Warnings for canon typical violence and smut (femdom, mild BDSM elements, pain kink, restraints. etc.)

Chapter 8: House of Horrors

Cicero's new siblings loved to talk about the glory days of the Dark Brotherhood, even though those days were centuries gone, and they always ended in death. They were "the glory days" until everyone died horribly, and for assassins, dying horribly was simply a matter of when— not if.

He hated those stories. They made him remember a time when he was a young assassin, so naive to the dangers such a life entailed until he had to endure the pain of losing his home and heart. He can still hear the cries of his siblings as they burned to death when Bruma's Sanctuary fell. He'll never forget the brothers and sisters he so desperately tried to save, but their Sanctuary was underground, and the fire had weakened the support beams. There was little he could do when the roof came down and buried them all alive. Sometimes, he thinks he should've died with them. He hated himself for running.

It felt like the world was closing in. Bruma was gone. Wayrest had fallen. Chaos had erupted in Bravil. Garnag and Adronica left to aid the Listener in guarding the Night Mother's crypt. Cicero had begged to go, as he couldn't bear to sit idle. But Rasha ordered him to stay.

Cicero spent the last week pacing up and down the corridors of the Sanctuary. He was full of nervous energy and he couldn't sit still. At least Rasha took notice and gave him a contract to keep his hands busy. It would provide a much-needed distraction while keeping him close to home. But killing a local silk merchant was work for a lowly initiate. This contract was a waste of Cicero's skills.

Waste or not, the contract was an easy one and the bonus was as good as his. He killed the merchant in her sleep, ruining an expensive goose feather bed. The merchant's blood unfurled across silk sheets like crimson wings, her eyes wide and unseeing. It was one of his more lovely kills.

As beautiful as it was, he could not linger. He would leave as swiftly and as silently as he came; through the window, across the rooftops, and once he dropped to the ground, he'd weave through the back alleys until he made his way back to the abandoned house that hid their Sanctuary from view.

Cicero was halfway through the window when something stopped him. Every hair on the nape of his neck stood up as he felt the sensation of eyes upon him. He looked over his shoulder to see the young daughter of the silk merchant peering through the open door. The girl was young— no older than four, and much too young to understand what she was seeing. His hand drifted to his dagger all the same. He could leave no witnesses.

But as he drew closer to the child, he let his dagger slide back into its sheath. Because this pale, slip of a girl reminded him of her. Cicero remembered very little of his life before the Brotherhood, but he'd had a sister, and oh, how he loved her. He'd long forgotten the contours of her face, and when he thought of her, he could only see a flash of red hair and unruly curls. But this little girl spoke to a part of his soul he thought he snuffed out a long time ago.

The child looked to him, then to the bed, but she couldn't see the bloody heap on top of it. "Mommy?"

He put his finger up to his lips. "Mommy is sleeping," he said. "Go back to bed."

"Are you one of mommy's friends?"

Ah. The silk merchant had a habit of breaking hearts, and a jilted lover with a chip on his shoulder is why Cicero was there on that particular night. The little girl was not unaccustomed to finding strangers in her home. That made his life easier, at least. If she had screamed, the guards would've come running.

"I am, and she is sleeping. You should sleep, too."

The little girl shook her head, her red curls bouncing with the movement. Cicero inwardly groaned. His bonus was forfeit whether he killed the child or left her alive. He should kill her. He really should. Dark Brotherhood assassins did not leave any witnesses. It should not even be a subject of debate. But the girl's next words made up his mind for him, and his fate was sealed.

"Can't," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. "Too scared."

It was terrifying how easily this kindness came to him. "Of what, child?"

"The dark." After a moment spent fidgeting with her nightdress, she added, "The wind blew my candle out."

"I can light it," he said, not knowing why. "Would you go back to bed then?"

She nodded her head, more frantically this time, and took off down the hallway. Cicero followed her, half in a daze as memories from his past came flooding back to him. None of the memories were pleasant. His childhood was a chronicle of hunger and desperation, and the only shining light amidst the darkness of those memories was his beloved sister. But even thoughts of her lead to heartache, because the world is a cruel place, and she was taken from him all too soon.

This moment of mercy — of weakness — would come back to haunt him. He just knew it. But as he stepped into the little girl's bedroom, he decided to accept whatever punishment the Dread Lord had in mind.

A window was cracked to let a breeze in, but the winds had picked up over the course of the evening, and subsequently blew out the candle. Cicero shut the window and lit the candle on the dresser using his striker and flint. The action created more noise than he was comfortable with, but there was no one left in the house, save for the assassin and the child.

A small grunt drew his attention, and he turned to see the child struggling to crawl back into bed. The bed was better suited for an adult, rather than a little girl. But it didn't matter. She was now an orphan, little did she know, and she would soon be sleeping in a cot in an orphanage. So who was he to deny her one more night spent in a feather bed?

Cicero slid his hands beneath her arms and boosted her onto the bed. The little girl giggled at the quick movement. "Thank you," she said as she scrambled to get under the covers.

The child's gratitude was undeserved, and it hit him like a kick to the chest. He was disgusted by his ineptitude. An assassin of his caliber should have no qualms about killing a child. But as Cicero glanced back at the girl, now comfortably snuggled beneath her blankets, he didn't regret his decision. Everyone within the Brotherhood found their true calling thanks to the needs and urges that lead them down a murderer's path, but the elders always taught restraint. So he was content to call this an exercise in self-control, rather than a monumental failure.

Cicero's heart felt heavy as he crept from the house and back into the streets of Cheydinhal. His homecoming was rather solemn; his brothers and sisters were too concerned with the situation in Bravil to concern themselves with Cicero. All except for Rasha, who gave him an earful for ruining a perfectly easy assignment. Later, he would sit down with a glass of brandy to drown his sorrows, and pen a new journal entry.

12th of Sun's Dusk, 4E 188
Botched my contract and forfeited the bonus. The silk merchant was already cold, and I was halfway through the window when her daughter stepped into the room. I had little choice at that point.

Karthspire Camp is pleasantly chaotic when the group returns from Blind Cliff Cave. The Forsworn warriors have new stories to tell, and the healers tend to the four, weary assassins. One such healer reduces the gash on Lumen's head down to a small, tender lump. But when she informs the Listener that she might have to cut her hair due to all the dried blood, she reacts more violently than any of them expect. The healer leaves in a huff, and there Cicero sits; soaking the clumps with a wet rag and working them out with a comb borrowed from Pontius.

Madanach approaches their campsite, flanked by his usual guards; Borkul and Uraccen. "What's this I hear about you assaulting my healer?"

Lumen's gaze snaps up to Madanach, her shoulders curling inward as if she might leap up from where she's sitting. Cicero clamps a hand on her arm to keep her from doing anything she might regret. Dragonborn-Listener or not, one does not attack the Reach-King on his own turf.

"I didn't assault her, I threatened to," she says, rolling the tension from her shoulders. "I'll stab anyone who tries to cut my hair."

"It's hair," Madanach says, a small grin curling his mouth. "It grows back."

"It's not the first time I've had blood in my hair, nor will it be the last. Cutting it is unnecessary."

"Really?" he laughs. "This is the thing you're sensitive about? Hair?"

Lumen grumbles something vile under her breath. "Don't you have a goat to sacrifice or a Nord to torment? Surely you have something more important to do than bother me."

"But I love pestering you; it's very satisfying." Madanach doesn't sound angry, but Cicero can tell he's caught between irritation and amusement. Not an odd thing when one is dealing with the Listener. "I just thought I'd come by and offer some advice. Be kind to my healers. If you keep threatening them, they won't be so keen to help you the next time you come crawling in here with injuries. And I would be disappointed if you died. The world is far more interesting with people like you in it."

That does earn him a little smile from Lumen. Her mood is improving, at least. "Don't worry Madanach. I'm not going to die anytime soon. Certainly not before setting your plans in motion."

"Speaking of, do you feel well enough to travel? You and your people are welcome to stay as long as you need. Thongvor isn't going anywhere."

"I'm all right," she says quickly. "I plan to leave before noon, so make sure Thongvor is ready."

"Yes, mistress. I'll get right on that." He gives her a mocking bow. "Any other commands?"

"None for now. But come back in five minutes, I'll have thought of something else by then."

That earns her a laugh, followed by a dismissive wave as Madanach turns to leave. Borkul remains at his side, but Uraccen runs off— presumably to ready the prisoner for travel.

"Cicero hopes you're not planning to go on your own," he says, his voice carrying a warning that she can't miss. "Thongvor is no threat, but there could be more assassins on the road."

"I'm not going alone," she says, hissing when he begins to comb out a particularly stubborn knot. "I was hoping you'd come with me."

"What about us?" Arnbjorn asks, finally breaking his long silence. The Nord has been unusually quiet, preferring to lose himself in a book, rather than engage in conversation.

Lumen bites the inside of her cheek. "I'd like you and Pontius to travel to Morthal. We'll meet up there and head home together."

Pontius perks up, getting to his feet and moving closer to Lumen and Cicero. "Does that mean what I think it means?" he asks, a glimmer of cautious hope in his eyes. "You'll talk to your superiors about letting me back in the Dark Brotherhood?"

She is quiet for a long moment while Cicero pulls her hair back into a messy bun, careful to mind that tender spot on her scalp. The scent of her hair hits his nose, and he revels in it. She smells of blood and lavender, and like the forest after a spring rain.

"We are the superiors," she says, getting to her feet. "And I've already talked this over with Arnbjorn and Cicero. Our brothers and sisters at home will cast their votes, too. But I have the final say."

"Are you a Speaker?" Pontius rubs his bandaged arm, his eyes darting between Lumen and Cicero.

"I'm the Listener."

Cicero's fear begins to rise. While Pontius proved himself by slaughtering Thalmor assassins and even leaping in front of a sword for his sake, Cicero doesn't know how his presence will affect life at home. It's possible he's overthinking things. Yes, they had a fling for a while, but it was ten years ago, and it hardly matters now. He has Lumen and Luka, and there is no room in his heart for another.

"You're—" Pontius stumbles forward, then drops to his knees. "Listener," the words come out in a rush, spoken with all the reverence of a prayer. "There's a Listener. A new Listener. I hadn't dared to hope."

An expression of horror etches across Lumen's face as she stares down at Pontius. "Get up," she snaps. "No one bows to me. Get up."

"Forgive me," he murmurs, slowly rising to his feet. "It's just— after Alisanne died, I'd lost all hope. I'd lost my faith. But I swear to you, I will never lose another Listener again. These Thalmor assassins will die by my blade, or I'll die trying. What happened in Cyrodiil will never happen again. My blade, my body, my mind— every weapon I have at my disposal is yours, Listener."

Cicero doesn't know who he should pity more; Lumen or Pontius. The Listener doesn't care for declarations of loyalty because words are cheap and lies come easily. She values actions because actions do not lie. However, the look on her face is hilarious, and it's all he can do to keep from laughing, because Lumen might kill them all if he does.

"Thanks?" she stammers, fussing with her gloves before stepping around Pontius. "I, uh, I'm gonna go make sure Thongvor is ready. Meet me at the gates in fifteen minutes."

"I'll go help her," Arnbjorn says, barely covering his laughter as he follows after her.

"Did I do something wrong?" Pontius asks. "Did I offend her?"

"Ah, do not worry, brother. Our Listener is not used to such displays. That is all."

"Why not? She's the Listener!" Pontius glances in the direction Lumen ran, then back to Cicero. His expression turns grim. "Why is she even here? Why is she fighting the Thalmor, too? She should be somewhere safe! Instead, here she is, brazenly walking into harm's way!"

"Your complaints mirror my own," Cicero sighs. "But Lumen will not hide away and allow her brothers and sisters to fight for her, and I would advise against even suggesting it. She will not take it well."

"I'll keep my concerns to myself. I've no wish to find myself at the end of the Listener's blades." An uncertain smile appears on his lips. "When was she chosen?"

It's a valid question. Every Listener leads differently, and a lot of it has to do with when the Night Mother selects them. Dupre was chosen as a young girl, barely over the age of twelve, and the Black Hand saw to her education. While she was trained by the best assassins and could certainly hold her own in a fight, she only dealt with threats to the Brotherhood when she had no other choice. Whereas Lumen puts herself in danger every chance she gets.

"It's been over a year. Perhaps it might be two years by now. But it was not an occasion marked by celebration. Astrid was not pleased. She felt threatened, and it was her hubris that brought the Penitus Oculatus to our doorstep. She betrayed the Listener, she put her trust in the wrong people, and the Sanctuary fell."

Pontius holds his bandaged arm to his chest, his body tense, as if he desperately wants to hit something. Cicero cannot blame him. "What about Arnbjorn? Can he be trusted? He was her husband! Surely he knew she was up to something."

"You'd be amazed at what spouses keep from each other." Cicero tries to withhold any trace of bitterness from his voice. But the events of the past couple days still weigh on him. He forces his voice into a steady calm when he says, "He did not know, and he has earned my trust."

"Very well. If you trust Arnbjorn, then so do I." He smiles wryly. "I'm going to assume this is something I shouldn't bring up with my traveling companion."

"Cicero would suggest a different topic of conversation if you wish to keep your head."

Pontius snorts. "I'll keep that in mind."

The afternoon sun is high above when the assassins go their separate ways. Shadowmere made numerous attempts to bite Thongvor, so the horse went with Arnbjorn and Pontius, leaving Lumen and Cicero to travel on foot. They do not mind, however. The walk from Karthspire to Markarth is a relatively easy one. Despite the uneventful journey, Cicero's mood sours when they reach the city gates. Markarth is a monument of stone and metal and hate. Of all the cities in Skyrim, he likes Markarth the least. It reminds him of a cage, and he can never stay too long, lest the walls begin to close in on him.

The guards at the front gate don't notice anything off about Thongvor's appearance, and they send a runner to the Keep to inform the Jarl of his return. The Jarl might try to convince him to see a healer, which might be disastrous for Madanach's plans. Thongvor's skin is pale, and there are deep circles beneath his eyes. One might simply think the man is recovering from starvation, but Cicero knows death with he sees it. Or undeath in this case. Thongvor is a Briarheart, he is certain of it. But he doubts he would find the Briar Heart stitched into his chest if he were to look for it. Madanach is far too clever to leave the evidence of his magic out in the open.

The Nord Briarheart never said a word while they were on the road, but ever since they stepped inside the city, he's done nothing but shout about his capture being set-up by Jarl Igmund, and how the Dragonborn saved him. It doesn't take long for the Jarl to hear word of this, and so he's invited Thongvor and his companions to Understone Keep for a meeting.

"Void take that miserable son of a bitch," Lumen growls. "Madanach said Thongvor would handle the cover story, but I didn't think he'd do it at the top of his lungs! Everyone is looking at us. This is horrible!"

"The man does seem to delight in your humiliation," he says, looping his arm through hers as they follow Thongvor through the city. "You should have seen this coming, though."

"You're supposed to comfort me," she whines.

Cicero tugs her arm, and they skirt around a man dressed in shabby robes. He's a priest of some sort, but he is trying a little too hard to get the Dragonborn's attention. Perhaps he is begging for alms, or seeking to gather more followers. Whatever the reason, he'll not be pestering his sweet Lumen today. "Oh, Cicero plans to comfort you," he says. "Later, perhaps. There is little Cicero can do to soothe you in a bed made of stone."

Lumen breathes a laugh, but she withholds her response as they enter the keep. It is too dangerous to speak freely, and there are too many eyes upon them— including those of a Thalmor Justiciar and his guards.

A Redguard woman meets them at the top of the stairs. She allows Thongvor to pass into the throne room, but she stops Lumen and Cicero. "The Jarl would like to speak with Thongvor privately. I'm sure you understand."

"Doesn't matter to me," Lumen says, shrugging. "I promised I'd bring Thongvor home, and I've done that. What happens now is none of my concern." She cuts a sharp glance to the Thalmor Justiciar lingering nearby and then nudges Cicero. "Let's get out of here."

"Wait!" the guard gasps. "Jarl Igmund does wish to meet you! It's not every day the Dragonborn comes to visit. It's just—" she steps closer, her voice dropping low. "Thongvor is throwing around some pretty serious accusations, and the Jarl must deal with him first."

Cicero can tell Lumen is on the verge of snapping at the poor woman, and he wouldn't blame her if she did. This situation has them both on edge; there are too many dangers. Angry voices ring out from inside the throne room, a Thalmor Justiciar is watching Lumen with unhidden interest, and the Jarl's guards are circling them like vultures on the scent of carrion.

"I'm not going to sit around and wait for Thongvor and Igmund to work out their differences," Lumen says, lifting her chin. "I have other matters to attend to, and I really must be going." With that, she turns on her heel and marches down the stairs and straight out of the Keep.

Cicero follows close behind her, barely able to contain his laughter. "That was not the most tactful exit, Cicero must admit."

"I don't care about tact," she growls. "I did what Madanach asked me to do. What happens now is up to him."

"Oh, Cicero is not criticizing. But don't you want to see how this plays out? You are not just a little curious?"

"No," she snaps, breezing down another set of stone stairs and into the main street of the city. "I know how much you enjoy politics and intrigue, and the rest of that rabble. But I honestly just want to go home."

"Yes, yes. Cicero understands," he says, although he is a little disappointed. It's times like this when he misses Cyrodiil and all the shady, underhanded dealings of the local courts.

They near the abandoned house with the priest lingering by the doorway. Despite Lumen's loud ranting, the man throws himself into her path, causing her to stumble to a stop.

"You again?" she growls. "What in the Void do you want?"

"I need your help! Please! Just hear me out, at least!" The Imperial gazes up at Lumen with pleading eyes, and she sighs, motioning for him to speak. "Thank you," he says, visibly relieved. "My name is Tyranus, and I'm with the Vigil of Stendarr. I believe this house is being used for Daedra worship. But no one in the city has seen anything. They just look the other way! They don't care about the house sitting abandoned for decades. They all act like it's not even here! I believe it's due to Daedric influence, and I'd hoped you, an outsider, might have seen something of note? Surely you are not bewitched like the people who live here are."

Cicero studies the house. It looks like every other house in Markarth, and it's hardly noteworthy. Except for the shadow mark near the door, indicating that it's empty. Cicero once had a friend in the Thieves Guild, and he told him that they would sometimes mark a place as "empty" when they feared the "danger" mark might invite unwanted curiosity from the younger, more foolhardy thieves.

"I don't come here often," Lumen says, glancing at the house. "So I haven't noticed anything. It looks abandoned to me."

"It wouldn't hurt to take a look inside," Cicero says, surprising himself.

"Oh." Tyranus levels him with a look that tells him he's already judged Cicero as a simpleton. "I suppose it would help if I had some backup. I'd rather not face any Daedra worshippers on my own."

Lumen levels Cicero with a curious glance, and then she turns back to the priest. "Do you have a key?"

"No, but I have other means of getting inside." Tyranus turns away from her, digging through his pockets for a set of lockpicks.

"Thank you, sweet Lumen." He knows she has only agreed to help the Vigilant in order to sate Cicero's curiosity. If it weren't for Cicero, they would be well on their way home. But there is something about this house that piques his interest, and he cannot explain why. It just does.

She smiles at him. "I don't mind taking a detour for you. I'm just not going to do it for anyone else."

"It's unlocked." Tyranus stands near the door. His hands clasped tightly in front of him. "I would be remiss if I didn't warn you— If there are any Daedra worshippers inside—"

"Things will get nasty," Cicero supplies, stepping up to the door. It is brilliantly polished beneath the cobwebs that cover its surface. "We have faced worse than Daedra worshippers. But if you wish to enter first, then by all means." He motions to the door with a flourish, purposely adding to Tyranus' unease.

The Vigilant does not know how to respond to that, so he enters the house with Cicero and Lumen following close behind. On the outside, the door is a woven mesh of cobwebs and moss, but inside, there is a notable lack of dust. Despite the fact that the house is not nearly as abandoned as it pretends to be, it looks relatively normal. No evidence of Daedra worship— yet.

"I think there's something in the basement," Tyranus says, as he quickly makes his way through the house. "Follow me!"

"Wait a second," Lumen says, but the man darts down a flight of stairs, and deeper into the house.. She doesn't bother following him, and continues her exploration of the upper room. "Well if any Daedra worshippers are hiding in the basement, I guess Tyranus will be the first to know. Bloody fool."

The two assassins take their time in exploring the upper level; Lumen flips through a book, looking for notes tucked within the pages, and Cicero peeks inside a cupboard. All seems well, except Cicero could swear he hears the tolling of a distant bell. He doesn't know when it began— it could have been ringing for a mere second, or half a lifetime, but the sound makes his stomach churn. The only temple within the city is dedicated to Dibella, but they don't use bells to summon their adherents. This sound, however, is coming from somewhere much more distant; infinitely far, yet suddenly very near.

"Do you hear that?" he asks, looking around, desperately trying to discern the source of the noise. "The bell?"

Lumen doesn't look up from her task of rifling through an apothecary's satchel. "Yeah, but isn't it from the temple?"

"Perhaps," he says, laughing nervously. "But Cicero has not heard a temple bell since he left Cyrodiil. It is an Imperial custom."

The gas lanterns in the room dim and brighten of their own accord, and the sudden fluctuation of light does grab Lumen's attention. "That's weird. What do you—" her inquiry is cut off by a yelp as a chair flings itself away from a table and skitters across the floor. "Okay, I'm done. We're getting the fuck out of here."

They are both willing to face assassins, dragons, and various other untold dangers, but hauntings and Daedric curses were beyond their level of skill, and so Cicero does not need to be told twice to leave this wretched place behind. But when they reach the door, they find it locked.

The distant bell gives a final toll, and the gas lanterns flicker out, swathing them in darkness. They remain silent and still, neither wishing to give in to their fear. After a few heartbeats, light returns to the room, but not through the lanterns. It is coming from the air itself, fitful and dim, like the light of a stillborn sun. The house comes to life all around them; pots and pans dance across a table, books fly off their shelves, and a bowl of fruit — now visibly rotten — spills itself across the floor.

"Weak. He is weak. You are strong. Crush him."

"Please tell Cicero you heard that."

"Uh, yeah." Lumen nervously wets her lips. "Hopefully the Vigilant will know what to do. Because I certainly don't."

Tyranus rushes into the room. "Stendarr's mercy!" he gasps, shoving between them in an attempt to get to the door, crying out in frustration when he finds it locked. "This is no ordinary Daedra! We have to get help!"

The voice rings out again, resonating through their bones like nearby thunder. Cicero can hear the years in that malicious voice, and though he is compelled to follow its orders, he fears what it might come of them.

"Kill him. Crush his bones. Tear at his flesh. Break his spirit. You will kill, or you will all die."

Tyranus stops scrabbling at the door and slowly turns around to face Lumen and Cicero. "Stendarr forgive me," he gasps, reaching for his mace. "I'm so sorry. Forgive me. There is no other way."

Lumen hisses a curse, while Cicero draws his ebony blade. The Vigilant of Stendarr is no match for two Dark Brotherhood assassins. Dodging the sloppy swings of his mace proves tricky, but Lumen manages to disarm him while Cicero sinks his blade into his midsection, spilling his bowels across the stone floor.

"Yes," the dark voice laughs. "Your reward is waiting for you, mortals. Further down."

"Let me guess— that door will remain magically locked until we give this Daedra whatever he wants," Lumen says, glancing helplessly at the door. "Or, we follow his orders and we die horribly somewhere in the basement of this house."

"Cicero does not like either option," he admits. "He would feel a little better if he knew which Daedra we are dealing with. Some are not as bad as others."

"Something tells me this isn't one of the nice ones," she sighs, reaching for his hand. "Come on. We've faced worse odds and come out on top. Let's go have a chat with a Daedra."

Hand in hand, the two assassins enter the bowels of the house. The hint of something sweet — vanilla, perhaps — permeates the air within the basement, but it does little to disguise the unmistakable stench of rotting flesh. Many have died here. But the bodies are not buried deep enough to hide the reek of decay.

They come upon a room carved deep into the stone beneath the house, and there they find an altar. The air itself quivers with a hungry desperation that sets Cicero's teeth on edge. "Cicero is not sure what to do," he admits, but Lumen's gaze is on the mace attached to the altar, and she gives no indication that she heard him. "Sweet Lumen, wait—"

His warning comes too late. When Lumen's feet hit the pedestal, several large spikes erupt from the ground, trapping her in a small, dangerously sharp cage. She cringes inward, expecting something more — something worse — but the altar does nothing else.

"Oh, fuck me," she mutters, furious with herself. "How am I supposed to get out of this thing?"

"Why did you step on the damn thing in the first place?" Cicero snaps, more frightened than irritated. What if he can't get her out of there? What then?

"Fools," the voice breathes. "Did you think Molag Bal, the Lord of Domination, would so easily reward you? What do you see from that little cage? Speak, mortal. Do not make me wait."

"I see a mace," Lumen answers, and true to her vexing nature, she adds, "Oh, I'm sorry— a shitty mace."

"Do not sass the Daedra, sweet Lumen," he says, torn between exasperation and fear.

"Yes. It is a mace." The Daedric Prince sounds amused, although Cicero does not know if that bodes well or not. "But it is rusted. Dry. There was a time when this mace dripped with the blood of the feeble and the worthless. But a Daedric Lord has his enemies, and my rival Boethiah had her priest desecrate it. Left it here to decay. Until you came."

"I see where this is going." Lumen folds her arms across her chest, glaring at the bars of the cage. "Everyone comes to me for revenge. There are better ways of asking for my help, though."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Listener. For it is not revenge I seek, but submission. I want the priest who did this to bend his knee and give me his soul. I want him broken, bleeding, bound, and begging for the pain to end." Lumen and Cicero share a glance because the Daedra is beginning to sound positively aroused. "And who better for the task than you two? I know your appetites. Your desires. I can taste the darkness in your hearts."

"Eh, no thanks. That seems like a lot of work, and I'm a busy woman." Lumen kneels down, attempting to squeeze between the bars of the cage and leave.

A hook fixed to a length of chain shoots up from the base of the altar, narrowly missing Lumen, and wrapping around the bar on the other side of the cage. "I'm asking nicely."

She goes deathly still. "Point taken," she says, her voice wavering. "So where is this priest now?"

"He's on his way. It's difficult to believe a Nord can travel so freely through the Reach. A pity. I used to enjoy watching the Forsworn force the Nords to their knees, but it seems their interests have changed."

"I suppose it works out for us," Lumen cautiously replies. "Rescuing this priest from a Forsworn encampment would not be an easy task." When Molag Bal does not respond, she says, "All right. We'll deal with this priest. Will you let me go now?"

The Daedra laughs. "How sweetly you submit, Listener." Lumen visibly recoils at those words, but the bars of the cage sink back into the altar, and she is free. "Hide. Let the priest make his way to my shrine. You will ruin him here, upon my altar."

"What have I gotten us into?" Lumen hisses, leaping from the altar.

Cicero throws his arms around her when she reaches him, holding her close. Things could have gone much worse, considering the Daedra they are dealing with. As it is, his Listener is safe and whole, left unharmed and unmolested by the Daedra most likely to do both.

"It is nothing we cannot handle, sweet Lumen," he says, kissing her on the cheek. "Come. Let us hide. I think I hear someone upstairs."

The clutter in the basement provides plenty of cover, and the pair of assassins duck behind a bookshelf. Dark shadows cloud the corners of the room, further hiding them from view. The priest slowly enters the room, casting a spell to detect life. They tense up at the chiming of the spell, but the strange shadows creeping through the house conceal them from his magic. The priest glances around the room, seemingly disappointed. But he doesn't look around any more than he deems necessary, and he shuffles off down the carved hallway to the altar. The assassins do not leave their hiding spot until they hear the unmistakable sound of the cage coming up to trap Boethiah's priest.

"Really, Molag Bal?" the priest scoffs. "You think you can best me? I've won this fight before!"

"You have indeed, Logrolf. But this time, I have my own champions."

Cicero steps into the room, grinning at the priest trapped within the cage. The Listener has forced her expression into a mask, but he knows she is as eager to engage in a little brutality as he.

"Do you think the Night Mother will take insult to this?" Lumen asks, her loyalty to Mother overriding her desire to inflict pain. "There aren't any rules against consorting with Daedra, are there?"

"None that Cicero knows of," he says, delighting in Logrolf's horrified expression. Not only is the man captured by Molag Bal, but he is facing two Dark Brotherhood assassins. Cicero almost feels sorry for the old fool. "Our hearts belong to the Night Mother. We are only assisting Molag Bal. Cicero does not think she will mind."

"Come, Children of Sithis. Take my mace, in all it's rusted spitefulness. Crush the spirit from Logrolf's bones. Make him bend to me."

"Ladies first," Cicero purrs, watching as Lumen's mouth twists into an adorably evil grin. Cicero would never call her "cute" to her face, because he wouldn't survive it, but she really is cute when she's lusting for blood.

She takes the mace from the altar and gives it a few experimental swings. Satisfied with its weight, she approaches the cage, grinning down at her cowering prey. The smile vanishes when she strikes, the mace smacking into Logrolf's frail form with a bone-shattering crunch. A warm spray of blood spatters the bars of the cage. Lumen's eyes linger on the mace, watching the blood ooze between the spikes and drop to the floor. Despite the damage done by just one hit, the old Nord is still conscious. He sways on his feet and spits vile curses at the assassins, but not for long. Lumen brings the mace down again and again, until the last brutal strike proves to be fatal.

Lumen stares down at the dead priest. "Oopsie," she sing-song's, not sounding the least bit repentant.

Heat blooms in Cicero's chest and settles between his legs. He loves this side of her; playfully sadistic and delightfully wicked. She looks beautiful when she's standing over a fallen victim with a spray of blood drying on her armor. It's moments like this that remind him why he fell in love with her in the first place. He would do anything for her, especially if she looked at him the way she's looking at Logrolf right now.

"You mortals and your weak, pathetic bodies." The air around Logrolf's body shifts and time flows backward as his wounds vanish and his life is restored. "Try again."

"Cicero, do you—" her words falter when her eyes meet his, seeing the heat within them.

"Cicero is rather enjoying the show." His hand slides down to grip the erection pressing against his trousers. "Keep going."

"With pleasure," she purrs, lifting the mace high, eager to return to the task.

"Stop! No more!" The priest cries. "I yield."

The priest's submission is a little disappointing. Cicero had hoped the man would hold out for just a bit longer. But he's not too upset about it. The sooner Molag Bal gets what he wants, the sooner Cicero can get what he wants.

"You bend to me?" the Daedra growls, his voice oozing with pleasure.

Logrolf sinks to his knees. "Yes."

"You pledge your soul to me?" he asks, his voice rising with anticipation. "You forsake the weak and pitiful Boethiah?"

"Yes," the priest sighs, utterly defeated.

A bestial laugh rattles the room, and Molag Bal says, "Finish him, Listener."

With a mighty swing of the mace, Lumen quickly ends Logrolf's suffering. It's not so much an act of mercy, but a desire to conclude their business with Molag Bal. She is as eager to get her hands on Cicero as he is to get his hands on her.

The mace lifts from her hands, the rust falling from it as a green light burns from within. "A gift for the Children of Sithis. I give you my mace in its true power. Use it well. Now, I have a soul in Oblivion that needs claiming. Take care of the house while I'm gone."

Lumen gingerly grasps the mace from where it floats mid-air. She cautiously backs away from the shrine, and into the basement. Her movements are slow and measured as she gingerly sets the mace down. But she is a flurry of motion once the Daedric artifact is out of her hands. Pauldrons and gauntlets drop to the floor as the Listener removes the more cumbersome parts of her armor.

Cicero intends to help her— he really does. But when he reaches her, his mouth is on her neck, and his hands are smoothing across her hips. He doesn't mourn the loss of her spiky armor, but he would prefer it if his Listener kept the leather on. Beneath her armor, she is warm and soft. But soft is the last thing he wants right now. He wants her to be brutal. He craves her cruelty. Cicero needs the hardness of the leather and the bruising force of her strength.

"You're distracting me," she says, gasping when his teeth scrape across the hollow of her throat.

"Keep your armor on."

He presses close to her, the metal studs along her thigh are painful against his sensitive erection, but the pain is what he wants. What he needs. With all that's been happening with the assassins and with the sudden arrival of Pontius, it feels as if everything is spiraling wildly out of control. He just wants to surrender to his Listener's will for a little while. Because when he submits to her he knows she will take care of him. Everything will be okay as long as she's in control.

"Tell me what you want," she asks, so well composed despite Cicero's wandering hands.

"I don't want to make decisions," he growls, frustrated with his inability to voice his desires.

"I can make them for you. But I think limitations are important."

Cicero shakes his head, hoping to clear the fog of desire long enough to give her a coherent answer. "No cuts. No blood. Cicero has bled enough lately." He guides her hand to his neck. "I just want you to be in control."

"I think I can accomplish that." The gentle kiss that follows her words is the last kindness she will show him for a while.

"What do you want, Listener? Cicero will do anything you ask."

Her fingers tighten around his neck as she whispers, "Anything I want, I will take from you."

A jolt of desire shoots through him, and stars flash in his vision, but he does not fear. His darling Listener knows just how much force a throat can take before its crushed. She'll only hurt him because he asked, and she would never do irreparable harm.

They are both too wound up to drag this out for long, and there is simply not enough time. Arnbjorn and Pontius are probably nearing Morthal by now, and with all that's been happening, they cannot force them to wait for too long. Still, Lumen does not seem to be in a hurry as she guides them to the floor. She releases her grip on Cicero's throat long enough to yank his trousers down, but then her hand is back around his neck. Still fully clothed, she settles herself on his hips, trapping his erection between her leather-clad sex and his abdomen. Cicero gasps, his nerves alight with confusion as pleasure and pain collide.

His heart races at the way her eyes bore into him. She looks at him as she would a victim, her gaze clouded by intent and desire. "I'd draw this out for hours if we only had more time." Lumen punctuates her remark by pressing harder against Cicero, drawing a strangled whimper from his throat.

Oh, how he wishes for more time. The hard leather compressing his erection is delightfully agonizing. He wonders how long it will take before he breaks. How long before he turns into a sobbing mess, begging for release? "Cicero does not think he'd survive it," he grits out.

"Perhaps we will find out when we have more time at our disposal." She tilts her head. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," he sighs, eager to be rid of this ache that has plagued him for so long.

He watches through heavy lidded eyes as she removes her belt and shoves her leather trousers down. A grin curls her lips when she notices him watching. "You will not touch me," she says as she binds his wrists together with her belt. "You will not concern yourself with my pleasure. I will use you as I see fit."

A whimper escapes him as two gloved fingers slide into his mouth, compressing his tongue. Lumen settles on his hips, slowly taking him in, inch by inch, until he is fully sheathed inside of her. Cicero groans at the sensation of her tight, wet heat enveloping him after waiting and aching for so long. She rolls her hips, her thighs clenching tight against his sides. His first instinct is to match her movements, but the action would likely be met with reproach. So he settles for teething and sucking at those fingers inside his mouth. Tension builds between his legs, and he does everything he can to stave off his impending orgasm. But he has no hope of holding out for long with Lumen setting an unrelenting pace.

Cicero is at war with himself because her pleasure should come first. Though he tries to hold back, he loses all sense when her hand drifts between her legs to tease that particular knot of nerves. The coiling tension in his spine grows tighter as he watches Lumen bring herself off. A soft cry escapes her, and when she bites her lip and throws her head back, Cicero shatters.

The world is an explosion of light and heat, and he is only distantly aware of his low moan mingling with her cries. The velvety grip of her body has him gasping for breath, and even though the basement floor is cold and hard against his back, the Fool of Hearts couldn't be happier.

Lumen removes her belt from his wrists, and he rests his newly freed hands on her thighs, reveling in the feeling of hard muscle beneath supple skin. Cicero would gladly stay like this forever, if only they could. He tells her this, and she rewards him with an indulgent smile. She expresses her own desire to linger, but they have places to go and people to kill.

"If we hurry we might be able to make it home by nightfall," she says, pressing a kiss to his forehead before pulling away.

He mourns the loss of her touch when her body parts from his. But he understands her haste. With the hunters dogging their every step, it would be foolish to be on the road after dark. So they clean up and dress in comfortable silence, both eager to be home after being away for so long.

They leave Markarth without further incident. The residents of the ancient city watch them as they pass by, but none approach. They seem put off by the mace at Lumen's hip, which suits the pair of assassins just fine.

No words pass between them as they travel. Cicero knows he is uncharacteristically quiet, and he is aware of the Listener's gaze upon him. She can tell something is bothering him, but she knows better than to ask. That she knows to give him space warms his heart— how long has it been since someone has tried to understand him so well? Poor, worthless Cicero doesn't deserve such kindness, and the guilt nipping at his heels only serves to fuel his anxiety. There are too many words crowding his mouth. Too many intrusive thoughts in his head. He wants to tell her about his past with Pontius because he cannot ask for honesty if he isn't able to return it, but the subject is hard to broach.

Cicero has no desire to uncover the ruins of his past, and so he is content to let the subject of Pontius slip by for one more day. Someday, he'll be ready, and he will tell Lumen everything he can recall. Someday—

But not today.

Notes: I had not intended to write about the House of Horrors quest line, but my muse kept pointing me in that direction, so I went with it! I apologize for taking so long to get this chapter out. I've been dealing with some health problems that have kept me from doing much of anything lately (writing, working, etc.) So updates might be slow until I get my health sorted out, but rest assured that I have no plans to give up on this fic!