That’s why Cicero was so surprised when he came back to his room one night to find a covered plate of cheese and bread with a bottle of wine. There was no note. The simple act of kindness brought tears to Cicero’s eyes. The jester couldn’t remember the last time someone had been kind to him. It had been more than a lifetime ago really, before he had become Laughter Incarnate.
The delivered meals were periodical and always food that would keep for hours. Sometimes there was fruit, sometimes road tack, or even the occasional sweetroll – which had appeared one day after Cicero had mentioned in the kitchen that he was particularly fond of the treat and hoped one could be saved for him. The cook, no Nazir there, had brusquely told him first come, first serve for everyone save the Listener and of course there had been none left for Cicero. Most of these meals weren’t impressive spreads, but they were varied enough that he didn’t get sick of them.
It drove Cicero mad that he couldn’t thank his mysterious benefactor. It could have been anyone. Cicero never locked his door; there was no point. If anyone wanted anything from him, he would have given it freely and all of them were accomplished at picking locks. There was no sense in confronting the initiates about it. The benefactor clearly didn’t want to be recognized and making waves about it would draw Elaninde’s attention, who would make sure that it stopped. Cicero was a fool, but he wasn’t a moron.
Finally, he settled on leaving a red mountain rose with a red ribbon tied around it on his table. The next time a meal was left, he was pleased to see it was gone.
It was late one night when they finally met. Everyone else had either gone to sleep or was out on a contract. Cicero was sitting on the bench in front of the fire in the kitchen watching the flames and singing gently. A creak on the stairs alerted to him that he had company. When the jester looked up, he smiled when he saw the sleepy-eyed Imperial with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders looking down at him.
“You’re still up?” she asked drowsily. She brushed back her chin length black hair, unmindful of how it stuck up.
“Cicero doesn’t sleep much,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Why are you awake?”
“Thirsty,” she said simply as she finished descending the stairs. She pulled out a kettle and poured some milk. “Would you like some?” When Cicero refused, she placed it on the fire and sat next to him on the bench, not quite touching.
“Cold?” he asked as he closed the distance and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He was pleased when she didn’t pull away from the gesture or when his hand slid down her side to her waist so he could pull her closer.
“A little,” she admitted. “I just can’t seem to get used to Skyrim’s bitter cold.”
“Not been away from Cyrodiil long then?” Cicero chuckled when she shook her head. “What is the sister’s name?”
“Phoebe,” she said shyly.
“Bright and shining?” Cicero teased. “Hardly a fitting name for a Dark Sister. Maybe you should change it.”
“I’ve already changed my name once,” she said mysteriously. “It would be a bit silly to change it again.”
“Oh?” Now Cicero was curious. “And what was your old name?”
“That’s a secret,” she said, pressing one finger against her lips in a “shush” gesture as she winked.
“Cicero loves secrets,” he grinned. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the ribbon that had been wrapped around the mountain flower he had left for a gift for his nameless friend. It had taken weeks of waiting for siblings to go out on contracts and discretely going through their drawers before he had found it in hers. “Cicero likes figuring them out even more.”
Phoebe stiffened and tried to pull away, but Cicero wouldn’t let her. He pulled her close with a tight hug. The action caused the bench to shift and they both fell to the ground with a heavy thud. The noise made them freeze, listening to see if anyone had heard.
“Don’t run away, please,” Cicero begged, his lips brushing her ear. “Cicero wants to thank the kind sister.” He could feel her heart beating frantically beneath his hand. He laughed when she hid her face in her hands, her face flushed with embarrassment. “Why so shy?”
The Joy of Touch 4/?
The delivered meals were periodical and always food that would keep for hours. Sometimes there was fruit, sometimes road tack, or even the occasional sweetroll – which had appeared one day after Cicero had mentioned in the kitchen that he was particularly fond of the treat and hoped one could be saved for him. The cook, no Nazir there, had brusquely told him first come, first serve for everyone save the Listener and of course there had been none left for Cicero. Most of these meals weren’t impressive spreads, but they were varied enough that he didn’t get sick of them.
It drove Cicero mad that he couldn’t thank his mysterious benefactor. It could have been anyone. Cicero never locked his door; there was no point. If anyone wanted anything from him, he would have given it freely and all of them were accomplished at picking locks. There was no sense in confronting the initiates about it. The benefactor clearly didn’t want to be recognized and making waves about it would draw Elaninde’s attention, who would make sure that it stopped. Cicero was a fool, but he wasn’t a moron.
Finally, he settled on leaving a red mountain rose with a red ribbon tied around it on his table. The next time a meal was left, he was pleased to see it was gone.
It was late one night when they finally met. Everyone else had either gone to sleep or was out on a contract. Cicero was sitting on the bench in front of the fire in the kitchen watching the flames and singing gently. A creak on the stairs alerted to him that he had company. When the jester looked up, he smiled when he saw the sleepy-eyed Imperial with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders looking down at him.
“You’re still up?” she asked drowsily. She brushed back her chin length black hair, unmindful of how it stuck up.
“Cicero doesn’t sleep much,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Why are you awake?”
“Thirsty,” she said simply as she finished descending the stairs. She pulled out a kettle and poured some milk. “Would you like some?” When Cicero refused, she placed it on the fire and sat next to him on the bench, not quite touching.
“Cold?” he asked as he closed the distance and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He was pleased when she didn’t pull away from the gesture or when his hand slid down her side to her waist so he could pull her closer.
“A little,” she admitted. “I just can’t seem to get used to Skyrim’s bitter cold.”
“Not been away from Cyrodiil long then?” Cicero chuckled when she shook her head. “What is the sister’s name?”
“Phoebe,” she said shyly.
“Bright and shining?” Cicero teased. “Hardly a fitting name for a Dark Sister. Maybe you should change it.”
“I’ve already changed my name once,” she said mysteriously. “It would be a bit silly to change it again.”
“Oh?” Now Cicero was curious. “And what was your old name?”
“That’s a secret,” she said, pressing one finger against her lips in a “shush” gesture as she winked.
“Cicero loves secrets,” he grinned. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the ribbon that had been wrapped around the mountain flower he had left for a gift for his nameless friend. It had taken weeks of waiting for siblings to go out on contracts and discretely going through their drawers before he had found it in hers. “Cicero likes figuring them out even more.”
Phoebe stiffened and tried to pull away, but Cicero wouldn’t let her. He pulled her close with a tight hug. The action caused the bench to shift and they both fell to the ground with a heavy thud. The noise made them freeze, listening to see if anyone had heard.
“Don’t run away, please,” Cicero begged, his lips brushing her ear. “Cicero wants to thank the kind sister.” He could feel her heart beating frantically beneath his hand. He laughed when she hid her face in her hands, her face flushed with embarrassment. “Why so shy?”