Chapter Text
The temple of Kynereth was not somewhere Cicero foresaw himself visiting… but needs must as needs must. He’d pondered for hours on his motley - whether to wear it or not, and if he did, what parts to wear and how? What were, by and large, the opinions priests held on jesters?
…well, the Listener used to be a priest, and she liked him well enough.
Ah! Bother and befuddle! He’d forgotten the reason for his visit! The Listener was sick, sick sick sick and she needed help. More help than dearest Babette could offer. But they couldn’t move her from the sanctuary, no, that would be too risky.
So, off Cicero went, to Whiterun, to the temple. It wasn’t that he wanted to leave the Listener, it was just that he didn’t trust anyone else to get the job done right. Still, he hadn’t been able to sleep properly since leaving, and he found his thoughts getting more and more muddled.
“You don’t understand- the Listener, she needs me! Let Cicero through! Let him through or he’ll… he’ll…”
“Or you’ll what?” the guard snickered, “do a cartwheel…? High security for the city. Can’t let anyone through these gates, not even druggies.”
“Drug-? You think Cicero’s on skooma?!” he hissed, straining his voice, “I - Cicero would never!” The guard, the gate, the City walls, they all swayed. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he found one last instinct, and lunged.
***
“So he attacked you? Shouldn’t he be in jail?”
“Hmf. He attacked the wall. Look, I’m fairly certain he’s on something and he really should be sleeping it off in prison… but Talos, can you not help but feel sorry for the man? All grubby and malformed… dressed as a clown, too. See if you can fix him, can you?”
“I’ll try, I always try.”
Cicero drifted back to sleep.
When he woke up, he was in a little, wooden panelled alcove, lying on a straw mattress. His motley was… gone. “Listener?” he whispered, sheepishly. “Listener?” he repeated, a little louder, wrapping himself in a blanket he’d been left.
“I can listen to you, if that’s what you wish,” said a woman, appearing in the doorway. She wore long brown robes, and her hair was tied tightly behind her head. “I’m glad to see you’re awake. You were in such a state when you arrived, I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
Ah ha.
“W-Wait!” Cicero exclaimed, dropping the blanket, “is this the, urr, temple of Kynereth?”
“Yes,” she smiled, clasping her hands, “it is.”
“Good, good…” he looked around, “now, Cicero needs a remedy! A cure. Let’s see… a red rash, a fever, swoons easily…”
“What are you talking about?” she furrowed her brow, “Kynereth. You’re delirious.”
“Cicero is not delirious! Cicero came here to cure the Listener! Cicero would very much like a cure and to get his motley back!”
She shook her head. “How about we get you some medicine? And some normal clothes? How does that sound?”
Cicero fell back into the bed, defeated. He felt so weak. Was the Listener still alive…?
“Do you have any family we could contact? Tell them where you are and that you’re safe?”
“...sure, yes,” he grumbled, “Cicero has family… he also has clothes… ones he likes…”
“Right,” she said, becoming visibly frustrated, “we’ll bring you your outfit.”
***
Cicero’s spirits started to return when he got his motley back. He wrote a letter to Dawnstar and tried to eat something. Still, he worried about the Listener.
Cicero realised that he could break out of the temple easily. Take revenge on the priests that kept him here. But the truth was he couldn’t help but see a bit of the Listener in those priests, and he didn’t want to hurt them, or even disappoint them. So he stayed. Day after day. Dose after dose.
The medicine made him tired. He wasn’t 100% sure it was helping him, but when he took it, he slept. He slept properly for the first time in weeks.
One day, the priest brought him news. “Someone’s here for you.”
She took him out, to the center of the temple, where he saw her. The Listener. Perfectly alive, perfectly healthy. Her hair pinned behind her ears, a travel bag by her side. “I got better,” she said, opening her arms.
Cicero ran to them.
“He’s not well,” the Priest said, “I think he needs more treatment. He sleeptalks. He keeps going on about his mother.”
The Listener whispered to him, “I’m sorry about this. Let’s go home.”