Chapter 7: Order Out of Chaos

The rain clouds move southward as evening falls, bathing the Reach in a milky wash of moonlight. There is not much cover in the Reach; the birch trees are sparse as best, and the gnarled juniper bushes grow low and wide. However, Madanach's warriors are familiar with the terrain, and they know how to travel without being seen.

Cicero and Arnbjorn are engaged in a quiet conversation as they follow closely behind the warriors. Their voices are too low to hear, but Lumen has a sneaking suspicion that she is the topic of said conversation. Pontius walks along beside her, occasionally cutting a look in her direction. The intensity in his eyes sets her teeth on edge. Men only look at her like that when they mean to kill her or fuck her, and she wonders where his intentions lie— not that it matters. If he tries anything, he'll die, and when she's done killing him, she'll let Arnbjorn and Cicero grind his bones into dust.

She has more important things to worry about, anyway. Firstly, she needs to stop moping over her broken heart, especially when she spent her entire life convincing herself that she never had one. This pain will get her killed if she cannot shove it back into the darkest recesses of her mind.

"So, Lumen," Pontius begins, his voice pitched low. "How does a Wood Elf end up with an Imperial name?"

Of all the stupid questions— "Why does it matter?"

"I just want to get to know you," he says. "I know I have yet to earn my place within the Brotherhood, but I hope to. There's no harm in us talking, is there?"

Though she is determined to hold on to her sour mood and use it to her advantage, she sees little harm in talking to him. It's not as if he's asking anything important. "When I was a child, the other kids had a hard time pronouncing my name, so one of them started calling me Lumen. I happened to like it."

"So that's not your birth name?"

"No, but it's close enough. My birth name is far too flouncy and— elfy for my tastes."

Pontius grins at her. "Oh, now you have to tell me what it is."

"No," she says. "It's stupid."

"All the more reason to tell me what it is," he presses on, his green eyes glittering with mischief. "If you don't tell me what it is, I'll have to make one up."

His good humor proves to be somewhat infectious, and so she asks, "What's in it for me if I do tell you? I can't give something for nothing."

"I'll tell you my first name. It's atrocious, hence why I go by my family name."

"Sounds fair," she says, supposing there's no harm in gathering information on him. "You go first."

"It's Hortensius," he says, spitting the name out like a vile curse. "Hortensius Pontius— What was my mother thinking?" He clucks his tongue. "It's a bit longer than that because my parents had to give me a dozen middle names just to honor the family members they wished to curry favor with. But I honestly can't remember them all."

"So you come from a noble family, then?"

"Afraid so," he says, tilting his head to get a better look at her. "Your turn."

"Lulawen Ringtree," she says. "Luckily, my mother had little to do with her family. So I didn't end up with a smattering of names like you Imperial's do."

"Oh that is marvelously elfy. I love it."

"It's better than Hortensius, at least."

"Cruel thing." A grin curls his sensuous lips. "For what it's worth, I think Lumen suits you."

She smiles in lieu of a response, and they walk together in companionable silence for a while. Eventually, she excuses herself and jogs ahead to speak with the Forsworn warriors. She waves for Cicero and Arnbjorn to follow her when she passes them. Faolán has offered to lead the small group of warriors— five of Madanach's best. While the young man is rather annoying, Lumen will take help wherever she can get it. He seems capable enough, and there is no sign of his flirtatious side now. That he can be serious at all is a small miracle.

Faolán lifts his hand, a signal for everyone to stop. "We're nearly there," he says, guessing what she's come to ask. "We won't have much in the way of cover, but that shouldn't be a problem."

"How close are we?"

"It's just over the bridge," he says, pointing to some far off point that lays on the other side of a cobblestone bridge. "The entrance is often unguarded. So getting in will be easy."

"What can we expect?" Arnbjorn asks. "Aside from traps."

"Considering this is an old Forsworn hideout, I think the traps are a given. It's hard to say if the assassins are making use of them, but it might be best to let me and my men go in first. We know where the traps and the pitfalls are."

"This is our fight," she says, not wishing to engage in a pissing contest with the young man. But really— there's no reason for the Forsworn to put themselves in danger for the Dark Brotherhood, and she'll not be beholden to some youth who has a crush on her.

"True, and we will be glad to let you fight it," he says, grinning at her irritation. "But there is no harm in allowing us to be of use. You won't be able to make good on your end of the bargain if you die, and Madanach will be pissed."

Arnbjorn gently nudges her. "I have no real desire to get caught up in any of the old traps, so if they want to lead, we should let them."

"I am not concerned with who leads," Cicero says, rolling his newly healed shoulder.

"Very well, the Forsworn will lead," she says, nodding to Faolán, who runs off to give the orders to his fellow warriors. Lumen glances at Cicero, and though she hates how awkward a simple conversation feels when they are at odds, she wants to make sure he's okay. If he isn't well enough to fight, it will turn into a giant argument. But she'd rather him be angry with her than dead. "How's your shoulder?"

"Stiff," he says, his tone betraying nothing of how he feels. "But Cicero will be careful. He has fought in worse conditions."

"Arnbjorn, would you mind relaying the plan to Pontius? I'd like a moment to speak with Cicero alone." The Nord doesn't need to be told twice, and he is eager to put as much space between himself and the quarreling lovers as he can. When Lumen feels they have a sufficient amount of privacy, she says, "I just don't want you to get hurt again. Are you certain you are well enough to fight?"

"Cicero is not walking blindly into a trap," he snaps. "His odds are better this time."

Ah. He's still angry. Good to know. "Cicero," she sighs, not even knowing where to begin. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for lying. I'm sorry for— for everything. What I did was stupid, and I know that you may never forgive me. I know I don't deserve it. But I want you to know— that whenever you're ready, or if you never are, my heart belongs to you."

Her words seem to mollify him somewhat, and the scowl eases from his face. "A lack of love is not our problem, sweet Lumen." He brushes some hair away from her face, his fingertips gently grazing along her cheek as he tucks the hair behind her ear.

"Then tell me how to fix this," she whispers, hating how pathetic she sounds. But as much as she'd like to guard her heart, Cicero can always break through her defenses.

Cicero's hand drops to his side. "Cicero does not know what to tell you. He understands why you kept the truth from him, and he even understands why deception is the first tool you reach for. You had to tell lie after lie just to survive your life with Malrian. But Cicero is not Malrian, and he would never strike you or hurt you for being honest. He may not always like the truth, but he would prefer it."

Tears sting her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. "I won't do it again."

"Cicero wants to believe you," he says, looking utterly miserable. "I want to forgive you, but—" His words falter, and he heaves a frustrated sigh. "If not for Arnbjorn and Lucien, we would have died. The Dark Brotherhood would have been left without a Listener and a Keeper."

The gravity of her mistake is not lost on her, but what does he expect her to do? Wallow in it? "I know," she says, swallowing around a lump in her throat. "But we survived, and I won't let anything like that happen again. I swear."

"I believe you." Cicero grasps her hand and gives it a squeeze before letting go. "But I need more time."

"All right," she says, swallowing her tears and refusing to acknowledge the crushing sensation in her chest. "Take all the time you need."

There are so many things she wants to say, but the words get caught in her throat. What pains her the most is knowing this was preventable. If she'd only told him— oh, it doesn't matter now. There's no reason to mull over what could or should have happened. All she can do is move forward. If he needs time, she'll give it.

In the meantime, she'll carve out the eyes of her enemies with the shards of her broken heart.

The clamor of battle rings out across the mossy walls of Blind Cliff Cave. True to their nature, the Forsworn warriors are fierce fighters, and they revel in bloodshed. Their fighting style is not terribly different from that of the Dark Brotherhood assassins, but where the assassins reach for the shadows, the Forsworn reach for magic. But they wield their magic in a way Lumen has never seen before. It is fluid. Natural. One warrior sends a bolt of fire straight down the throat of an attacking assassin, burning him from the inside out, and another creates an ice storm so intense it freezes the blood in her victim's veins.

Her siblings are just as impressive. Arnbjorn left his battleaxe behind, preferring not to use something so large in a small space. With a sword in each hand, he cuts down the Thalmor assassins as if they are callow youths, and not trained killers. Pontius has proven to be a skilled fighter as well, using a sword in one hand and a fire spell lit in the other, he blinds his attackers with a plume of flame before cutting them down. Cicero's shoulder does not appear to hold him back, and there is no mirth in his eyes when he gouges his dagger into the gut of a hunter. He pushes it into the hilt and then rips it upwards, effectively disemboweling the assassin.

The Thalmor assassins are hardly a threat when she has a party of Forsworn warriors and her brothers practically baying for their blood. She's killed five so far, but she's working her way up to six. The one she's pursuing darts off down a long, winding tunnel that leads deeper into the earth. He could be leading her into a trap, but he could be trying to make his escape as well, and she cannot let that happen. So she chases after him, intent on skinning him alive just for putting her through this trouble.

Lumen rounds a corner and skids to a stop. She finds herself in a small, rounded chamber, lit only by the light of low-burning torches. There are two exits; the one she just came through, and a smaller passage just on the other side of the room. An unmasked assassin blocks the far door. Her armor is different from the one who lured Lumen into the room. Where his is a plain, black leather, hers is fortified with glimmering obsidian plates. But they are both devoid of any sigils or heraldry that could be used to identify them.

The Altmer — quite obviously the leader of this den of killers — primly lifts her hand, and says, "go ahead, pet."

Her pet removes his mask. The Bosmer's face is decorated in a design of raised scars, and his eyes are as black as pitch. When he sees her, his lips pull back in a grim facsimile of a smile. This will not be an easy fight. This female probably raised him, and he will defend her to the death.

But a lifetime of manipulation and training does not prepare him for Lumen. "Wuld Nah Kest," comes out in the softest of whispers, and the Bosmer's eyes go wide when she appears in front of him. She strikes out with her Daedric dagger, slicing the front of his leather armor. He snarls a curse and lashes out with his blade, and the fight begins in earnest. This assassin is no lackey. He's received years of specialized training under his mistress' care, and he fights like it.

They are a whirlwind of black leather and steel. Twisting around the room, using the walls to propel themselves, so their attacks hit harder. But Lumen can sense the Bosmer is holding back. He's not putting his all into this fight. He's trying to wear her down. If their goal is to tire her out and not kill her, it can only mean one thing— they mean to take her alive.

She'd draw her blade across her throat before letting anything like that happen. So she hits the Bosmer where he is the weakest. The Fire Breath Shout rips from her throat with such ferocity, the entire cave trembles beneath its might, and his Altmer mistress screams when the dragonfire engulfs her. He loses his focus for a heartbeat, and Lumen plunges her dagger through the weak spot in is armor, driving her blade into his abdomen.

He stumbles back, clutching at the weeping wound. The fire clears to reveal his mistress on her knees, her armor charred and her flesh burned. A healing spell rings out, but there is little it can do for the blistered flesh Lumen's fire left in its wake.

"You little bitch," the Altmer hisses.

Lumen smirks at the Altmer's anger. "That's rude," she says, refusing to give the woman the satisfaction of her ire. "But it doesn't matter what you call me because you're dead and I'm not."

She twists her body, flinging a throwing knife at the Bosmer, hitting him in the throat and dropping him to the ground. His mistress screams and calls for ice, but she is too slow. Lumen punches her dagger through her eye, and into the skull behind it. The blade scrapes loudly across the bone, bringing out a slurry of blood and soft tissue as she yanks it free. The Altmer drops to the ground, her last breath escaping her lungs in a wet gurgle.

A boot scrapes behind her, the sound sending a jolt of adrenaline through her body. She whirls around to face her new foe, but she is slowed by fatigue. A hand fists in her hair and slams her head against the hard, stone wall. Stars flash in her vision, and she can feel her legs crumple beneath her as she falls to the floor. Her daggers clatter to the ground, and her attacker kicks them away. She wants to stand up— to get to her feet and fight, but her body does not heed her commands.

She does not wish to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream, but she is unable to bite back the howl of pain that rips from her throat when fingers tangle in her hair and twist it around a fist. He yanks her upright, and her stomach gives a lurch at the sudden change in position. Blood trickles through her hair and down her face, and her head throbs in time with the beating of her heart.

"You sing beautifully." Her attacker drags a finger through the blood, tracing a line of crimson across her cheek. "I wonder what else I'd have to do to get more of those lovely noises out of you."

Fear skitters down her spine, but she refuses to let it show. Typical thug. He's not the first brute to attempt to take advantage of a moment alone with a helpless woman. So let him think she's complicit, he'll not notice her fingers slowly making their way to her boot, searching for the dagger hidden within.

"Please. Don't hurt me. I'll do anything you want." She couldn't sound more fake, but the assassin doesn't notice.

"Such a gentle, little killer." He laughs. "You must be her, then. Lumen. You fit the description. You're something of a legend among us. We've all heard the story about the Bosmer who drove a Justiciar to madness. So you can't blame me if I'm curious to see if Malrian's bitch was worth the trouble."

Lumen surges to her feet, thrusting the dagger upwards and into the bottom of his jaw. He stumbles backward, a handful of her hair going with him. She falls back down to her knees, her head throbbing, and she watches the masked man blindly grasp at his last moments of consciousness before succumbing to his wounds.

"Malrian's bitch." Those awful words reverberate through her skull, fanning the flames of her steadily burning rage. "Good," she tells herself. "Let them underestimate me. Let them see me as Malrian's plaything and nothing more. They'll find this bitch has some bite."

She gingerly prods at her head, finding a sizable lump beneath her blood-matted hair. Her inability to regain her balance tells her the wound is serious, and will only become worse. A healing potion is enough to slow the swelling, but she'll need a skilled healer to see to it. She slowly gets to her feet, careful not to send herself completely off-balance with any sudden movements, and makes her way to the main cavern.

Lumen cannot say what she expects to happen when she makes her way back to the group. There is a part of her that hopes Cicero might catch sight of her blood caking her face and fawn over her for a little bit. But she thinks it might take more than a concussion to bring him back to her side. What she does find is half the Forsworn contingent looting corpses, and Cicero wrapping a bandage around Pontius' forearm. The wound looks bad, from what she can tell. Blood seeps through the bandage, and his ring and pinky fingers hang limp. She only knows of one person who has the skill to heal severed tendons, but unfortunately, Luka is back home in Dawnstar.

"What happened?" she asks, stepping up to the group.

"Someone tried to block a sword with their arm," Cicero answers, glancing up at her. He does a double take and surges to his feet. "What happened to you?" he shrieks, forgetting about Pontius and stomping over to her. "Cicero loses sight of you for five minutes, and you come back covered in blood!"

"My head became intimately familiar with the cave wall," she says, hissing when his fingers drift too close to the swollen knot on her head. "You can't help me by poking at it. I need a healer."

"We're nearly finished here," Arnbjorn tells her. "Some of the Forsworn have spread out to the towers to see if any more Thalmor assassins are lurking around, but I think we got them all."

"Good," she says, gently pushing Cicero's prodding hands away. "Did we learn anything useful?"

"Not a damn thing." He falls quiet when a grumbling Cicero wanders back to Pontius' side and helps him to his feet. Arnbjorn's voice is low when he says, "You ought to know, Pontius leapt in front of Cicero and took that hit for him. He likely saved his life."

"Is this your way of telling me you trust him?"

"I wouldn't go that far," he says. "But he killed at least ten assassins, took that hit for Cicero, and fought with the ferocity of a man with a chip on his shoulder. I tend to know when people are lying— liars have a particular scent. But him? I could smell his rage, and then his fear when Cicero was cornered."

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "If you can sniff out liars, why didn't you call me out when we were on our way to Helgen?"

"It's harder with you," he admits.

"So what are you trying to tell me?"

"Nothing," he says. "I'm just relaying what I saw. Figured you'd want to know. The decision to bring him into the family lies with you. I'm just trying to make it a little easier for you."

"Sorry," she says quickly. "I wasn't trying to be an ass—"

"Some things can't be helped." The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Come with me. I think I have something that'll help with that knot on your head."

Arnbjorn's hand brushes against hers as he steps away, and she takes one last look at Cicero and Pontius before leaving. The Keeper is plying him with healing potions, and not looking her way. Not that she expects him to. He will likely blame himself for what happened, and the guilt will plague him for quite some time. She wonders if Pontius knew this, and injured himself as a result.

She follows Arnbjorn outside, glad to be beneath an endless sky, rather than tons of stone. The night sky has begun to pale as the light of a new day crests along the horizon. Eager birds welcome the day with their song, and the crickets grow quiet as they retreat into their burrows.

"Sit down," Arnbjorn orders, as he searches through his traveling pack.

"Yes, sir," she grumbles, taking a seat on a moss-covered rock. "But why drag me outside for this? Not that I'm complaining. Just curious."

"You looked like you needed some fresh air." He hands her a poultice; a mixture of herbs wrapped in cheesecloth. It glitters with a light frost enchantment, placed there by Luka. "This should help. You'll need to see a healer when we return to Karthspire, though."

Lumen gingerly places the poultice against the bump on her head, hissing at the contact. "I don't know what to do about Pontius," she says without preamble. "He seems sincere, but I've been fooled in the past."

"He killed those assassins without a second thought. He didn't hesitate, and he made their deaths painful. I approve of his technique if nothing else." Arnbjorn's expression gives nothing away, but there is something in the way his jaw tightens that sets Lumen on edge. "Trust him as much as you would trust any killer."

She snorts. "I trust you, and you're a killer."

He smiles at that, though it fades as quickly as it came. "Pontius ran from the Brotherhood once. Though he claims it was to protect Cicero, we can't know that for certain. He's guilty of being a coward, but is he a traitor? I can't say."

"I don't trust my instincts anymore," she says, her voice wavering. "That disaster in Helgen is going to haunt me until the day I die. I wasn't trying to mislead anyone! I genuinely thought something was wrong with the Night Mother, or— or maybe the Sacrament wasn't done right! I didn't know—" she grits her teeth, fighting against a sudden swell of emotions. Her head is pounding, and her stomach has twisted itself into knots. She wants to cry and scream and rage. How could everything have turned out so wrong?

He rests his hand on her shoulder and slides it around to her back. "We all survived. You won't get anywhere by raking yourself over the coals." He takes a breath, his werewolf senses telling him more than she'd like. "What are you afraid of?"

"I'm afraid to make a decision because I'm scared of being wrong!" Lumen rests her hands in her lap, unable to withstand the sting of the poultice any longer. "If not for you and Lucien, we would have died in Helgen! It would have been my fault!"

"It's okay to be afraid when your family is in danger," he murmurs. "But don't let it consume you."

"I've never had anything to lose before. I've never had so much to lose. And I think what scares me the most is that I would die for you— for all of you. I would die if it meant keeping you all safe."

"I know," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "I knew that when you vowed to face Alduin on your own. That's what changed everything for me. I saw you— truly saw you for the first time, then. I think that's when I understood why the Night Mother chose you. She chose a Listener who would protect the Dark Brotherhood at all costs." He falls quiet, considering his next words. "If Alisanne Dupre possessed an ounce of your strength, the Cyrodiil sanctuaries would not have fallen."

"Oh." She swallows hard. Of all the things she expected him to say, that was not it.

"If— if Astrid had loved us as fiercely as you do, Festus, Gabriella, Veezara— they'd still be with us. Falkreath wouldn't be a mass grave."

It is a monumental effort to fight back the desire to cry. But Lumen refuses to give into it. Not now. Not when Arnbjorn is laying himself bare. Never before have they discussed Astrid or Falkreath. It's not a forbidden subject, but it was something he was never ready to talk about— until now.

He sits down beside her, their arms touching. "I know I've been distant lately, and it's not because I don't want to be around you. I do. I just needed to work through some things. I needed to grieve my wife properly. I hate what she did, but I can't hate her for it."

Lumen's hand curls around his. "I know."

"I wouldn't say I've been explicitly monogamous throughout my life, but I was after we married. So this— what we have. It's new. It's not bad. Just— different, and it's taken some getting used to. Some part of me still expects Cicero to fly into a rage every time I look at you."

"He trusts you," she mutters. "And he knows better than to ask for exclusivity, and I don't think he values it. But trust— trust is what he values above all other things."

"And he never gets jealous?" Arnbjorn asks. "Or you? Do you get jealous when he's with Luka?"

"We have our moments of jealousy. It's only natural. But jealousy can be reasoned with. I know that Cicero will return to my side eventually, just as he knows I will return to his. But I feel it's important for you to know that you always have a place beside me. Always. Because I never want you to feel less important, or pushed aside."

He brushes his lips across her forehead. "Thanks, tidbit," he says, some strength returning to his voice. "I'll do my best to keep my own jealousy on a leash."

Lumen smiles, her earlier sorrow banished. Yet, her worries persist. "Now that we've got our gross feelings out of the way," she says, huffing a laugh when Arnbjorn playfully prods her in the side. "I could use some advice."

"Kill Pontius, or bring him home. I will stand by you, regardless of your choice." The crunching of boots signals the arrival of the others, and Arnbjorn's voice drops to a whisper when he says, "Your relationship with the Keeper is none of my business. However, I'd suggest speaking to him before making a decision. He'll appreciate it."

"Thank you," she says, watching as he pushes away from the rock to speak with Pontius. That Arnbjorn is willing to endure small talk with a stranger speaks volumes, and Lumen will have to remember to thank him later.

It takes some time, but eventually, they are all on the road again. The Forsworn are at the head of the group, with Arnbjorn and Pontius following close behind. Lumen tugs on Cicero's sleeve, and he slows down. Despite the distance between them, he knows her well enough to know when she needs to talk.

"Arnbjorn told me Pontius took that hit for you."

"The damn fool," Cicero mutters, his voice carrying more venom than she expects. "It was a stupid risk. Cicero could have parried the sword quite easily. He nearly got his arm chopped off!"

A grin tugs at her lips. "And he fought well? Aside from nearly losing an arm?"

"Quite well," he says, calming a little. "And so did you, although poor Cicero did not get to see it. I found the three assassins you killed when you foolishly ran off on your own." He frowns at her, torn between berating her for running off or praising her for her work.

"So you think Pontius is a fool and I'm a fool, and yet, you're the one with a jester motley."

"Quiet," he says, a wry smile twisting his lips.

"Do you think we can trust him?"

A heavy silence follows in the wake of that question. "I want to believe him," Cicero says. "I keep trying to remember if Pontius ever did anything strange in the past if there was ever a moment where I suspected him of betrayal. But there's nothing that I can think of."

Lumen bites the inside of her cheek, considering her next question. "Did you ever trust Astrid?"

Cicero breathes a humorless laugh. "Cicero thought Astrid was power-hungry and wished to be rid of him and the Night Mother. But did he think she would sell us out? Absolutely not. We were all blindsided by that."

"I don't want to risk the safety of our Sanctuary on an unknown," she admits. "But I have Lucien watching Pontius, and I think the Night Mother might speak if she suspects something is off with him. She's been helpful in the past. When Falkreath was burning, she called me to her. She saved my life."

He stops in his tracks. "You never told Cicero that."

Lumen bites her lip, fearing this will be fodder for yet another argument. "Sorry?" Her so-called apology comes out with more force than she means, but she's on edge. She is tired of fighting.

"Sweet Lumen is brilliant," he says quickly. "Cicero thought it was her own idea."

"I don't mean to be defensive, it's just—" She twirls her hand in the air, looking for the right words. But she decides blunt honesty is what's needed, now more than ever. "This shit between us is beginning to weigh on me. I'm second-guessing everything I say. I know you need time, and I'm willing to give it, but damn it, I miss you. I miss the touch of your skin and the sound of your laugh. I miss your stupid jokes. But most of all, I miss our friendship. I feel lost without you."

"Cicero is lost without you as well," he says, his words coming out in a rush. "He is still hurt, but he will heal. He thinks— I think I will heal faster if I have you by my side."

There is a moment of indecision. One where they just stand and stare at each other, like a couple of awkward teenagers. But then he steps forward and wraps his arms around her, nuzzling into her neck. Lumen's arms encircle him, and she buries her nose in his hair, breathing him in. She revels in his touch after being without it for so long. It's a small step, but it's a step in the right direction. They reluctantly part, but Lumen loops her arm around his, and he playfully bumps into her as they walk side-by-side.

"I could use some advice in regards to Pontius," she says. "If you have any."

"He will have to earn our trust. If you invite him home, then we will keep an eye on him. If you decide to kill him—" He takes a deep breath. "Cicero will accept it."

There is little else to discuss after that, and so their conversation turns to safer things. There is no mention of Helgen or Pontius. Instead, they wonder what Madanach has planned for Thongvor, and when they have tired of that subject, they fall into a comfortable silence.

Notes: This chapter proved to be quite difficult to write. I've been sick, and trying to write while sick is insanely difficult for me, so I apologize if there are any unforgivable grammar mistakes or misspellings that I didn't catch. I actually think this was doubly hard because there's a fight scene… which I struggle with.

And then, there are a lot of feelings being discussed in this chapter. The scene with Arnbjorn just kinda went off in it's own direction, but I felt like it was an important step in his relationship with Lumen. I have no personal experience with poly relationships, so I can only go with my instincts on how one would be navigated. But I feel like jealousy and confusion would crop up on occasion and need to be dealt with.