My uneven, rasping breaths echo weakly around the dimly-lit stone cavern; it's silent except for the quiet gurgle of the little stream I'm slumped in, unlike the loud, fevered battle that ended a scant five minutes ago. I've hit my head a little too hard if the way my attention drifts and my vision blurs in and out is any indication. I know, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I've only been sitting here for a short time, but it feels like an eternity. As my eyesight comes back into focus, I try to take stock of my injuries again.

Broken ribs?

Check.

Magefire burns?

Check.

Broken or sprained wrist?

Check.

Multitude of bruises?

Check.

Several sluggishly bleeding and possibly poisoned cuts?

Check.

Concussion?

Check.

I snort in dark amusement, only to immediately regret it when my ribs flare in fiery agony. I'm going to die here, sprawled in a black little stream, surrounded by draugr corpses and one particularly irksome but extremely dead necromancer. Well, there are worse ways to die, I suppose. At least I'm surrounded by evidence of my battle prowess.

…my nose itches.

Pale blue light suddenly washes over my surroundings, reflecting eerily off the lichen-covered stones and the stream's rippling surface; in some places, the light illuminates a much thicker, gooey red fluid that stains the rocks. A rather alarming amount of gooey red fluid, actually. That can't be good.

"Amara."

"Hello, Lucien," I say distractedly. I attempt to lift one hand to relieve the itch on my nose but said hand only slides pathetically across the streambed to bump against my thigh.

I can't even lift my own hand.

The realization makes something like amused hysteria bubble up in my chest, and it's all I can do not to laugh aloud. Because if I start laughing, who's to say that's where it'll stop? I don't want to cry in front of Lucien; I'm the Listener, I'm supposed to be better than that.

"What mess have you gotten yourself into this time, my littlest sister?" the spectral assassin asks without preamble, crouching on the balls of his feet in front of my slumped form. The water makes an odd pattern around his legs, as if it can't decide whether to pass through his ghostly form or part around it.

"Not my fault," I mumble defensively, struggling to keep my chin up. "I was doing fine until that dumb mage took me by surprise. 's dead now anyways."

"And why, precisely, did you leave the Sanctuary without an escort?" It's normally quite difficult to see Lucien's facial features, what with his glowing, semitransparent blue form, but in the murky gray darkness of the crypt I can see one eyebrow rise sharply as he speaks. If he were corporeal, I'm sure his eyes would be flashing sternly. It reminds me so much of Alar that I'm struck speechless, mouth moving wordlessly. Divines, how long has it been since I last saw my flesh-and-blood brother? Two moons, at least. I should visit Whiterun soon.

I absolutely do not scowl petulantly at Lucien as I drag my mind back to his question. "I am Mother's chosen, Brother," I manage at last, voice noticeably weaker. "I don't need an escort." Well, that's not really the reason I left alone, but Lucien doesn't need to know that. Actually, 'stormed out' would probably be a better description than 'left', but he doesn't need to know that either. And he definitely doesn't need to know that I barred the Black Door from the outside so that Cicero couldn't immediately follow me.

"You are Mother's and Father's chosen," the specter agrees, visibly unimpressed, "which is exactly why you need an escort. You are also a mere fifteen winters, if you have forgotten." I get the impression that he knows exactly what I did earlier. Come to think of it, that's probably why he was sent; I certainly don't remember summoning him. The thought that he was sent conjures a certain image in my mind: the Nightmother, one hand braced against her forehead, eyes shut, exasperatedly sending Lucien out with the words "go stop your little sister before she gets herself killed."

And alright, maybe this time I do pout. "'s not like I knew there was more than draugr here, Lucien," I mumble tiredly, chin dropping to my chest as my strength fails me. "…just wanted to kill something that didn't have a contract on its head."

I'm surprised to hear the old assassin sigh instead of continue to scold me. "The Keeper and the Speaker are on their way," he says, his deep, rumbling voice unusually soft. "You must stay awake until they arrive, Amara."

I hesitate, lick my lips, because I'm not sure that's a promise I can keep.

"I'll try."

The specter sits down on his heels next to me and picks my not-broken hand up out of the shallow water, holding it carefully between his own. His not-quite-corporeal skin feels lukewarm against mine-a bad sign considering it should feel deathly cold-and the odd tingling sensation that accompanies a spirit's touch spreads up to my elbow. I am intensely grateful for his grip; it grounds me, keeps me from drifting off into the darkness of my own thoughts. He draws circles across my knuckles with his thumb as we wait.

I stare down at our hands through half-lidded eyes. How odd it seems, to experience such gentleness from such a deadly and revered assassin. I stare hard, so hard that I swear can see the blood that stains our hands. His more than mine, of course, but I'm so much younger that it would be truly alarming if we did match. The blood mingles between our fingers, a hundred different shades of red, dripping silently into the stream below.

I blink and the illusion vanishes.

It wasn't accurate, no. The blood should have gushed, not dripped; together, we have enough on our hands to flood this whole cavern.

"Stay awake, little sister." He squeezes my hand tightly; I force my eyes open, even though I don't remember closing them. "Stay awake just a little longer. They are almost here," he promises.

My mind wanders away on a tangent. "Alar," I whisper thickly, forcing my heavy eyelids back up. My head lists to the side as I try-and fail-to lift my chin. "I'll have—have to visit… him soon."

"Only if you stay awake," Lucien whispers. One of his hands moves, his palm molding to the curve of my cheek. The accompanying sensations, the tingling and the not-quite-cold, are enough to revive me a bit.

"Awake," I slur in agreement, fighting the leaden weights that seem to drag my eyelids down. "Yeah… st-stay 'wake. Gotta… stay."

A thumb sweeps across the dark circle under my eye.

"Have I ever told you the story of Mathieu Bellamont and the great treachery of Cheydinhal?"

If I had just a little more strength, I would laugh. Yes, big brother. You've told me this story. But I don't have strength, not to laugh or to speak. So instead I manage a tiny shake of my head.

Tell me again anyways.

He recounts the tale, the account of his own gruesome demise, with the deadly seriousness of a historian. The words fade in and out; I lose the ability to truly comprehend him before he even reaches Bellamont's mother's death. It doesn't matter. His deep voice rumbles comfortingly in my ears, safe and familiar in a way only my biological brother's embrace can match.

At some point he stops the story, or maybe reaches the end. He's shouting through the buzzing in my ears; almost-warm hands shake my shoulders; bright blue light shines through my closed eyelids. It isn't enough; despite both our best efforts, I slip inexorably into the darkness.

For a long, fathomless time, I walk the razor's edge between darkness and void, soul bared, cocooned in warm shadow as only a child of Sithis can be. I am accompanied by nothing but the indistinct murmurs of the dead and vague but comforting impressions of Mother and Father. The vagueness becomes slowly more distinct, as if I am regaining myself. Stay with us, the void murmurs sweetly to me, twining in and out of my mind like ribbons of black silk. In spirit, I lean into the embrace. Yes, yes I want to stay. I'll stay forever. I belong here. They croon in triumph at my acquiescence, sliding through me, binding me; I begin to fade away again, so lose myself, and-

"Amara."

The silent, alluring song is shattered by his voice, and I blink back to awareness in the middle of an inky void, feeling quite suddenly bereft. I find myself on my feet, clad in nothing but shadow and dried blood. My wounds are gone, and so is the pain, even when I stretch experimentally. I tear my eyes away from my unmarked but bloodstained skin and look to my brother, only to choke on my breath as I catch sight of him.

Sithis, he's real.

Or rather, he's corporeal. I can't help but stare in fascination, hands falling limply at my sides. Unlike me, he's dressed in modern Brotherhood robes, hood thrown back, complete with red finger wraps and soft black shoes. Now that he's not a semitransparent blue shade, I can tell that his skin is the usual Imperial tan, his hair dark and straight, pulled back at the nape of his neck; his nose is narrow and pointed, his eyes a soft, pale brown that seems wholly unsuited to a deadly assassin. He seems normal, like a man I would pass in the Whiterun market without a second glance; for some reason, that scares me more than his otherworldly appearance ever did.

"Lucien?" My tone is a good deal more confused and frightened than I meant it to be. "Am… am I…?"

Dead?

"No." He sweeps forward with the same predatory grace he bears in the physical world, brotherhood robes swishing softly in the silence. His feet make no sound. "The Keeper and the Speaker reached you in time, little one. You are simply… waiting."

The odd double echo that his voice normally carries is gone; I find myself missing it.

"Have you come to wait with me, then?" I ask. My hand reaches out of its own accord and, after a second's hesitation, I poke the assassin in the shoulder. He feels solid and warm. Flesh and blood. Tangible.

Real.

"Indeed," he replies impassively, intercepting my hand before I can poke him again and interrupting my minor metaphysical crisis. "And while we wait, we shall discuss your punishment."

My head snaps up abruptly, eyes widening alarm. "My what?" I splutter, trying in vain to free my wrist from Lucien's velvet-steel grasp.

"Did you think such childish impudence would remain unpunished, little sister?" There's a definite spark of amusement in his eyes, but the set of his brow is entirely stern. I duck my head sheepishly.

"I… No."

He delivers the news impassively. "You are confined to the sanctuary for a month. You will neither journey to Dawnstar, nor take on any contracts."

I rock back on my heels in dismay. "What! But—but I was going to visit Alar!"

"Nightmother's orders, Amara," Lucien adds at my protestation, patient but unyielding. I slump in defeat. How can I argue with that? Say 'no, Mother,' or 'I'm quitting the Dark Brotherhood, Mother,' or maybe 'you're not my real mother?'

Hardly.

"Did you tell Nazir?" I ask, resigned.

Lucien smirks at me and finally releases my wrist; I scowl and rub it petulantly as he speaks. "No. I came to find you once I was certain they had arrived. You have the privilege of telling them yourself." He glances around sharply, sensing something I cannot. "And soon, at that."

I glower at him and open my mouth to respond, but the void is suddenly filled with faint light.

"I'm waking up?" I ask, unexpected fear and loss churning in my gut as the soothing void fades under the deepening light.

Lucien nods, regarding me with inscrutable, hooded eyes. His corporeal form flickers to blue for a moment before reverting. He stares down at me, and something in his expression softens minutely.

"Safe passage, little Listener," he murmurs, using Cicero's nickname for me as he leans down and presses an unexpected kiss to my forehead. "Do not return to the void before your time, or I shall be…displeased."

Then the void fades away and I am whisked unwillingly from my brother and the soothing darkness, propelled back to the waking world and one very uncomfortable reality:

I'm going to have to tell Nazir and-Sithis save me-Cicero that Mother grounded me.