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__________
Cicero adores the Listener.. that is, from afar.
He hasn’t had much chance to speak with her (at least, not directly; their tasks keep them both almost constantly busy), but he can’t help the way his heart swells every time he sees Laela coming in from a contract, her simple black garments splattered with blood. Or when he watches her training with her bow and dagger out in the common area, her tiny body nimbly hopping and bounding this way and that, like a graceful deer evading a hunter’s snare. Her curly red hair is almost always tied up in many small braids, framing her delicate elfin features and sparkling green eyes.
Best of all is when she smiles. It’s not often, but sometimes when she’s talking with Babette or cooking with Nazir in the kitchens, he sees her lips curve into a bright smile. It’s like a blade goes right through his heart, sharp and sweet.
.. But she never notices, not really. Of course, Laela is always kind to him; she always has been, ever since he and the Night Mother showed up together at the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary months before. The others were skeptical and distrusting of him, maybe because of his tattered jester’s motley and odd patterns of speech, but Laela had drawn him a warm bath and given him the room next to hers (to catch his breath, she’d said, in her soft, almost shy voice). Right then and there, he supposes, he fell headlong for the quiet, gentle little Bosmer that seemed as out of place among cutthroat assassins as he did in the Sanctuary.
But unlike him, she wasn’t out of place, no. Her unassuming nature could be misleading– she wielded weapons as easily as breathing, her petite stature and lithe frame serving well to keep her hidden from view. He’d asked her once, how she’d learned such mastery of stealth, and found out she’d been a member of the Thieves’ Guild in Riften since her coming of age. Two years ago. She was twenty summers to his twenty-eight.
Cicero tries not to watch.. really, he does, but it’s hard when Laela is almost always there. The Brotherhood is prospering now thanks to its return to the Old Ways, and the contracts are coming in almost faster than they can handle them, which leaves both the Listener and the Keeper so busy that they barely have time for more than a quick greeting. (She really should relax, he thinks, before her legs cave in under her. Of course, if that happens, then he can always catch her! Such fun that would be!)
“I want to make the Listener very happy,” Cicero muses aloud one day, speaking to himself. He’s quite forgotten that Babette and Nazir are both still in the room, huddled over the alchemy table animatedly discussing poison ingredients, but the un-child’s giggling abruptly jolts him out of his reverie.
”Why Cicero, I’d never thought it of you!” Babette chortles, grinning impishly. “I’d never guessed you to be the romantic type.” Her tiny fangs show when she smiles, as she playfully flutters her eyelashes and twirls a red mountain flower between her hands.
Nazir rolls his eyes. “Ugh, now she’ll be hanging deathbell garlands all over the place to get ready for the wedding.” Even though he knows they’re only teasing, Cicero flushes almost to the tips of his ears, protesting shrilly that there is no wedding, for Mother’s sake!! but the much taller Redguard just sighs in mock frustration, exaggerating every move.
“Let me guess, Laela doesn’t even know. Right?”
”Um.. yes, Nazir would be right on that fact,” Cicero stammers out, feeling like he might well drop through the floor, “Cicero doesn’t– that is to say, hasn’t found a way just yet to tell her, but Cicero will!” He nods emphatically, as if to convince himself (because the idea of actually confessing it to Laela makes his knees grow wobbly). “Cicero will– will go out and kill a Hagraven, and present the heart to Laela!” Yes, if anything, that ought to be something she’ll enjoy!
Nazir and Babette both just stare at him as if he’s grown an extra head. Alright, perhaps ripping out Hagraven hearts isn’t the bestoption. Laela is a courageous fighter; should he go out and slaughter a nest of vampires for her? Would that impress her? Or maybe he should have the heads mounted, trophies for her to admire–
“Cicero..? Uh, let’s just say that ladies don’t usually like blood and gore as presents.” Babette scrunches up her freckled nose the way she does when she’s trying not to laugh. “If you want to show her you like her, why not make her something? You can sew, right?”
”Yes, Cicero can!” His face brightens at the suggestion. He’s always enjoyed stitchery since he was old enough to hold a needle (he’d been older when he’d discovered other, darker uses for them as well), so perhaps he could make something for Laela himself. A new hood or cloak perhaps, or a scarf?
”Thank you Babette!” Cicero exclaims eagerly. The little vampire loudly protests when he hugs her with so much enthusiasm that her basket of alchemical ingredients topples onto the floor– “Hey, now look what you made me do!”– but he’s too excited to do much else but offer a rushed apology as he dashes out of the room.
(Now, just to figure out where Gabriella hid the needles..)
__________
Sewing and stitching a variety of gifts for Laela is a breeze for Cicero, who hums a few nonsensical rhymes as he works (“twirl the dancer, spin the bottle; stab the harpist, watch him throttle!”). When he’s finished, a long black cloak is spread across his lap, lined with blood-red stitching that took him hours to perfect. (And it had to be perfect, for her.)
A pang of insecurity hits him as he surveys his work. Is it really enough for her? An image of her warm green eyes, her soft laughter, and her twirling daggers crosses his mind. Damn it, it should be more, for her. (He should be more.)
A ruby he’d pocketed from one of his old kills soon gets added to the growing pile of gifts for the Listener, as well as a pair of black leather gloves that smell of autumn leaves and deathbell blossoms. Soon, Cicero has accumulated a small hoard– maybe it will be enough now? His heart flutters with nervous excitement, and he laughs without knowing why.
But– when he finally emerges from his room, hours and hours later, she’s gone. Nowhere to be found in the Sanctuary. In irrational panic, Cicero practically tackles Nazir (who just happens to be unlucky enough to be coming out of the kitchen at the time).
“Nazir! Where is the Listener? Cicero has looked everywhere!”
The Redguard looks as if he’s not sure whether to roll his eyes or simply bean Cicero in the head. “She’s gone back to Whiterun for the weekend, Cicero, just like she always does.” He glances down at the apron he’s wearing over his normal clothes, scowling when he finds it freshly adorned in tomato juice. “Gods, I hope Laela can find it in her to ignore how clumsy you are.”
Whiterun? Of course! Cicero feels a grin spread across his face as a plan quickly forms in his head. He could hook up the carriage easily and head to the city; surely there would be no harm in delivering Laela’s gifts personally, would there? After all, what better way to show his affections for her than leaving the tokens right inside her house?
”Tell the others I’ll be back by Loredas!” Cicero exclaims, before scurrying off to his room to collect his belongings.
_________
Laela heaves a soft sigh as she trudges into the bedroom, eyes bleary from sleep and limbs aching from the lengthy ride home to Whiterun. Although she loves the time she spends with her Family at the Dawnstar Sanctuary, she enjoys the weekends spent back at Breezehome, where she can blend in with.. well, normal civilization again and not have all the duties and burdens that sometimes go along with being the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood.
Her faithful housecarl– and close friend– Lydia always keeps Breezehome in excellent shape while she’s away (though she has learned over the last year to never ask where Laela is going). As the spunky brunette Nord is nowhere to be found, Laela checks the top of her dresser for a note– and there it is, stuck under the edge of a small blown glass vase, written in Lydia’s usual scrawling handwriting.
Laela,
Gone to the Bannered Mare for a few drinks. Staying the night. If you need me for anything, check Uthgerd’s room; you’ll probably find me there. ;)
– Lydia
Laela can’t help but smile; Lydia has had a crush on the brash, redheaded warrior for some time now, so she’s happy that their relationship is apparently making progress. Tossing the note aside, Laela dumps her pack beside the bed, strips out of the leather armor she usually wears for traveling (because it didn’t take her long to figure out that light armor is best suited for her petite stature), and collapses into bed.
She’s asleep in minutes, but for some reason she rests fitfully, with the uneasy sensation of eyes. Laela has never really been troubled much by Vaermina’s nightmares, so when she wakes early the next morning, she feels slightly unnerved. (It reminds her of her earliest days in Skyrim, when she’d first joined the Thieves’ Guild in Riften as a fresh-faced young girl with little experience to her name– she’d been irrationally afraid of being caught while on a heist; something Brynjolf and Vex had had to talk her out of after awhile.)
It’s still early and Lydia isn’t back from the Bannered Mare, so Laela decides to fetch a book and read for awhile. But when she reaches for the copy of The Wolf Queen she’d left on the nightstand next to the bed, she frowns, attention drawn to something she hadn’t noticed before. Was that.. a flawless ruby? Lying right there in plain sight?
A prickle of unease grips her spine as she examines it, a frown pulling at the corners of her lips. She’s quite sure it isn’t hers; she isn’t overly-fond of wearing jewelry– and what little of it she does have, she knows enough from her years in the Guild not to ever leave it just lying around.
A quick scan of the bedroom shows no jimmied locks, mussed cabinets, or missing items, but Laela can’t quite shake the feeling that something is off. Still holding the strange ruby in her hand, she heads downstairs, the wooden steps creaking softly. Faint shafts of early-morning light are cast across the floor from the windows; the firepit is cold and the front door is securely locked.
Laela doesn’t really keep anything of value downstairs (for obvious reasons), but she double-checks her tiny alchemy lab under the stairs anyway, just to be sure. None of her rarer ingredients are missing, and the shelf that she keeps potions on is undisturbed as well.
Frowning, she shakes her head, trying to make sense of the anomaly. Well, I did leave the Sanctuary in a damn hurry– Gabriella loves collecting gems; maybe one of hers got mixed up with my stuff while I was packing, she reasons. It sounds plausible– especially since Gabriella isn’t always known for being the most organized person ever– but Laela still can’t help but feel uneasy.
Anyway, quit thinking about it. It’s nothing serious.
Laela slips the ruby into her pocket and heads for the front door, determined to forget about it altogether. After all, her weekends home in Whiterun are for relaxation– and if she’s honest, she thinks she could really use one of Hulda’s strongest ales right about now.
__________
Hours later, Laela (and a more-than-slightly-drunk Lydia) are rummaging through the bureau drawers for a much-needed change of clothes, when she finds them.
At the very bottom of the linen drawer, almost completely hidden by a few cotton tunics of various colors, a jet-black cloak is resting, neatly folded so that the blood-red stitching along the hood is visible. A pair of small gloves made of smooth black leather rests on top of the cloak. (Deliberately placed, deliberately arranged.)
Laela freezes. For a few seconds, that same irrational fear from her younger days sets in. Her thoughts immediately flash back to the flawless ruby she’d found on the nightstand earlier, and the discomfiting sensation of being watched while she’d been aslep the night before.
”Fuck. I think we’ve got a problem,” she murmurs, slowly leaning back on her heels.
Pulling her head out of an adjoining drawer, Lydia blinks wide blue eyes at her Bosmer friend, seeming confused. “Huh? What’s wrong?”
Laela holds up the cloak, watching as the inky-black fabric ripples in the air– it’s exactly her size, as if it was made with her precise proportions in mind. The hood is deep; the kind she preferred to wear in her days back in the Guild, and the kind she still wears when she’s out handling a contract. Palms sweating and mouth going dry, Laela studies the red stitching. Every stitch is perfect, almost too tidy and too beautiful to have been made by hand.
Lydia gasps softly. “It’s beautiful! I didn’t know you liked wearing such fancy things,” she exclaims, the disturbing element of the situation seeming to be completely lost on her.
“Lydia, damn it, it’s not mine!”
Her friend’s eyes go as wide as saucers. A few heartbeats of silence pass before Lydia barely reaches out to touch the cloak, as if she’s suddenly afraid it might explode or dissolve into poisonous vapors. “Then somebody’s been in the house,” the brunette concludes, looking torn halfway between worry and indignation (but worry seems to be quickly winning out).
Laela drops the garment on the floor, exasperated. “Well, obviously–!”
“Okay, okay, let’s think this through.” Lydia’s hand clenches instinctively around the hilt of her steel sword, and Laela finds herself smiling faintly despite her anxiety, grateful that her Nord friend is sometimes more level-headed than she is about certain things. “Who can you think of that might want to harm you?” Lydia asks, eyes bright with concentration.
(Laela almost asks her who in their right minds would risk breaking into the fucking Listener’s house, but bites her tongue at the last second.) “Well, I guess that narrows it down to about a hundred people,” she sighs, half-sarcastic and half-serious; “let’s see– Elenwen, Maven Black-Briar, the Stormcloaks, the Blades, maybe even someone from a rival Guild–“
”Recognize this little symbol by any chance?” Lydia cuts her off, dark eyebrows knit together in confusion as she holds up a corner of the cloak.
It’s a tiny thing, sewn into the inner lining with impossibly small red stitches, and it looks like– a dagger? Laela frowns; it’s unfamiliar, and yet..
A blurry echo of memory slowly floats to the surface. A small, battered wooden trunk (with a few mysterious stains strongly resembling old blood), and only a few pieces of clothing messily folded inside– a threadbare blue tunic, in Cyrodiillic fashion, a pair of trousers so worn that patches had been replaced repeatedly, and– at the very bottom of the trunk, a tattered jester’s motley, so badly slashed, stained, and faded that it was almost unrecognizable.
“Are these all the things you have left from.. from before?” Laela asks, unable to keep the dismay out of her voice as she studies the clothes. They’re all scattered across the narrow bed in the corner (the bed that doesn’t have furs on it yet, or even a feather pillow, because no one had known they were coming).
”Yes, yes, but it’s alright! Every one of these things is as special to Cicero as priceless diamonds.” The redheaded merryman nods, grey-green eyes lit with earnestness. He glances toward the open door, and then slowly leans in toward Laela, as if about to divulge a secret. “See here,” and he lifts the collar of the motley up for her to see– and there it is, the smallest red stitches, forming the pattern of a tiny dagger.
“Cicero sews all of his own clothing,” the newest member of their Family confesses, seeming torn between uncertainty and pride. (She can’t blame him, after the way the others looked at him so dubiously, eyeing the Night Mother’s sealed coffin with the same uneasiness that one might eye a nest of hagravens.)
Laela has to admit that she’s fascinated– not only by the beauty and intricacy of the stitches themselves, but by how much effort and care went into each of Cicero’s garments. She’s astonished that the same hands that are so adept at effortless bloodshed could produce something so lovely, so delicate.
On a sudden instinct, she swallows, eyeing him fully with limpid green eyes. “Cicero,” she offers with a small smile, “how long has it been since you had a hot bath?”
A slow grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, rosy lips showing pearly white teeth, but his cheeks are red as if from embarrassment. “.. A week, at least, Cicero thinks.”
“Come on then.” The little Bosmer barely even gives him a chance to answer, but it’s alright, because she takes his hand and all but drags him toward the Sanctuary’s bathhouse. He follows, laughter echoing down the hall, and it isn’t until they reach the door that Laela realizes Cicero is full clutching the tattered motley, the tiny red stitching pulling loose in his grip.
A crimson dagger. Him. Cicero. The realization drops into Laela’s mind so quickly that she honestly isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or even more weirded out than she already is. The eccentric, enthusiastic jester has been a close friend of hers for months now, despite the many differences in their backgrounds and personalities, but Laela can’t remember him ever really invading her personal space whenever she’s at the Sanctuary. (Well, besides the few times he’s randomly popped in on her while she’s meditating in the Night Mother’s chapel, but he’s always been extremely apologetic– “Sorry, dear Listener; Cicero is most sorry for interrupting your.. er, listening!” – and then he’s bounced out of the room, humming perkily.)
If he’s always respected her privacy, why would he suddenly break into her house? And leave her.. gifts?? (If that’s what these odd little items are?)
Not that that is, exactly, among the list of unpardonable crimes to Laela (hell, she’d probably broken into at least fifty houses when she was a part of the Thieves’ Guild), but she has to admit, it’s bizarre. Cicero is not exactly what anyone could ever call subtle, unless he’s out on a contract, and he hasn’t officially been assigned one since becoming the Keeper. Laela’s mind spins with confusion. Is it some kind of a practical joke? Did Nazir or Babette put him up to it?
”Uh, Nirn to Laela!” She suddenly jolts at the sound of Lydia’s voice, realizing her friend has apparently been talking for some time, and she hasn’t even noticed. The brunette is staring at her with wide, worried eyes, noticing how tightly Laela is clutching the black cloak. “You looked like you were miles away,” Lydia exclaims.
“I was, actually. In Dawnstar.” Laela doesn’t stop to answer her friend’s raised eyebrows and bewildered questions, simply ushering a loudly-protesting Lydia downstairs and out the front door. “I’ll explain later, okay?” she calls, feeling torn between anxiety and a strange emotion she almost identifies as excitement. “I have to do an experiment first.”
The house is still and quiet as Laela climbs back up the steps, nerves fluttering over her skin as she quickly begins to form some semblance of a plan.
If Cicero is in fact the person that broke into my house and left the strange, beautiful gifts, then there’s a chance he may be back, she thinks, the tiniest grin tilting her lips. And there’s only one way to prove it– to catch him red-handed.
____________
Cicero’s movements are as silent as a cat’s as he slips from the thatched rooftop, down onto the bedroom window-ledge, where a box of red mountain poppies peer up at him like faces. Laela loves plants, he’s learned (unsurprising, since she is of the Valenwood elvenfolk), but charming nonetheless. Perhaps, he thinks with a steadying breath, he might even learn how to grow a garden for Laela. Perhaps Babette can teach him? (He thinks he can even bear her incessant teasing, if she’ll teach him a few centuries’ worth of gardening knowledge!)
The notion makes Cicero grin as he slides the windowpane up– thank Sithis; it doesn’t squeak– and then slips over the sill, as silent as a serpent gliding through the grass. The bedroom is dark and still, and there are no signs of Laela– but the room is full of her scent, woodsy and sweet, just like her. The smell makes him giddy, reminds him of the delight she’ll undoubtedly feel when she sees his latest gift– an ebony dagger, dark and gleaming and razor-sharp, like a dragon’s fang.
Cicero had had to spend hours convincing Arnbjorn to smith it for him, and had exhausted even more of his very best pleas to get Babette to help him enchant it. The un-child is always weak for his puppy eyes, he’s figured out, and apparently even weaker to the idea of him and Laela being a– (how had she put it? An item? What an odd, funny expression!) So the ebony dagger now gleams with the faintest crimson– one of Babette’s finest leeching-spells, designed to drain the life from one’s enemies and use it to enhance one’s own health.
Focus, Cicero! The Listener will be back soon, and if she sees she won’t be surprised; oh no! He licks his lips nervously as he studies the small bedroom, searching for the perfect hiding place for his latest gift. Just where does one hide a dagger?
Cicero briefly considers stabbing it into the head of the mannequin that’s standing primly in the corner, but a sarcastic voice that sounds an awful lot like Nazir considers that that would make it seem far more like a threat than a gift. The bureau? No. The bathtub? No, how silly!
The pillow! Yes, yes, of course! That was perfect– obvious enough for Laela to notice, but not gruesome enough to be seen as a threat! Cicero’s face splits into a wide grin as he crosses the room and leans over the bed. Laela is such a messy thing, really; her furs and blankets are just as mussed up here as they always are at the Sanctuary. He will just simply tuck the blade of the dagger under the coverlet– just a little teasing, just enough for her to see, and then he’ll–
A shrill yelp of surprise leaves his throat when the coverlet moves and someone snatches the blade from his hand. A familiar curly red head pops out from under the dreadfully mussed blankets; those damned beautiful green eyes peer at him– and in a split second; the Listener is out of bed, there’s a dagger pressed to Cicero’s throat, and there’s a flicker of something like amusement on Laela’s face.
”Trying to stab me now, are we?”
Her tone is light, almost playful. She doesn’t sound frightened or angry, if anything, it almost sounds like she’s having fun. Despite the fact that there’s a fucking leeching blade kissing his throat, Cicero can’t help himself from laughing. The laughter– she always brings it out of him, the nonsensical sensation that makes him feel alive.
”You have caught Cicero red-handed.” As if to emphasize, he holds his hands up in the air, palms turned up exaggeratively. “But not stabbing, no no, not tonight! – Er, of course, the Listener can use it for stabbing, but first she must listen!” He hears her giggle softly at his unintended pun, and her eyes sparkle. Laughter. The sound of her makes his knees feel weak– there’s so much brightness in her tainted soul, so much that he almost feels it might burn his own blackened one. (Would that really be so bad? To burn alive for her?)
”The blade, the cloak, the jewel– they are gifts, gifts for the Listener; yes they are!” Cicero almost chokes on the words that jump suddenly without warning out of his mouth. (Wait, no, he hadn’t meant to say that right off!)
Laela’s tan cheeks color ever so slightly as she glances down at the ebony dagger in her hand. A tiny smile lifts the corners of her lips as she notices the draining-spell. “.. For me?” she echoes.
”Yes! For the Listener!” Cicero grins broadly in response, feeling almost giddy. Laela definitely seems pleased with his very best gift (even if he did get caught leaving it). She doesn’t even seem to mind that he’s here in her bedroom, in the middle of the night.
”Then I was right about other things; the ruby, and the gloved, and the cloak? All of them were from you?” Laela’s cheeks are still tinged a slight pink, but her smile is broad, almost triumphant. (He decides victory is a beautiful look on her; he’s suddenly almost envious of all her targets who have been blessed with it as their very last sight before the Void.)
Cicero nods emphatically. Nazir had told him that breaking into a woman’s home and leaving presents for her wasn’t exactly the most conventional way of winning her affection, but Laela doesn’t seem frightened or angry. She likes his gifts– she’s actually wearing the ruby, he realizes; the tiny jewel is now strung on a thin silver chain and nestled in the hollow of her throat, like a plump, delicious droplet of blood.
”Why, though..?” Laela blinks, and she flinches a little. She’s caught him staring, he realizes, and he worries he’s upset her. She should never be upset; no, never her.
“.. Because Cicero loves the Listener!” he blurts out, quite earnestly, and then slaps his forehead as he sees her eyes widen (those words weren’t supposed to jump out like that!). Stupid, foolish Cicero! Always saying stupid things!
“No! You aren’t stupid Cicero; don’t ever say that again,” Laela interjects, stepping forward and shaking her head. (Damn it, had he said that out loud, too?) Her pretty red braids tremble against her shoulders and he watches them, still wondering how she can hypnotize him so easily with just the smallest movement. “I-I’m just.. still a little surprised, I suppose,” Laela murmurs, still blushing, but her gaze is soft. “I didn’t.. well, I really had no idea you’d even noticed me. Back at the Sanctuary, you usually seem so busy tending to the Night Mother, a-and so I guess I always just assumed–“
“Yes, yes, Mother needs my care! But you are her Listener,” Cicero insists, his eyes bright with earnestness. He’s baring his heart to her, Laela realizes, with a faint but delightfully sensation that spreads warmth throughout her whole body. “I want..” The redheaded jester stops himself, gnawing at his lower lip, before he musters up a fresh bout of courage and abruptly crushes his lips onto Laela’s.
He has no idea really how to kiss, but by Sithis she feels so good; his heart is close to bursting at how sweet and warm she tastes, like cinnamon and autumn leaves. Cicero can practically hear Laela’s heartbeat hammering and he thinks that even if she decides to run him through with the dagger she’s still holding, he can count himself the luckiest man in all of Tamriel, for the honor of dying by the Listener’s hand.
“I must be really fucked up,” Laela mumbles, her face still half-pressed against his, “a demented little jester follows me all the way home and breaks into my house, and instead of killing him, I’m kissing him. A-And, uh, really liking it.” She’s laughing, Cicero thinks, and for some reason he thinks that might be the most wonderful sound he’s ever heard. Better than the jester’s howling, demented laughter from his memories, or his own shrill giggles when he gets overexcited.
”Of course, if the Listener still wants to kill Cicero, she has a bright shiny new dagger to do it with!” He grins broadly, eyes sparkling.
Laela mimics his smile, twirling the small blade by its hilt in a dramatic flourish. “Don’t think I wasn’t tempted at first–“
The sudden bang of the front door downstairs jolts both the Listener and the Keeper from their playful bantering, making Laela gasp and almost drop the dagger she’s holding. “Laela?” It’s Lydia; she sounds worried (no wonder, the house is dead silent and almost pitch-black downstairs). “Laela, are you up there? I saw the light on and I–“
The brunette housecarl flings open the bedroom door and gapes when she sees the strange, small Imperial man in jester’s clothing standing next to Laela– no, so close they’re practically touching– no, wait, are they holding hands? And she’s holding a dagger? Lydia stares with an expression not unlike a hapless fish suddenly yanked out of Lake Honrich, before grabbing the hilt of her iron sword.
”What.. what the fuck, Laela, who is he–?”
”Cicero is the Keeper!” the man chirps, as brightly and with as much pride as the High King might introduce himself. “I keep.”
Laela grins, looking completely undisturbed, and Lydia blinks a few more times before deciding that she really must’ve drunk herself into a stupor this time– because there’s no fucking way her Thane is holding hands with a seemingly insane jester, in the bedroom in the middle of the night, with a dagger in her other hand? Is there..?
“I caught him red-handed leaving another gift,” Laela offers, and Cicero nods earnestly, still laughing for– for seemingly no reason?? “So, I guess I could introduce him as my stalker?”
Cicero pouts exaggeratively. “What a poor impression you paint of Cicero! The Listener should be kinder to her Keeper; yes, she should!”
”Sorry, I guess you’re right.” Laela squeezes his hand, still laughing, and turns to her still-gaping friend. “Oh, and Cicero? This is my friend Lydia. She watches over the house while I’m gone, and likes getting drunk at the inn and falling into bed with big strong women.”
Lydia’s cheeks flush crimson. “Hey–!”
”Cicero is delighted to meet you, friend Lydia!” The short jester dips into a theatrical bow, much the same as he’d done when first meeting Laela and the other Family members. (In a way, Lydia has to admit that despite his bizarre mannerisms and way of speech, he is.. charming, in what is likely the oddest and most demented way possible.)
“Uh..” The brunette laughs awkwardly, uncertain whether to sheath her sword or brandish it further, “Maybe you’d better, uh, fill me in? I think I came in on the short end. Like.. really short,” she adds with a giggle, without really meaning to, suddenly noticing how petite both Cicero and her Thane are.
“Sure, but it might be a bit of a long story.” Laela grins, her hand still entwined in Cicero’s as she gestures for Lydia to sit in one off the wooden chairs. The brunette housecarl can’t help but notice the look that passes between them– it’s bright, earnest, and jovial. Warm. Are they.. a couple?
Laela clears her throat, a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth. “Well, it all started in Dawnstar, about five months ago..”