Warnings: Rape mention, sexual sadism (It's mostly off page) and consensual sex.

Chapter 2: Sanctified Savagery

A year has passed since Alduin was slain.

In that year, The Dark Brotherhood has gained two new members; Jundi, a Redguard with eyes like fire, and Sitri, a Khajiit with fur as black as the abyss. They are eager in their work, and they serve the Listener and the Night Mother with unerring devotion. Along with gaining two new members, the Brotherhood has gained notoriety as well. Tales of what happened at the Thalmor prison have spread, and rumors wet the lips of the townsfolk whenever something odd occurs. A sudden death. A disappearance. All unusual events are attributed to the Dark Brotherhood, whether they are responsible or not.

The Blades have been behaving— for now. Lumen regularly sends her assassins out to gather information and listen for rumors. They bring back tales of the Blades helping townsfolk or killing dragons, but they haven't set foot in Ivarstead or said a word about Paarthurnax. The only real bit of news to come from the Blades is of Esbern's death. A sickness took him in the night— a pity.

The civil war continues on. The Stormcloaks have gained the upper hand, while the Imperial army is still struggling under a lack of leadership. The Elder Council has yet to choose a new emperor to lead them, and the Thalmor presence has weakened due to their justiciars "mysteriously" vanishing during patrols. Strangely enough, the Forsworn have become a political force to be reckoned with. They are no longer raiding caravans and attacking travelers, but clearing out bandits and offering safe passage to those traveling through the Reach. Madanach is up to something, but Lumen does not know what nor does she have any desire to find out. She is content to leave the politicking to the politicians.

Lumen spends her time doing exactly what she wants. She Listens, she takes the occasional contract, and the enjoys the company of her siblings— mostly.

"Lumen," comes Luka's plaintive voice. "Dearheart, please let me help you with this."

"No," she says, her voice clipped. It's taking all her effort to school her voice into something more neutral. He is trying to help her, and she will not snap and snarl at him like some rabid beast. "I've never used magic in all my life, and I'm doing just fine without it."

"Cicero is in agreement with Luka," he says from his place near the hearth. The Keeper doesn't bother to look up from his task of patching his motley. "Cicero is no mage, but even he knows a few spells. It could save your life someday."

Guilt nips at her heels. From the moment they met, she and Luka fell into an easy camaraderie. They can just sit in silence for hours, and it never grows uncomfortable. When they do talk, it's about anything and everything. There is no such thing as a forbidden subject. Until now…

"I'm sorry." She sits down on the edge of her bed. "This is a sore subject. I caused a minor explosion the last time I tried to cast anything. I just don't have the aptitude for it."

Luka strides across her bedchamber and sits down next to her. "That's because Malrian taught you improper methods," he says, his lips twisting into a sneer. "He knew teaching you magic would be like placing a knife in your hands. But I know it's in you. I can sense it. There's no reason to stifle yourself because that idiot was frightened of you!"

Lumen breathes a laugh, and the coiling tension in her chest loosens. "That's a fair point."

"I'm very good at arguing," he says proudly. "Especially when I am determined."

"You're a typical stubborn Nord," she says, but there is no bite to her words. "I'll consider your offer."

His eyes light up. "We can start today! I'll teach you to cast ice! It's one of my favorites. There's no greater thrill than to freeze all the liquid in someone's body and watch as they shatter."

"I can't start today."

"Why not?" His brows rise as he studies her. "Are you having your menses?"

"What? Why would that matter?" she asks, caught completely off guard.

"Oh, you know, that old myth that a woman's magic is unpredictable when she is menstruating. It originated here in Skyrim, which is what makes it so stupid. Nord warriors are allowed to come home covered in the blood and guts of their enemies, but the moment a woman mentions her monthlies, they run away screaming. Idiots."

"It is just blood," Cicero mutters quietly. "It is nothing to be afraid of."

Luka shrugs. "People are stupid and often fear what they do not understand."

"Does a woman's menses affect her magic?" she asks, instantly curious.

"I have no idea," he admits. "But I highly doubt it. Have your menses influenced your ability to Shout?"

She bites her thumbnail as she tries to remember any moment where a Shout went wrong, and her menses were to blame. But her menses are so irregular, and so rare, that she cannot answer the question truthfully. Malrian used to give her teas laced with Silphium and Pennyroyal when she was a child, and she is barren as a result.

"Not that I have noticed," she says quickly, not wishing to think about that time. "Anyway, the reason I don't want to begin today is because I have a contract, and I'd like to be at full strength."

"Fair enough," he says, narrowing his eyes. "But you don't get to use that excuse a second time. Your lessons begin as soon as you return from home."

"Yes, sir." She stretches her legs before standing. "I'm going to see Mother before we leave. I think she may have a new contract for us."

Cicero holds up his motley, inspecting his work. "How can you tell?"

"It's just a gut feeling, I guess," she tells him, although she doesn't truly know. Whenever the Sacrament has been done, she feels inexplicably drawn to the Night Mother. She doesn't know why, and she doubts asking Mother or Lucien would provide her with any answers.

Lumen moves quickly, breezing through the winding corridors and into the alcove where the Night Mother rests. This part of the Sanctuary smells more like home than any other area. The air is rich with the scent of boiled herbs, beeswax, and the sacred mix of oils that keep their Unholy Matron beautifully preserved.

She kneels on the floor in front of the Night Mother's shrine, a scrap of parchment in hand. Lumen often finds herself seeking out the Night Mother's presence as an addict would seek a fix. There is something so intoxicating about hearing her otherworldly voice and doing her dark deeds. Yet, today, this normally pleasant experience turns sour. Because there is no voice in her head, and there are no ethereal arms wrapping around her. There's nothing. But that doesn't make any sense! She had been so certain the Night Mother had something for her! Is she losing her touch already?

No. No she isn't— because she's certain there's a sacrament taking place. Somewhere— south?

"Mother?" She gazes up at the silent corpse. "Am I going crazy?"

"No contracts today?"

Lumen inhales sharply through her nose, and it is an effort not to jump at the sudden sound of Cicero's voice. "Uh," she stammers. "No. Not today."

"You seemed quite certain about it earlier," he says, a hint of concern shadowing his eyes.

She waves her hand to dismiss his worries. "I think I was just over-eager," she says, forcing a smile when she turns to look at him. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes, but—"

"What is it?" she asks, getting to her feet.

"When you and Luka were speaking earlier, he asked if your menses had ever affected your ability to Shout. That got Cicero thinking— you've never once mentioned them, in all the time Cicero has known you."

"It's not the most thrilling topic."

"Cicero has had many sisters in the Dark Brotherhood, and no one thought it was odd when a sister needed to take a few days off each month to rest. But you never complain about monthly pains."

Lumen shrugs, not liking where this conversation is going. "They don't trouble me much."

"We also do not use any contraceptive potions, and yet, you have not fallen pregnant."

"Honestly, Cicero. It sounds like you've already worked it out." She folds her arms across her chest. "I'm barren. I can't have children."

"What happened?" he asks quietly.

"Malrian happened," she says, and she'd like to let the topic die there. But Cicero wants to know, and it wouldn't be right to hide this from him. Not after all they have been through. "It's common practice among the Thalmor to give abortifacients to their slaves, lest they bear them any halfbreeds. Malrian gave them to me as a precaution." Cicero's expression shifts from concerned to murderous, and she quickly adds, "He never touched me. Not in that way, anyway."

Her answer does not comfort him, but he takes a few calming breaths before speaking again. "Are you okay? Do you— Did you want children?"

"No," she says. "I suppose I like children. I like their honesty. But I don't want any of my own. I don't know if you've noticed— but I'm not a patient woman."

Cicero laughs. "Your lack of patience is difficult to miss, sweetness."

She is eager to be done with this subject. "Armor tonight?" she asks, her eyes raking over the shrouded leathers clinging to his form. The addition of the jester's cap does not lessen how intimidating he looks. "You almost always wear your motley when we go hunting."

"Well this man we're killing tonight is rumored to be a bit of a brute," he says. "Cicero thought it might be wise to exercise a little caution, even though it is his sweet Listener who will be in the most danger."

"I like a little danger," she says. "It really gets the blood flowing."

"I do wish you would not be so blithe about this," Cicero says, his voice weary with concern. "This man is—"

"I'm just kidding around." She waves her hand dismissively. "I know the dangers. I will be careful. I promise."

He catches her hands with his, rubbing slow circles along the inside of her wrists. "Cicero knows you hate it when he worries. But he cannot help it. You are too important to risk."

She lets herself relax into his touch. In that moment, everything is fine. There's nothing to worry about, nothing to distract her from tonight's goal— which will be killing a Nord brute and taking Cicero straight to bed.

She leans forward and captures his lips in a slow, searching kiss that grows more heated the longer they stay connected. They break away before things go too far and they lose themselves in each other, because the kill must come first. A soul must be sent to Sithis, the will of Mother done, before they can find their own pleasure in each other.

"Help me get dressed," she says softly. "We've got a job to do."

The Nightgate Inn is quiet. There is only the crackle of the fire and the occasional creaking of wood as the structure fights against the icy winds of the Pale. Hadring has retired for the night, leaving Storn Blackthorn to his own devices. It is all rather boring if he is honest. Some music would be nice, but their resident bard met her end by his hands. Company would also be nice, but Fultheim met the same fate. The only reason Hadring still lives is because Storn has no desire to fuck him.

The door opens and a cloaked figure slips inside, a flurry of snow following behind them. A flash of skin draws his eye as the newcomer pushes the door shut with a hand— her hand. His mouth is already watering at the thought of that slender wrist breaking in his grip. He doesn't know what she looks like, and it doesn't matter. People fuck in the dark for a reason.

She brings her hands up to lower her hood, moving too slow for his liking. A prickle of anger nips at the base of his skull when he catches sight of her ears. Those would have to be docked. Even still, she is quite beautiful for an elf. Tawny skin, plush lips, and eyes like honey. Her eyes lock with his, and in a careless motion, she throws her cloak over the back of a chair. Her dress is that of a typical tavern wench, a simple design that amplifies the wearer's assets.

Storn licks his lips, wondering which Daedra he had to thank for this treasure. Molag Bal, perhaps? She is all beauty and curves, and infuriating elven arrogance. Oh, he cannot wait to rip her confidence from her trembling hands, to have her bleeding and bared before him, her life dangling in his grasp.

"Hello, lovely," he says, making a show of looking her over. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

"Taking shelter, obviously." There is no bite to her words, but they rile him all the same. Storn is a man who expects submission, and he has little patience for sass. Especially from an elf.

He is already half hard and he hates himself for it. He hates her for it. No elf has the right to look like that. It doesn't help that his senses are working against him. His eyes are drawn to the way the firelight dances across her breasts. Her scent is intoxicating, and if he breathes in deep enough, he can almost taste her.

"Do you want more than shelter?" He leans back in his chair, spreading his legs and rubbing his palm against the cock straining against his trousers. She doesn't have a choice. But it's always polite to ask.

A flicker of emotion passes over her face. Disgust, or perhaps amusement. Storn can't tell, and he doesn't really care. She'll be dead before dawn. But to his surprise, she actually laughs. "What? Here?" She looks around, before turning her eyes back to him. "Or do you have a more secluded location in mind?"

His mouth twists into a cruel smirk. "If privacy is what m'lady wants, I can oblige."

He leads her behind the bar and down a narrow staircase. The inn's basement is almost as large as the inn itself. It is dark and damp, and it's the perfect place for doing what he wants to do. It's not as if he needs a bed when he can just throw the elf down in the dirt and have his way with her.

"I'll give you five seconds to take that dress off. Otherwise, I'll rip it off of you and fuck you like—" Something pricks the skin of his neck, and he lifts his hand to swat it away, but he finds that he can barely move. His arm feels as if it's made of lead. "What?" he asks dumbly, his vision swimming as he falls to his knees.

The elf comes to stand in front of him, slipping an object that looks like a dart into a black, leather pouch. "You're going to do what to me now?" she asks, her voice muffled amidst the rushing in his ears.

"Going to—" he licks his lips, his tongue feeling fat and clumsy. "Fuck you."

"That's cute," she laughs. "But actually, you're the one getting fucked tonight."

There is no time to even consider what she means, because a force hits him from behind, knocking him face first into the dirt. A hand is pressing at the back of his head, and a knee is shoved hard into the perineum, making him cry out in pain.

"You've been a bad man, Storn," the offender says, his voice unusually high. "Very, very bad."

"You've been so bad, in fact, someone has done the Black Sacrament." The elf kneels down, tilting her head so she can look him in the eyes. "Hello, Storn. My name is Lumen. I'm from the Dark Brotherhood." Her mouth twists into a smile at that. "And tonight you're going to die."

The knee against his perineum presses painfully hard, sending a wave of nausea through him. He tries to lift his head, but the poison the assassin bitch used against him is making it impossible to move. Unfortunately, it's not doing a damn thing to numb this pain. "Didn't hurt no one," he grits out. "Got the wrong guy."

"Oh really?" Lumen asks, genuinely amused. "So it's some other Storn Blackthorn who's been raping his way across Skyrim? I think not." She grabs a leather satchel, rummaging through it as she talks. "You see, our patron was very specific. They knew where you'd be and they told us all about your sick appetites. They want you to suffer the same fate as your victims. But the only problem is that neither Cicero nor myself wish to sully ourselves with you. So I had to get a little creative…"

"You're a unique monster," Cicero comments. "You don't care who you sate yourself with. Gender, race, and even species do not matter to you. You just like causing pain."

"Don't act like you're better than me, assassin," he growls, helpless in his anger. "You kill people for money!"

"Oh, this is true, but even Cicero has his limits."

There is a brief moment where he thinks he might be hallucinating, because the elf pulls what appears to be a phallus from the leather satchel. Only this is no normal phallus. It's tapered at the end and adorned with a sharp-edged spiral curling from base to tip. Despite the drugs crippling his body, he feels every muscle grow tense at the sight of the horrible thing.

"Excited?" Cicero breathes, his breath hot against his ear. "Oh, you should be."

"Oh, gods. Oh, gods no!" He cries, instinctively lapsing into prayer. "Mara, Mother of mercy—"

"Stop that." Cicero flicks the shell of his ear. "That never helps anyone."

The elf touches the disgusting thing to his face, dragging the tip along his cheek. "This is going exactly where you think it is," she purrs. "I know you've done a great number of depraved things, but I wonder if this is your first time taking it up the ass?"

"Please don't! I'll do anything, I swear! I'm begging you!" He struggles to breathe, his throat going dry in the wake of sheer panic. "Please! I have gold! I can pay you!"

"How many of your victims begged?" the elf snaps, her demeanor shifting from seductive to angry in a flash. "Did Fultheim beg? Did Svarti beg? What about the countless others you brutalized? Did they beg?"

Storn can do nothing but whimper as the male shifts off of him and the female takes his place; her hand on his head and her knee shoved painfully between his legs. "Guess what, Storn?" she whispers in his ear.

"What?" he gasps.

"I've never done this to a man before. It's my first time, and I'm a little nervous."

Tears well up in his eyes. "Please don't. Please, please don't."

"Brace yourself," she says, laughing cruelly. "Because I'm going in dry."

"Is it done?"

The two assassins regard their patron, Hadring. The man looks weary. Dark circles under his eyes and lines of age etched across his face. He doesn't meet their eyes, and Lumen does not know if he's too beat down to care, or if he wants to avoid the risk of recognizing them in the future. It is unlikely. Cicero's face is mostly obscured by a black, cloth mask pulled over his nose, and Lumen's face is hidden in the same manner.

"It is done," she tells him. "And he suffered, just like you asked."

"Good," he sighs. "It won't bring back the others, but at least he won't hurt anyone else."

The inn is quiet as the man counts out his coins and hands them over to Cicero. The silence may have been uncomfortable to anyone else, but to Lumen, it is the sign of a job well done. Hadring undoubtedly heard Storn's screams, just as he'd heard the screams of his many victims. He is coping with what has happened, and with that strange rush of power that comes from knowing someone has died because he willed it.

"Does this make me a bad person?" he asks, his voice a hushed whisper.

Lumen and Cicero share a look. "I can't be the judge of that," she tells him. "But if it makes you feel better, you probably just saved a lot of lives."

"That won't help me sleep any easier," Hadring says, looking down at his hands as if they are bloody. "Murder is murder. I've paid you to do it. But it's still my doing."

"Time has a numbing effect," Cicero says. "The shock will fade and sleep will come."

The two assassins leave the warmth of the inn behind and step out into another cold, Skyrim night. The snow has stopped and some of the clouds have cleared away to reveal a brilliant sky. Crisp clear stars shine alongside a scintillating aurora, and Lumen allows herself a moment to become lost in the sight of it. Storn's screams are still so fresh in her mind, his lifeless body still warm. She finally feels at peace after a successful kill.

Cicero is pushing her up against a tree, ripping their masks away and crashing his mouth against hers. He grinds against her, the hardness pressing against her thigh is definitely not the pommel of his dagger.

"Listener, may I?" he begs, nipping at her jawline. She hesitates because she is dressed in a scrap of a dress, and warmed only by a cloak and her boots. But Cicero is so warm and so insistent, it doesn't take her long to agree.

"Yes," she groans, hooking her leg around his hips, her hand going to the laces of his trousers. They don't need any coaxing. Now is not the time for foreplay— the act of murder is enough to get them going.

His gloved hand slides across her bared thigh and beneath the hem of her skirt. "Are you not wearing any smalls?" he asks, torn between amusement and confusion.

"I figured this would happen."

He laughs, resting his forehead against the crook of her neck as he shoves his trousers down just enough to free himself. He tenses up when a cold breeze sweeps past them, and he begins to tremble when he sheathes himself in Lumen's warmth. "I— do not know how long I can last," he gasps. "Poor Cicero has been hard for ages."

"It won't take me long," she breathes, wrapping her other leg around him now, giving him free reign to pound into her as hard as he likes. "Just fuck me now. Please."

"Sweet Listener, you never have to beg your Cicero for this." He hooks his hand beneath her thigh, pressing her back against the tree as he rolls his hips. The coin purse hanging from his belt jangles with each thrust, creating a veritable cacophony of noise within the still, snow-covered forest. "I could watch you kill for hours. I thought I had seen it all until tonight. Your imagination truly knows no bounds."

Lumen breathes a laugh that quickly turns into a moan when Cicero angles his hips just right. "I can't take all the credit. It was Lucien's idea."

"Even so, it was truly inspired." His hips start to fall out of rhythm, his jerky thrusts signaling his impending climax.

There are no words when her body tenses around him, her breath escaping her lungs in a rush. Cicero is not far behind her, growling out her name as his body shudders, overcome with so much pleasure it threatens to become pain if it continues on. They immediately part when they are finished, as it is far too cold for any post-coital niceties.

Once their clothing is back in place they head toward the road to find Shadowmere waiting for them. The horse snorts when they approach, pawing at the ground impatiently as he waits for them to climb on. The two assassins do not dawdle, both eager to be home, and the horse takes off down the road when they are both settled on his back.

Yet another dark deed has been done. A black soul, full of hate and rage, sent to Sithis. The Night Mother will be pleased.

Notes: Right, so that one scene (you know which) was written after watching the first episode of American Horror Story: Hotel. The "drilldo" scene really stuck with me. It seemed like something Lucien would suggest... and something Lumen and Cicero would do. (I may need to go back and write out the scene where Lumen asks Arnbjorn to make the wretched thing. I bet that was an interesting conversation.)

Lumen's ability to sense the Sacraments is just me integrating a game mechanic into the story. There's no lore to support it. But I think the Listener would be able to know where a Sacrament is located since the Night Mother occasionally gives vague instructions.