Chapter 4: Foreign Eyes

It was bitterly cold this far north, but the beauty of the Jerall Mountains was not lost on her. Malrian had whisked her off to some mountainside retreat— a home of a friend, he said. They'd been there for a week, and in that week Malrian had done nothing but work. Countless justiciars and guards had come and gone, all seeking an audience with her master.

Lumen was left to her own devices. Malrian didn't have to worry about her wandering off, as she avoided the snowy terrain like the plague. It was boring, and a little lonely, but it wasn't all bad. She had books to read and flowers to press, and some of the nicer guards would entertain her with stories of their travels. Still, she often found herself craving the company of her master.

It was past midnight when the sound of distant thunder woke her. She bore a deep, primal fear of thunderstorms, and though she knew her master would scold her, she had to find him. He was the only one who could chase this fear away.

The house was freezing, the stone floors painfully cold on her bare feet. But she wrapped a wool robe around her body and made her way through the dark, empty hallways, to where to master's chamber was.

"Master?" She leaned against the door. "May I come in?"

No response. It's possible Malrian was asleep. But her fear of the storm overrode her fear of punishment, and she pushed the door open. The room beyond was far colder than the rest of the house. The doors that lead to the balcony were thrown open, and her master stood outside, his eyes focused on some far off point. He looked terrifying silhouetted against a dark sky, and the glow of a distant fire.

"Master?"

Malrian turned with a start. "Did the noise wake you, pet?"

"Yes," she answered, confused by the still, starry night. "I thought it was a storm."

"It is no storm. Come and see, my girl." He beckoned her forth.

She approached him cautiously, more out of habit than anything else. He laid a hand on her back when she stood beside him, and she gaped at the sight before her.

There was a town beyond the mountains. Small and quaint. Bruma was the northernmost city in Cyrodiil and a common resting place for people traveling to and from Skyrim. But now part of it was on fire. Great plumes of flame erupted from the western side of the city, and the screams of the dying carried on the wind.

"What's happening?" she asked.

"History," he said with a smile. "This is what has kept me so busy for months. This is why we are here. Everything will change after tonight."

That was vague, but she knew better than to ask for clarification. Her master was in a good mood, and she would not be the one to ruin it. A knock at the door saved her from having to form a response, and Malrian pulled away from her, leaving her on the balcony. She stared at the burning city, wondering who could have been unfortunate enough to draw her master's wrath.

Whoever they were, she pitied them.

The next few days pass without incident. Dawnstar greets the same assortment of travelers; traders and fishers, and certainly no Thalmor or random assassins. Everyday Lumen wakes with the desire to set things right. She wants to tell Cicero about this strange feeling. A Sacrament is out there — she just knows it — and she doesn't understand why the Night Mother has said nothing. But every time she tries to tell Cicero about it, she is struck silent by the lines of worry marring his face.

Lumen knows almost nothing of his time in Cheydinhal, aside from what he's willing to share and what is written in his journals. But there was an eight-year gap in his writings, and she doesn't know what happened during that time. Cicero certainly won't tell her. She just knows his loneliness nearly destroyed him. It definitely changed him.

Knowing that she lived with the man who caused Cicero so much pain makes this entire situation so much worse. Malrian's fortune doubled after his men successfully destroyed two sanctuaries, and Lumen was his cosseted little pet, dressed in finery that was paid for with the blood of the fallen. It's not as if she could've done anything to stop it, but she remembers that night. Only she didn't understand it's significance until much later.

"I don't mind your company, tidbit," Arnbjorn says from his place near the forge. "But the moping is getting old. I'm willing to listen if you need to talk."

Lumen bites the inside of her cheek. Arnbjorn has become a dear friend to her, and even though they are occasional lovers, they are both careful not to show too much vulnerability. It is a notable event that he is even offering to listen to what troubles her. But he'd probably shout at her if he knew she was keeping Mother's silence a secret.

"I'm not moping. I'm thinking." She boosts herself up on his workbench, swinging her feet.

"You're a shit liar," he says, placing a newly sharpened sword on a rack.

"I am not." She eyes him appreciatively when he approaches her. The forge is hot, and Arnbjorn shucked his shirt some time ago. "Besides, this room has a lovely view. Not a bad place to do some thinking."

A small grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Don't change the subject. I've had Cicero in here pestering me to let him help, and now you're in here— sulking, by the looks of it. What's wrong?"

"Isn't it obvious?" She heaves a frustrated sigh. "I want to help Cicero, but I don't know how."

He leans on the workbench, his arm touching hers. "You're both pent up. So why don't you work it out in the old fashioned way? Surely there's someone out there that needs killing."

She makes a small noise of agreement. "Maybe. I suppose I could commune with Mother and see if she's got something for me," she says, her eyes riveted to the fire of the forge, the wall, anything but Arnbjorn. The heat of his body is distracting. She wouldn't mind getting lost in him for a while, but right now— Cicero's needs are greater than her own.

He grabs her chin, gently forcing her to look at him. "Don't let this thing get to you. I understand why it's got Cicero so out of sorts, but one of you has got to remain focused."

"I know. I am focused, I swear." A little smile curls her mouth. "I was trying not to ogle you."

"I'm serious, tidbit."

"So am I!" she laughs. "You can't just walk around without a shirt and expect me not to look!"

He breathes a laugh. "I don't care if you look."

"Well, it's distracting," she says, a little breathlessly. "And believe it or not, I am trying to stay focused on the task at hand rather than bedding the resident werewolf."

"Oh, dear," comes Cicero's voice, and Lumen turns to see him leaning on the doorframe. "May Cicero watch?"

Arnbjorn heaves a long-suffering sigh. "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough," he says, entering the room and hopping up on the table beside Lumen. "So, Cicero will ask again— may he watch? He likes to watch. Lumen enjoys an audience. You might like it, too. This is a win-win-win situation if you ask me."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not asking," Arnbjorn grumbles, pushing away from Lumen and retreating to the safety of his forge. "Beat it, the both of you. I have work to do."

"Come on, let's leave Arnbjorn to his work." Lumen hops off the table and urges Cicero to do the same.

She loops her arm around his and practically drags him to their bedroom. It's all she can do to prevent him from pestering the rest of their siblings along the way. Cicero has been doing anything and everything to keep his hands busy. From helping Babette sort her ingredients, to helping Arnbjorn in the forge, and Nazir in the kitchen. He's driven them all mad with his need to help.

"Listener?" A nervous smile quirks his mouth. "What do you have in mind?"

"Mother has a task for us." Oh, she hates lying to him. But she can't stand the thought of giving him one more thing to worry about. "We have a contract. Only, I need to contact the petitioner myself. I can't send Nazir to do it for me."

He perks up at the promise of a task. "Where are we going?"

"We'll be traveling south." She wonders if she looks as uncomfortable as she feels. "My instructions were uncommonly vague, so it may take some searching to find them." Lies upon lies. Surely there is a deep, dark, horrible place in the Void reserved for Listeners who lie to their Keepers.

"Vague? Is Mother testing us?"

"Maybe," she says, feeling sick at her stomach. She knows he would be questioning this if he weren't so overwhelmed.

Cicero moves around the room, grabbing potions and spare clothes. He neatly packs them in a satchel, humming as he works. Typically Lumen would help him pack, but she leaves him to it. "Where shall we start looking?" he asks, counting out a set of throwing daggers before packing them away.

"I'll find the location of the Sacrament," she tells him. "Hopefully the petitioner won't be too far off."

"How do you always seem to know where the Sacrament is?"

Ah, this she can tell him. A drop of honesty in a sea of lies. "I can sense it. It's a feeling that gets stronger the closer I get to the site of the Sacrament. It starts as an itch in the base of my skull, but it turns into a headache as I get closer."

Cicero breathes a wistful sigh. "How wonderful that must be. Cicero wishes he could be so connected to the forces of the Void."

"Honestly, it's a very strange feeling."

"Still," he says. "Can you feel it now?"

"Sort of," she says, unlacing her tunic. "Help me into my armor, will you?"

"It will be good to hunt again," he says, his dark eyes raking over her form when she pulls her shirt over her head. But rather than looking her over in a lustful manner, fear etches across his features as his eyes remain riveted to the large scars on her torso. Remnants of Alduin— wounds given to her by a god. Wounds that will never completely heal. "Is it safe for you to look for this petitioner?"

"It never is," she says. "But I will be safe as long as you are with me."

"But the Thalmor—"

"Fuck the Thalmor," she seethes. She hates them. She hates this fear that haunts her fearless Cicero. "Malrian couldn't stand against us, and whoever is hunting us now will die with my blades in their back!"

Cicero draws back, but there is a spark of his old self in his voice when he says, "Sweet Lumen you cannot say such things to Cicero when you are half-naked." His eyes roam over her body, and this time, he does not see her scars. "Such talk might delay our departure."

"So we're leaving after all?" she asks, not letting him change the subject.

His arms encircle her waist, and he buries his face where her neck meets her shoulder. "You are right. We cannot sit idle, and we cannot hide. Cicero was forced to hide when he lived in Cheydinhal. He will not do it again."

"What do you mean?"

"Cicero was made to say home. Rasha said it was Cicero's job to guard the Sanctuary. It only got worse after he was named Keeper. Cicero wonders if he could have made a difference. Maybe Garnag and Andronica would still be alive if they'd only let Cicero help."

"Are you serious?" she asks, utterly dumbfounded. "You're one of the most amazing killers I've ever met! And they just locked you away?"

Cicero preens at that. "Well," he breathes a laugh. "I had plenty of time to hone my craft, but— Oh, who am I kidding? I was pretty amazing back then, too."

"Of course you were," she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Relieved to have something of her old Cicero back, even if he is only hiding his worry beneath a mask of good humor. She welcomes the change. "Come on. We have work to do."

Leaving the Sanctuary proves to be more trouble than she expects. Babette forces extra healing potions on them, and Nazir makes sure they have enough supplies to survive for weeks. But the most fussing comes from Luka and Arnbjorn, who are bitter over being left behind. Arnbjorn makes them wait so he can sharpen their blades, and Luka fusses at Lumen to remember to practice casting while they are on the road.

They leave Dawnstar without incident, and their travels through the Pale are hardly noteworthy. There are a few passersby; a handful of merchants and a group of bandits. But the brigands take one look at their weapons and armor, and decide to wait for an easier mark.

"How were you chosen to be Keeper?" Lumen asks as she nervously fiddles with Shadowmere's reigns. "Was there a test?"

"You have read Cicero's journals before, yes? You ought to know!"

"Yeah, but that was a long time ago now, and I only read them once." And just to soften him up, she adds, "I only read them because I missed you— but I felt guilty for prying. Just tell me. Please."

"Oh, very well," he sighs, but his smile doesn't falter. "A vote was held shortly after the Listener died. The Night Mother had been quiet for too long, and it was becoming apparent that she would not choose a Listener for some time."

"I guess I just assumed there was a Keeper already," she admits. "Was there not?"

"Oh, no. Keepers are an ancient tradition, and there had not been one for hundreds of years."

"But who took care of the Night Mother?"

"The Listener did."

Lumen bites back any further questions. She has an endless amount, but she doesn't want to overwhelm him. "You know, when Astrid told us you were coming to Skyrim, I didn't know what to think. I thought you'd be a withered old man," she tells him, her voice turning wistful when she adds, "but I also pictured a man cloaked in black, with the blood of a recent kill staining his nails."

"Cicero can tell which one you were hoping for," he says with a laugh.

She ducks her head, hiding her smile. "I got what I wanted," she murmurs. Even though Cicero had not been a mysterious stranger dressed in black, he'd been just as enthralling.

"Did you want to be the Listener?"

The question surprises her. She never considered what she wanted before. "I don't know," she admits. "I was drawn to the Night Mother. I was curious. But I wasn't secretly hoping she'd speak to me."

"Cicero was afraid he'd have to punish you for skulking around the Night Mother's shrine at all hours," he says, his grin as sharp as a Daedric blade. "You couldn't leave well enough alone!"

"How would you have punished me?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder at him. "That is a serious question, by the way. I'm not flirting."

"As you say," he concedes, but it's obvious he does not believe her. "Traditional punishments usually include chores like latrine duty, and so on. More severe penalties include the breaking of fingers or flogging. We are not to kill or harm our siblings, so one must be careful to ensure that punishment does not become torture."

"Which one would you have chosen for me?"

"None," he says, his voice dropping low. "Cicero would have given you the option to skirt your punishments by doing some favors for him. You did help him repair his wagon, after all. So Cicero was prepared to show a little mercy."

The sudden flood of heat in her core makes her dizzy. "What sort of favors?" she asks, knowing this conversation might derail their travel plans. "Tell me."

His breath is hot against her ear when he says, "Cicero would've had you on your knees."

She sucks in a breath as her imagination runs wild at what might have happened. Would she have slapped Cicero? Would she have gone for it? Would she have slapped him and then gone down on him? In her mind, she can see his wicked eyes watching her as she slides down to her knees and—

"Poor Cicero needed all the help he could get," he continues. "Scrubbing the floor around the Night Mother's shrine was exhausting work. Falkreath was a filthy Sanctuary."

"You shit!" She swats at him, which is quite difficult considering he's behind her. But she does manage to clip him on the thigh, which mollifies her somewhat. Shadowmere snorts a complaint at the sudden movement, and Lumen pats the horse to soothe him.

Cicero cackles. "What were you thinking, hmm? Do you think Cicero is so depraved, so devious, that he would use his seniority to take advantage of his sweet sister?"

"Yes, I do!"

"And what would you have done?" he asks, resting his chin on her shoulder to get a better look at her. "Cicero wishes to know."

"I'm not going to tell you," she says, looking away from him so he cannot see her smile. "You're a brat, and you don't deserve to know."

They trade insults and jokes for a while. Their playful banter serving as a pleasant distraction from their worries. They do not speak of the Bosmer assassin, even though they are careful to watch the roads for any potential danger. Hours pass without incident, which is more disconcerting than someone attacking them outright.

The assassins leave the chilly planes of the Pale behind them as the bright afternoon sun bleeds into a violet eventide. They fall silent as night finally turns upon them, and the city of Whiterun looms in the distance.

"Are we getting close?"

"Yes, and no," Lumen says, her eyes flitting from shadow to shadow, afraid of who might be watching them at this very moment. "I think we need to go further south. But I'm not sure where. There's Riverwood, what's left of Helgen, and Falkreath."

"Perhaps we should rest," he tentatively suggests. "It is dark, and poor Cicero can no longer feel his rear."

"That's a good idea. I lost all feeling there hours ago." She tugs on Shadowmere's reigns, guiding him toward Whiterun. "We'll stay at the Drunken Huntsman tonight. I have friends there—"

Cicero chuckles. "You have friends?"

Lumen ignores his teasing and continues to say, "I haven't seen them in ages, but they were always good company in the past. I think they will like you."

In hindsight, the Drunken Huntsman may not have been the best place to go for a rest. Elrindir, Anoriath, and Jenassa were thrilled to see Lumen, and even more delighted to meet Cicero. Together, they succeeded in getting both Lumen and Cicero very, very drunk. As a result, they are sleep-deprived and nursing hangovers, but they are both in high spirits from a night spent in good company.

"Where to first?" Cicero asks before drinking deeply from his waterskin. Neither of them can seem to get enough water after a night of heavy drinking.

Lumen yawns as she looks over her well-worn map of Skyrim. "We'll go through Riverwood first, then take the road south to Helgen if we find nothing there."

"Helgen was destroyed, was it not? Has it been rebuilt?"

"Doubtful," she says, folding the map and tucking it into her traveling pack. "The bandits will have free reign of that city until the war is over. No jarls are willing to dedicate time or resources to rebuilding right now."

"Will you two hurry up?" comes a gruff voice. "I didn't travel all night just to watch you two dick around."

"Arnbjorn?" Her head whips toward the sound of his voice, and she finds him offering an apple to Shadowmere. The horse is saddled and ready for travel, and Arnbjorn is wearing the armor that given to him by none other than Hircine himself. "I thought I told you to stay put!"

"No yelling, please." Cicero rubs his temples. "Poor Cicero's head might explode."

"I was concerned, as was the rest of the family. We came to the conclusion that you and Cicero might need some extra help," he says, glaring at her for snapping at him. "And so here I am."

"But it's dangerous to travel alone!"

"My wolf form is fast and has eluded hunters before." Arnbjorn takes Shadowmere by the reins and leads him to where Lumen and Cicero stand. "You weren't missing me? Not even a little?"

She scowls at him for teasing her. While she is pleased he decided to show up, she's reluctant to let him know. "I'd miss you more if you hadn't blatantly defied my orders."

Cicero approaches Arnbjorn, his cap pulled down over his eyes to block out the sunlight. "Dear brother, do you happen to have one of Babette's little hangover cures on you? Poor Cicero is dying."

"I didn't think you'd be the one asking me for this." Arnbjorn grins at Cicero when he hands him a small vial. "What did you two get up to last night? Or do I not wanna know?"

"Met with some old friends and had too much to drink," Lumen says, grabbing at the horn of the saddle and pulling herself up. Her hangover is slowly ebbing away thanks to the generous breakfast she had earlier.

Cicero seats himself behind Lumen, his hands resting on her hips. "Cicero is glad you are here, brother. He would have perished on the road had you not had that cure on you."

"How do you plan to travel?" Lumen asks, glancing down at him. "Shadowmere can't hold three people, and I don't plan to ride slowly."

"I'll walk with you," Arnbjorn says, resting his hand on the horse's side and urging him to start walking. "I'll shift when it's safe to do so. I can travel faster that way."

They follow the winding road southward. It is afternoon, and the road is thick with travelers. Arnbjorn is not able to shift into his wolf form until they reach the mountainside path that will lead them up to the chilly mountains, and down into the gentle warmth of Riverwood and beyond. To anyone else passing by, Arnbjorn just looks like a large, tame wolf traveling with his masters. But when they reach Riverwood, he elects to avoid the town in case one of the local hunters sees him for what he is. He meets up with Cicero and Lumen once they pass through the town.

"We're getting close." Lumen curls her fingers around the back of her neck, squeezing the tension from her muscles.

"Are you well, sweet Lumen?" Cicero's hands come up to rub her shoulders, even though his efforts are for naught thanks to her thick leather armor. "We can stop for a rest if you need it."

The call of the Sacrament wraps around her throat like a gentle, guiding hand. It's difficult to focus on anything other than the insistent demand of a call to be answered. She can feel it so strongly, but why couldn't Mother? Why didn't she say anything?

"No. The Sacrament is in Helgen. I have no doubt."

Arnbjorn rumbles a growl, but he does not have to shift into human form to convey what he's feeling. None of them wish to enter Helgen. But occasionally bandits have need of the Dark Brotherhood, just like anyone else. They travel quietly, save for the soft plodding of hooves and the panting of the wolf. Helgen sits on the crest of a small hill, the walls still standing even after most of the city was destroyed by a dragon. It is a testament to Nordic craftsmanship. The gates are flung open, and on either side are corpses strung up on ropes and pikes. The stench of death hangs heavy in the air, but that is not enough to frighten the Listener away.

"We'll travel on foot the rest of the way," she says, dismounting Shadowmere with ease. "One can never be too careful with bandits."

"It is strange that no one is guarding the city," Cicero says, his feet hitting the ground. "Cicero does not like this at all."

Arnbjorn noses at her hand to get her attention. "Find an alternate way in," she says to the wolf. "And a quick exit in case things go badly." He stares at her, his silver eyes full of questions. "I don't expect things to go badly. It's just setting up a contract, right? But Helgen hasn't been safe since Alduin razed it, and I'm not willing to take any chances."

The wolf darts off into the trees to search for another way inside. Lumen takes a deep, steadying breath and approaches the gates, her daggers at the ready. Cicero is beside her, armed and alert. They leave Shadowmere waiting on the road. The horse can take care of himself should the need arise.

"Hello?" she calls out, but no one responds. She walks deeper into the little town, and toward the source of her headache. The Sacrament sits in the middle of what may have been the town square, yet no one is actively performing it. The anointed knife lays to the side, and the candles have burned down to nubs. Lumen pushes the candles over with her foot, snuffing out the flames. With the circle disturbed, the spell is nullified, effectively ending the relentless pounding in her head.

A chill washes over her when she hears the barest of movements up in the ramparts. Her throat grows tight as she lifts her eyes to the city walls. There, she sees at least a dozen leather-clad assassins — not unlike the Bosmer who came after them — armed with crossbows. Her anger surges like a storm at sea, and she cannot speak without losing control of her Thu'um.

There's a reason Mother said nothing about this Sacrament— and it's not because she was unable to. It's because it is a trap, and her stupid, foolish Listener just walked right into it.

Without warning, she chucks her dagger at the nearest assassin, the blade hitting them square in the chest. Cicero grabs her and pulls her behind a crumbling retaining wall as the assassins unleash their bolts. The arrows rain down all around them, punching into the ground and sending little plumes of dirt into the air.

"Killer aim, my sweet," Cicero says as he reaches for his throwing knives. "But I think you have upset them. Your Voice might be useful right about now."

Panic threatens to consume her. Of all the stupid, half-thought out things she's done, this is the worst of the lot. It will be a small miracle if Mother even speaks to her after this— assuming they get out alive.

"Lumen!" Cicero nudges her. "Snap out of it! Shout! Do something!"

"I don't know what to do!" The grim reality of their situation is crashing down all around her. They are prey. Someone is hunting them down. It's not a game. It is real.

"Now is not the time to panic!"

A shriek from above them grabs her attention, and she peers over the wall to see Arnbjorn's wolf running along the ramparts. He tears into an archer, as the ghostly form of Lucien Lachance cuts down another. Masked assassins are climbing down the ladders, to get away from their attackers and to come after Lumen and Cicero. They do not care if they die, as long as their victims die too. It is truly terrifying to face an enemy that has no fear of death.

Cicero leaps out from behind the wall, daggers at the ready. But a stray bolt hits him in the shoulder with a dull thud. The pain is enough to bring him to the knees, and that's when Lumen loses all sense. She does not fear pain, or death— she fears losing him. If there is anything in this world that could break her, that would be it, and she'll be damned if a handful of half-wit assassins tear them apart.

A scream of fury tears from her throat as she runs toward their attackers. She Shouts at the approaching assassins, calling forth a great, roiling bursts of dragon fire. They don't have a moment to cry out in shock or pain as they are engulfed and instantly immolated by the flames.

"Nice one," Cicero grits out. His arm is tucked tightly against his body, keeping his injured shoulder still. "Cicero may have to sit the rest of this one out. The bolt is quite deep."

"Take cover," she tells him, her eyes upon the assassins that are still on the ramparts. "This won't take long."

Bolts zip by as she ascends the ladder, and she grits her teeth, ready to endure the pain of being hit. But Lucien and Arnbjorn keep the archers distracted enough that their aim is poor, and Lumen makes it onto the ramparts unscathed. She counts six assassins still fighting. The others are either bleeding out or dead. One poor fool is desperately trying to put his guts back where they belong, but to no avail.

The killing calm settles over her, sharpening her vision and muffling the din of battle. "One," she counts as she ducks down to avoid a bolt, and jabs her knife into an assassin's groin. "Two." Another rushes up behind her. She spins around to meet him and buries her dagger in his gut. "Three— four." Two assassins die screaming thanks to the combined efforts of Arnbjorn and Lucien. "Five." The fifth assassin gives her some trouble, and she barely avoids his blade. But Lucien is there in a flash, his daggers buried in the man's kidneys. She can sense the last assassin coming up behind her, and she turns around in time to grab her wrists. "And this is six," she silently muses as she struggles to disarm her would-be killer.

"Give up," Six growls. "More will come. We will never stop."

"I'm not the type to give up." Lumen grits her teeth as she takes a step back, her fingers still clenched around Six's wrists.

Lucien's appears behind her attacker. With a hand on the back of her neck and one around her belt, he yanks her out of Lumen's grip. He flings the woman over the edge of the ramparts. She screams as she topples over the edge, but the scream is quickly cut off when she lands with a loud thud.

"What was that for? I had her!"

"You were taking too long," the ghost says. "I thought I'd help."

"I wanted her alive!" she shouts, irritated with the smug specter.

He peers over the edge of the ramparts, a sly grin curling his lips when he says, "she will live."

Lumen curses as she makes her way to the ladder. "Come with me, Lachance. We've got an assassin to interrogate."

Notes: I'm traveling for work and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to post an update this week. But I managed to find a secure connection (that didn't drop out) so here I am~ posting from lovely (humid omg) New Orleans! :D

Cicero cannot hold his liquor, and Lumen is occasionally very, very stupid. Many things will be revealed in the next chapter, and we're going to end up with a very unhappy Keeper. I'm pretty excited about the next chapter because that's when we start getting into the nitty-gritty of the story. It's written, but it still needs editing. I'll have it up in a week or so.