Skyrim One-Shots

Cicero x Reader ~The Silent Steps~

A whistle pierced the cold night air, cheerful and upbeat as wagon wheels croaked. You bit on your hand- trembling as you tried not to cry. The rock was chill on your back, even as slickened with blood as it was. You had no bandages. 

You had nothing.

Nothing but a bounty on your head and elven fuckers on your every turn.

You clenched your eyes shut, snow falling onto your thin, ragged tunic.

"Oh, dear," came the laugh from what must have been only on the other side of the rock, "Cicero forgets his horses! Poor, poor ponies! Mother dearest, we must stop!"

The voice was croaky but generally hysterical, going from a mere whisper to a shout. The wagon wheels stopped their turning- the cart had stopped.

Shit.

The plop of feet against the ground was near-silent.

No forged armor, you noted. Either this person was stupid or knew his way around a dagger.

Cutthroat? Alone, at night, with a carriage? Nothing made sense- nothing could-

"Come, horsies! Dearest Cicero has water!"

You looked to the flowing river only some 10 paces away, and you bit your hand harder, begging your body to still and blend in with the darkness of the shadowing night. No footsteps were heard but the hooves snapping fallen branches echoed, closer and closer like a warning drum.

And then, you were completely still as you watched the outline of a rather short man in clothing lead two horses to the river, tying them to a tree with slack to let them graze as well.

He huffed, turning a bit and looking around.

"Cicero knows when he is alone. Cicero is not alone," he grumbled. 

Your breathing quickened. This- this was a madman! Gods, as if you couldn't have had worse luck!

The man shuffled about a bit, no doubt frowning (it was too dark to see anything but the outline of him, he had an odd hat, and that was all you could see.

"Cicero will find this little cat, oh yes, yes he will. He does not enjoy being stabbed in the night!"

You let out a whimper as a particularly sharp bolt of pain seared at your whipped back, alerting the man (Cicero?) to your approximate location in seconds and shutting you up real quick.

However, he did not move to you, no, he moved the other way.

In seconds, a sudden light of fire entered your vision.

A torch.

The man turned.

Full jester-suit, red hair, cold eyes. Softer jaw, but still sharp- rounded ears, pale, lanky frame.

He approached, flicking out a dagger from somewhere as he walked rather carefreely to you. And yet, somehow, whatever he did never made a sound, not the snow, even. He was silent as death.

He paused suddenly, nearly right in front of you, and sniffed loudly. You froze.

"Oh," he murmured, "the cat is not a cat, but a bunny. A hurt bunny. Of course, Cicero should have known. Silly, silly Cicero! A hurt bunny is no threat!"

And you met eyes with him, the torch lighting up the blood smeared all over both you and the rock you'd been hiding behind. You shook with every breath, a right mess.

He blinked.

Then he smiled.

A wide, insane, and wicked thing.