Chapter 35: Windhelm

The gates of Windhelm open with the squeaky groan of metal upon metal, and a very nervous Dragonborn steps into the city. There is a layer of fresh snow on the ground, but she is warm thanks to the enchantments Luka placed on her armor. A few curious citizens look their way, even though they have no clue who she is. Not yet, anyway. That particular thought terrifies her. She doesn't want to be known. She doesn't want her face to be in everyone's mind, and for her name to be on their lips. But such is the fate of the savior of the world.

Lumen is flanked by Arnbjorn and Cicero. Arnbjorn is dressed like a proper Nord in his blessed Savior's Hide, and then there is Cicero, who was forcibly shoved into some armor Arnbjorn crafted for him. Luka had opted to stay home on this particular trip, claiming that if he never returned to Windhelm, it would be too soon.

"Cicero does not understand why he had to give up his motley for this excursion," the Keeper grumbles. "Surely his head would be much warmer if he could wear his hat!"

"For the hundredth time, the armor is to keep you safe. It's not a punishment," Lumen snaps. Perhaps she is being a bit paranoid when it comes to Cicero's safety, but the man cannot traipse around Skyrim in nothing but an old, velvet motley. It's too dangerous. Especially since the dragons seem to be targeting them ever since their fight with Alduin.

"It is not fair," he whines. "Cicero looks so boring."

"You do not," Lumen sighs, but despite her exasperation, she turns to smile at him. "That leather armor makes your butt look great, by the way."

"Ah, and here Cicero thought Arnbjorn only paid special attention to the shape of your posterior when crafting armor," he says, chancing a glance at her rear. "Perchance he pays special attention to Cicero's shapely derriere as well?"

"Don't make it out to be more than it is," Arnbjorn grouses. "It's just the cut of the armor, nothing more."

"Ah, yes. It's just a coincidence, of course," Cicero laughs. "Which is why you always seem to walk behind our sweet Lumen with your eyes on her bum."

"You do the same thing."

"True! But Cicero is not in denial of his perversion."

"It's admiration, not perversion."

Lumen whirls around. "Would you two please shut up and behave?" she snaps. "We're nearly at the palace!"

"Sorry, tidbit," Arnbjorn says with a smile, not in the least bit contrite. "But he started it."

"Cicero was merely stating the facts," he snips. "He does not deserve to be yelled at for being honest."

Lumen heaves a sigh and marches ahead of them. Thier constant fighting is annoying enough, but the rare moments when they actually get along are even worse. Mainly because she is the focus of their teasing.

When the two Windhelm guards catch sight of a surly Bosmer heading toward the Palace of the Kings, they cross their spears in front of the doors. "State your business, elf," a guard demands.

"The Dragonborn requests an audience with Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak," she says, her voice firm, and exuding a confidence she does not truly feel. But where the Forsworn guards laughed at her, the Windhelm guards regard her in complete silence.

The guard on the left steps forward. "Which one of you is claiming to be the Dragonborn?"

"I am," she says, not missing the way the guard's hopeful eyes flick to Arnbjorn. "And it is no claim, it is a fact. I am the Dragonborn, and I have urgent business to discuss with the jarl."

"The jarl is a busy man," the guard says. "But I will see if he has time for you, elf." He nods to his companion before stepping into the palace. The guard on the right moves to stand in front of the doors. His face is completely shielded from view by a thick helmet, revealing nothing about the man but his deep, brown eyes. He watches Lumen and her companions, as if he thinks they may try something stupid, like kicking down the palace doors. Which Lumen would certainly like to do, but she has to behave herself since she's striving for diplomacy.

The minutes pass slowly, and Lumen allows herself a quiet moment to think. She's bothered by how calm Madanach was when she told him about the peace conference, and the very real possibility that he may lose Markarth to a few words, rather than a battle. Then there's Delphine, who turned her back on her when she refused to kill Paarthurnax. But really, what did the woman expect? And furthermore, who does she think she is, ordering the Dragonborn around like that?

Despite her anger, there is a sadness in losing whatever semblance of friendship there had been between them. Delphine aided her as much as she could early on when Lumen absorbed her first dragon soul. She held her hair as the newly discovered Dragonborn made herself ill when she tried to drink the memory of that day away. The Breton had even been kind and sympathetic when she gave Lumen the capture orders they found on the body of a dead Thalmor agent. It's difficult to accept that she would turn her back on her over something so trivial.

Lumen's brooding is interrupted when the doors to the palace are opened by plump man dressed in typical Nordic finery. "Come inside travelers," he says, waving them inside. "My name is Jorleif, and I am the jarl's steward. He has agreed to see you. But you are expected to disarm first. With the war going on- well, one can't be too careful, right?"

"We understand, of course." Lumen quirks a smile, wondering if General Tullius is as paranoid as Ulfric. "Where shall we place our weapons? We don't travel light."

The man seems surprised by her quick acquiescence, but he quickly recovers. "Over here," he says, leading them to an empty weapon rack off to the side of the main hall. "Normally it's like pulling teeth to get your warrior types to part with your swords."

"I am not exactly comfortable with it, but I do understand the concern," Lumen admits, as she begins the rather tedious process of disarming. She places Dragonbane on the rack, followed by her twin daedric daggers, the two smaller ones she has hidden in her boots, and finally the thin stilettos hidden in her gauntlets. Cicero is just as well armed, having hidden daggers in his boots, gloves, and even within the vest of his armor. Arnbjorn shakes his head at the sheer amount of weapons the two carry as he leans his battle axe against the wall. Lumen would like to tell him that it's unfair for him to judge considering he can grow teeth and claws if he gets into a pickle, but she bites her tongue for now.

"Is that everything?" Jorleif asks, his eyes darting back and forth between the weapons and their owners.

"Yes," she lies. "That's everything." Everything he can see, anyway. Assassins are never truly disarmed. Arnbjorn has his supernatural strength and lycanthropy. Cicero has a speed and strength most would not think he possessed, and Lumen has her Thu'um, as well as a few razor sharp hairpins holding her hair in a loose bun. Not that she thinks she will need a weapon, but she is on edge. Everyone has made Ulfric out to be some kind of monster. If he's brash enough to kill the High King and start a civil war, then he probably wouldn't think twice about killing the elven Dragonborn.

"Ah, very good," he stutters, giving the loaded weapons rack a nervous glance before leading the three assassins closer to an empty throne. "Jarl Ulfric will be just a moment. He's in a meeting, but he plans to speak with you as soon as he can." The man bows, and leaves the three alone in the large room.

"Cicero is going to sit in the fancy chair."

Lumen grabs him when he steps forward. "No you are not!" she hisses. "I told you to behave!"

"Cicero cannot help it! His butt is being inexplicably drawn to it," he says as he tries to pull away from her. "Like a moth to a flame!"

"You're not going anywhere!" She turns to Arnbjorn for help, but the Nord is standing with his arms crossed and his eyes forward, deliberately ignoring the two squabbling assassins. When it's clear he is not interesting in helping, Lumen wraps her hand around Cicero's belt, holding him tight.

"Cicero never gets to have any fun!"

"Yes you do!"

Arnbjorn only breaks his silence to shush them when two Nords enter the room. One is a grizzled, old warrior in a bearskin hood, and the other, younger warrior is dressed in steel armor and a fur cloak. He carries himself with a savage nobility that only the lords of the north seem to have. But as strong and battle worn as Ulfric may be, she does not miss the way his eyes flick to her ears, then to the far corners of the room, as if he's expecting some unseen enemy to swoop down upon them. There is an anxiety in his expression that sets her teeth on edge; a deep-seeded fear that others may not see if they don't know what to look for. Nothing is more dangerous than a man who is afraid of the shadows themselves, and on instinct, she bows her head, doing to best to look as non-threatening as a Bosmer in daedric armor can possibly look.

The older man looks to Arnbjorn, clearly hoping the Nord is the Dragonborn and that the entire elven Dragonborn rumor had been just that. But Ulfric meets her gaze with a quiet resignation in his eyes, as if he is used to being repeatedly shit on by the gods.

Lumen isn't sure which is more offensive.

"Jarl Ulfric," she says, uncertain if she is supposed to speak first, but all the silent staring is getting a bit awkward. "I have a message from the Greybeards."

"In a moment," he says, his deep voice resonating across the cavernous hall. "What is your name?"

"It's Lumen, sir."

"My steward tells me you claim to be the Dragonborn."

"I am the Dragonborn," she says tersely.

"Bah, I don't believe it," the older man snarls. "The Dragonborn cannot be an elf. At best this is a joke, and at worst it is a trick of the Thalmor. She could be one of theirs for all we know!"

"Galmar," Ulfric warns, his voice the very essence of forced calm. "The gods choose whom they choose. Who are we to question them? If Akatosh has seen fit to bestow his blessing upon an elf, then we must accept it."

"I won't accept it without proof," Galmar says, folding his arms across his large, barrel-shaped chest. "Shout for us, little elf. Prove that you are what you claim to be, or get out and stop wasting our time."

"Not the fire Shout," Arnbjorn says quickly, knowing all too well which Shout Lumen tends to favor. "We're not here to make enemies."

"Cicero thinks it might be too late for that."

"I know not to use the fire Shout indoors," Lumen snaps, then looks to Ulfric. "Do you really want me to Shout in your palace? I don't mind. It's not like I'll have to clean up the mess, but…"

Ulfric's lips curl into a shadow of a smile. "You're stalling."

Lumen grits her teeth, sorely tempted to Shout them both down, but opting for caution. "Fus!"

The two men stumble backwards, Ulfric regaining his balance easier than Galmar. "If you are truly the Dragonborn, you can do better than tha-"

"Fus Ro Dah!"

The Shout sends them both tumbling to the floor, and brings every guard in the palace rushing into the room, their swords drawn and pointed right at Lumen.

"Stand down," Ulfric says, a soft laugh escaping him as he helps Galmar up off the floor. "Stand down, I said. It's fine!"

"Satisfied?" she asks, casting a wary eye at the guards. Their swords are lowered, but they are all reluctant to leave their jarl behind. "I could show you a few more, but I'd recommend going outside for the rest of the demonstration."

"No need, Dragonborn," Ulfric says. "Your Thu'um is strong. You are who you say you are. Of that, I am certain. Now, what is this message from the Greybeards?"

"Um..." she stammers, suddenly feeling small in the shadow of the two, large Nords who are now giving her their full attention. She adjusts the pack hanging from her shoulder, heavy with the weight of potions, rations, and the dossier. "I was hoping we could speak privately, Jarl Ulfric."

"Privately?" Galmar scoffs. "Don't waste his time, Dragonborn. Jarl Ulfric's time is precious. He has a war to plan, you know."

"Everyone's time is precious considering Alduin has returned," she snaps, her limited patience finally at an end. "And now he's in Sovngarde getting fat on all the souls that are being sent there as a result of this fucking war!" Lumen clamps her mouth shut, a delayed reaction to be sure. The two Nords do not look happy with her, and Galmar is the first to voice his displeasure.

"You best mind your tongue, elf," Galmar growls. "Dragonborn or not, raise your voice again and you will find yourself in the dungeon."

"I will spare a few minutes for you, Dragonborn," Ulfric says, still looking unhappy. "But not a moment longer." With that, he turns away, ignoring the angry mutterings of his housecarl and leading Lumen to a small room off to the side of the main throne room.

She casts a worried glance at her companions before hurrying after Ulfric. Arnbjorn seems content to study the tapestries, while Cicero stares after her, beside himself with worry. There is no point in apologizing for her harsh tone. Ulfric would see right through a false apology, and she has no desire to make them. Instead, she pulls the dossier from her pack and tosses it on the table in the small, war room. It lands on the table with a loud thump, drawing Ulfric's attention.

"What's in it?" he asks. "I've no time to read it through."

"You might want to," she says, trying to keep her tone polite. "It's a dossier- your dossier, to be exact. I stole it from the Thalmor Embassy a few months back."

"Why were you at the Thalmor Embassy?" he asks, a hint of something like anger, but more like fear, edging into his voice.

"Many reasons," she says, wondering just how honest she should be. "I was scouting for information regarding the resurgence of the dragons, but I didn't find anything. I did kill a handful of Thalmor, though. So it wasn't a complete waste of time."

Ulfric reaches for the dossier, his hand hovering above it in hesitation before he picks it up and flips through it. Moments of silence pass them by as his eyes scan the pages, but he suddenly snaps it shut and drops it on the table as if it burns him. "Why give this to me?" he demands. "Is this supposed to be a threat? Because if it is, it's not a very good one."

The anger in his voice is startling, but Lumen tries to remain calm. "No," she admits. "I honestly thought you would want it."

"Why would I want this?" he says, more to himself than to her. He reaches out to caress the worn leather cover of the dossier, before remembering that he's being watched, and pulling his hand back.

"I brought the dossier as a show of good faith," she says, carefully watching him. His behavior is a little odd, to say the least. "To show you that I can be trusted. I am no Imperial spy, and I am not working for the Aldmeri Dominion. I came to Skyrim hoping to get away from the Thalmor."

"What is this about the World Eater's return?" he asks, seemingly eager to steer the conversation away from the Thalmor and back to dragons. Clearly, dragons are a more comfortable subject.

"Oh, right, that kinda coincides with the message from the Greybeards," Lumen stammers. "The Greybeards have agreed to hold a peace conference to negotiate a truce until the dragon problem has been dealt with."

"Has General Tullis agreed to attend this conference?"

"I haven't spoken to him," Lumen says. "I came to you first."

"I have the greatest respect for the Greybeards, and the dragon attacks are a growing concern. I cannot tell you how many men I've seen come back wounded or dead, not from a battle, but because of a dragon," he says, carefully measuring his next words. "But the political situation is delicate. Not all the Jarls are fully committed to supporting me as High King. I can't afford to appear weak. I can't agree to this unless Tullius himself will be there."

Lumen bites her cheek hard enough to break the skin, but it is all that is keeping her from unleashing a torrent of insults at Ulfric. She knows a verbal onslaught will get her nowhere with the stubborn man. He seems to care more about how the other jarls perceive him than the fate of the world, so he would remain unaffected by whatever filthy names she might call him. Worse yet, is that she may very well lose control of her Thu'um if she does choose to speak. So she opts to remain silent, while glaring daggers at the giant Nord in front of her.

"I am not being unreasonable, Dragonborn," he says, annoyed by her anger.

"That's a matter of opinion, my jarl," she says stiffly. There's no sense in arguing with a man who cannot see beyond his petty war. But she'll be damned if she just accepts his bullshit without argument. She just hopes General Tullius will be more reasonable. "I'll return once I convince Tullius to agree."

The great hall is profoundly silent after Lumen and Ulfric leave the room. Galmar turns his attention toward the doorway, keeping an ever-watchful eye on his charge. While Cicero, normally excitable and loud, has gone deathly still as he guards his own. Arnbjorn is grateful for their silent vigilance. The lack of talking grants him the opportunity to eavesdrop of Lumen's conversation, although it is difficult to make out their words over the ambient racket of the palace. He can hear the prisoners pacing in their cells, and the cook chopping vegetables, but he cannot make out a single word she says. The clipped tone of her voice tells him she is not impressed with Ulfric, but he doubted she would be. He is a typical Nord. Stubborn and proud, and not likely to make her life any easier than Tullius will.

The Listener is seething with rage when she steps out of the small room. Ulfric doesn't look smug about setting her off, although Arnbjorn expected him to. His expression is perfectly schooled, which only makes him all the more curious about what the man is hiding. Does her anger worry him as much as it worries Arnbjorn? Or is he simply hiding his amusement for appearances sake?

"Let's go," Lumen says as she walks past them, and toward the loaded weapons rack to collect their things.

Arnbjorn obediently follows to collect his battle axe, only to be forced to wait while his two siblings take their sweet time arming themselves. Across the large hall, Ulfric and his housecarl engage in a quiet conversation. Ulfric speaks too softly for Arnbjorn to hear, but Galmar has no qualms about voicing his dislike of the elven Dragonborn.

"Are we going to the inn?" he asks, hoping to fill the air with noise, lest Lumen's keen ears pick up the insults issuing forth from Galmar.

"No."

Riften, then. The Listener is in the mood for a contract, and he doesn't blame her one bit. At least she is focused enough to mold her anger into something useful. Once armed, the three assassins leave the palace behind. Lumen walks swiftly and with purpose, skirting around citizens who are walking too slowly, or are too wrapped up in their own thoughts to notice a murderous Bosmer walking their way.

It is only when they step outside the city gates does she bother to stop and speak. "Someone else needs to deal with the stablemaster," she says. "I- can't."

"Cicero shall do it, sweetness," the Keeper chirps. "I am far more personable than Arnbjorn, anyway. Perhaps I can manage to get a discount."

Cicero skips off toward the stables, leaving Arnbjorn to mind a keyed up Lumen. Great. "Come on, tidbit. Tell me what happened." He places his hand on her back and urges her to walk closer to the stables, but not too close. The Altmer who tends to the horses is overly friendly, and tends to greet passersby. He just hopes he's not feeling too sociable today.

"Ulfric is a shit," Lumen snarls. "He refuses to even agree to the peace conference unless Tullius does first. So I have to waste my time running back-and-forth from Windhelm to Solitude because he's afraid of looking weak!"

"I'm not surprised," he admits, moving his hand from her back to the nape of her neck, hoping to offer some modicum of comfort. He is rewarded by the elf leaning into his touch, which means her anger is ebbing. "Look at the bright side. You're getting to see all the sights that Skyrim has to offer."

Lumen shoots him a fierce glare. "How is that the 'bright side'? This country is covered in snow and colder than a hagraven's tit. There's nothing worth seeing."

"At least the weather in Riften will be fair," he says, smiling in the face of her irritation.

"There is that," she concedes, and then turns her attention to Cicero, who is approaching them with Shadowmere. Her eyes flick to the Altmer stablemaster in the distance, before quickly looking away. Arnbjorn would like to applaud her for controlling herself, but the day is still young, and he'd rather not jinx their good luck just yet.

They head to Riften with Cicero and Lumen riding atop Shadowmere, and Arnbjorn walking along beside them. As the day wears on, so does Lumen's overall patience with everything. Having the fate of the world resting on her shoulders is a big enough task, but Windhelm's general attitude toward elves set the Bosmer on edge, as did her meeting with Ulfric. The Altmer at the stables only served to provoke her, leaving her to quietly seethe. It's almost funny how worried Cicero looks. Arnbjorn cannot blame him, though. The poor man is stuck riding a horse with a surly, fire-breathing elf. Her face is pinched in a frown, and Cicero's is drawn with anxiety.

The weather grows warmer as they near Riften, and the moons are high overhead when they finally turn on the little path that will lead them to the stables. Lumen tugs on Shadowmere's reins, stopping the horse from proceeding any farther.

"What is it, tidbit?"

"I want you and Cicero to stable Shadowmere and go to the inn," she commands. "I'll talk to Maven and meet you there when I am done."

"But, Listener-"

Lumen sighs as she dismounts Shadowmere, which isn't an easy task with Cicero seated behind her. "Please don't argue," she says, straining to keep her voice calm. "I just really want to be alone for a little while. I need to think, and I can't do that with you humming in my ear."

"But-" he stammers, looking utterly dejected. "Cicero thought you liked his humming."

"I do," she says, checking her weapons. "But it's a little distracting sometimes."

"Wait, wait!" Cicero scrambles off the horse. "You need Cicero to protect you! You cannot go alone! There are bandits and thieves, and all manner of vile things lurking in these woods!"

"I think I can arrange a simple contract all by myself," she snaps, but her voice softens as she tries to make amends to Cicero without actually having to apologize. "Look, I'll be fine. Just go to the inn and order me a drink. I'll be there soon. I promise."

"At least take Arnbjorn with you!" Cicero presses.

"The Listener's orders are clear," Arnbjorn says, laying a hand on Cicero's shoulder to keep him from chasing after Lumen. "Go on, tidbit. We'll see you later."

"Thanks," she says softly, then casts a guilt-ridden look at Cicero before vanishing into the shadows of the forest.

Arnbjorn looks down at Cicero, whose bottom lip is stuck out in a fierce pout. "Oh, cheer up," he says, disturbed by the jester's morose behavior. "Come on, let's go the inn. I'll even buy you a drink."

"Really?" he asks, a glimmer of his usual cheer edging back into his voice.

"Yeah, really."

"Will you allow poor Cicero to finally tell you the horker joke?"

"Only if you promise to stop sulking," Arnbjorn says, wondering just what he's gotten himself into.

Lumen's heart is heavy with guilt when she leaves Cicero behind. She adores him. She really does. But sometimes a girl just needs a little time alone. Besides, she doubts Astrid had an entourage following her around when she dealt with Maven. Perhaps it's a stupid, prideful thing, but Lumen needs to prove herself the more effective leader.

Not only that, but there are some secrets the Listener has chosen to keep to herself. One of them being that along with the ability to hear the Night Mother's voice, she also seems to inherently know where the Black Sacrament has been performed. It starts as a tingle in the back of her mind, growing stronger and urging her onward the closer she gets to the location. So her journey through the forest of the Rift is not nearly as dangerous as Cicero seems to think. Sure, there are bandits and creatures lurking within, but they are no danger to her as long as she keeps to the shadows and moves quickly.

After walking for ages, she finds herself staring at a lodge. There are mercenaries walking the perimeter, and they are likely crawling all over the interior of the home as well. Luckily, Lumen has plenty of experience breaking and entering without being detected by city guards, and giving these mercenaries the slip should be a piece of cake. Despite her confidence, she is not foolish enough to let her guard down. She would do this carefully and with precision. There is no room for error, not when her ego is on the line.

She moves across the yard; her footsteps muffled by her enchanted boots, and her movement wrapped in shadows. The lock on the back door is simple enough, and within a matter of seconds, the tumblers are falling into place and giving her access to the sprawling lodge.

Lumen closes her eyes, seeking, sensing the effigy of death that so calls to her. Something from below is tugging at the edges of her consciousness, urging her downward. Finding the way to the lodge's basement is easy enough, and thankfully unguarded. The hired thugs guarding the property seem content to wander the grounds and raid the kitchens, rather than do what they were ostensibly hired to do. But Lumen is thankful for their lackluster performance. It makes getting to Maven that much easier.

The basement is pitch black except for a sliver of golden light glowing from beneath a door. On the other side of which, is Maven. Lumen can hear the tell-tale thump of a knife being driven into wood, and the frantic mutters of someone who has done the sacrament for longer than they would like.

She pulls the door open to find a Nord woman kneeling on the floor, her dress filthy and her hair disheveled. "You can stop," she says, smirking at the confusion on the woman's face. "The Night Mother has heard your prayer."

"Well, it's about time!" the woman snaps. She tosses the dagger down and stands up, dusting off her skirt before running her fingers through her hair. "Is this how I am expected to call you people? It's utterly barbaric!"

Lumen does not immediately respond to her. She simply smiles as she pulls the door closed, and perches on the edge of a small dining table on the far side of the room. Maven doesn't seem bothered by her silence, she just takes it as an opportunity to fix her hair before primly sitting in a chair at the table.

"I suppose introductions are in order-"

"I don't care who you are," Maven says. "You will take the job and take your payment, and you can tell your superior that I do not appreciate being made to wait, nor do I approve of these odd methods of contacting you."

"Get used to it," Lumen says, her voice clipped in annoyance. "Because the Sacrament is how all patrons must contact us. I don't know what sort of arrangement you had with Astrid, but it died with her."

There's no flicker of emotion that passes over her face. If she is saddened by Astrid's passing, she does not let it show. Instead, she sighs, as if her death is nothing more than a small inconvenience. "Are you in charge of the Dark Brotherhood now?" she asks, completely businesslike. "I don't see why we can't arrange something similar."

"Something similar," Lumen says with some amusement. "Like sending the Brotherhood to threaten those who slight you?"

"Occasionally, when the situation requires a threat rather than a death."

"No."

Maven regards her with the cool annoyance of one who is used to getting what they want. She leans back in her chair and gives Lumen a withering glare. "I see. Then, I suppose we are done here, assassin."

"Oh, we are far from done," Lumen says, moving closer to Maven and looming over her. "You have performed the Sacrament, and Sithis is due a soul."

"That seems a little extreme, don't you think?" Maven huffs and folds her arms. "I can't do business with dead people, but I can do business with people who are terrified they are going to die if they slight me. Instilling terror is something the Dark Brotherhood does very well." She pauses, her gaze lingering on Lumen for a few quiet seconds. "Well, that's something the Brotherhood used to do very well."

Lumen smirks at the flimsy insult. "I don't think you understand, Maven. It is not the words of the Sacrament that call us, it is desire. If you did not desire a death, then your prayer would've never reached the Night Mother, and therefore it would have never been whispered to me. So give me a name. Give me a target, and I will be on my way."

"And what happens if I refuse?" she asks. "You have to understand, I'm a businesswoman and I am reluctant to sever any business relationships just yet."

"The Sacrament is sacred," Lumen tells her. "I am honorbound to kill you if you do not provide me with a target. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," she says, curling her lip. "I do not take threats lightly, assassin."

"It's not a threat. It's a promise, and one I would rather not make good on." Maven's face betrays no emotion, but Lumen can sense her waning resolve. It's always a beautiful thing when people finally realize the control they believe they have is purely illusory.

"I need a moment to think," Maven says, thoughtfully tapping her chin. "I admit, there are many people who I would like to be rid of. The trouble is deciding who is more useful to me dead rather than alive."

"How about the person you wanted us to threaten?" Lumen asks, then slides off the edge of the table to sit in the chair across from Maven. Relaxing now that her dominance has been asserted, and she is closer to getting what she wants.

"No," Maven scoffs. "I need them afraid, not dead."

"You could have someone close to them killed."

"Goodness no," she sneers. "The grieving are useless."

"And very susceptible to suggestion," Lumen says. "Easy to manipulate."

Maven considers her suggestion. "This seems a bit heavy handed, but you have a point. Unfortunately, Belethor doesn't have any friends, and I highly doubt the man is capable of grief."

"Belethor," Lumen grins. "In Whiterun? You were wanting to send us after him?"

"He owes me money," Maven says, scowling at the mere thought of him. "He would prefer that everyone think of him as a self-made man, but he would never have started his little business if I hadn't fronted the money. He was making regular payments, but has since stopped."

"Don't you have hired thugs you could send to rough him up and trash his shop?"

"I do, but I thought sending an assassin would show how serious I am. Unfortunately, you threw a wrench into that little plan. So I have to think of another way to deal with him, and another way to deal with you."

"It's not my fault you misused the Sacrament," Lumen says, smirking at the woman's irritation. "Just hurry up and give me a name. It's not exactly thrilling to sit here counting your wrinkles."

"You don't have to be rude, girl," Maven snaps, more offended by Lumen's poor manners than her threats of death. "As is so happens, I do have someone in mind."

"Finally!"

Maven's scowl only deepens at Lumen's obvious relief. "Belethor has an employee named Sigurd. Kill him inside the shop, and make it messy. He'll be out of business for days trying to clean it up, and that's assuming the guards don't haul him to the dungeons on suspicion of murder."

Lumen grins, suddenly feeling a swell of fondness for the woman sitting across from her. "How messy? A simple evisceration? Drawn and quartered with his head placed upon Belethor's pillow while the man is still asleep?"

"I don't need to know the details," she says, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Just get it done."

"Right," Lumen murmurs. "So we kill Sigurd to send a message, I like it. But there's just one problem."

Maven rubs her temples to ward off a headache. "What is it?"

"Sigurd isn't your first choice. He isn't the person who was in the forefront of your mind when you were performing the Sacrament. He's more of a consolation prize. So, who do you really want to kill?"

"My fool of a son, Sibbi," Maven sighs. "But he is my son. I brought him into this world, and I will take him out of it if I have to. So don't you dare lay a finger on him."

Lumen holds her hands up, hoping to placate the woman. "I have my orders. Sigurd will die, and Sibbi will be left to your mercy. You have my word."

"Are we done?" Maven asks coolly. "I have work to do, and I've wasted days on this Black Sacrament business."

"Almost. There's still the matter of my fee to be discussed."

"We can discuss your fee over a glass of port." She stands and motions for Lumen to follow her. "Let's go upstairs, I've been down in this dingy basement for too long."

It is late when Lumen steps into the Bee and the Barb, with a smile on her face and a purse of gold hanging heavy at her hip. As late as it is, the inn is still very crowded and full of rowdy patrons. Not that she is surprised. Riften is a city that never sleeps.

She finds Cicero and Arnbjorn seated at a table in a dark corner. There are empty tankards, and small shot glasses strewn across the tabletop. They both look blissfully tipsy, and she isn't sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. But they both seem to be enjoying each other's company, and they haven't been kicked out of the inn… yet.

Cicero's face lights up when he sees her, and he nearly falls out of his seat when she yells, "Sweet Lumen! You came back for your poor Cicero!"

She winces at the volume of his voice. "Of course I came back," she says, dragging an empty chair over to their table and sitting down. "Did you really think I wouldn't?"

"What's a poor fool to think when he is left behind?" he whines, loudly scooting his chair closer to her so she can rest his head on her shoulder.

"He was perfectly well behaved until you showed up," Arnbjorn says, frowning at Cicero's theatrics. "So how did it go with Maven?"

"It went," she says with a shrug. "We have our payment and our target, and she knows we're not her personal attack dogs any longer. She took the news well, all things considered."

"I assume her choices were to either deal with it or to die?"

"Pretty much." Lumen glances around the inn to make sure no one is within earshot. "She wanted us to shakedown some merchant in Whiterun, but we're going to kill his employee instead."

"I suppose that will get her message across to the merchant, at least."

"Only if we get blood all over his merchandise," Lumen says, wrapping her arm around Cicero's shoulder when he presses closer to her. "What's with Maven and Nazir? Do you know why he refused to speak with her?"

"Don't even ask," he says, fighting a smile. "He'll kill me if I tell you."

"Oh, come on! I won't say anything, I promise!"

"Look, I don't even know the whole story," he admits, running a hand through his hair. "A few months before you joined up, we sent Nazir to deal with Maven. When he came back he said he would never deal with her again. When we asked why, he said she got handsy with him. But he refused to give us any details."

"Oh, gods," Lumen breaths a laugh. "She tried to seduce him!"

"Something like that," he says, and then turns his gaze Cicero. "The fool is drooling on you, by the way."

"What?" She looks down to see Cicero still leaning against her and sleeping peacefully, with a steady dribble of drool running from the corner of his mouth and onto her leather armor. He would be mortified if he knew, so she grabs a handkerchief and wipes his mouth clean. "How much did you let him drink?"

"He's a grown man, and he made the decision to do shots." He grins at the scene in front of him, but it fades as quickly as it came. "He was a mess when you decided to run off on your own. I don't know how he's going to fare when you head to Sovngarde."

"Poorly," Lumen whispers. Rather than think about being worlds away from her family, or how poorly Cicero will do when that time comes, she says, "Help me put him to bed. I can't carry him up those stairs by myself."

Arnbjorn stands and stretches away the stiff ache from being still for too long. He slips one arm around Cicero's shoulders, and the other behind his knees to pick him up, much to the amusement of the other patrons in the inn. The Keeper groans a bit at being jostled, but he doesn't wake up.

"I've got bad news," Arnbjorn says, grunting a little as he carries Cicero up the stairs. "Well, it's bad news for me. The inn is full, as you can see, and they only had one room."

"Uh oh. Guess we're all spooning tonight, huh?" Lumen grins at him when they step into the rented room.

He places Cicero on the bed, who murmurs something about wanting a goodnight kiss before he falls back to sleep. "I'll take the floor. You two can take the bed."

"That's very gentlemanly of you," Lumen says, stuffing a pillow behind Cicero's back to keep him rolled on his side in case he happens to become ill from all the alcohol he imbibed. She removes his boots and belt so he can sleep comfortably. Although, he will be anything but comfortable when he wakes up with a raging hangover in the morning.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm such a kind-hearted soul," Arnbjorn says, laughing at himself. "Just do me a favor and don't let him puke on me."

Lumen watches Arnbjorn lay his bedroll out on the floor as she sheds her armor. A smile appears on her lips despite her best efforts to fight it. Part of her wishes she'd spent the evening with her brothers instead of Maven, but she is happy to see them both getting along instead of bickering all the time.

She walks over to him, placing her hand on his arm and halting his efforts at stripping the heavier pieces of his armor before laying down. "Thanks. Um- you know. For keeping him company. He doesn't do so well on his own."

He smiles softly, before pulling her into his arms and kissing her on the cheek. "He's not so bad," he murmurs, letting her go before she can respond, and returning to the task at hand.

Lumen places her hand against her cheek, the skin still tingling from the gentle scratch of his beard. She crawls in bed, snuggling up behind Cicero and throwing her arms around him. The sounds of the inn filter up into their small room; chairs being moved across the floor, the clink of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. But rather than listen to the sounds of revelry, she tries to focus on the gentle cadence of Cicero's breath, and the beating of his heart beneath her palm.

The sound of footsteps growing closer grabs her attention, and when she looks up to see Arnbjorn placing an empty chamberpot near the bed. "Seriously, I don't want him puking on me," he says, before moving back to his bedroll. "I can handle a lot of things, but puke isn't one of them."

"Well I don't want him to barf on me, either!" she says, amused that big, strong Arnbjorn is squicked by something so harmless.

"Cicero is not going to vomit on anyone!" The Keeper complains, annoyance clear in his slurred words. "So be quiet, and please make the room stop spinning!"

"Sorry," she says, holding back a laugh. It's going to be a long night.

Notes: I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! It was difficult to write considering all the dialogue and lore-checking. I expect the next few chapters will be just as difficult, but I look forward to the challenge. Despite my minor struggles, I really did have fun working on this one. I enjoyed writing Ulfric, and especially cranky, old Galmar. But I think the scene between Lumen and Maven was my favorite. (Poor Sigurd, though!) Also, I realize that the Black-Briar relationships are inconsistent in the game. In some places Ingun and Sibbi are referred to as Maven's children, and sometimes her grandchildren. I'm just going to consider them her children since that seems to be most widely accepted.

A few have asked me if Lumen is going to get involved in the Civil War. She's not going to be more involved than she is now, and she's only in the middle of it at the moment to further her own agenda. I think it's obvious that she would root for whoever is likely to give her a Thalmor-free Skyrim, and she'll gladly wipe out at many as she can in the meantime. But she doesn't care for politics. Regimes rise and fall, but the Dark Brotherhood is forever. ;)