Chapter 12: Feral Hearts
21st of Sun's Dusk, 4E 188
So much has happened since my last entry. After Garnag and Andronica left for Bravil, we stopped receiving communications from the city. We feared the worst. This morning, those fears were confirmed, when Garnag returned alone, transporting a most precious cargo - the great stone coffin of the Night Mother herself.
The story Garnag told could curl the blood of even the most hardened of Sithis' servants. The crypt of the Night Mother, raided. Dearest sister Andronica, cut to pieces. And the Listener herself, the most honored Alisanne Dupre, burned alive in a storm of mage fire.
Garnag, though gravely injured (he will most certainly lose his right eye), managed to fend off the attackers, and transport the Night Mother's coffin safely out of the city. He has been on the road, making his way back here, since that tragic night.
Cicero's hands were shaking like brittle leaves.
Garnag returned home, alone, and with the Night Mother in tow. Reeking of fire, he smelled like a brutal death. Burned meat. Scorched hair and fingernails. Silent screams were woven into the scents that clung to his armor.
It was Bruma all over again, and Cicero couldn't stop shaking.
The explosions that set off that horrible chain of events still echoed in his ears. He'll never forget the plumes of fire that swept through the hallways of their underground home. He'll never forget the screams of his brothers and sisters as they burned alive.
He'll never forget. He'll never heal.
If only he had someone to talk to. Someone who could understand. But assassins don't share these things. Bruma's old Speaker used to see emotion as a weakness. But it was a rare man who was born with such an unfeeling coldness in his heart. Cicero wanted to be like that. Life would be so much easier if he could be like that. He was so tired of being lonely.
Loneliness was an odd companion. It was a killer. It crept up on him, quite and still, and rather than plunging a blade into his heart, it stroked fingers down his neck and planted lies in his heart. It leached the light from every bright moment, and it crushed him until he was breaking under the unbelievable weight of what it was to be truly alone.
The Sanctuary was still full of people. Less than when he came, but still full. But the Listener was dead and the Night Mother was silenced, and they could all see the cracks forming in their familial bonds. It was only a matter of time before everything fell apart.
The Sanctuary was full, and Cicero never felt more alone.
A snowstorm rolls in over the course of the evening, delaying their departure to Markarth. The Listener is in a frenzy. She could Shout the weather away— but Shouting all the way from Dawnstar to Markarth isn't exactly ideal for a group of assassins looking to assassinate a jarl. So they are stuck for the time being, and as a result, Lumen has nearly worn a rut in the hallway from all her pacing.
"Sweetness, please." He grabs her arm, stopping her in her tracks. "Let Cicero help you. Let him distract you from this…" He grasps for the right words— words that won't upset her further, but falls short.
"Madness?" she supplies.
"That was not the word Cicero wanted to use. But— yes." He wants to tell her that he understands. He knows what it's like to be trapped inside your own home. But that is not a conversation he wants to have today. "We're stuck here, so maybe we should make the best of it? We could play cards, or train, or— oh! I know! Cicero could play the lute—"
"Sithis, no. You abuse that poor instrument."
"How dare you!" That earns him a smile, at least. So he continues. "Fine, fine. It's clear you do not appreciate Cicero's sublime musical talents."
"You are quite talented. But it's clear you weren't born to be a bard," she says, her smile growing because she knows how much that comment will get under his skin.
"Bards are overrated," he sniffs, resting his hands on his hips. "And do not get Cicero started on the local bards and their caterwauling. They wouldn't be able to find the proper key if it slapped them in the face."
Lumen's hand covers her mouth, hiding her laugh. It's such an oddly demure gesture for her, but she is a creature of contradictions. Cicero doubts she's aware of what she's done, and he'll not mention it. It harkens back to the time before— when she was at the mercy of her Thalmor master. Trained to act like a lady, and treated worse than any dog. The thought makes him sick. He'd kill the Altmer bastard all over again if he could.
"Thanks." She runs a hand through her hair and sighs. "I suppose I was losing my mind a little. I—" Her hand falls to her side. "I feel trapped."
"I know. But you are not trapped, and it will not snow forever." His arms encircle her waist, and he looks up to see her smiling down at him. "The weather may have halted our travels, but it is not so bad that we cannot step outside. Perhaps some fresh air would help?"
"But it's so cold."
"Yes, but allowing Cicero to warm you up afterward is half the fun. So what do you say?"
"Oh, all right." Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she pulls away. "But you should probably put on some warmer clothes."
Cicero looks down at the thin shirt and trousers he threw on that morning. "Ah, probably."
"Go on. I'll fetch our cloaks and meet you in the foyer." Turning to walk down the hall, she throws a glance over her shoulder and says, "and don't take forever! We're not going to a ball; we're going to play in the snow. You don't have to fuss."
"Cicero never fusses!"
"You always fuss," she calls back, her footsteps fading as she walks away.
Smirking to himself, he steps into their bedroom to change. As per the Listener's request, Cicero doesn't fuss— too much. He can't help it if he holds himself to high standards. And there is some part of him that fears Lumen will lose interest if he doesn't look his best. He is a human of mid-age and she an elf just barely into adulthood. If Cicero starts to show too much age or begins to take less care of himself, would she look to younger lovers?
No. No, of course not. That's silly. Lumen has never given him any indication that she would prefer someone younger— or prettier. She likes him. Loves him. Every part of him; the jester, the killer, and the man.
With that in mind, he slips into his motley, which has sat folded up and unused for too long. Pontius' line of questioning made him think too much about why he wears the motley. It doesn't matter why. Not when the Listener likes the way he looks in it.
Cicero steps out into the hallway, smoothing the wrinkles from his velvet overcoat, and runs smack into the very person he'd been hoping to avoid.
"S— Sorry!" Pontius stammers as he stumbles backward.
"It's all right." Cicero grabs his hat before it falls to the floor, but he does not set it back in place. Instead, he holds onto it for comfort, and out of the dim hope that Pontius doesn't wish to speak of the past. "Are you okay, brother?"
"Fine. Fine." He waves his hand in the air. "I did want to see you, though. Are you busy?"
"Cicero is on his way to meet the Listener, but he can spare a moment for you," he says, trying to sound cheerful. "What do you need?"
"The Listener," he says, his voice oddly hollow. "I'd rather not keep you if—"
"Just say what you need to say," Cicero snaps, his patience — which is admittedly limited with Pontius — at an end.
Pontius levels him with a glare, his green eyes glittering in the dim torchlit hall. "I need to know if it was real." he says, his voice hard. "What we had. Did it mean anything to you?"
"This again…" Cicero pinches the bridge of his nose. "Haven't we been over this already?"
"Not this particular aspect, no. And I need to know." He turns away, then. Unable to meet his gaze. "Please. I need this."
In all these years Cicero has never questioned himself. Not once. He knows who he is, and the others accept it. But now — since Pontius — he's questioning his every move. His every word. "Shouldn't I be asking you that? You left. I stayed."
"I didn't have a choice." The words come out in a broken whisper.
"If it mattered that much, you could have returned at some point. I was only there for a decade." Keeping the anger from his voice is difficult in this moment. It's nearly impossible to keep from shouting. The pain he buried long ago is brought to the surface, and flaying him raw.
"I shouldn't have brought this up. It was just on my mind and I—" Pontius sighs. "I don't know what to say."
"Say nothing. Cicero has moved on, and so should you."
"I thought I had. But being here with you— it's not that easy. I don't know if I can move on."
"You have to," Cicero says firmly. "Everything is different now. Including Cicero."
"Right." Anger flashes in Pontius' eyes and his voice hardens into something cold. Cruel. "You're fucking the Listener now. There's no room for a lowly initiate in your bed."
"Watch yourself," he says through his teeth. It would be well within Cicero's right as Keeper to kill him for that comment, but he doesn't have a weapon within reach, and he'd rather not use his bare hands.
Pontius takes a deep breath, and the rage simmering behind his eyes withers to ashes. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me. Everything is different now, I know. And I thought it would be fine. I thought I'd moved on. But seeing you again changed everything. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed you until then." He dares to meet his eyes. "I miss you still."
"I am right here, Pontius. You may speak to me whenever you wish."
"No," he says, forcing out a pained laugh. "You don't get it. You never got it." Pontius takes a tentative step forward, and then another, until he is pushing Cicero against the wall. "I miss your touch. Your taste."
That admission has Cicero's feet pinned to the floor, just as Pontius has him pinned to the wall. He isn't sure how to handle this. There isn't a way out that doesn't involve hurting Pontius. He opens his mouth to speak — to tell him to leave — but words fail him when Pontius presses his body closer, and slants his mouth over Cicero's. In his mind, he was reeling; he was pushing Pontius away and running to meet Lumen. But he is rooted in place, encapsulated in Pontius' warmth, and he couldn't help but respond in kind— and he instantly regrets it because the pull of his lips and the slide of his tongue feels so heartbreakingly familiar. Like coming home after a long journey.
It is wrong. Pontius shouldn't feel like this. He left. He abandoned Cicero. Left him to rot.
Cicero pushes him away. "Stop," he gasps. "This will not help. It solves nothing. It will only make things worse."
"I'm sorry—"
"Stop apologizing." Stumbling away from the wall, he walks away from Pontius and doesn't bother looking back. Lumen is waiting for him. HisLumen who loves him and has never abandoned him. He will not make her wait any longer.
Silence came naturally to Lumen. It was no different than learning to walk after learning how to crawl. Her footsteps were softer than shadow, and her breath was silent as a midwinter's night. There was a sense of power in watching and not being watched in turn, and a sense of life-giving rebellion in sneaking around Malrian's manor against his orders— and without his knowledge.
It was the 19th of Sun's Dusk. The day was gray, cold, and bleak. Malrian sent her to bed early, as he often did when he had important visitors coming. Lumen intended to obey him. She wanted to slip into bed to sleep off the lethargic side-effects of a quiet day. But her master sent the servants away, too— and that was enough to pique her interest. A wave of curiosity swept away the sedating cobwebs of inactivity and had Lumen listening at her door, poised to move as soon as she heard the voices of Malrian's officers in the foyer.
She'd listened in on their meetings before, and most of their conversations were as bland as sack flour. But this was the first time Malrian sent the servants away. Tonight she might overhear something worthwhile. A bit of news to remind her about the world existing beyond Malrian's walls.
The distinct thump of doors closing had Lumen on her feet, making her way through the moonlit corridors of Malrian's home. Wrapped in darkness, and silent as death, she tiptoed down the hall, down the stairs, and stood just beyond the thick, cherrywood doors of Malrian's study. The voices within were muffled, but the officers made no attempt to whisper. There were no servants to overhear them, and as far as Malrian knew, she's upstairs, tucked in her bed.
"—and what of the Listener?" Her master's voice. "Was she there?"
"She was there, just like he said she would be," an officer said. "We burned her along with her thugs and their precious relics."
"Ah, it seems like the traitor's information was good after all." The pleasure in his voice sent a nauseating shiver down her spine. "Excellent."
"It was," the officer said, his voice wary. Guarded. "His information has checked out, thus far. The true test will be when he gives us the location of the Sanctuary."
"He is holding out for more gold. He got cocky after Bruma was destroyed—" His voice was fuller. Closer.
Lumen darted away from the door and slipped up the stairs swiftly— but not silently. Malrian and the others did not hear, not when they are talking, lauding their victory, and pushing doors open. She was back in her bedroom in an instant. Sat upon her bed, looking out the window into the dark, still night.
A snow-kissed wind wove its way through a field of dormant grass. It was calm. Quiet. But somewhere a city was burning, and people were dying. They suffered for something they loved enough to bleed for. They died for something they believed in. She wondered who or what could inspire such love and devotion. She didn't know, but the thought had her heart racing. Pressing shivering hands into the coverlet, she said a silent prayer for Malrian's victims, invoking any god that would listen.
You can have vengeance at my hands. You can have my soul and all that I am. I only ask that I wield the blade.
Lumen forgot about her promise until years later. Until she was a loyal devotee of the Night Mother and Sithis. Her wish had been granted, and Malrian's blood covered her hands. It was then she wondered if the Night Mother knew what would befall her children. If she heard Lumen's prayer, did she also know about the Thalmor plot to kill her Listener? Did she know about Astrid's deception? Did she know how her children would suffer and fall, over and over again, and do nothing to stop it?
How many children had to bleed to earn her love?
Night falls across the Reach in a blanket of clouds and fitful moonlight. A light dusting of snow sticks to the branches of the gnarled juniper trees but melts upon touching the ground. The air smells of midnight; of rich moss and wet stone. In the distance, Markarth glows like a beacon, the city lit by dozens of bright, gas lanterns.
Markarth is a notoriously difficult city to infiltrate, and Understone Keep is a fortress. Eola made their lives considerably easier when she provided them with not only disguises, but a key to the Hall of The Dead— and as luck would have it, the Hall is connected to the Keep. So the assassins have their way in if their disguises fail.
They have yet to make a move, however.
From her vantage point atop a grassy hill, Lumen can see the city of Markarth glowing in the distance. Gaining access to the city will be the easy part, but infiltrating the Keep is another story.
"Quit brooding, tidbit," Arnbjorn says. "You're making everyone nervous."
Lumen turns away from the city to face her companions. "Sorry," she says to the group as a whole. "I'm not feeling terribly confident about this hit— and it's not that I don't have faith in you all. I do. But I feel like we're going in blind. We don't know the layout. We don't know the guard rotations. There's a lot that we just don't know, and I'm not willing to risk my family to further Madanach's political agenda."
"So let's find out," Luka chirps. "You seem to have forgotten that I can maintain an invisibility spell for a very long time. It's why I was recruited, right?"
"That's right," she says, knowing where he's going with this, but not liking the direction. "But I can't ask you to do something so dangerous."
She's favoring him. He knows it. They all know it. But Luka smiles and says, "you aren't asking; I'm offering. I'll go into the city, sneak into the Keep, find out everything we need to know, and then meet up with you here. It'll be easy."
"I don't want you going alone."
"I would prefer to be on my own." He glances around nervously. "No offense meant but— another person would just be a liability."
"Fine." Lumen hates the thought of sending him into the city alone, but she trusts Luka with her life— and she will have to trust him with this. "How much time do you need?"
"I don't expect this to take any longer than three hours. Maybe four if I have to be extra cautious." He slings a pack of supplies over his shoulder, and adds, "if it takes five hours it probably means I'm dead."
"Luka…"
He wraps an arm around her shoulders. "I'll be fine. I promise."
"You'd better go before I change my mind."
"All right." Luka grins at her. "Don't worry, Miss Lumen. I've done this a million times. Well— okay, so I've never snuck into a Keep before, but I've been in and out of just about every Hall of the Dead in Skyrim. Arkay never noticed me. The guards won't either."
"I know," she says, but that knowledge does little to ease her worries. "I have faith in you."
Lumen watches Luka make his way down the small footpath that leads to the main road. Her eyes remain riveted to his blond head until it vanishes around a bend. It doesn't feel right to send him off on his own like that. But she's never been content to send her assassins on missions alone. There is safety in numbers. While an extra person often increases the odds of discovery, it also increases the odds of survival.
"Do not worry, sweetness. Luka will be fine." Cicero lays a gentle hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward their small, hidden campsite. "Come. Sit with Cicero. It is a nice evening, yes? We may as well make the best of it."
"I suppose you're right," she says, allowing herself to be lead.
They slip behind a large, gnarled juniper to see Arnbjorn building a fire, and Pontius producing field rations from his pack, along with numerous bottles of alcohol. Wolf pelts are placed around the fire to provide cushioning from the stiff, frozen grass.
Sitting on a warm pelt, Lumen accepts her rations from Pontius. "Thank you," she says, her gaze landing on a familiar, squat bottle glistening in the firelight. "Is that Colovian brandy?"
"That it is," he says, offering her a cocky grin. "Would you like some?"
"Eat first," Arnbjorn says, more of an order than a suggestion. "We may not be killing Igmund tonight, but that doesn't mean we should drop our guard."
"I trust the Listener to make good decisions," Pontius says as he passes a handful of rations to Arnbjorn, along with a bottle of mead. "Don't you?"
"I trust her with my life. I just don't trust her around brandy." Arnbjorn takes the offered bottle, squinting at the label.
Before he has a chance to decipher the text in the dim firelight, Pontius says, "It's from a small meadery in Bruma."
Lumen quietly eats her rations. A meal of dried venison and bread isn't the most exciting dinner, but it settles her stomach. There's something off here. She doesn't care about Igmund, or Markarth, or the civil war. And while she is concerned for Luka's safety, she also trusts him to avoid conflict. If he is caught, he'll escape. She knows it. So why is she so unsettled?
"A Septim for your thoughts?" Cicero settles down beside her. "You are awfully quiet."
"I'm just—" she grasps for the right words and fails. So she settles on a half-truth. "I'm wondering what Madanach's end game is. For all intents and purposes, it seems like he's supporting the Stormcloaks. But that can't be right."
"Consider what might happen if Ulfric takes over," Arnbjorn says. "Ulfric is a fighter and doesn't know the meaning of diplomacy. The Stormcloaks could win this war only to collapse under poor leadership and poor planning. Madanach might be counting on it."
"And placing Thongvor on the throne will just give Ulfric a false sense of security," Lumen says, the pieces slowly clicking together. "He'll think Markarth is his, and come to this city when the Empire and the Thalmor have chased him out of every other."
Arnbjorn nods. "Thongvor will turn his back on Ulfric when he needs him most, and Madanach will have his victory. I don't know when it will happen, but it'll be interesting to watch it unfold."
"So you don't support the Stormcloaks?" Pontius asks. "I'm surprised."
"Why?" Arnbjorn scowls. "Because I'm a Nord?"
"You know assassins do not have any political leanings," Cicero says nervously. "Arnbjorn is an assassin first, and a Nord second— and just because he is a Nord does not mean he supports the Stormcloaks."
"I know that but— well, none of us are fans of the Empire. The Emperor is dead because of the Brotherhood, so I just assumed…"
"Why would I support him? Ulfric doesn't know to lead. Just look at Windhelm. It's a shithole."
"Never had the pleasure of visiting, but I'll take your word for it." Pontius drums his fingertips along the edge of the glass bottle. "I never thought about it before, but a Stormcloak victory would leave Skyrim open to attack from the Thalmor, wouldn't it?"
"It would." Arnbjorn sighs, and chucks the crust of his bread into the distance for the animals to scavenge. "The civil war is a waste of time and lives. And this contract is nothing more than Madanach covering his ass in case things to go to shit. If he has control of Markarth, he has a better chance of protecting his people. He lost it once. He won't lose it again."
Lumen stares into the fire. She is so tired of fighting the Thalmor. They shouldn't be her concern since Malrian is dead, but she'll never truly be free of them until Elenwen is rotting beside him.
"Maybe we should crack open the brandy," Pontius suggests. "It'll wash away the bitter aftertaste of politics."
All too eager to numb her thoughts, Lumen nods in agreement. "Good idea."
"What about you?" Arnbjorn asked. Though his voice is calm, Lumen knows him well enough to sense the danger in those quiet tones. "Do you have a side you support in this war?"
Pontius yanks the cork from the bottle of brandy and passes it to Lumen. "Ladies first," he says with a wink, before turning back to Arnbjorn. "I suppose that's a fair question. As Cicero said, assassins hold no political leanings. But if we were going to place bets on who'll win— I'd go with the Empire. They may be crippled now thanks to us, but they'll soon elect a new Emperor and come down on the Stormcloaks with a fury."
"With the help of the Thalmor, no doubt."
"They have struck a tenuous alliance, for now. So, yes. Probably with the Thalmor's help."
Lumen brings the bottle to her lips, savoring the sweetness of the brandy as it warms her from the inside out. If she drinks enough, she can tune out the talk of politics, and chase away the nagging sense of wrongness clawing at the back of her mind.
"Darling," Cicero says. His eyes are careful. Curious. "You will save some for poor Cicero, yes?"
Cicero does not often partake— unless brandy was involved. And Colovian Brandy is a rare treat indeed. With a smile, she gives him the bottle, already feeling the satisfying swoon of alcohol entering her bloodstream. "Careful," she says. "It's pretty strong."
"That is because you did not eat enough before you started drinking, sweetness."
A smile curves her lips. Cicero isn't wrong, but she's not of a mind to care. Not when she is finally free to relax. Lumen's eyes flick to where Arnbjorn sits, and even he has decided to sample the mead Pontius brought for him.
"How long were you lugging these bottles around?" she asks, cutting a glance at Pontius.
"A while." His voice echoes in her ears. "I like to bring a little taste of home with me when I travel. I'm just glad I can share it with friends this time. I hate drinking alone."
Lumen rubs her eyes as his words bounce around in the haze of her head. She's never had a single drink get to her so strongly and so quickly. But she traveled all day with little food or water to tide her over. With that in mind, she reaches for her waterskin, but she can barely move her arm. Her limbs feel fat and clumsy, and...
When did she end up on her back?
It is only when her eyes meet with Cicero's does she realize the danger they are in. He's flat on his back, and his dark eyes are blazing with a fury that makes her want to flinch away. But he is not looking at her. He is looking beyond her. A thump from the other side of the fire tells her that Arnbjorn is in the same predicament, and he cannot save them. Maybe Pontius—
Pontius kneels over her, his fingers dancing along her cheek. "Don't fight it, Listener." The curve of his lips is calculated evil. "Just let it happen."
Lumen rails against the very idea. But a black fog is unfurling along the edges of her vision, and she is receding within herself as her body succumbs to the poison coursing through her veins.
Pontius laughs.
The world goes dark.
Notes: Sorry it took me forever to post. Between work being crazy and dealing with a serious lack of inspiration, I just didn't really have the drive to work on this. But I'm back! So here's two chapters (12 and 13) to make up for my absence. Thanks for sticking with me!