Chapter 6: A Change of Heart

The newly named Keeper stood at the end of a small, four poster bed. His fingers trailed beneath one of the knobs where the polish had worn away. It was his fault— sort of. A few days prior, Pontius had bound his wrists to the posts. It had been a pleasant — albeit, unexpected — way to spend an evening.

"Of all my siblings, I think I will miss you the most," he said as if Pontius could hear him somehow. He hoped he could.

His journal laid open, the ink from his most recent entry still wet:

16th of Rain's Hand, 4E 191

Pontius is dead. A Dark Brotherhood assassin was killed by a common bandit while walking the streets of Cheydinhal. How can something so sad be so funny?

It wasn't funny. It really wasn't. But Cicero was unable to stop the inappropriate laughter that bubbled up from his chest every time he thought about it. He knew if he didn't laugh; he would cry. Pontius would most certainly be disgusted with him if he cried over his death. They knew the risks of becoming assassins. They knew the risks of staying loyal to the Dark Brotherhood.

There were always risks, certainly. But there were rewards, as well. He and Pontius had begun to find comfort in each other only a few months ago. They needed a distraction. With so much death and grief, it was nice to be able to find a moment's peace within the arms of a friend. That friendship had slowly turned into something more, which was foolish on both of their accounts. But Pontius was dead, and whatever their hearts had in store for them no longer mattered.

It was Garnag who delivered the news. He said a common thug hunted Pontius down, stabbed him, and left him to bleed out on the streets. Cicero did not believe him, and he left in search of the body, only to find out that it had burned on a mass pyre. It was a grievous insult for a Dark Brotherhood assassin to be cremated with the rotting refuse of the city; with criminals, the unclaimed, and those who were too poor to afford a proper burial. They were all tossed on the pyre and lit aflame, their souls sent to any scavenger deity who would have them. At least Pontius would be claimed by Sithis. Cicero could find comfort in that.

Garnag appeared in the doorway of the dark bedroom, armed and armored, with a pack slung over his shoulder. "I'm going to find some food," he said. "I won't be long."

"Let me come with you," Cicero said, hoping he didn't sound like he was begging. He needed to feel the sunlight. The moonlight. The wind. Anything but the stagnant, stale air of the Sanctuary.

"No," the Orc said. "It's not safe. You stay here, Keeper. I won't be long."

He watched Garnag go. The sound of the Sanctuary door slamming shut made him cringe. He was well and truly alone. The silence was deafening. Maddening.

With a sigh, he laid down in Pontius' bed, breathing in his scent. Soon it would be replaced by the stench of mildew that permeated the ancient Sanctuary. But in the meantime, Cicero would revel in the familiar smell of his friend until it was no more.

To say that Cicero is having a bad day would be the understatement of the era.

His Listener, his darling, beloved, infuriating Listener lied to him. It's not like it hasn't happened before, but he thought they'd moved past such things. It'd be easy to forgive if it were a little white lie. But to lie about a contract, and lead them into danger? Cicero isn't sure he can let this one go. How could she? After everything they've survived; Alduin, Malrian, and Astrid's treachery— what more does he have to do to earn her trust? His life would be so much easier if she would just talk to him.

To make matters worse, they are standing in a fallen Sanctuary, and Cicero is face-to-face with a ghost from his past. Only Pontius, who he'd long thought dead, is alive. Pontius — beautiful, deliciously wicked Pontius — whom he grieved for, is right there in front of him.

"Tell us what you know," Lumen says, her golden eyes fixated on the stranger before her, watching for any sign of deceit.

"The assassins that I killed," he begins, his Imperial accent curling around every word. "They didn't realize I was here when they came in. I think they meant to see if they could find any clues as to where the Brotherhood relocated. But I overheard them talking about a base of operations, possibly one of many."

"I'm listening," Lumen says, motioning for him to continue.

"It's in a cave. In a place called— eh, the Reach?" He scratches a hand through his hair. "My apologies. I am not familiar with this country. I know Cyrodiil like the back of my hand, but Skyrim is foreign territory for me."

"We're familiar with the Reach," Arnbjorn says, taking a calculated step closer to the Listener. He's guarding her, and he probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. "But there are hundreds of caves there. Specifics would be helpful."

"I'm afraid that's all I know." Pontius keeps his attention fixed on Arnbjorn and Lumen as if he expects them to attack him at any given moment. "I tried to bleed a little more information out of the assassins, but they were rather tight-lipped about it all. So I bled them out, instead."

Lumen curls a strand of hair around her finger as she considers this new information. "I find it hard to believe Madanach would allow a bunch of assassins to take up residence in his territory. But there is a chance he may not even know about it."

"Who?" Pontius asks, curiosity alight in his eyes.

"The King of the Forsworn, for lack of a better term."

"I didn't know those feral Bretons had a king," he says, his lips curling in amusement. "Skyrim is an interesting place."

"You might not want to call them that to their faces," Lumen says. "Unless you want a new scar to add to your collection."

"We should probably just ask Madanach or one of his people if they have seen anything odd. That'll be the fastest way of figuring out if he's telling us the truth." Arnbjorn turns to address Pontius. "If this pans out, it won't vet you entirely. But it's a start. It may keep us from killing you, at least."

"Fair enough, brother."

"How does this vetting process work?" Lumen rests her hands on her hips and surveys the men in the room. "Pontius isn't the first sibling to have to earn their way back into the Dark Brotherhood, surely."

Despite his wish to remain silent, Cicero decides to speak up. "Until we establish trust, the sibling in question is not allowed to plead their case. They must be patient until the facts are revealed, and a judgment is made. Such decisions are typically made by the Black Hand, but we three will have to do."

"Is he allowed to talk at all?" she asks, her tone turning sour as her eyes meet his. Cicero realizes then that she is not necessarily referring to Pontius.

"To a point," he says, a little tersely. "But a wise assassin would avoid muddying their apology with excuses."

Lumen inhales sharply through her nose, prepared to hurl some vitriol at him, no doubt. But Arnbjorn sighs and says, "Not now, tidbit."

Cicero does not miss the look Pontius gives them upon hearing the nickname. A true assassin through and through. Everyone around him is under heavy observation. But what is he trying to learn? Is he curious about his potential new family? Or is he searching for signs of weakness? One giant, gaping weakness would be the rift between Cicero and the Listener, and it's only a matter of time before he sees it for what it is.

He catches Pontius watching him, but he turns his attention to Lumen when their eyes meet. "Pardon me, sister," he begins. "I was wondering if I might have your name? I suspect it isn't 'tidbit.'"

A startled laugh escapes her. "You can call me Lumen."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lumen." He bows with a flourish, not unlike the way Cicero introduced himself to her all those years ago. Only Pontius has a coveted grace that he has never possessed.

For the first time since that morning, Lumen looks— pleased. Happy, even. Cicero tries to ignore that little flicker of jealousy crawling up his spine. Perhaps the pain in his shoulder is making him extra irritable. There's no reason to feel jealous just because his ex-lover is introducing himself to his current one.

"What was that magic you used on me?" he asks, and Lumen's smile instantly vanishes. "You threw me across the room with a single breath."

"Prove your innocence, and perhaps you'll find out."

He'll learn more than that if he is proven trustworthy. Cicero wonders how he'll react to the news of a new Listener. He'll be pleased, certainly. Pontius was always a traditionalist. But what will he make of Lumen? She and Alisanne Dupre are as different as night and day. Alisanne was stern and quiet, but she had a calm, collected poise about her that demanded loyalty. Lumen, though— she possesses a wild things heedless grace. She cannot be tamed or broken, and her strength calls others to her side.

"Then let us depart, sister," he says, giving her that lover's smile Cicero had seen him give to all their sisters back in Cheydinhal. He never lacked for company thanks to that smile. "More hunters could arrive at any moment."

"They could, couldn't they?" She looks to Arnbjorn, but eventually settles on asking Cicero. "Is there a way to change the passphrase? I don't want this place disturbed."

"Cicero does not know," he admits, unable to meet her gaze. "He does not even know if it's possible to change the passphrase. They were set centuries ago."

She heaves a sigh. "So much for that idea."

"Don't worry about it," Arnbjorn says, because she is asking for his benefit— mostly. As if Astrid is deserving of the respect Lumen has already given her. "We should get going."

Cicero finds himself pinned beneath Lumen's gaze. Her eyes roaming across the sling holding his arm steady. "Perhaps Madanach can spare a healer," she says in an attempt to broach the distance between them. "I suspect they have more experience than Zaria when it comes to healing such wounds."

The promise of having his injury mended does improve his mood somewhat. "Then we must not dally," he says. "Cicero would like to have the use of both arms if we are to face any more of those assassins."

Arnbjorn turns to Pontius. "You go first. I want you where I can see you at all times."

He levels Arnbjorn with a glare, but the smile quirking his lips softens it somewhat. "I'm not going to stab you in the back, brother, but— if you insist."

"I do insist," the Nord says, his tone betraying nothing. How he feels about Pontius' return is anyone's guess, but it's clear he's not ready to trust him yet.

In truth, Cicero doesn't know how he feels about his long-lost brother's miraculous return. He's keeping him at arm's length, allowing Lumen and Arnbjorn to converse with him, even though Cicero has a million questions he's dying to ask. It's best to remain distant for now. No reason to get attached all over again if they're just going to have to kill him in a day or two.

It takes some effort to mount Shadowmere without causing further injury to his shoulder. But Arnbjorn helps Cicero onto the saddle without complaint. He is being uncharacteristically kind to poor, wounded Cicero. There is no way to know how he feels about the events of the day, and Cicero doubts he would share his feelings if asked. So he doesn't bother.

Arnbjorn steps away to speak with Pontius, and Cicero looks to Lumen, who is checking Shadowmere's harness. "Where is Lucien?" he whispers, not wishing to be overheard. "Cicero did not see him when we came out of the Sanctuary."

"Invisible," she says. "I asked Lucien to stay hidden until Pontius can prove himself to us. He may notice something we do not."

He swallows some of his anger before saying, "you may ride with Cicero if you wish. I do not expect you to walk all the way to the Reach."

Her eyes flick to where Pontius is, and she whispers. "It's safer if I walk." Then, she gently squeezes his hand and smiles at him for the first time since that morning. "Thank you, though."

Cicero wishes they had a moment alone to talk because the warmth of her hand in his is making his heart race. He misses her— her touch, her laughter, and even her ire. But when he thinks back to the events of the morning he is angry all over again. He's not ready to forgive her, but he still loves her. His younger self would laugh at him over the predicament he's gotten himself into. This is exactly why assassins do not get involved. It's complicated, painful, and so very distracting. Vetting Pontius and killing those hunters should be the only thoughts in his head.

"Is that Shadowmere?" Pontius gasps. "We only ever heard stories about the horse— that it belonged to the legendary Lucien Lachance, but then it vanished shortly after he died. Only, I thought the horse was a girl?" He takes a long look at the horse and says, "and that horse is definitely male."

Shadowmere snorts indignantly, and Cicero cannot help but laugh.

"He came to Astrid shortly after the Sanctuaries fell," Arnbjorn supplies. "Festus had a theory that Shadowmere takes different forms to best accommodate his rider and their terrain, but no one knows the horse's history. I suppose Shadowmere knows, but he's not talking."

The horse shakes his head, as he so often does when he's the subject of discussion, but his gait is steady. He is aware enough to know his rider is injured, and to walk softly. There is little in the way of conversation as they make their way through the forest. The pines throw hungry shadows across their path, setting the assassins on edge. Anything could be lurking in the darkness. The constant need to be alert is starting to weigh on them all. It is strange for the hunters to become the hunted, but they have all experienced this chase is one way or another. Arnbjorn has had to elude hunters in his wolf form before, and Lumen has been running from the Thalmor for years. But only Cicero knows what it feels like to have his family targeted. He does not think he could survive the fall of yet another Sanctuary, nor could he endure the loss of this Listener. Frustrating though she may be, losing her would shatter him.

A cool, gray morning is dawning when they reach Karthspire. Cicero's head is pounding with the need to sleep, but the assassins didn't feel safe setting up camp on the road, and so they pressed on.

Karthspire seems more like a small city than a camp with its tall walls and multiple guard towers. The Reach is not quiet, per se. Not with the way the sound carries along the craggy mountains. But the relative peace of the rustling trees and singing birds is drowned out by the murmur of a hundred conversations coming from within the camp. There are two masked Briarheart warriors standing guard at the gates, and Cicero expects them to give Lumen a difficult time, but they open the gates without argument.

A guard shouts from the lookout above the gates. "Ah, my elven beauty! I wondered when you were coming to see me again!"

Lumen sighs as she looks up. "Hello, Faolán."

"You remembered my name!" he laughs. "Just one moment— I'll be right down!"

Cicero looks to where Arnbjorn and Pontius stand. The Nord looks as bored as ever, and he seems unfazed from a night of travel and no rest. Pontius looks exhausted, but he is watching the Forsworn with unhidden interest.

Faolán descends the ladder in no time at all, and Cicero can't help but gawk as he grabs Lumen's hand and places a kiss to her knuckles. The man must be brave or stupid— or both. The Listener looks as if she might Shout him into the next era, but what he says next stops her mid-breath.

"Madanach has been expecting you," he says, straightening up and looking around at the group. "You all may come in. Leave the horse near the gates, if you don't mind. He makes our goats uneasy."

"He's been expecting us? Why?"

Faolán motions for them to follow him inside. "He didn't say, and we're not stupid enough to question him. When he tells us to keep a look out for someone, we do it."

The guard babbles at Lumen while Cicero goes through the troublesome process of dismounting Shadowmere. They follow Faolán through the sprawling camp, and he tells Lumen about the bandits he killed and the dragon he spotted some weeks ago. His crush on the Listener is quite funny, and Cicero would thoroughly enjoy the spectacle were he in a better mood.

The clouds overhead are thick and fluffy with the promise of rain as they make their way to a small riverside beach. Madanach is helping a group of men haul in a large fishing net, filled to bursting with all manner of creatures carried into it by the river's current. His usual guards are there; Uraccen is keeping watch, while Borkul helps with the day's catch, but they all stop what they are doing when they see Lumen approach.

"Take care of this," Madanach orders, motioning to the net. His men instantly comply; gathering the net and its contents and moving down the bank. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

"So I've been told," Lumen says. "Though I can't imagine why you'd want to see me."

Madanach looks over the group, his ice blue eyes likely seeing more than any of them realize. "Uraccen, have someone see to his injury," he says, motioning to Cicero. "And find them a place to rest. Lumen and I have a lot to discuss, and there's a chance this conversation may be a long one."

Cicero does not like the idea of the Listener running off on her own, but as wounded as he is, he is in no position to defend her— or argue.

"I'll be all right," she tells them. "Go and rest. I will find you when we are finished."

He obeys the Listener's command, even though turning away from her is difficult. He'd rather be by her side, even if they are at odds. Arnbjorn isn't great company as it is, and Cicero is not willing to converse with Pontius until he can trust the man. Whatever Madanach wishes to speak with his Listener about is surely more interesting to listen to than the derisive thoughts that have been eating at him all day.

Uraccen leads them to a small campsite reserved for guests. It is near the forest, and across the river from the main camp. There are two tents erected around a small fire pit. "I'll have some food sent up," he tells them. "The healer will come when she is able."

Cicero takes a seat near the fire pit. His exhaustion eats at him, but he's reached that point where he is so tired he won't be able to sleep. As much as he would like to lay down, he does not look forward to battling a bout of insomnia just yet.

"Cicero is not tired, and he is willing to take the first watch," he says as Arnbjorn assembles the logs within the fire pit. The Nord is silent as he strikes steel and flint, the sparks igniting the dry wood.

Nearby, Pontius takes up a seat a respectable distance away from them. He knows the protocol for dealing with an unknown; they must keep their distance, and patiently wait for their brothers and sisters to prove their innocence. A hint of resentment or a whiff of defensiveness is enough to get one killed in such a situation.

"Are you sure?" Arnbjorn asks. "Lumen will want you to rest."

"Cicero is resting," he says, holding his hands closer to the fire. "But he will not be able to sleep until she has returned."

Understanding lights in Arnbjorn's eyes, and a nod is his only response. He quickly ducks inside his tent, and after a few moments, a soft snoring comes from within. Cicero envies Arnbjorn for that— the ability to fall asleep once his head hits the pillow. It takes Cicero hours just to quiet his thoughts enough to relax, let alone sleep. He knows the Nord has some difficulty sleeping due to his condition, but apparently, those issues are not plaguing him today.

An hour drifts by, and the healer comes to tend to Cicero. She hisses through her teeth when she sees the state of his shoulder, but the wound is not infected, which seems to lessen her scorn. She mends the torn skin and muscle, but the wound will pain him for some time as the nerves will have to heal on their own. The healer takes her leave, and a guard brings their supper. Cicero and Pontius eat in silence, dining on a meal of chicken stew served with bread infused with fragrant herbs. There is still no sign of Lumen. That she and Madanach have been talking for hours does not bode well for the people of Skyrim. People usually die when those two put their heads together.

"I realize in situations such as these, we are not supposed to talk," Pontius says, his accent rich and rolling. "But I would be remiss if I didn't tell you—"

"You know the rules," Cicero says quickly, cutting him off.

"I have been counting the seconds since we last met."

His breath leaves him in a rush. Not now. He can't deal with this now. Not so soon after a fight with Lumen. Not when Pontius could still prove traitor. "Such words will not save you if you do not earn our trust."

"I know," he says, staring at some far off point within the forest. "But I wanted to say it. I wanted you to know. Leaving Cheydinhal was the hardest thing I ever had to do. But I had to run. I had to lead them away from you. Your duties kept you locked away, cloistered within the Sanctuary like an old priest. You didn't know what it was like out there. The Thalmor and their agents darkened every corner, and stalked every alleyway. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide— so I just kept running."

The fire crackles and thunder rumbles in the distance, filling the gaps of silence between Pontius' thoughts. Cicero knows he should silence him; snap at him, strike him, gag him. But he can't move. He feels trapped beneath the weight of those words.

"There wasn't a word about the Brotherhood for years. Ten long years of nothing. I just assumed our family was little more than a distant memory. I was half-drunk in a tavern when I overheard some men talking about the death of the emperor, and how the Dark Brotherhood was gaining a foothold in Skyrim. It took me a while, but I finally made it here. I don't know what I expected to find here, but— Gods, Cicero. I didn't expect to find you."

He'll rip Pontius to shreds if he's lying just to garner sympathy. After the events of the previous day, Cicero has no more patience for liars. "That's enough," he warns. "You know the rules. Prove your innocence, and we may speak about this. But until then—"

"I'll keep my mouth shut," he says, sighing. "Still cold as ever, I see."

"Cicero is not—" he stops himself. There's no reason to rise to the bait. It's true that he was a cold and callous youth, but not to Pontius. Never to Pontius. Even now, he is only firm because the man has yet to earn their trust.

Pontius pushes a curtain of black hair over his shoulder and turns his eyes to Cicero. "Why do you speak like that?"

He doesn't have an answer to that question. In all these years, no one ever called him out on his strange manner of speech. But Pontius knew him from before. He knew him before he'd been broken by his sorrow.

"I'm sorry," Pontius says. "It was cruel of me to ask."

"It is fine." He only now realizes that he's gripping his arms and curling in on himself. The ghosts of Cheydinhal still haunt his thoughts, lurking in every empty room or quiet evening. The Sanctuary was so profoundly lonely; Cicero had no one to talk to but himself. It had been a natural thing to go from "I" to "Cicero." It made the loneliness just a little more bearable. If Cicero hadn't gone a little crazy, he wouldn't be as sane as he is now. He had to create his own madness just to keep his faith. Otherwise, he would have abandoned the Night Mother after those first six months of torturous solitude.

"No, it's not," he says, reaching for him. But he thinks better of it and tucks his hands into his pockets. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"It does not matter," Cicero hisses through clenched teeth, and Pontius wisely backs off. "None of it matters if you are lying to Cicero."

No more words pass between them. Pontius stares into the fire and occasionally turns away to scan the verdant horizon for any sign of trouble. He only breaks his silence when Arnbjorn rises to take his watch, and he offers the Nord a kind greeting. Cicero slips into the tent and lays down upon still warm furs, wishing the warmth came from Lumen instead of his brother. He wonders how much of that conversation Arnbjorn overheard. Though no rules were broken, boundaries were pushed. While Cicero trusts Arnbjorn, he'd prefer to keep his past with Pontius a secret. At least for now. Because it is not a conversation he wants to have with Lumen just yet.

For the first time in recent memory, Lumen is relieved to be in Madanach's company. Here there is no suspicion about what he wants, and she certainly doesn't have to worry about his motives. He's not an unknown— not like Pontius. Whom she hopes turns out to be legit, but she has a nagging fear that he's hiding something. But what could it be? A little, harmless secret? Or something bigger— like selling out the Dark Brotherhood?

"So," she begins, trying to sound more confident than she feels. "Mind telling me why you've been expecting me? This doesn't have anything to do with the Blades, does it? Because I'm done with them."

"No, it has nothing to do with them. Although, I'm sure Delphine would love to interrogate you about the circumstances behind Esbern's recent passing." He motions for her to walk along the riverbank with him.

"Esbern died of old age."

"Of course he did." The humor fades from his voice when he says, "A group of leather-clad thugs have taken up residence in a nearby cave. Do you happen to know anything about that?"

Lumen breathes a laugh. "Actually, that's what I came to talk to you about."

"It's considered polite to ask the lord of the land if you can move in, Listener. The Forsworn do not take kindly to squatters."

A few snarky remarks are sitting on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows them in favor of diplomacy. "Those aren't my assassins."

"Oh?" He looks at her then, a grin curling his lips. "The Dark Brotherhood has competition now, eh? That's all well and good, but do me a favor and keep it out of my territory."

"We're being hunted," she says, gritting her teeth.

"Again— keep it out of my territory."

A night of no sleep and the fight with Cicero has left her with a short-temper. "I have no control over where those bastards go or what they do!" she snaps. "Just tell me where they are so I can kill them!"

He clasps his hands behind his back and gazes at the cloud filled sky, then back to her. "Are they the reason your man is wounded?"

"Yes," she says, kicking a pebble across the rocky shore. "And no. That's— well, that's more my fault."

"How so? Are you the one who attacked him? I wouldn't blame you for shooting him."

"These hunters— I lead us into one of their traps," she says, hating the way her voice wavers when she admits to it. "I should have known better. I'm the Listener. It's my job to protect my family, and I nearly got them killed!"

Madanach's grin widens. "Well, what do you know— There's a heart beneath that spiky armor, after all. You actually care about other people. I had no idea. I may have to sit down for this."

"Oh, shut up," she says, but the words have no bite. "Tell me about this cave."

"It's called Blind Cliff Cave," he says, stopping where a small table has been set up on the beach. It's nothing more than an old, salvaged table and chairs, with a bottle of clear liquid and two small glasses sitting on top of it. "The cave was an old Forsworn hideout that belonged to a rival faction. They no longer exist, courtesy of yours truly. It's been empty for months, but my guards noticed activity there about a week ago. We assumed it was Brotherhood business. But since it's not, I guess that means you'll deal with the interlopers for us, yes?"

Lumen takes a moment to study her surroundings. It's a beautiful location. Trees surround them on all sides of the river, and in the distance, she can hear a waterfall. "How many are there?"

"Twenty or so," he says. "But probably more. Quite a lot to handle, but I assume you've faced worse odds when you were off fighting dragons."

"Honestly, I miss the threat of dragons. It was simple. This is— complicated."

"Complicated!" He snorts a laugh. "Do you know how many decade-long feuds I've had to mediate recently? Do you know how hard it is to get these stubborn clan leaders to agree on anything? It took years of planning, ass kissing, bribery, and a few well-placed threats just to get the Forsworn clans to meet in one place and not have them kill each other. That's complicated. This? This is easy. You go in, and you wipe the bastards out. Problem solved."

"Those aren't the only assassins that are after us! There could be hundreds more!"

"Well, now you have the chance to reduce their numbers." He settles in a chair and motions for her to do the same. "Sit. Let's talk business."

"Oh, here we go," Lumen sighs. "What do you want, Madanach?"

"Take a seat and you'll find out."

Lumen grumbles a few choice insults and does as she's asked. "What is this place? It's beautiful here. Light a few candles, and it could be downright romantic." She cuts a grin in his direction. "You're not going to propose are you?"

"Do I look like I have a death-wish?" he asks, laughing softly. "This is just a place I go when I want to get away from the chaos of a crowded camp. Spend half your life trapped in a mine, and you learn to appreciate silence."

"What do you want from me?" she asks, watching him pour her a glass of that mysterious liquid.

He pushes the glass to her and pours one for himself. "Twenty or more assassins is a lot to handle, even for a Dragonborn Listener. Your man is wounded, and while I have faith in my healer's abilities, some wounds cannot be healed in one go. You're going to need some help, and I am willing to offer it— for a price."

Lumen stares down at the glass of pure alcohol, weighing the pros and cons of drinking with a mad witchman while sleep-deprived and starving. "What price?"

"I have a guest in need of an escort to Markarth, and I'd like the Dragonborn to take him home."

"That's it?" she asks, flabbergasted. "You just want me to take someone to Markarth?"

"Yes," he says. "That's it."

"It can't be that easy. It never is with you." She narrows her eyes at him. "Who is it?"

"Thongvor Silver-Blood," he says, inordinately pleased with himself. "I believe you met him before."

"What?" she gasps. "Thongvor's still alive?"

"He is." Madanach's smile turns suddenly malicious when he says, "He's had a change of heart, so to speak, and he's agreed to help my people from now on. But to truly help us, he'll need to return to Markarth."

How he got Thongvor to change his ways, she doesn't want to know. But she is suddenly very glad to be on Madanach's good side. "How will that help? You've already got people on the inside."

"None as important as Thongvor, I assure you."

"If you are going to use me as a pawn in your plans, then I would at least like to know why." She folds her arms and stares him down. "Why do you want me— specifically, the Dragonborn, to return him to Markarth?"

"It makes a statement, doesn't it?" His voice nearly drowned out in a rumble of distant thunder, but the rain has yet to fall. "All you have to do is be seen escorting him into the city, Thongvor will take care of the rest."

"This doesn't make sense. You wanted him dead so if something happened to Jarl Igmund, the Silver-Bloods — and therefore, the Stormcloaks — wouldn't gain control of Markarth." The words come slowly as her mind tries to make sense of this mad plan. "But I suppose that idea got canned when Ulfric gained control of Markarth during the Peace Council—"

"Which was your fault, by the way."

"How did you sway Thongvor to your cause?"

"Change of heart, as I said." He grins, but it quickly fades when he says, "You may not know this, but the Empire still has control of Markarth. Igmund refused to give up the throne, and the Thalmor backed his resistance. Ulfric will not take the fight to his doorstep because he would lose the support of the people of Markarth. However, when Thongvor returns, he will be a contender for the throne."

"A fat lot of good that's gonna do," she says, daring a sip of the strong drink. "How will you get Igmund out of the way so Thongvor can take over?"

"That's where you come in, my murderous friend. I'm going to hire the Dark Brotherhood to kill Jarl Igmund."

She falls quiet when Uraccen announces his arrival. He places a tray of food on the small table. The tray is laden with bread and cheese, along with two bowls of stew. As his footsteps recede into the distance, she finds her voice again. "I'll expect gold for this. A lot of it."

"Of course," he purrs. "I'll perform the Sacrament when I am ready. Until then, don't worry about Igmund." He runs a finger along the rim of his glass. "So, about our aforementioned deal— I'll let you borrow some of my best guards in exchange for seeing Thongvor to Markarth. Do you accept?"

She doesn't need these guards. The Dark Brotherhood can take care of themselves. But after what happened yesterday, she's not willing to risk the safety of her family safety a second time. "I accept," she says, though she'd rather not have to waste time by going to Markarth. But if it aids in setting up a future, high-paying contract, she'll do it.

"Good. I'm glad we could work out a deal."

There are a million questions crowding her mouth. Why kill Igmund? Why place Thongvor on the throne? "Change of heart" or not, it seems like Madanach is helping Ulfric's cause rather than hindering it. She would ask, but she knows he'll continue to avoid her questions. "My brothers and I will appreciate the extra help," she says. "It's good to have an ally at a time like this."

"Isn't it, though?" He smiles indulgently. "Even better when said ally has an army at his disposal, eh?"

Lumen's mouth curls into a smile, but it does not meet her eyes. They eat their dinner in silence, save for the rushing of the river and the chirping of insects when the cloudy sky pales with afternoon light. Once their meal concludes, they say their goodbye's and Lumen wanders through Karthspire, taking in the sights before heading to her camp where her brothers wait. Her mind is busy formulating a plan of attack, which is a welcome change from the miserable mood that has plagued her since her fight with Cicero.

The need to kill is an old, familiar friend, and it is preferable to heartache. So she will turn all her pain into rage, and use it against the assassins who hunt them. They have a hard lesson to learn if they think she is easy prey. Lumen is a child of the Void, and she walks in the Dread Lord's shadow. She is the Night Mother's daughter, and no one threatens her family and lives. So she will let her desire and longing crash over her, like waves upon the shore, calling to the darkness in her heart. No longer will she give these assassins the courtesy of her fear. To fear them was as grave a mistake as lying to Cicero— and she is not in the habit of repeating her mistakes.

Notes: I always wanted to touch on Cicero's use of illeism (speaking in the third person) but I never got the chance. His friends don't question it and strangers know better than to ask, but I figured anyone who knew Cicero from before the fall would probably find it a bit strange. I feel like it's something I'll circle back to in future chapters. He's going to start questioning it himself, now.

Thongvor has been with the Forsworn for quite some time. Lumen delivered him to Madanach, in oh… chapters 29/30 of Causa Mortis. I left his fate somewhat vague, because I always meant to come back to this particular plot, but there was just no room for me to do it in Causa Mortis.