what is life's greatest illusion?

hok: gemile - [she/her] also known as Rhea of Kvatch. the hero of kvatch, a matron of the dark brotherhood, and long-lost mother of martin septim himself

nerevarine: [she/they] moon-and-star - argonian nerevarine and ancestor of anfisa

agent: za'ahrin - [she/her] ohmes-raht khajiit agent of daggerfall and a dark brotherhood matron. troubled expat of elsweyr and indirect ancestor of hiisi

champion: khetz-al - [they/he] eternal champion and blades agent, and argonian taken in by the empire who also works with za'ahrin during daggerfall. indirect ancestor of anfisa.

vestige: dar'jivay -[he/him] one of two vestiges during the second era; a khajiit guide at the wrong place at the wrong time. nightblade warrior and honorary non-vampiric member of house ravenwatch. direct ancestor of hiisi

vestige: subira - [she/her] one of two vestiges during the second era; a redguard-akaviri dragonknight who puts on a brave, impenetrable exterior but struggles with feeling like an outsider and longs to follow in the footsteps of her warrior mother, now gone back to akavir

whiskey-in-the-jar - [she/her] argonian summoner and friend of the vestiges, a whimsical little lizard from a family of brewers. direct ancestor of anfisa.

zo'aysha - [she/her]

codex mora - [they/them]

eyvindr - [he/they] a second-century nord whose family makes up some of the last remnants of the dragon cult. whiskey's husband and ancestor of anfisa

kynaibhe - [they/them] a reachfolk dragon priest of the merethic era, close compatriot of miraak. ancestor of eyvindr and distant ancestor of anfisa.

helgi - [he/him] a Stormcloak deserter and current assassin with the Dark Brotherhood of 4th era Skyrim

valyia - [she/they] a werewolf dunmer assassin with the Dark Brotherhood of 4th era Skyrim

strider-in-snow - [he/him] an argonian hatchling adopted by Anfisa several years following the events of Skyrim

Canon Tags - tags for canon game/lore characters who show up frequently in my art/writing!

cicero

serana volkihar

fennorian

elisif

verandis ravenwatch

miraak

He hadn’t put the blade away since gutting the frost troll, collarbone to hip like a game animal on a meat hook. Blood trailed behind him, dripping in fatty globules off the arming sword in his left hand, drawing a second red ribbon along the cold, hard floor of the Dawnstar Sanctuary. Hiisi’s breath fanned out around him, a wreath of steam in the frigid old cavern that some killer many moons ago once called home. Perhaps it was the very specters who had ambushed him no sooner had he turned the corner into the sanctuary. Had they been cut down all that time ago just as he had cut through them at the top of the hour? The thought made him shiver, but only barely and only briefly. 

His tail lashed at his heels. Even the dead should know when they’re being sent on a fool’s errand.

As if on cue, the jester’s shrill voice echoed from a room away, closer now.

“Maybe we could just…forget all this? Let bygones be bygones?”

Hiisi’s hand tightened around the shortsword in his left hand while his right moved to the dagger on his hip. The feeling of excited revulsion that struck him early on in Cicero’s tenure at Falkreath began to creep back in, a heat in his stomach that roiled like anger or sickness. He remembered how his fingers itched to know what lay beneath that vexing, laughing facade – and again now, he wondered: If I cut him from hip to clavicle and reached in, would there be anything at all inside?

His tongue ran along the inside of his teeth, and he spat in an attempt to shake the fog of that image.

As he leaned one shoulder against the heavy wooden door past the sanctuary’s hearth, he almost wished there was somewhere else for the Keeper to run. But he was tired, cold to the bone and covered in troll viscera; whatever the outcome, whatever…this was, it ended now.

The door scraped against cobbled stone as he shoved it open. Against the wall opposite him, Cicero had propped himself up into a half-sitting position; one knee tucked up almost to his chin and arms folded over his torso, his gloved hands gripping like a vice hard enough to twist the tarnished velvet of his sleeves. Still, he cracked a smile as Hiisi lowered his weapons by a mere measure.

“And now we come to the end of our play,” he rasped. “The grand finale.”

The flames of the lit braziers on either side of him dance in the bitter air, casting the space between himself and the Listener in a flickering auburn glow. Hiisi stepped forward, and his shadow stretched like a wraith across the floor.

“No,” said Hiisi. “No more games.”

Cicero closed his eyes and let out a laugh that was more of a wheeze than anything. He tilted his head and the bells on his cap clinked sadly, plaintively.

“Oh, but you caught me, Listener! I surrender!” He chuckled again, one hand falling away to favor his side; in the shifting firelight Hiisi struggled to make out where the red of his jacket ended and the red of drying blood began beneath his hand. He stalked closer.

“Ghosts, death traps, frost trolls,” Hiisi said. “To think I trusted you, and followed you all the way here. To this blasted place. What’s next then, hm?”

Cicero watched him, an inscrutable look in his eye.

“Silly Listener. What makes you so sure there’s anything left? Has Astrid – has that sorry excuse for an assassin – proven herself to be a true weaver of tales, then?” Then, lower: “You would be a most astute judge of that, dear Hiisi.”

Hiisi stopped scarcely a step away. Hearing his name – his actual name, no title, no ancient honorific – took him by surprise. Did he imagine that? The sick feeling reared its head again, ratcheted up the back of his spine and counted each vertebra like stolen gold. His heart fluttered in his chest, but only for a second before his gaze fell back on Cicero’s free hand traveling past where he guessed Arnbjorn had caught him – down to the hilt of his shiny ebony knife.

He kicked the heel of his boot into the front of Cicero’s shoulder, pinning his right arm against the back wall. He leaned forward, elbow pressed to his knee as Cicero, forgetting himself, grappled uselessly at Hiisi’s ankle with his free hand. 

His eyes were wide as Hiisi set his foot down and moved to push his forearm across the jester’s collar, his own blade a whisper against Cicero’s gaunt jawline.

“And here I thought you’d be smarter about trying to ambush me, after all this,” he hissed. “You were a meticulous killer once – I would know, you tell a compelling tale in those little diaries of yours.”

He swore he saw Cicero flush at the mention of the journal entries. Impressive, if he truly had lost so much blood.

“A moment of…delirium, perhaps,” Cicero managed. 

“Well, there’s only one cure for this madness of yours, Cicero. And that’s me.”

He’d be lying if he said that line hadn’t crossed his mind before he even entered the abandoned sanctuary.

Cicero gazed up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and for an instant Hiisi saw only exhaustion reflected back at him. But then a grin cracked across his face, and he let out a laugh that felt almost fond.

“Oh, I like that!” he said. He shifted under Hiisi’s grip, practically itching to clap his hands. “Very good, very creative! But still – you know killing me would be a mistake.”

Hiisi said nothing, making no move to drop his dagger. He didn't move it any closer to Cicero’s face either, though.

“O-oh yes, you would displease our mother, hmm? For she’s your mother too, isn’t she…Listener?”

“Enough. I don’t want to hear this…this posturing.” Hiisi’s jaw was set, his eyes trained on the Keeper’s face. He pressed his tongue hard to the back of his teeth. Astrid’s direction had been short and clipped, something he was used to from her and something he would have been glad to carry out after Cicero led him through this long-dead Sanctuary – but something held him back through it all. Maybe Astrid’s story didn’t add up. Maybe it was something else.

“I want you to tell me what you want.”

For a second, Cicero’s grin faltered like a gust of wind across a candle flame.

“Return to the pretender, tell her I’m dead! Stabbed, strangled, drowned poor Cicero – one little lie.”

It was like looking in a mirror –  a scared, untethered, exhilarated mirror.

Hardly more than a rasp: “Say please.”

“The Listener wants poor Cicero to beg, then?”

The dagger, moss-green under the light, fell away and rested flat against Cicero’s shoulder. Cicero stared through him, eyes orange from the brazier flames.

“I hadn't truly expected mercy from you,” he whispered, gaze traveling to the tip of the knife.

“You sound disappointed.” Hiisi’s grip tightened on the hilt, snapping it against the flat of Cicero's collarbone again. A faint reminder that it was not too late for him to revoke it.

“You let your guard down so infrequently, Listener. That you would deign to hesitate is impressive.” And as quick as the charade dropped, an even wider smile alit over Cicero's pale face, darkening his eyes and turning his complexion waxy, a death mask in the crypt of the Dawnstar Sanctuary. “Oh Listener. Do what you will, then. Cicero has no fight left – in the end, Sithis will judge us both.”

Hiisi exhaled forcefully, whiskers twitching.

“Don't make me regret this.”

“Cicero would sooner perish.”

“Enough.”

He withdrew, tentative, watching for any sign that Cicero might reach for his own dagger again. But like a loyal dog, he remained, slouched against the stone wall, chest rising and falling in labored breath.

Hiisi watched the shadows dance across his face, deepening the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the darkness beneath his lower eyelids. Against all better judgement, he closed the distance between them, muzzle to Cicero's lips, hardly even caring to swat away Cicero's hand as it came to rest weakly against his jaw. He closed his eyes for a moment, forgetting the troll blood all over him, the exhaustion of the cold, his anger and confusion. He let Cicero kiss him back eagerly, only drawn back into reality as the jester sighed softly against him.

He drew away suddenly, awkwardly, perhaps even regretfully, and clambered to his feet. Cicero, too pleased for his own good, let his head roll back against the wall and watched Hiisi sheathe his blade. To Hiisi's surprise, though, he said nothing in response.

“It would do you well,” Hiisi said, pulling the hood of his cloak over his head. “to stay alive while I'm gone.”

“The Listener intends to return, then.”

He opened his mouth, caught off guard.

“I –”

Cicero laughed, straightening up.

“Loyal Cicero will await your return then, Listener.” He then added, “I am honored that you might lie on my behalf.”

“Don't assume I will.”

Cicero shrugged.

“One doesn't have to assume.”

“Then don't make me a fool for doing so.”