Chapter 21: Itinerant Assassins

Warnings: A tiny smutty scene and some violence. (Are you even surprised, dear reader?)

It is a particularly dark, moonless night, and it is difficult for Lumen to see the outline of Cicero's body in the darkness of their tent. But she doesn't need to see him to tell that he's awake. His breathing is slow and steady, but he's oddly silent. Most nights Lumen falls asleep with Cicero chattering away in her ear. But ever since their visit with the resident hagraven, he hasn't had much to say.

"Hey." Lumen scoots closer to him and rests her hand on his chest. After having her hands in the chest of a dead man, it feels rather nice to touch a living one. "What's wrong? Are you getting sick? You're not usually so quiet."

"Cicero is not sick," he says. "Cicero is just lost in thought."

"You often are," she says, a little concerned at the abnormally flat tone of his voice. "But you usually share them with me."

He breathes a silent, humorless laugh. "You would not appreciate my thoughts tonight."

"You're angry with me," Lumen says slowly. A lot of people have been angry with her in her lifetime, and many have downright hated her, and it's not something that ever bothered her. It's not as if she actually has time for what people feel. But with Cicero, it's different. Everything always is, and everything is always infinitely more complicated too. "Is this about our traveling situation?"

"Cicero is not angry," he says quickly, resting his hand upon hers. "Cic- I am worried. I told you before that I do not trust the dog. He tried to kill you just a few days ago and now you are traveling alone with him." Cicero sighs and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "It is stupid to risk your life just to save some time, and I do not appreciate the position you have put me in."

"Exactly what position have I put you in?"

"Cicero has to choose between tending to Mother, or protecting you, Listener," he says, and though his voice is calm, there is a stiffness to each syllable, betraying his barely controlled anger. "I cannot do both."

"You will tend to Mother," Lumen says."I can protect myself, you know. I've endured worse company than Arnbjorn's and I won't turn away help when it's freely offered to me."

"Cicero would like it if you reconsidered," he says quietly. "Just wait so Cicero can go with you."

"Why do you want to go? You're not exactly built for mountain climbing, and that beautiful, fair skin of yours would become horribly chapped in the cold, bitter wind." At those words, she allows her hand to roam across his torso, suddenly feeling the need to explore every inch of that beautiful, fair skin. "That would be a tragedy."

"It will be a tragedy if the Listener is killed because she is too trusting," Cicero snaps.

Lumen can't help but laugh at that. "Trusting? Me? Did you hit your head?" she asks, still laughing when a highly annoyed Cicero finally shoves her hand away. "I trust Arnbjorn about as far as I can throw him. But he's offered to help and I'm going to take it. This way we can both do what we need to do. You need to tend to Mother and I need to learn that Shout."

"Maybe you just want to be alone with the dog," he mutters, rolling onto his side with his back to Lumen.

"Oh my gods," she breathes, moving closer to him. "I distinctly remember you telling me you weren't jealous of Arnbjorn, but I think you are."

"I am not," Cicero says tersely. "If the Listener wishes to have multiple lovers, Cicero will not object. I would just prefer it if you would tell me about it, rather than sneaking off."

"That is not what's going on here, I can promise you that." Lumen grabs his shoulder, urging him to roll onto his back so she can look him in the eyes, despite the near pitch darkness of their little tent. "Are you telling me that you don't care if I sleep with other people?"

"Cicero does not own you, sweet Listener. You are free to do as you please."

"And you wouldn't be jealous?" she asks, genuinely curious. All her past lovers had always been the excessively jealous types. Needless to say, those relationships never lasted very long.

"As long as Cicero is your favorite, he sees no reason to be jealous," he says, and though she can't see it, Lumen is relieved to hear the smile in his voice.

"You don't have anything to worry about," Lumen whispers, leaning close and brushing her lips across his in a gentle kiss. "You'll always be my favorite."

A small gasp escapes him. "Really?" he asks quietly.

"Yes, really," she says, not quite understanding the gravity of what she just said. But the tone of his voice and the way he desperately grabs her hand tells her all she needs to know. Lumen tries to think of a way to change the subject, because the air in the tent is too heavy, the mood too intense, and there are entirely too many butterflies in her stomach. "For what it's worth, I don't have my eyes on anyone else. But if I did, I would tell you."

"Thank you," Cicero murmurs.

"You know what I think?" Lumen asks, straddling him and running her fingers across his exposed chest. "I think my favorite needs someone to tend to him for a little while."

"What do you have in mi-" Cicero yelps, squirming beneath Lumen when her fingers dance across a particularly sensitive spot on his stomach. "Ooh! L-Listener! That tickles!"

"What do I have in mind?" Lumen grins as she pushes his legs apart, settling in between them as she drags her fingers down his torso. She only stops when she reaches the hem of his pants. "Well, I could tell you," she purrs, tugging at the laces and rather pleased to feel the ridge of an erection straining against his trousers. Tickling almost always has that effect on him. "Or I could show you. Which would you prefer?"

"I think you know," Cicero says, his voice thick with desire.

Lumen dearly wishes she knew how to cast a magelight spell, because she wants to see him. She can feel him writhing beneath her light, teasing touches, but it would be so much better if she could see him coming undone and looking utterly ruined because of her. She absolutely hates having to admit that she can't cast, but-

"Cicero…"

"Hm?" he grunts, clearly more interested in focusing on the hand stroking his erect shaft, rather than engage in conversation.

"Do you know a magelight spell?" she asks, feeling the cold prickle of embarrassment wash over her. "I don't and um- I can't see anything."

For a few moments, Cicero says nothing. The only sounds escaping him are soft puffs of breath and the occasional muffled moan. There's absolutely no way he's too caught up in the moment to respond, and Lumen knows he's trying not to laugh at her woeful lack of magic. She's been laughed at before, and she supposes an elf that cannot cast is a rarity indeed. But Cicero is too smart to outright laugh at a woman who's got a firm grip on his cock. "I know the spell," he finally says, and a small, pale orb of light forms in his palm. A flick of his wrist sends the orb floating to the top of the tent, illuminating the two assassins in the soft glow of magical light.

Lumen smiles at the sight of him propping his head up with his hands so he can watch her. Seems like she's not the only one who was wishing for a little light. "Thank you," she says, her eyes meeting his as her lips caress the tip of his cock.

"You are-" his words break off in a gasp. "-welcome," he groans.

They do not speak again for quite some time.

Arnbjorn can hear the soft murmur of a conversation coming from within the Listener's tent, and he is grateful his two companions are being somewhat quiet. He would love to sleep, but he's too restless to do so. But the silence- or near silence, anyway, is rather nice. Well… It was nice right up until the flare of a magelight spell catches his eye, and he glances toward the Listener's tent. He can only see their silhouettes, but he can see enough to get a pretty damn good idea of what is going on in the tent. He turns away, and when Cicero gives up on remaining quiet, Arnbjorn decides a walk around the camp is in order.

He does not want to see or hear any of that.

Arnbjorn walks swiftly and without aim, the tents and waning fires of the camp whipping by him in a blur. He needs space. He needs to be alone and to think. Because jealousy is burning white hot in his chest and fueling the raging fires of his grief. He doesn't desire the elf. He's not even sure if he likes the elf. But he is shamefully jealous of the intimacy the elf and her pet clown share.

He misses Astrid so much.

He had been missing her long before she died, but he never stopped loving her. Just because their passion had cooled did not mean there was no love between them. She was always focused on the Brotherhood, and that's one of the reasons he loved her. That fierce determination is how she broke through all his defenses in the first place. Unfortunately, that determination devolved into a single-minded focus. An obsession. And it was ultimately her downfall. The emperor contract took over their lives, and the addition of the Listener made her so paranoid. But at times he wonders if he added to that paranoia. Arnbjorn never tried to be discreet when he looked someone over, and Astrid never cared if he did, because he came home to her. Always. But then Lumen happened. She was all dark skin, long hair and soft curves, and there was no harm in looking was there? Not unless Astrid noticed. Everyone could tell she felt threatened by Lumen being the Listener, and perhaps Arnbjorn's wandering eyes had only added to that. And maybe, just maybe, she started to suspect that something more had happened...

"Stop," he growls at himself. There is no reason to wallow, no reason to pick things apart and incessantly wonder what went wrong. Astrid is dead. It doesn't matter anymore.

"Is there a problem, Nord?"

Arnbjorn had been so lost in thought, he didn't realize how far he'd walked. He's at the edge of the camp, near a look out point where Uraccen is sitting, bow and arrow in hand. "No," he says. "No problem."

Uraccen tilts his head. "Truly? When a man is wandering around in the middle of the night, rubbing his face and talking to himself, it usually means there is a problem."

"There's no reason to discuss a problem that can't be fixed."

"I suppose you are right." Uraccen smirks at him. "You will always be a Nord, and try as I might, that is something I cannot change."

Arnbjorn grins in spite of his rotten mood, but he does not respond. The man is only teasing him, and means no harm. But Arnbjorn isn't exactly in a playful mood at the moment, and silence seems to be the best response.

"What in Oblivion is that?" Uraccen stands, quickly nocking an arrow.

Arnbjorn follows his line of sight, and he spots two, glowing eyes in the darkness. The soft, distant sound of hooves tells him that the creature coming toward the came in none other than Shadowmere. But Uraccen, being merely human and not blessed with lycanthropy, will not be able to hear the hooves until the horse gets closer. "It's just our horse," he tells the man. "Wasn't he outside the grotto where you captured us?'

"Are you seriously telling me that a horse has eyes like that?" Uraccen gasps, lowering his bow. "No, he wasn't outside the grotto. I would remember a horse that had glowing eyes."

Ah, the clown and the elf must have left Shadowmere at the Falkreath stables. Probably a good thing, considering everything that happened at the grotto. Shadowmere would've attacked the Forsworn, and while the horse is a nearly unstoppable creature of the Void, he probably wouldn't fare so well against a contingent for Forsworn warriors.

Shadowmere approaches Arnbjorn, nuzzling him and grunting, a sure sign that he is pleased that he's still a part of the family. The horse always did seem to favor him above anyone else in the family, and it seems like that has not changed. "At least someone missed me," Arnbjorn murmurs, gently rubbing the horse's nose.

"Leave it to the Dark Brotherhood to have a horse that looks like a daedra straight from the Deadlands," Uraccen comments, a hint of admiration in his voice. "Wherever did you find him?"

"Shadowmere is one of us," Arnbjorn tells him. "He was a part of the family long before I ever joined up."

The man looks a little unnerved, but soon his easy smile is back in place. "Are there any other murderous pets that may come looking for you? I'd like to know, just so I don't shoot them."

"No," Arnbjorn says as he strokes Shadowmere's neck. "The only other Dark Brotherhood pet is the clown, and he's already here, so…"

Uraccen laughs at that. "I get the feeling I'd be making you quite happy if I fired an arrow his way. But harming the Dragonborn's lover is probably bad for one's health, am I right?"

"You aren't wrong," Arnbjorn growls, knowing all too well just how far the Listener is willing to go to protect the Keeper. Maybe he should consider himself lucky that the elf tried to manipulate him in the way that she did, otherwise he'd probably be dead. He isn't certain what is worse; Hircine's Hunting Grounds or the odd mix of emotions that assail him everytime he looks at her. What had possessed him to offer to take her to High Hrothgar, anyway? He must be going insane. Perhaps whatever madness the clown has is contagious.

"I'll keep my arrows in their quiver, then," the man says, seemingly oblivious to Arnbjorn's brooding. Or, he's noticed and is offering a distraction. "I spent almost two decades of my life underground, and I have no desire to return there just yet."

"You were in Cidhna Mine with Madanach?" Arnbjorn asks, remembering tales of the Markarth Incident, Madanach, and his stint in the mine. Although every story was different depending on who was telling it and their overall sobriety at the time. "That's a long time to be locked up. It's a wonder you aren't completely insane."

"I never said I wasn't!" Uraccen laughs, but the laughter quickly fades and something solemn takes its place. "And you are right, that is a long time to be locked up. I had a daughter, you know. I had been looking forward to holding my little girl again after missing so much of her life."

"Had been," Arnbjorn murmurs. "What happened?"

Uraccen shrugs. "She was killed, but I don't know who killed her. So I am content to blame the Silver-Blood family," he says, glaring fiercely into the distance. "At least most the Silver-Bloods are dead. Unfortunately, Thongvor is still alive and a little more difficult to get to."

"Not for everyone."

"No? I've heard he's taken to locking himself inside the Treasury House. We could go after him, but our resources are limited and we need to focus on organizing our people, rather than going after one man for revenge," Uraccen says. "Revenge will come in time, I suppose. I am just tired of waiting."

"Do the Sacrament," Arnbjorn suggests. "It wouldn't be as satisfying as killing him yourself, but at least he would be dead."

Uraccen stares at him for a moment, the scowl on his face easing with each passing second. "I guess I forgot who I was talking to for a moment there," he says quietly. "A tempting idea, but the Forsworn able to to their own killing."

"The Forsworn are certainly capable, there's no doubt about that," Arnbjorn says, remembering a few occasions when he had to deal with the Forsworn when he was a Companion. "But you just said your resources are stretched thin, and your priorities elsewhere. There's no shame in hiring a little outside help when you need something done." Arnbjorn has no desire to aid the Forsworn, not that he has anything against them. Their fight with the Nords of the Reach has nothing to do with him, and he really doesn't feel the need to get involved. He does, however, need proof of Lumen's Listener status. Arnbjorn can believe she is the Dragonborn. He's seen her take a dragon's soul with his own eyes, but he's not completely sold on the elf being the Listener. But if Uraccen does the Black Sacrament and Night Mother does communicate this to the elf, Arnbjorn might be a little more open to accepting her as the leader of the Dark Brotherhood.

"I- I'll think on it." Uraccen scratches his chin, his brow furrowed in thought. "I'll run the idea by Madanach. See if he's interested. Don't hold your breath, though."

Arnbjorn nods and bids the man goodnight. He's tired, and if the elf and the clown aren't finished by the time he makes it back to their camp, he plans to dump a bucket of cold water on the horny idiots just so he can get some sleep.

By morning, the three assassins are scrambling to pack their gear. While they are not so eager to be on the road, they are eager to have a safe place to rest come nightfall.

"Are you sure you have everything you need? You didn't pack much food at all." Lumen digs through Cicero's pack, knowing she's being a little overbearing, but not caring in the least. He'll have Shadowmere with him and he is a seasoned assassin, and she knows he'll be fine on his own. But that does little to ease her worries. They've been around each other constantly since they moved to Dawnstar, and the thought of being apart is unsettling, though she doesn't understand why.

Cicero gently swats her hands away. After closing his pack, he hefts it over his shoulder to prevent her from digging through it for a third time. "Cicero is only traveling for one day, sweet Lumen. He has everything he needs to survive," he says, clearly amused at her odd behavior. "This is not the first time Cicero has traveled alone, you know."

"I know that, but-"

"Cicero would also like to remind you that this is your idea," he says, turning away from her and heading to where Shadowmere is grazing. "You are the one who is too stubborn to do things Cicero's way."

"I am not being stubborn." Lumen stomps after him. "I'm being efficient."

"Whatever you want to call it, sweetness," Cicero purrs, glancing over his shoulder to grin at her before turning back to the task of strapping his pack to Shadowmere's saddle. "Still, Cicero does not mind being cared for by his Listener, he just wishes it involved more caring and less fussing."

Lumen grumbles and folds her arms. "You have the letter I wrote for Nazir, yes?"

He turns to face her, patting one of the many pouches lining his belt. "Cicero has it on his person and will deliver it directly to Nazir," he says. "Do not worry."

She smiles weakly at Cicero, but it vanishes when she catches sight of Arnbjorn striding toward them. He is walking swiftly and scowling as deeply as ever, with his cold, silver eyes focused right on her. Considering how he's looking at her, Lumen has half a mind to run, and the only comfort is that he doesn't have a weapon drawn. Not that he needs one.

"Are you ready to go?" he growls at her. "I've been waiting for half an hour. Say your goodbyes to the clown and let's get moving."

"Fine," Lumen snaps, before turning her attention back to Cicero. "I'll see you in a week or so." After a moment of awkward internal fumbling, Lumen wraps her arms around the jester, squeezing him tight. "Say hi to Mother for me," she says, trying desperately to keep their goodbye as lighthearted as possible.

"I will, sweet Listener." Cicero's gaze slides to Arnbjorn, and his grin grows wider when he says, "And if the mutt starts humping your leg, just be sure to give him a good swat on the nose."

Lumen heaves a sigh. "Okay. Maybe I won't miss the little shit as much as I initially thought."

Arnbjorn winces and curls his lip in the most vehement display of disgust Lumen has ever seen. It's hard not to be downright offended by his revulsion. "That most certainly will not happen," he snarls. "Come on, elf. Quit stalling and let's go. Madanach agreed to give us one of his horses. A horse isn't much use out here in these mountains and they only acquired them because they needed something to haul the cart they had us in."

"Ah, well that will make the trip a little easier if we don't have to walk-"

"Oh, no. I'm not sharing a horse with you. I'm walking, and I'm putting your slow ass on the horse so it will only take us one day to get to Ivarstead rather than three."

"My what?"

"There are other terms I could use, but I am being polite," he says, a vicious grin on his face. "But those short, stubby legs of yours will only slow us down. So on the horse you go."

"St- stubby?!" Lumen gasps, and her insult turns to anger when Cicero actually laughs. Furious, she stomps away from the two men before she completely loses her temper and murders them both.

There is no doubt about it. This trip is going to be a fucking nightmare.

Three hours on the road and not a single word has passed between them. Not that Lumen's taciturn companion has tried to start a conversation. The silence is starting to grate on her nerves, but she's refusing to speak to the insufferable man on principle. Still, she is beginning to miss the bustle and noise of the Forsworn camp, and even though she's still a little irritated at him for laughing at Arnbjorn's mockery of her legs, she misses Cicero's incessant chattering even more. His jokes and stories of Cyrodiil would be a welcome distraction, because all Lumen can think about is the letter in her pocket. Funny something that is nothing more than parchment and ink could have her stomach twisting into knots and a cold sweat breaking out across her skin.

Malrian. Gods, just the syllables of his name are enough to send her into a state of panic, and the notion that he is one step closer to finding her might send her into a frenzy of terror if she thinks about it too much. It's no surprise that he would think to look for her here, it's not as if she's done a good job of laying low. If he's still in Cyrodiil now, he won't be for long, and Skyrim certainly isn't big enough for the two of them. Just the thought that he might be in Skyrim, or will be soon, has her itching to run.

Worst of all is the fact that he doesn't want her dead. Of course he doesn't. He wants her to submit to Thalmor re-education, which is just a fancy term for torture. Torture that will probably, ultimately result in her death by Malrian's hand. The Eight only know what horrors he plans to subject her to before he either kills her or she succumbs to her injuries.

"It can't be any worse than the things he did before I escaped," she tells herself, and then realizes how very wrong she is. Malrian is a sadist, and a rather imaginative one at that.

In the past, whenever she thought things couldn't get any worse, they always did. Always.

There was a time when she had learned to cope with his cruelties, but after a particularly warm summer when his family came to visit, things got worse. Especially after they left. Malrian became more cruel, and Lumen more defiant. It was a virulent combination. She can recall so many times she thought she was truly going to die. She remembers a time when he held his dagger inside her mouth, tapping it against each of her teeth and vividly describing to her a time when he'd removed a prisoner's teeth with the very same dagger. The only comfort she had was the fact that he was too vain to permanently disfigure his own pet- well, where others could see, anyway. There are, in fact, multiple scars upon her psyche. After that one, fateful summer, he developed a morbid fascination with mentally tormenting her after he discovered that mental pain affected her more than physical pain ever did.

Lumen grips the reigns of her horse tighter and closes her eyes. It's everything she can do to keep the tears from falling. To keep from screaming. Memories are coming back to her in waves, tormenting her and forcing her to relive the worst moments of her miserable life. She wishes Delphine never gave her that damn letter, and just when she is about to fall into despair the unmistakable sound of an arrow being unleashed yanks her back to reality.

The arrow plunges into Arnbjorn's shoulder with a wet thud.

He staggers forward, stunned. Lumen spots the archer and lets a dagger fly, the blade burying itself deep in the archer's chest. There is a moment of silence and then the forest erupts with the clamor of battle cries and swords being unsheathed. Four, furious bandits leap from the trees as the fifth lies dead on the side of the road.

The bandits are not inexperienced, but Lumen has been on edge for hours, and the chance to spill blood is a welcome distraction from the anxiety that has been eating away at her. She leaps from her horse with Dragonbane in her hands, the ancient, enchanted blade slicing through leather armor and flesh as easily as a hot knife slices through butter. Two bandits fall by her hand, as two others converge on Arnbjorn.

Arnbjorn growls in pain from the arrowhead lodged in his shoulder, and while the wound does not prevent him from swinging his giant battle axe, it does slow him down a bit. Lumen goes to his aid, rushing up behind a bandit and spearing him with Dragonbane as Arnbjorn relieves the man of his head. Lumen turns away from the spray of blood, groaning in disgust when she feels it coating her hair and the side of her face. Arnbjorn is similarly covered in the man's blood, but he doesn't flinch or even give pause. Instead, he spins around to attack the last, remaining bandit who is staring in horror at the lolling head of her companion. The flat side of the axe smacks her in the head with a sickening pop, and she crumples to the ground.

"Damn it, elf," Arnbjorn growls, rounding on Lumen. It takes all her will not to take a step back. He is covered in blood, seething with rage and gripping his battle axe so tight his knuckles have turned white. "Don't tell me you didn't hear them coming!"

"What? I didn't hear anything until the archer shot the arrow!" Lumen wipes the blood from her face, her hands still shaking from the thrill of battle.

"It was too late at that point, wasn't it?" he snarls, dropping his axe to the ground and reaching for the arrow sticking out of his shoulder. Unfortunately for Arnbjorn, the arrow is just out of his reach. A fact that only serves to rile him further.

Lumen sheaths Dragonbane, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. "This is not my fault!" she snaps, furious. Her mind had wandered, which is dangerous to do while traveling the roads of Skyrim, and she's even more upset that Arnbjorn has the audacity to call her out on it. "You should have heard them, or smelled them, or whatever your stupid werewolf powers do!"

"I told you to keep your damn eyes on the trees!" he snarls, finally giving up on trying to grab at the arrow. "Instead you had your head in the clouds!"

"It was an accident!" Lumen snaps, kicking at the body of the headless bandit.

"So was your birth!"

Lumen sucks in a deep, unsteady breath. Too angry to speak, and fearing that she might Shout Arnbjorn to pieces if she did. Instead, she stomps away from him to retrieve her dagger from the archer's corpse and search the bodies for anything valuable. Behind her, she can hear the shuffle of footsteps and a grunt as Arnbjorn sits down on a boulder to struggle with the arrow.

"I need you to pull the arrow out," he finally says, after a brief war with his pride.

There is an array of insults sitting on her tongue, just waiting to be unleashed. But Lumen keeps her spiteful comments unsaid, content to ignore Arnbjorn as long as she possibly can. So she acts as if she didn't hear him and continues to loot the bodies of the fallen bandits.

"Elf." he sighs. "Will you pull the arrow out… Please?"

Lumen hums quietly as she tugs the boots off of a dead bandit, and is rather pleased when a few septims come rolling out of one.

"Tidbit-"

That forces her to stop ignoring him. "Don't you 'tidbit' me, you jackass!" she shrieks, lobbing the boot at him and just narrowly missing. "You don't get to yell at me and insult me, and then call me that! If you want my attention- if you want my help, you will call me by my actual fucking name!"

He draws back, surprised by the force of her reaction. "Lumen," he says her name like it pains him. "Will you pull the arrow out?"

"I will try," she says, somewhat mollified by Arnbjorn complying with her wish. After collecting a waterskin and a clean rag from her pack, she carefully cleans the blood from the wound so she can better inspect it. "You were able to swing your axe, so I assume it's not in the bone. So, if nothing else, you've got that going for you."

"Thank the daedra for small favors, I guess," he mutters. "There's a skinning knife in my pack if you need to cut it out."

Lumen carefully pulls at the skin on either side of the wound, trying to get a better look at the arrowhead itself. "I think I can pull it out," she tells him. "It's going to hurt, though."

"It can't hurt any worse than it already does."

"Take a deep breath," she instructs, and when he does, Lumen carefully and quickly slides her fingers inside the gash. Gripping the arrow near the base of the arrowhead, she tugs once, twice, and upon the third attempt the arrow slides free.

Arnbjorn lets loose a deep, wheezing gasp of pain mingled with relief. "Shit…"

"Funny how the smallest injuries can often be the most painful," Lumen comments, tossing the arrow aside before applying pressure to the seeping wound on Arnbjorn's shoulder. "And before you ask, no, I don't know any healing spells. The best I can do is stitch it together."

"Later," he says, glancing up at the position of the sun in the sky. "I'm more concerned with finding a stream we can wash the blood off before we start to attract flies."

"And we probably shouldn't waltz into Ivarstead covered in gore, anyway."

"I don't know about you, but I certainly don't plan to do any waltzing," Arnbjorn says, a rare, true smile gracing his lips.

"That would be a sight to see," Lumen says, stepping away from him to minimize contact and to shake off the strange, awkward feeling coming over her. Are they actually… joking? Is Arnbjorn even capable of good humor, or did one of the bandits bash him over the head when she wasn't looking?

"Hey, um- thank you, by the way," he says gruffly. "For taking the arrow out."

"You're welcome," she says, half-stunned.

"I can't believe you threw a boot at me."

Lumen grins. "Well, I wasn't going to throw the gold!"

To her immense surprise, Arnbjorn actually laughs.

There isn't much that frightens Nazir. Not after traveling the world, and certainly not after joining up with the Dark Brotherhood. But when the Night Mother's Keeper strides into the Sanctuary without Lumen or Arnbjorn, Nazir breaks out into a cold sweat. He needs the Listener around to control the Keeper, and the Brotherhood needs the Listener around to, well, Listen. If she's dead, the Brotherhood will fall apart all over again, and Nazir doesn't think he could handle it a second time.

He watches Cicero trot down the stairs leading to the communal area. "Where is she?" he asks, the urgency in his voice betraying his normally stoic expression. "What happened?"

"Oh, not to worry! The Listener and Arnbjorn are on their way to Ivarstead to speak with the Greybeards," Cicero chirps, dumping his traveling pack in a chair and scurrying over the kitchen fire. He peers into the cooking pot, the contents of a potato and leek stew boiling within. "Is this done? Cicero is starving."

"Er- yes. It should be," Nazir says, staring at the jester pilfering the dinner he'd made for himself. Good thing he made extra. "Am I to assume you two managed to work out your differences with Arnbjorn?"

"For the most part," Cicero says, and Nazir doesn't miss how the man's brow furrows slightly. "Cicero does not know when they will be home, perhaps a week. Perhaps more. It depends on how long it takes sweet Lumen to learn a Shout that will knock a dragon from the sky."

Nazir isn't sure what to make of that information. He'll leave the dragon-killing to the Dragonborn and just focus on what he's good at; murder and money. "Right, well. Hopefully she comes home sooner rather than later. We still have plenty of gold left over from the emperor contract but it won't last us forever."

Cicero ladles stew into two bowls, placing one in front of Nazir and setting the other down for himself. "Lumen wrote a letter for you," he says, pulling said letter from his pocket and handing it to Nazir before taking a seat. "She wants to start looking for new recruits and she also said Cicero is to help!"

"Oh, good," Nazir breathes. "Babette is actually tracking down a potential recruit as we speak. I was afraid the Listener might not be happy with us taking the initiative but- well, it was getting rather boring around here." He takes the Listener's letter, flipping it open and scanning the contents of the very brief, explicative-filled set of instructions. "Her writing is as crude as she is," he laughs.

Cicero grins. "The Listener was in one of her moods when she wrote that."

He sets the letter aside, running his fingers over his knotted beard. "Astrid and I had a list of potential recruits. The list was lost in the fire, and I don't remember any of the names, but there was one man in particular who was at the top of the list. We just hadn't gotten around the recruiting him yet."

There is a short moment of tense silence at the mention of Astrid's name, but eventually Cicero asks, "Do you know where Cicero might find this man?"

"Morthal," Nazir says, willing himself to remember more and coming up short. Not a surprise, really. So much had happened between then and now. "He lives out in the swamps." Nazir sighs in frustration. "I don't remember his name. I think it started with an L, but I can't be certain. He is a mage. A fairly young one, if I recall correctly."

"Ah, it does not matter. Cicero will find him," he says cheerfully. "So what did the swamp-mage do to attract the attention of the Dark Brotherhood?"

"I am not sure," Nazir says, breaking off a piece of bread to dip in his stew. "All I know is that he's rather skilled at getting in and out of places undetected. A valuable skill for any assassin."

"This is not much to go on," Cicero comments in between bites of his stew. "Not much at all."

"What, you mean you don't want to go searching for a nameless mage through the swamps of Morthal?" Nazir grins at the Keeper. "If you're not up to the challenge, I can go instead," he offers, though he would really rather not.

"Cicero did not say anything of the sort, he just wishes he had a name or a definite location. This is all a bit vague," he says, shrugging. "But is does not matter. Cicero is very good at finding things and he will find this swamp-mage."

"I have the utmost faith in your abilities, Keeper," Nazir murmurs, grinning at the unconvinced look Cicero throws his way.

With his bowl scraped clean, Cicero sighs contentedly before pushing away from the table. "Cicero will leave for Morthal tomorrow," he tells Nazir. "Tonight Cicero must tend to Mother, and to do that he does require some privacy."

"Say no more, Keeper," Nazir says, grabbing the empty bowls from the table to wash them. He has absolutely no desire to find out what the Keeping Ritual entails, anyway. "I'll clean up in here and then retire for the night. You and the Night Mother will have all the privacy you need."

It is not difficult for Cicero to figure out where the mysterious swamp-mage is hiding. After plying a drunk guard with just enough mead to loosen his already wagging tongue, he tells Cicero there is a mage out in the swamps who does odd experiments. What kind of experiments, the guard does not know, he only mentions that he's glad the man has the decency to live outside the city limits, unlike Falion. The innkeeper tells him the mage occasionally comes to the city for a bite to eat and to visit the local alchemist, and then he leaves and he won't be seen again for weeks on end.

Cicero finds this all very interesting. If the mage is an expert at remaining concealed, then he's only letting the townsfolk see what he wants them to see, and Cicero wants to know what the mage doesn't want them to see. What could he be up to?

The night is rather eerie. The aurora has fizzled out and Secunda is in full, casting a strange, pale light across the foggy marsh. Masser is waxing, and is merely a small, sliver of red in the night sky. It's the perfect night for a hunt. But Cicero's knows this particular hunt will not end in a kill. Or it shouldn't, at least. Not unless things go horribly wrong and the mage tries to kill him first, in which case, Cicero will have to teach him a lesson.

The mage's house is hidden away in a thick, grove of evergreen trees, and Cicero would not have seen it had it not been for the faintest flicker of firelight seeping beneath the gap in between the door and the doorjamb. As Cicero draws nearer to the small cabin, the sounds of the night become almost deafening. Strange birds squawk in the trees and there are loudly buzzing insects hovering over the near stagnant waters of the swamp. The closer he moves to the cabin, the stronger the smell of death becomes. It is so strong, in fact, that he actually blanches. And while it's too dark to see them, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that there are bodies rotting in the water. Not just a normal mage then. What could he be? A necromancer? A maniacal vivisectionist? A cannibal? The possibilities are endless and Cicero cannot wait to find out.

The hint of danger in the air makes all of Cicero's senses become more alive. The darkness of the night fades, and all movement slows. He moves carefully through the knee-high brush, sticking to higher, drier ground, lest his boots get stuck in the mud. He must have made a mistake somewhere, some, noisy misstep that gave him away. Or perhaps, what happens next is nothing more than a silly coincidence.

The door opens, and in it, stands a tall, skinny Nord mage. His short blond hair is illuminated by the candlelight within his cabin, surrounding him in a strange, otherworldly aura. The odd, forced smile upon his lips reminds Cicero of his own.

"Oh, my. What do we have here?" he asks in a voice more befitting of a teenage girl than a full grown man. "A hunter? A larcener?" He pauses, his gaze traveling across Cicero's form and eventually landing on the ebony blade strapped to his belt. The mage is half-blind. A fact Cicero plans to use to his advantage if he chooses to fight. One eye is a bright, baby blue, while the other is sightless and milky-white. "A fellow traveler, I see."

"An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood, to be exact." Cicero fingers the hilt of his blade, ready to draw it at a moments notice. "I am not here to kill you, though. Oh, no. The Dark Brotherhood wishes to recruit you," he says, his voice dropping into that low, seldom used timbre. "Interested?"

The young mage is stunned silent for a moment, his eyes wide as he processes all that Cicero has said. Finally, his mouth pulls back into a wide smile and he says, "Absolutely." He wavers on the spot, his fingers twisting into his filthy, bloodstained robes. "Oh, oh. Where are my manners. Won't you come in?"

Cicero reminds himself to be on guard, for the mage's friendly demeanor could be nothing more than a facade. But he nods his acquiescence. "My name is Cicero, by the way. And you are?"

"My name is Luka."

Notes: Yes, that last line is a quote from a Suzanne Vega song. I couldn't help myself. :) I've been looking forward to introducing Luka for quite some time. Anyway, this is kind of a bridge chapter, but I think the characterization within is important.

Next chapter: Cicero's adventures in Morthal continue, Babette visits an old friend, and Lumen and Arnbjorn continue their travels. But will they make it to High Hrothgar? Will Arnbjorn feed her to the frost troll, or will she Shout him off the mountain? It remains to be seen...