First things first – this is a slashfic. That means it will contain men with men. If this squicks you, please leave now; there are plenty of Lucien/female stories out there for you to choose from. Het is not my thing, however, and thus my OC will be male.

Anyway, if you quite like slash, or at least aren't completely repelled by it, read on. I do put the effort into writing good stories, so I hope you enjoy it. On with the story!

OhandbeforeIforget: Oblivion doesn't belong to me. Obviously. I'm saying it now so I don't have to repeat myself every chapter.

Chapter One

Swathed in midnight black and perfect silence, Lucien Lachance did not so much walk as glide through the twisting passages of Echo Cave. He was here by the will of the Night Mother, having travelled a week, and only resting when he absolutely had to. There were other Speakers, closer Speakers, but according to Ungolim, this was a task for Lucien only – not merely to arrange, but to fulfil.

This client had requested the very finest assassin in the Dark Brotherhood. Repeatedly, as the summoning ritual had been performed three times, with 'and send me the best, understood?' added to the end of the incantation. So, despite all inconveniences, Lucien was sent. Because he was the best, even if he did say so himself.

The Necromancer, Ungolim had told him. Not 'a', but 'The'. Tread carefully.

He wasn't one to cut corners, so tread carefully he did. With soundless footsteps, a chameleon spell, and the aid of the darkness already flooding the place, he slipped past numerous Necromancers and their lumbering, undead servants. Not one noticed as he entered the main chamber of the cave, through the icy mist of the underground lake, to where his client, a black-robed Altmer, waited.

"At long last," Mannimarco spoke before Lucien could, voice tinged with impatience, "You are the Dark Brotherhood representative, I presume?"

He rolled all his Rs, Lucien noted distantly, before inclining his head: "You presume correct. My apologies for the delay, it took some time to reach you."

"Never mind that. You are, I hope, the most capable assassin the Brotherhood could send."

Lucien gave a pleasant but oddly chilling smile, "The very best, as per your... repeated request."

"That was just to make sure. Your target is a rather elusive one," the mer's tone turned irritable, "He was a former student of mine, until he stole my Staff of Worms and disappeared. A gifted mage, but thieving by nature, and this is simply the last straw. I shall have to dispose of him."

Strange that a stolen item would warrant an assassination, but Lucien did not question his client's motives; "What does he look like?"

"Altmer. Dark eyes, light hair. Although I wouldn't be surprised if he's changed his appearance," Mannimarco told him, "He may be carrying the Staff of Worms with him – it's very distinctive, I'm sure you'll know it when you see it. It's also dear to me, so there is a bonus for you if you can return it, or at least discover it's whereabouts."

"It will be done," Lucien murmured, "And how much for this task?"

"Bonus excluded, I name four thousand septims as a fair price."

"Four thousand?" One of Lucien's eyebrows rose elegantly, "A handsome fee. Is this student of yours a dangerous one?"

"Dangerous? No. Simply impossible to find," Mannimarco grimaced, "Every Necromancer under my command has been looking for him, and they've turned up nothing, not even a corpse. He is alive, though, I'm quite sure of that," he paused, "An ordinary killer will not suffice, you understand. What I require... is a hunter."

Lucien nodded, "Rest assured, he will be found. Assuming he hasn't changed it, is there a name I can go by?"

"Ah yes, I almost forgot," Mannimarco gave a grim half-smile, "Caelan."

Caelan.

It wasn't much to go on. Even with Brotherhood members all over Cyrodil asking around on his behalf, the name turned up nothing, and the description was simply too vague to go by. For all Lucien knew, his target may have fled to Morrowind or likewise, could have changed his name, his appearance, his identity – become a new person and let the old one simply... 'disappear'. And Lucien knew from first-hand experience how easy that was to do.

After a week or two of solid searching, Lucien was starting to think that four thousand septims wasn't worth it.

He'd even stopped by Bravil to ask the Night Mother for aid, but her being the bride of Sithis, of chaos, he shouldn't have expected a straight answer. All he got was a cryptic message:

"Look for the person, not the identity."

"Look for the person..." he repeated aloud for the umpteenth time in as many days, absentmindedly stroking Shadowmere's mane, and not noticing she was munching her way through this week's food supply, "The person, not the identity... what's the difference?"

Well, identity was who you were: name, gender, nationality. How you introduced yourself, what people knew about you, how they recognised you.

But surely 'person' meant the same thing?

"Lucien Lachance. Male. Imperial. Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood," he murmured to himself – the bandit camp he was currently staying in had been abandoned some time ago, so he had no hesitation in voicing his thoughts out loud, "Cold, calculating, ruthless. Assassin. Killer."

He paused, frowning. All true words, but there was more to him than that.

"Fond of silence," he went on, "And Surilie Brothers wine. Preferably both at once. Good at Alchemy. Likes appl- hey," he reached into his bag, only to realise Shadowmere had eaten most of his lunch. "Has a greedy horse," he added somewhat scoldingly, tapping said horse on the nose, since he knew it annoyed her.

But now he knew what the Night Mother meant, at least – there was more to someone than their identity, a name and a face. There were all their likes and dislikes, their hobbies, their habits, their quirks. The things that made up the person.

So if he's a Necromancer, he'll want dark and damp conditions in which he can raise the dead- no, wait, he paused and shook his head, He'll want to avoid those places in case he runs into another Necromancer... An exasperated sigh. He was still considering profession over personality.

Thieving by nature... perhaps the Imperial City?

No. Too many people who could recognise him.

Unless...

"Just enough to get lost in a crowd," he smiled in self-assurance, and began to saddle Shadowmere for the long ride ahead. He knew exactly where to look.

The Imperial City. Hundreds of Mannimarco's followers probably passed through here every day, looking to buy mystical items, books and ingredients; there were probably a few masquerading in the Arcane University as well. Not a place to go if you were a Necromancer on the run, but then, Lucien wasn't looking for a Necromancer.

He was looking for a thief.

The Waterfront District was famed for its ill-bred and sticky-fingered residents. Given most were uneducated, mages were an uncommon sight; they would likely live in the pleasanter neighbourhoods, like the Talos Plaza, or the Elven Gardens. No intelligent and learned Necromancer would want to come here, to talk to the people, who were only too happy to point you in the wrong direction while they kindly relieved you of your septims.

Mind you, being an assassin gave you a certain 'don't-push-your-luck' aura, which meant the people he asked wisely decided to co-operate. As it turned out, there was an Altmer in the area, one apparently down on his luck if he'd been reduced to living in a shack. And one who carried absolutely nothing of value on him, several pickpockets had complained.

So he had found his target. In a place no mage – Altmer, no less – would be caught dead, and yet somewhere so ridiculously obvious that no-one would think to look there.

Sneaky elf. No wonder you haven't been caught.

Once directed to the shack, it was a simple matter of breaking in. What he hadn't expected to find, however, was piles upon piles of books stacked up to the ceiling, filling the entire room. Mostly arcane volumes, further reassurance that this was indeed the correct house.

"Caelan?" Not that he made a habit of conversing with his targets, but he couldn't really sneak up on him when he had a maze of books to navigate.

"That depends," came the sly – albeit paper-muffled – answer from an indeterminate location, "Who's asking?"

Really now, Lucien thought. He was an assassin, and yet people never expected him to be a liar as well; "I'm a neighbour, just moved in. I thought I'd come over and introduce myself."

"Oh? In that case, I'm not Caelan. Caelan? Who's that? Never heard of him."

Lucien smirked, dropping his pretence; "That was abysmal. You didn't even try."

"Neither did you," was the snippy reply, which then softened, "Well... that was quite a good Waterfront accent you put on. But you enunciate too well to live here. I've spent the last few days trying to decipher what everyone's saying."

"So you are Caelan, then?"

"Subject to change, according to askers intentions. Who and what are you, precisely? A Necromancer?"

Evidently, he'd just have to be upfront about it. Besides, it wasn't like his target had anywhere to run. "I'm from the Dark Brotherhood."

"Dark Brotherhood?" The voice suddenly perked up, and from around a corner skidded the Altmer – with, to Lucien's confusion, a rather hopeful expression on his face, "Are you here to kill me?"

Scratch that, 'confusion' wasn't strong enough; "... Yes?"

"I was hoping one would come along eventually," Caelan nodded, looking pleased, before waving Lucien along, "Follow, follow. There's not nearly enough room here, and I'd rather the books didn't get damaged."

... What?

Lucien had encountered a lack of resistance in his marks before; most put up a fight, but there were some who knew they could not escape the Brotherhood, and quietly accepted their fate. He had not, however, met one who seemed thrilled to bits at his presence. Which made him wonder if he were being led into some sort of trap, perhaps to end up as a Necromancer's experiment. He kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger, just in case.

Of course, it was difficult to wield a dagger in such close quarters – Caelan, being of a rather slim frame, moved easily between the narrow corridors of books, but Lucien had more difficulty. By the time he had eased his way through and into the clearing, Caelan was sat waiting by the bed, drumming his fingers against the rickety frame.

"So you actually want me to kill you?"

"I want you to try," there was an odd glint in Caelan's eyes that Lucien didn't like, or trust, "I don't think you'll be successful, mind. But as I recall, your contract doesn't end until I'm dead and gone."

He didn't bother trying to decipher the cryptic words; mind games were a distraction, he knew – he used them himself often enough. Instead he withdrew his dagger, and trailed it lightly over the soft skin of the Altmer's throat, enough to sting but not draw blood. If Caelan had been putting on a brave front, it would have crumbled, but there was only an expectant calm in the dark eyes. The boy was genuinely unafraid to die.

"Oh, and one more thing," Lucien murmured, and dug the knife in a little, just enough to cause a thin trickle of blood, "Where did you put the Staff of Worms? Mannimarco wants it back."

"Ah... I can't return it, I'm afraid."

"You sold it on? To who?"

"I didn't sell it," Caelan smiled apologetically, "It's... oh, long story. You'll find out after you kill me."

Lucien raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask any more questions. With the swift, practised flick of his wrist, the blade cut through the jugular vein, sending a river of red down the mer's neck and collarbone to soak his robes. His eyes went unmistakably glassy, and Caelan fell back onto the bed, the blankets absorbing the sound of the impact.

Must've thought he was invincible, Lucien mused, starting his search for the Staff of Worms. He couldn't see it, and there wasn't enough room for a chest or cabinet, which made him think Caelan had stashed it elsewhere – perhaps somewhere he could no longer access, given his words. It didn't matter, he supposed, since he still got his payment.

Just as he was turning to go, however, there came a strangled gasp from the bed, followed by a prominent hum of arcane power in the air. Frowning, Lucien turned around...

... And saw Caelan sitting up in the bed.

"Bother," the Altmer muttered, rubbing his now unmarked throat, "I had hoped an agent of Sithis would do the trick..."

Lucien, for one, did not like it when his targets didn't stay dead – and he knew he had killed the boy without error, having delivered the exact same strike countless times before. Thus, it was with a glare and a frosty tone that he spoke: "Care to explain?"

"Ah, well, you see, funny story really-" Caelan gave a somewhat nervous laugh, but stopped stalling when the glare intensified, "I... I can't die. I mean, I can, but I come back."

"Yes, I have seen that. What I want to know is why."

"The Staff of Worms," was the explanation, "It resurrects the target for thirty seconds. Or in my case, thirty seconds after I've been killed. So I can never stay dead for any longer than that."

"Because it's in your possession?" He could see why Mannimarco wanted it back... and come to think of it, he didn't have to return it, since he didn't really need that bonus... "Then just relinquish it to me."

"I can't," and just as Lucien was about to ask what curse prevented him from doing so, the mer went on: "I sort of... bound it to myself. Magically, that is. And now it's gone."

This, Lucien thought tiredly, Will be a long night.