front of her coffin in the dim light of the room, careful not to disturb the expertly arranged flowers and candles. I mediated for a moment on that, marveling at the precision of each angle of stem and height of waxen light.

There were so many unspoken rules, so many things to be done just right. The dexterity and speed one must have to be Keeper must be impressive, but the attention to detail was clearly the more important skill of value. Everything was staged, fit for a painting.

The Rites were kept in a tome that only Keepers were given access to. Cicero had once told me this - long ago, when we were still living in Falkreath Sanctuary. Only Keepers knew the knowledge to perform the Rites, and only they knew such a form of intimacy between our Mother and her Child - second only to The Listener, who heard her voice directly. Usually, no one ever even saw her corpse.

I never touched her and almost never opened her coffin. When I had been forced to, so long ago - before I was named Listener: It felt wrong, and also terribly gross - though Cicero never seemed to speak of it in such a way. I was always curious as to his feelings on the matter, but I worried then and now he'd snap at me for asking.

There had been some of our now deceased brothers and sisters who joked about necrophilia, though I never saw his reverence and eagerness for his job to be one seated in a perverted sort of lust. It was the intimacy - the importance of the job itself. The Rites were what allowed her conduit to stay preserved so she could speak - without The Keeper, there was no kept corpse; And with no corpse, there was no way to speak to The Listener.

In older times, it was said she often projected herself to The Listener, sometimes in their dreams; sometimes as a figure, but most often as her voice. Her power is linked to belief, as all beings are - and without her conduit, there was nothing to worship.

Of course, I knew this to be true. She often spoke to me in dreams and spoke directly into my head when I prayed at her altar. Though she never made herself a form in my dreams, and I suspected it's because our numbers are few and our faithful are fewer.

I often wondered if the reason Cicero liked being Keeper is because it's something meticulous, repetitive. He knows what to do, step by step. Privy to something no one else is. Repetitive tasks are often soothing, and calming I've found.

Maybe it makes everything quiet, inside. Being in her presence certainly seems to help me whenever I'm troubled.

Being close to The Night Mother made me feel warm and safe, like nothing could go wrong - but it also tended to form a cold pit in my stomach.

No one had asked me for anything my whole life - I had never had expectations put upon me by others. Here, I had responsibilities and a permanent role to play at all times. I had to be a leader, and I couldn't make mistakes without someone criticizing me.

It was...Terrifying, and it constantly moved me into a state of perpetual, crippling fear.

There really was no one else I could talk to about it other than Cicero, but he always seemed disappointed. Those expectations, again - and I was always falling incredibly short.

I had felt lost for a long time, wandering from thing to thing, trying to survive. The gutters of Bravil, the ruins of Cheydinal, the safe-houses of The Thieves Guild in the Imperial City and then Riften - I did not expect when the jester and I met on that road with the broken wagon wheel that it would lead me to here.

And the path I walked? I wasn't sure where it lead, either.

I constantly marched toward Death, keeping in time with the drum of reality, slow and steady. That was the ultimate destination, but what places would I stop by in the meantime? Where did I go next?

I breathed in slowly, filling my lungs to the brim, then let out the air slowly in a soft sigh. Four more times I did this, trying to calm the anxiety rising in my chest.

It was best not to dwell too much.

I told Cicero and myself that I wouldn't ask about the wizard, and I intended on keeping my own promises. I was certain of my plan of action, and I was almost certain it was the right thing to do - barring a few details.

But there was still so much left that I was not so clear about, and I didn't know how to ask about it all.

So I tried my best.

"...Mother." I whispered into the darkened room, upturning my gaze into the metal final resting place of The Unholy Matron.

I waited for a few moments before trying again.

"Mother."

Silence.

I gripped the loose fabric of my dress at my bent knees, willing myself to be patient.

Once more: "...Mother?"

Nothing.

Panic began to move through me. She'd never failed to answer me before - not in my recent memory, anyways. Not unless she was angry with me. Had I angered her? Was this a sign I was not on the right path, after all?

"...Mother, what do I do?" I asked, audibly upset and distraught with this turn of events.

And The Night Mother said nothing.

I bowed my head and looked at my white-knuckled fists resting on my thighs, fabric bunched between my fingers. The black curtain of my hair made the room darker as I tried to rationalize what was happening, soothe the cacophony of thoughts racing in my mind.

Without looking up, I pressed my fingers to the ice-cold metal of the coffin, willing her to answer me. "...Please." I mumbled, fingertips running along a groove.

Nothing but silence and scents to keep me company.

I dropped my hand as I felt tears began to prick against my eyes. The hot sting of rejection quickly moved from disappointment to anger.

I didn't understand, and it upset me. How was I supposed to guide us if Mother said nothing?

I left the room, wiping my blurry eyes before the tears had a chance to meet my cheeks.

"Silus Vesuius - how many times have I told you not to bother my customers?" The innkeep snapped suddenly upon seeing a dark haired imperial man in strange red robes enter.

"I won't be long Thoring, I promise."

I was a little too busy eating breakfast and contemplating my next moves in life to pay attention to the exchange any longer, only having my interest peaked when the man with the red robes sat across from Marcurio and I.

"Hello, travelers! Welcome to Dawnstar. I suspect you're either leaving soon, or just arrived?"

I had every intention of ignoring the man who had so rudely interrupted my eating when suddenly Marcurio spoke up and answered "Leaving this morning, actually - though we're not quite sure where we're headed just yet."

The man's face lit up. "In that case, why not stop by the museum in town? I'm it's curator, and today is the opening day! We have many artifacts for viewing that are one of a kind." The man reached into the front of his robe and pulled out a few handmaid flyers and pamphlets. "We're focused on the history of The Mythic Dawn Cult, and - "

"Hold on." Marcurio held up his hand. "The Mythic Dawn Cult? Isn't that the Daedra worshiping group who started the Oblivion Crisis, killed the last Septim emperor, and nearly ended the world as we know it?"

"The very same!" The man excitedly answered, "And it was one of my forefathers who did it!"

"And what does your museum offer that countless books and historical accounts do not?"

The other imperial man faltered slightly, the grin becoming more of a simple smile. "Well, as I said, we have one of a kind artifacts. You see, many of the cults religious objects and tomes were destroyed either during or shortly after the Crisis, either by the battles or by ashamed family members. However, I have access to a whole collection of these sorts of things, just waiting to be viewed and enjoyed."

Marcurio's eyes lit up at this prospect, and I felt like rolling my eyes. I had no interest in one-of-a-kind valuable artifacts that held no power. Everyone knows you can't sell them - not for a decent price, anyhow, and few touched sales like that in the first place due to the nature of the priceless object possibly being coveted by other cut-throat collectors.

"...Actually, I approached you for another reason, besides telling about the opening day of my museum. I noticed you have quite the sword strapped to you, sir, and was wondering if you lot are actually mercenaries or swords-for-hire of some kind?"

My ears perked up at this, and I found it within myself to actually make eye-contact with the man since he so rudely interrupted my breakfast with his spiel. "What sort of job are you offering?" I asked, which clearly surprised the wizard - as if I'd catch a whiff of gold and refuse to follow the scent.

Silus turned to me, clearly surprised that I had been listening at all. "Oh! Well, there's this - 'Ceremonial Dagger' that I've been meaning to get my hands on, but the pieces were scattered among the Holds, which was done by a now deceased family member of mine's wishes. It's the perfect final addition to the museum; I'd love if you could retrieve these pieces from their keepers. It's really valuable and one of a kind, and I know of a special...Blacksmith I could send it to who could repair it - if only I had all the pieces."

"Details." I muttered, pushing away my breakfast.

This was far more intriguing than some dusty house full of old things I couldn't even sell or use.