Chapter 5: The Hunted

"How's your shoulder?"

"It twinges a bit," Cicero replies, his voice abnormally high. A sign that he is in a significant amount of pain, but reluctant to admit it.

Lumen carefully inspects the wound. The crossbow bolt is deep— very deep. It would require a skilled healer to mend the damage done to his shoulder properly. She knows she could remove the bolt and ease some of his discomfort, but she fears damaging him further. While she has dissected enough victims to have a vague understanding of human anatomy, she is not willing to test her knowledge on Cicero.

"Here," she says, holding up a vial of milky liquid. "For the pain."

"Cicero would prefer to keep his wits about him," he says, eyeing the vial with suspicion.

"I know." She bites her lip when their eyes meet. "Just take a little. Something to take the edge off, at least."

Arnbjorn heavy footsteps signal his arrival, but Lumen does not look up from her task of fussing over Cicero. "She's awake," he says.

Lumen glances over her shoulder. The assassin is splayed on the ground, her face twisted in pain— or fear. Lumen cannot tell. "She's not restrained?"

"She's not going anywhere. That fall broke her back."

"Serves her right," Cicero says, his words followed by a wheeze of pain. "Ah, sweet Lumen, Cicero has changed his mind. He would like some of that potion, after all."

"We're not far from Falkreath, and Zaria is a decent healer," Arnbjorn supplies as Lumen helps Cicero drink from the vial. "She's not as skilled as Luka, but she could help."

"All right," Lumen says, smoothing Cicero's hair away from his sweaty forehead. "We'll leave as soon as we deal with the assassin."

With Cicero taken care of, Lumen gets to her feet and steps over to the assassin. She's a Breton woman of about middle age. Her face is pale and sweaty, but her green eyes follow Lumen's every move.

"It's a done deal, elf," she snaps, her voice strained. "It's been done for years. It doesn't matter what you do to me, or to those who come after me. We won't stop until the Brotherhood is no more."

"Why?"

"Because it's what we have been paid to do."

Lumen tilts her head, regarding the woman carefully. "And what about you? Why are you personally involved?"

She snorts. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're a death cult? The Brotherhood— what a fucking joke. How many families have been torn apart by you? And for what? Money?"

"Yes, well, it's what we've been paid to do," Lumen says, her lips twisting into a sneer. "You don't get to berate me over my life choices when you are guilty of the same acts."

"The Dark Brotherhood isn't a family."

"So you say." Lumen looks to her brothers; Cicero and Arnbjorn, and even the ghostly form of Lucien Lachance. They mean everything to her— more than everything. "But the Dark Brotherhood is my family, and I won't let anyone hurt them."

"Save it for the Night Mother." The Breton grins at her. "It was she who sent you walking blindly into a trap." Lumen clenches her jaw, and the assassin continues. "There's no honor among thieves and no love among assassins. Your Night Mother sent you to your deaths. You're a fool if you think she gives a shit about you."

"How dare you," Cicero growls, struggling to get to his feet. "How dare you speak ill of the Night Mother!"

"Sit down, niblet."

"Who are you working for?" Lumen asks, the very essence of forced calm. "Malrian is dead. Who has taken his place?"

The woman breathes a strained laugh. "I don't know who gives the orders. They come to me by dead drop, and I follow them. Nothing more."

The truly unfortunate thing is that she's probably telling the truth about that, and it frustrates Lumen to no end. "If you can't give me anything useful, then I don't see the point in keeping you alive."

"There isn't," the woman says. There is an impressive strength to her voice, even now. She is broken beyond repair and on the brink of death. Yet, she will not shy away from what's about to happen.

"Lucien," she says, looking up at the ghost. "Give her a clean death."

The ghost moves to the Breton's side and drives his dagger in her heart. A pregnant silence falls over the group when the assassin breathes her last. Her brothers are mulling over what she said earlier, whether they want to or not. They are all wondering; did the Night Mother send them to their deaths? Did she know?

The truth is worse. But her brothers deserve to know, even though they may hate her for it. "The Night Mother did not lead us into a trap," Lumen says. "I did."

"Come again, tidbit?"

A sharp breath escapes her, something between a laugh and a sob. "There was no contract. Mother did not tell me to come here. I could feel the Sacrament calling to me, but Mother— she said nothing. This mess is my fault."

"But you said—"

"I know what I said, Cicero," she sighs. "I lied. I thought something was wrong with the Night Mother. But now I know why she didn't speak. She didn't tell me about this Sacrament because she knew it was a trap."

"You should have told Cicero!" he cries. "He would have prevented you from this foolishness! He would have known something was wrong!"

"Would you?" The question is a clear challenge, though she doesn't mean it to be.

"If the Night Mother is silent, it will be because she chooses to be, not because she unable to speak," he says, his voice pitched in a growl so deep, it raises the hair on the back of her neck. "Cicero is a good Keeper. Cicero knows Mother is well-tended. He would have known something strange was going on."

She can barely look at him, because the fury in his eyes is heartbreaking. "I didn't want to give you something else to worry about."

"Well, that worked out quite well! You nearly got us killed! And now we are miles away from civilization, and Cicero has this godsforsaken bolt stuck in his shoulder— do you even care, Listener?"

"Of course I care," she says weakly. "Why would you think otherwise?"

"Because you lie like other people breathe! You lied to Cicero about the Night Mother. You said she gave us a contract when she did not. Cicero can forgive so many things, but this—" he sighs, struggling with his words through his anger and pain. "This is verging on heresy."

"I don't know what to say," she whispers, and she looks to Arnbjorn and Lucien. Seeking either support or condemnation, but getting neither. Both men look as if they'd rather be somewhere far away from the quarreling lovers. They all know this is more than just the simple case of one assassin lying to another. It's more than heresy. She has hurt Cicero. Badly.

"If you ever lie to me about something like this again, I swear to Sithis I will—"

"You'll what, exactly?" She knows he is careless in his anger and that he would never harm her, but her dragon blood will not ignore the threat. "Who follows whom, here?" Perhaps it is stupid to pull rank at this very moment, but she can't help it. Her anxiety has turned to raw irritation in the wake of Cicero's rage.

Cicero curses as he gets to his feet. He paces around the courtyard to blow off some steam. After a moment, he whirls around to face her, a storm of emotions passing over his features before he settles on anger. "Cicero serves the Listener, yes," he says, every word carrying a sharp edge. "But to serve does not mean to follow blindly. If the Listener cannot be honest with Cicero, then he will— he will have to distance himself."

Lumen sucks in a sharp breath. Of all the things she expected him to say, that was not it. "What do you mean?" she asks, although she does not require clarification.

"You are my Listener, and you always will be until the day I breathe my last," he says, some of the anger bleeding from his voice. "But if Cicero cannot trust you, then that is all you will be."

The hurt in his words is startling. Cicero has always been so unflappable, but nothing can cut right to the core of him like her lies can. He has remained impervious to her countless harsh words and selfish actions, but this, it seems, is the last straw.

Lumen is all too aware of how hard her heart is pounding. "I will not cry," she promises herself. There is little reason to cry over lost lovers. They will come around or they won't, and all the tears in the world won't get her what she wants most. Cicero's forgiveness will have to be earned. The trust she so carelessly shattered will have to be repaired.

Cicero shuffles over to Arnbjorn, his gait wavering. "Cicero may need your help," he murmurs. "He cannot climb on top of Shadowmere in this state."

A soft breeze tugs at her hair as she watches Arnbjorn gather the wounded Keeper in his arms. Shadowmere remains still while he attempts to seat Cicero without jostling him too much. There are a few hissed curses, but soon Cicero is in the saddle.

"I'll walk," she says when Arnbjorn looks to her. He nods, taking Shadowmere's reins in his hands and leading the horse out of Helgen.

They follow the road to Falkreath, not a single word passing between them as they travel.

Zaria is able to remove the bolt from Cicero's shoulder and staunch the bleeding. But she claims she is not skilled enough to heal it completely. She packs the wound and provides a sling for his arm, and sends the assassins on their way. After a stilted conversation between Arnbjorn, Cicero, and Lumen, they decide to take the path through the pine forest, and then north again.

Shadowmere leads the way through the woods, with Arnbjorn at his side. Lumen walks a few paces behind them, needing some alone time to sort through her thoughts. They all grow tense when they reach the edge of the pine forest. This place was their home until Astrid's hubris brought destruction down upon them. Memories — both good and bad — cling to the pine like dewdrops.

She breathes in the sweet air of the forest. Oh, how she missed this place. She missed the clean scent of the pines, and the wood smoke coming from the nearby town of Falkreath. She loves the way the fog curls around her ankles, and the feel of the humidity clinging to her skin. This forest was her first home in Skyrim, and it will always be close to her heart. Even if being here makes her heart ache with the memories of a Sanctuary lost.

"We can afford no distractions, Listener." The gossamer voice of Lucien Lachance reverberates through her ears, summoning a wave of gooseflesh across her arms. "Keep your wits about you."

"I'm not distracted," she says quickly. Ever since her brush with death, the specter has become her constant shadow. Sometimes it is flattering, but right now it's downright annoying. "Am I not allowed to think?"

"Should I take my leave?"

"Stay," she sighs. "I apologize. I shouldn't take my anger out on you."

"There are worse things to endure," the ghost says with a chuckle. "I would advise you if I could. But I avoided relationships in life. I had those whom I passed the time with, but nothing quite as involved as you have with the Keeper."

Lumen huffs a bitter laugh. "I assume you didn't get involved because of situations like this?"

"Heartache is a distraction an assassin cannot afford," he says as he floats along beside her. "I had one lover I favored above the rest. She was my Silencer— and then she was my Listener. When she was so named, I never asked for anything that she was not willing to give. I did not ask for honesty, or loyalty, or love, because she was the Listener and who was I to demand anything? That she gave me any of her time was a gift I did not deserve."

She stares at the ghost, soaking up the information. This is the most Lucien has ever said to her in one go, and while she has a million questions to ask him, she ought to start with the most pertinent one. "Are you accusing Cicero of insubordination?"

His ethereal form flickers momentarily, like a flame caught in an errant breeze. "Perhaps."

"Tell me about your Listener." She hopes to guide the conversation elsewhere. Preferably away from anything involving Cicero. They both need time, and she will not punish him for yelling at her. Their ranks within the Brotherhood have little to do with their relationship, regardless of what Lucien thinks.

"Her name was Threnody," he says, his voice wavering with rare emotion. "That was not her birth name, but a name she chose when she joined the family. She was beautiful and deadly. You two are not dissimilar."

"Except she had the good sense to keep her lovers at arm's length."

"Yes."

"Are you not angry with me, too? For lying?" she asks, watching him from the corner of her eye.

He is quiet for a heartbeat too long. "You had your reasons for doing so. However, if you are seeking counsel, I would suggest being more forthright in the future."

She sighs at the rather obvious piece of advice, but she quickly forgets about the conversation at hand when Shadowmere slows to a stop. Arnbjorn is standing perfectly still, his silver eyes flashing in the moonlight. They are very close to their old Sanctuary; it is just off the road, down a familiar, sloping path.

"Is something wrong?" she whispers.

"There are fresh footprints here," he says slowly. "And too many scents. Leather and blood, and something I don't recognize."

"It could be more assassins," she says, her pointed ears twitching at every sound.

Arnbjorn grows more tense with each step he takes toward their old home. "Someone is in the Sanctuary."

"Are you sure? We sealed it up ages ago... It's nothing more than a tomb."

"We should kill them for disturbing the grave of our fallen siblings," Cicero says through clenched teeth, and he kicks Shadowmere into a trot, the horse carrying him down into the rocky alcove.

"Wait!"

She follows him down the path with Arnbjorn on her heels. Both are fussing at Cicero to slow down because he is in no shape to fight. But the Keeper is having none of it, and he dismounts Shadowmere on his own, even if it causes him great pain to do so. There are no words as they all look to the entrance of their old Sanctuary. The Black Door had once been covered with rocks— sealed from trespassers and scavengers alike. But now it is unsealed, and its strange, ethereal heartbeat welcomes them home.

"It's not safe," she says, hoping to get him to see reason. "Cicero, please listen to me—"

"No, you listen," he snarls, and she takes a step away from him.

A flicker of hurt passes behind his eyes when she does, and while she knows his physical pain is causing him to lash out more than usual, she is still wary. She does not fear him, so much as she fears herself. She fears losing control of her Thu'um, because every time he snaps at her, she can feel it rising to the challenge. It's building within her chest like an explosion, waiting to break free.

"Please." He tries to force his voice into something calmer. "We cannot just ignore what's happening here. We cannot just allow an outsider to disgrace the grave of our fallen siblings."

"He's right," Arnbjorn says, and that's when Lumen knows she's lost the fight. "Even fallen, the Sanctuary is a sacred place."

"All right," she concedes. "Lucien, guard the road. Let us know if anyone approaches the Sanctuary." The ghost bows and drifts off to patrol the area, and she turns her attention back to Cicero. "Arnbjorn and I go in first," she says, her tone brooking no argument. She wants to tell him that he's too important to risk and that she couldn't live with herself if something happened to him. As it is, seeing him wounded and knowing it is her fault is nearly killing her.

"Cicero still has one good arm," he says irritably. "He is not helpless."

"I didn't say you were," she sighs, giving up on reasoning with him. It's not worth it; not when he's still so angry. Instead, she grabs her daggers and approaches the door.

The Black Door's ethereal voice reaches her ears, the old greeting nearly bringing tears to her eyes when she hears it. "What is the music of life?"

"Silence, my brother," she whispers, her voice shaking.

"Welcome home."

The magical locks within the door unlatch, and Lumen carefully pushes the door open. Falkreath Sanctuary smells nearly the same— of metal and petrichor, but there is the underlying scent of rotting flesh and ash.

Arnbjorn nudges his way in front of her. "I'm going in first," he says. "Just in case."

She does not argue with him, and she follows him inside the old Sanctuary. Some part of her is glad to set foot inside her old home again, and another part balks at the thought of disturbing her fallen siblings. After the Sanctuary had burned, they laid Astrid, Gabriella, and Festus to rest there. But she thinks they would welcome the company of their siblings over whoever's broken in.

They move down the stairs and into the old, destroyed foyer. The bodies of the fallen were laid to rest in Astrid and Arnbjorn's old bedroom, and then it had been sealed up. Based on the footprints on the floor, she can tell someone tried to get inside, saw what was in there, and then promptly sealed the room again. An odd thing for a thief or a potential assassin to do. Even stranger is the light coming from the main hall of the Sanctuary. A small fire flickers within, throwing odd shadows across the floor. If someone wished to kill them, they wouldn't make their presence so obvious would they? If this is a trap, it's not a very good one.

"Look." Arnbjorn directs her attention to a pile of bodies in the foyer. But they are not the Penitus Oculatus; they are bodies of the assassins that are hunting them. A trail of blood stains the stairs that lead to the main hall, as if whoever fought the assassins was wounded in the process. Did they have dissent in the ranks? Did one of their own betray them?

"Who's there?" comes a voice from deep within the Sanctuary. "You don't belong here. I suggest you leave unless you want to join your comrades in death."

Lumen and Arnbjorn share a look, but it is Cicero who speaks first. "We are the rightful heirs of this Sanctuary, and you are trespassing!"

A pause, then, "do you really think I'd fall for that?" The sound of a dagger sliding from its sheath follows the question. "Come on. I don't have all night."

Arnbjorn descends the stairs with Lumen and Cicero right behind him. He makes a soft sound of surprise, but Lumen doesn't wait around to find out what has startled him so. She shoves in front of him, her eyes on the stranger standing in the middle of her old home, and Shouts him across the room. The man drops his weapon when he goes flying, and he lands hard when he crashes into the word wall at the far corner of the chamber.

"Wait a moment." Arnbjorn's hand on her shoulder stops her from moving in for the kill. "I recognize him. I met him years ago. He was part of Alisanne Dupre's entourage."

"That doesn't mean we can trust him!" she snaps, pulling out of his grip. "Dupre is dead, and there was a traitor in the ranks!"

"Yes, there was a traitor, and the bastard is still alive," the man gasps, rubbing his head as he gets to his feet. "And I've been on the run ever since."

"Pontius," Cicero whispers, his eyes wide. "Cicero thought you were dead."

The Imperial raises his hands in supplication as he cautiously approaches the group. "I very nearly was," he says. "Please, I'd like a moment to explain. You may kill me if you decide I am not to be trusted. At this point, I think I would welcome the rest."

Any other day, Cicero might be a little more welcoming of an old friend, but he is in no mood to show mercy. The wrath in his eyes could end worlds, and Lumen is glad to have a few feet between them at this moment. "You had better start talking," he growls. "Garnag said a bandit ran you through! Yet, here you are."

"It was Garnag who ran me through," Pontius says bitterly. "He caught me as I was coming back to the Sanctuary, put his sword right through me. I almost died, but I guess I got lucky."

Lumen's eyes rake over the stranger. He is, in a word, gorgeous. Pale, olive skin that would tan if he spent more time in the sun, eyes as green as a field in the midst of the spring rains, and long, sable hair. He has the face of an aristocrat with his sharp cheekbones, aquiline nose, and full lips. That face is as much a weapon as any blade, and she wonders how many of his victims fell in love with him before they died.

"Prove it," Lumen says, the words coming out so suddenly, she startles herself. "Show us the scar."

"If you insist," he says, eyeing her with uncertainty. His deft fingers make short work of the belts crisscrossing his well-worn armor, and he slides the leather jacket off, carefully laying it on a nearby rock. He wears a thin, linen shirt beneath his armor, and he pulls it up without hesitation. There is an old scar just beneath his heart. It is the same width as a typical broadsword. A similar, albeit smaller, wound is on his back— the exit wound. Lumen's eyes roam across his figure. Scars of all shapes and sizes decorate his body, and there are fresh cuts along his forearms, possibly given to him by the now dead assassins in the foyer.

"Garnag did that?" Cicero's face is unreadable, but his voice carries the wounds of betrayal. "Why?"

Pontius smoothes his shirt down, but he does not bother with the rest of his armor. "Because he was paid to do it. It was Garnag who killed Andronica, and he did not defend the Listener when the Thalmor's mages cornered her. He tried to kill me and—" His voice wavers. "Sithis, Cicero, I thought he killed you, too."

Arnbjorn folds his arms across his broad chest. "Something seems a bit off, here."

Cicero narrows his eyes, scrutinizing every word falling from his long, lost brother's lips. "I find it hard to believe that an Orc is working for the Thalmor."

"Gold is gold, old friend. It doesn't matter who supplies it. The Thalmor got their gilded claws into Garnag and one other— someone from the Wayrest Sanctuary, although I don't know who. There could be others, but believe me, acquiring information on the matter has not been easy. The assassins are Thalmor trained, and they do not give up their secrets lightly."

"Why are you here?" Lumen asks. "Why now? Why did you wait so long to come to Skyrim?"

"I will admit to some cowardice. You must understand, I thought I had lost everything and everyone I ever cared about." He looks to Cicero upon saying that. "How did you survive?"

"Tenacity." The word carries more venom than Cicero intends. "Cicero spent a decade rotting in the old Sanctuary, and you never came home!"

"It was too dangerous," Pontius says, exasperated. "Cheydinhal was crawling with Thalmor. I just thought if you were alive and the Night Mother was safe— well, I couldn't risk you. I refused to be the one who lead them to you."

"I'll ask again," Lumen cuts in. "Why are you here?"

"The Falkreath Sanctuary seemed like a safe place to hide. But it's been compromised. The assassins know the passphrase, but I am not sure how they got it."

"The Sanctuaries are not impenetrable," Lumen says, fearing for the safety of the Dawnstar Sanctuary more and more. "If someone wants inside badly enough, they can usually find a way. The Penitus Oculatus razed this one quite easily."

"Yes, that— I heard about that." He looks to the foyer, then back to Lumen. "I'm sorry about disturbing our fallen siblings. I didn't realize they were here."

"I doubt they minded," Arnbjorn grumbles. "Astrid always liked you anyway."

"Is she…" Pontius' expression falls when he realizes Astrid must be one of the carefully wrapped corpses. "I am sorry for your loss, brother."

Arnbjorn just shakes his head. He never wanted sympathy for Astrid's death, and he certainly never wants to talk about it.

"So what now?" Lumen's nerves are getting the better of her, and she begins to pace. "We can't stay here if the assassins know the passphrase, and you need to convince us of your innocence. You could be one of them."

"I am not sure how to convince you otherwise," he says, running a hand through his hair. "I may have some information on the assassins, but I don't even know if it's true. However, I could share it, and if it pans out, then I will kill them all for you. Would that prove my innocence?"

The Breton woman's words echo in her head, "There's no honor among thieves and no love among assassins." Would he give up his own just to get in good with the Dark Brotherhood?

"It is a good place to start," Cicero says, turning his attention to her. "We should give him a chance, yes? There is a chance he is lying, but there is also a chance he's not."

"I'll kill him myself if he's lying," Arnbjorn says.

"I would expect no less, brother." Pontius inclines his head. "Let me prove myself. Please. I have spent so much time running. I just want a chance to help the Dark Brotherhood. I want an opportunity to do what I should have done years ago."

"Very well," Lumen sighs, unable to ignore the feeling of dread creeping over her. "Tell us what you know."

Notes: I did consider giving this chapter the title "Lumen stepped in the poopy" but I restrained myself. XD I reckon she's gonna be in the doghouse for a while.