Stories of Skyrim

Cicero

They set up camp on the hill overlooking the town. It was a good place to get a feel for the rhythm of the place, to watch the guards patrol and see which streets were left alone, which parts of the wall were mostly overlooked. From their hidden vigil they could plan their entry, their exit, and several escapes, all without ever setting foot in the town. Useful for when they didn't want to be seen anywhere near the place.

Their encounter with the wolves on the road had left her hands torn and bandaged. What little restoration they knew between them wasn't enough to fix her fine motor skills. Only time could heal it, but time was something they didn't have. After days of tailing their mark through Skyrim, they had finally chosen his date of death. Sithis was waiting for a soul; the Listener and the Keeper would not disappoint.

She sat on her bedroll, a hand mirror placed in a sling hanging from the tent pole. With clumsy hands she tried painting on the effigy of a skull, her usual linework reduced to smudges and smears. Samira swore under her breath and scrubbed it off to start again. She would go to this job with her face naked; Cicero didn't like it. She wore her warpaint as both a mask and as an armour. As he played the jester, she played the nightmare. A child of the Void itself.

"Listener," Cicero began, his voice quiet.

"Cicero," she said, her voice short. Not irritated at him, but at her lack of finesse. Samira didn't like being bare-faced either. As a Nightshade petal over dead eyes was her calling card, so her warpaint was her identification. "What's the matter?"

He tilted his head. "Will you allow Cicero to help you?"

Samira was quiet for a minute, staring at her reflection in silent consideration. She rarely allowed anyone to get too close to her, physically or otherwise. Cringing away from physical contact, Samira even disliked touching the people she killed. Cicero knew what she could do with a blade; he had no desire to see her practise her art on him.

"Alright," she said, at long length. "Come on then. I want this job done tonight."

Cicero reigned in his eagerness but couldn't resist a tiny caper of glee. Quickly sitting cross-legged in front of her, he took the pot of clay paint and the brush as she handed them over. Samira knelt, her hands pressed against her thighs to soothe her nerves. "Cicero will be quick," he promised. She just nodded and closed her eyes when he started.

He knew the pattern. He could see it on her face even when the paint wasn't there, could see it when he closed his eyes and thought of her voice while she was away. Samira sat perfectly still as he painted, only her eyes moving to try following his hands. Cicero stuck his tongue between his teeth and leaned in, gentle, deft fingers sweeping the brush across her dark skin. The contrast between it and the paint was startling, but familiar.

Her lips twitched in a small smile when he painted over them. Straight lines to mimic exposed teeth; cutting her lips into sections. When she would open her mouth to snarl, the lines parted like the Void opening to swallow a soul. It was Cicero's favourite part.

As the paint dried on her skin, he ran a thumb over the seam of her lips. Samira's breath hitched, her mouth parting, and Cicero was hardly aware of leaning in until his nose brushed against hers. He stopped, eyes on hers, and backed away quickly.

"Cicero is done," he announced, aware that he was dancing with danger. She rarely permitted anyone to touch her. Cicero was determined not to waste his opportunity. But he didn't want to push her, either, lest she forbid him from ever being close again.

"No, you're not," Samira mumbled. Her hand curled around the back of his neck and pulled him back, her mouth sliding over his in a heated kiss. Cicero froze. She pushed against him more insistently, flicking her tongue against his lips. His body reacted before his mind caught up; eyes fluttering closed, hands curling around her hips when she shuffled forward to straddle his lap.

Her knees sat either side of his hips, her hands on his face, fingers delving into his hair and pushing the hat off his head. Cicero flung one arm back to balance on, his free hand trailing up and down her spine. Samira shivered and rocked into him, a moan torn from his throat when she bit down on his lip. "Mother have mercy..." he muttered.

Samira laughed, her forehead against his. "Don't bring her into this," she said. "This is for you and me, Cicero."

Her warpaint was smudged and Cicero could taste it in his mouth like clay. The mad giggle bubbled out before he could stop it. "Cicero did not know the Listener had such feelings."

The hands in his hair began a lazy stroking, earning a sigh and soft smile from him. "I rather adore you, you know," she admitted quietly. Samira pulled away, uncertainty pushing her hands down. Cicero opened his eyes to stare at her, offended that she'd stopped. "But only if you want this too," she said. "I don't want you doing this because you think I've ordered you to, or you think it's your duty, or-"

A blaze of fondness went through him. The Jester's voice was silenced, and in his place, only Cicero remained. "Samira," he said, his voice lower than usual. "I have never wanted anything more in my life."

The words sank in, her realisation blooming with a beaming smile. This time, when he pulled her in, there was not a force on Nirn strong enough to pull them apart.