Chapter 13: Pins and Needles
Lumen opens her eyes.
Above her is a map of grout and stone that fades in and out of focus with every thunderous beat of her heart. Her last memories were of Markarth, the snow, the night sky—
A knot of panic lodges in her throat. "Cicero—"
"Ah, you're awake," comes Pontius' voice. "You had me worried. You Bosmer are hard to poison, and I wondered if I had killed you. But here you are." He stands over her, wearing a venomous smile. "I suppose Cicero and Arnbjorn are worse off, but they should live. I'd be disappointed if they died so easily."
"I find that hard to believe." Lumen does not want to see, let alone speak to the conniving snake. But if she keeps him distracted maybe it will buy her time so she can figure out where she is, and where her brothers are. Not that it matters… She is stripped of her weapons and armor, and left in only her smallclothes and breast band. Running is futile. She would not get far in Skyrim without any clothing to protect her from the elements.
"Really? Well, it's true. I don't care what happens to Arnbjorn, but I want Cicero to suffer the loss of yet another Listener and another Sanctuary. I want him to go to his grave knowing he has failed."
Lumen licks her dry lips. Her first thought is to Shout, to kill Pontius in a storm of dragon fire. But she can't. Not yet. Not until she knows who she's dealing with. Though it isn't hard to guess…
"How long have you been on the Thalmor's payroll?"
"Clever girl," he purrs. "But not clever enough to kill me when we first met."
"I considered it," Lumen says, rolling onto her side. Her head swims, and her stomach lurches, but she fights through the discomfort and takes in every detail of the small room. No windows. Just four walls and a ceiling of rock and grout, and a floor of dirt with scattered hay. There's a bucket in the corner to relieve herself in, and the only light is coming from the magelight floating above Pontius.
A quiver of terror dances within her stomach. She is trapped. There is no way out. She can only hope Luka will take the proper precautions when he finds them missing; run home, warn the family, and fortify the Sanctuary. Pontius knows the passphrase, and he could lead the wolves right to their door.
"You always have to learn your lessons the hard way, don't you?" He pushes the heel of his boot against her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. "Always trust your instincts, Listener. You should have killed me when you had the chance."
Lumen grits her teeth. "Trust me, I am going to kill you," she growls, choking down the bile rising in her throat. If it weren't for the poison coursing through her veins, Pontius would be dead— and he knows it.
"You're welcome to try," he says, smiling. "But it doesn't have to be this way, you know." Pontius removes the pressure from her shoulder and steps back a few paces. "If you're good to me, I'll be good to you. Maybe sneak in some extra food and water when the guards aren't watching. You're in a shitty situation, Listener. You could use a friend."
She'd prefer threats of death and dismemberment to his so-called friendship. "How long am I to stay here?"
"As long as it takes."
"As long as what takes?" She clenches her hands and imagines they are wrapping around Pontius' neck, crushing his trachea. Squeezing the life out of him would be satisfying, and she intends to try it as soon as she rescues her brothers.
"As long as it takes to break our darling Cicero." He begins to pace around the room. "He's strong. Stronger than I ever gave him credit for. It could take a while."
"Tell me this is more than a lover's quarrel," Lumen says with a groan— of pain and irritation. "Tenets be damned— I'll kill you both if it is." She knows it is not that simple, but it has to be a part of it. Unless all of Pontius' pining was nothing more than a clever ruse. An act, just to get close to her and Cicero.
Pontius snorts. "This dates back farther than us. This is your fault, Listener. Your master started this."
A hard laugh. "I can hardly take the blame for Malrian's idiocy."
"Ah, but you will. As many of us suffer the sins of our fathers, you will suffer the sins of your master. But, as I said before, I can make this easier on you as long as you're… biddable."
"Get fucked."
His laugh bounces off the stone walls. "You should count your blessings. Have you noticed the state you're in? I took no liberties with you when I removed your armor. I daresay Garnag would not have had the same restraint."
A wave of nausea rises with her anger. "Don't flatter yourself," she snaps. "I'm not your type."
"Don't be ungrateful, love. I can send the old Orc in here whenever I wish. He's eager to meet you, and even more eager to break you. He's with us now, but he remembers his time with the Brotherhood fondly. And what assassin wouldn't want to meet the Listener?"
Lumen says nothing. She knows this game. Pontius will feed her lies to make her weak. Malleable. Biddable. But she is no coward. She will not be frightened into silence. She will fight back. And right now, her best option is her hold her tongue. She will not beg for mercy, but nor will she make her life harder than it has to be.
"Nothing to say?" A feigned sigh. "Very well. I'll fetch you in the morning."
Pontius leaves the room, and Lumen is drenched in darkness.
She counts her breaths to remain calm. One, two, three… and she's gasping for air. The darkness is all around her, the walls are closing in— and suddenly she's not the Listener anymore. She's not the Dragonborn. She's a lonely little girl, mourning the loss of her mother and shoved in a dark, damp cellar as punishment for merely existing.
Where is Cicero? Panic flutters in her chest, and she curls in on herself. A chill spider-walks up her spine; she's breathing too fast, and her heart is beating too hard. Where is Arnbjorn? A rush of adrenaline assaults her stomach and has her vomiting on the dirt floor.
An ember glows within her heart, feeding upon the rage that has always been within her, until it builds into an inferno. The anger grounds her. It calms her racing heart and gives purpose where despair tried to take root. This is not the end. Not for her, and not for the Brotherhood. She is the master of her fate, and fate changes faster than the death of light. As for the fate of Pontius, Garnag, and the Thalmor...
"They're all dead," she says to the darkness; a promise for the Night Mother. "They're dead. They just don't know it yet."
The sound of a door slamming open jolts her awake.
Lumen is on her feet in an instant, despite her trembling legs. She is strong enough to stand, and that's a step ahead of where she was yesterday.
Pontius pushes the door closed and leans against the wall. There is a bundle of silky, blue material in his arms, and an orb of magelight floating beside him. "Good morning, Lumen. You've been invited to breakfast."
"Where are Cicero and Arnbjorn?"
"They're around."
"I want to see them. I need to know they're okay."
"You're not really in a position to make demands." A wicked smile curves his mouth. "But I'll let you in on a little secret; they're not okay, and you won't be seeing them anytime soon. Not in this lifetime, anyway." His smile fades. "Come with me. You don't want to be late."
"I'm not going anywhere with you," she says, her lips curling in a sneer. "Leave."
"Temper, temper," he chides, tossing a bundle of fabric at her feet. "There you go. It should still fit."
"What are you—" her voice fails her. "Where did you get this?" She is hot and cold all at once. The dress is out of style, somewhat faded, but she recognizes it as one of the many dresses Malrian had made for her. This dress was the most despicable of the bunch. It's nothing more than a few scraps of material slung together to display too much skin.
"I knew him, you know," Pontius says with evident pleasure. "Your master. I was one of the many spies sent to clean his manor after his death. We had to go in and destroy anything incriminating and deliver anything of value to Elenwen. But his most fascinating possession was missing. The family was not particularly interested in having you back. In fact, Elenwen would see you executed for a multitude of crimes. But that seems like such a waste."
"What were you first?" Her voice is shapeless. Numb. "Thalmor or Brotherhood?"
"Get dressed and I'll tell you."
This is nothing more than a drawn-out torture session. They want to beat her down, take her back to the thing that she was. It's a harsh reminder of where she came from, and she can't be that pitiful creature ever again. But if she wants to save her brothers, she'll have to play along.
With her mind made up, Lumen pulls the dress over her head. A silk collar wraps around her neck, held together with diamond and gold clasps. A sheet of material covers her breasts, and wraps around her waist, leaving her upper back exposed. The long skirt falling over her legs offers no modesty, not when there are two slits up each side. This dress feels more revealing than her underclothes. But while her underclothes serve a very basic purpose, this dress has its own. It is cut to accentuate and entice. They intend to rip away who she is. In this, she doesn't look like a Listener. A Dragonborn. In this, she is degraded. Dehumanized. She is nothing more than an object of desire.
Pontius blows a long, low whistle. "Your master had impeccable taste." He circles her, his fingertips grazing the exposed skin of her back. "He should have tamed you. But maybe we can change that."
"Answer my question," she says, her voice betraying nothing of how she feels. "Now."
"You have a sexy back. Has anyone ever told you that? Probably from all that weapons training. But, damn. Just look at all that delicious muscle tone. In the right light, I could almost pretend you're a man."
Lumen doesn't know if that's meant to be a compliment or an insult— or a threat. So much is uncertain, except for this; Pontius is not going to answer her. He is here to tease. To rile. And she is of a mind to give him the same respect. Her eyes follow his movements as he comes to stand in front of her, a cocky grin on his lips. The fool thinks he's won some kind of victory.
"Tell me," she says. "What do you dream of doing with me now that you've caught me? You don't even know, do you?"
His smile grows tight. "What makes you say that?"
"If you did, I'd be dead by now, and we wouldn't be playing this stupid game," she hisses. "Quit pretending you are more than you really are."
Pontius' jaw is hard with contempt. "And who do you think I am?"
"I think you are nothing more than a Thalmor lackey, lapping up whatever scraps they throw to you. I think you are nothing more than a desperate, shameless sycophant, begging from your betters like a bitch in heat."
She expects a great many things for that comment. A derisive snort. A tight laugh. An equally snappy retort. But she does not expect Pontius to slap her across the face with enough force to bring her to her knees. The action is so rough and violent she's almost relieved. Kindness is not something she wants from a captor.
"Get up." Pontius' voice has gone quiet and hard. "We're late."
Lumen gets to her feet and spits a mouthful of blood on his boots. "I'm not hungry."
"You don't have a choice," he snarls. "This isn't a game—"
"Will your superiors punish you if I refuse?" she asks. Pontius' lips betray nothing, but his eyes give him away; they flick toward the wall as if he could see his masters on the other side. "I'd rather starve than do anything to make your life easier."
"You'll regret this."
Two hours and forty-three minutes pass before they come to fetch her. But they do not send Pontius this time. They send someone she's only read about in Cicero's journals— someone who was supposed to be dead.
They send Garnag.
Pontius' comments about the Orc have not been forgotten. She doubts the treacherous Imperial cares whether or not someone takes "liberties" with her, and she's of a mind to disregard his comments. Such rumors about Orsimer were common. They don't fit in with man or mer, so they keep to themselves, which gives rise to speculation— and nasty stories.
Perhaps this isn't the best time to keep an open mind. He is one of my captors, after all.
"Hello," she says, her feet planted firmly against the dirt, her knees relaxed. She is balanced enough to withstand a blow or leap away if he attacks. "You must be Garnag."
"And you must be the Listener." His voice is more cultured than Lumen expects. "Pontius tells me you're uncooperative. But…" He tilts his head, his good eye sweeping across her body. "You're up. You're dressed. It looks like you were cooperating just fine. So what happened?"
"I lost my appetite."
"Pontius has that effect on people."
"I'm glad you understand." She rubs her arms, her skin is cold and clammy. "So, let me guess, you're here to do what Pontius couldn't?"
"Well, you missed breakfast," he says, so casual that it's easy to forget she's his prisoner. "But the boss would like to speak with you. So I'm here to take you to him." His leather armor creaks as he takes a step forward. "We can do this in two ways; you can walk, or I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you. So what'll it be?"
Sensing the perfect opportunity to learn the layout of the prison, she says, "I would prefer to walk."
"Things are so much easier when we're cordial to each other, don't you agree? I'm sure Pontius said something insulting and it just snowballed from there." He tilts his head, his tusked smile oddly pleasant. "That happens quite often with him."
"I may have added my own insulting comments to the mix."
A rough, dry chuckle. "Yeah, I can tell that by the knot on your cheek." Garnag shakes his head and mutters something that sounds like, "Fucking Pontius," before producing a pair of iron cuffs. "I do apologize for this, but I hear you can hold your own in a fight. So I have to take precautions."
The part of her that is dov rages at the sight of the cuffs, but Lumen swallows her pride and offers her hands. She has to keep her head clear if she is to have any hope of victory. But she is so worried about Cicero, Arnbjorn, and the Sanctuary, she can barely form a coherent thought. "Did you kill her?" Lumen asks, her throat tight. "The last Listener?"
"Me? Kill Dupre? Sithis, no. The Thalmor did that. They nearly killed me, too."
"Weren't you working for them?"
"Not at that time." Wrapping a hand around her upper arm, he leads her into the hallway. "They offered me a job when I had no other options. It seemed preferable to starving— or going mad."
The hallway beyond her cell is a long, unlit corridor of moss and stone, the only light coming from a large, circular room at the end. Whatever this place is, it looks like it had been abandoned for decades.
"You left him," she says, her voice barely audible. "You left Cicero, too."
"He made his choice." Garnag stops abruptly. "He could have left at any time. We all had to make some tough choices there at the end. I wasn't willing to die for a dying cause, so I left."
"What about this choice?"
He looks away from her. "It's a long story," he says. "And one I am not willing to tell."
No words pass between them for the rest of the walk. When they reach the end, Lumen finds what she thought was a circular room isn't a room at all, but a large atrium connecting four different wings of the dungeon. A brazier with a roaring fire lights the passage, which is littered with debris and a couple of long-dead corpses. It looks like they burned to death a very long time ago. The walls were lined with scorch marks from what must have been a horrible fire.
There is little of note, save for one thing— there are no guards. Despite what Pontius said. This place is empty. She doubts Garnag, Pontius, and their leader are the only Thalmor here.
"Where are we?" she voices her thoughts aloud as they pass through the atrium and to another hallway. "This place is huge."
"We're in the south— or the north, depending on where you're standing," Garnag murmurs. "And that's all I can tell you."
He leads her into a large room at the end of the hall. It is warm and bright from the braziers that line the walls, and the roaring fire in the hearth at the far side of the room. Ornate rugs line the floor, and tapestries adorn the walls. There is no furniture to speak of, only a single chair with a cloaked figure sitting in it. Pontius leans against a wall, his arms folded across his chest. When he sees Lumen, he offers her a grin, and blows a kiss.
Garnag clears his throat. "The Listener, boss. As you requested."
"Ah, my guest finally arrives." The cloaked man lifts his head, the hood slipping just enough to reveal a long, straight nose, and a thin mouth, but little else. "I hoped to dine with you, Listener. You are our honored guest, after all. It was rather rude to refuse my invitation— but I see you are wearing the dress I sent. Very good. I am pleased. But still, you should be punished for your insolence."
Lumen lifts a defiant chin. "And who are you to punish me?"
"I am your new master," he says, his voice soft and sweet. "And you will bow to me."
A bitter chill washes over her. "I will not."
"Garnag." He smiles. "Teach my latest acquisition some manners, please."
The Orc places his hand on the back of Lumen's neck and presses his foot on the inside of her knee, knocking her off balance. Her legs give out, and she lands hard on her knees. It is all she can do to keep the tears from her eyes as Garnag pushes on her neck, forcing her head to the floor.
"I certainly hope the other two are better behaved." The man turns his head to address Pontius, sounding almost bored. "Are they awake, yet?"
"They're coming around. I had to give those two a dose that could bring a Bosmer down, you know."
"Yes, I remember." The cloaked figure shifts in his seat. "Look at me, girl."
Garnag yanks her upright, but he does not allow her to rise to her feet. His master wants her on her knees, and Garnag will see the job done. Lumen's eyes flick to the hooded figure, and she catches a glimpse of something gold just within the sleeves of his cloak. A longer look tells her it's gold gloves— no, not gloves. But hands. Golden, geared hands, not unlike something the Dwemer would make.
A strange hissing sound, like hot steam escaping a vent, fills the air when he gets to his feet. A soft ticking follows this action, like the gears of some unseen machine have been set into motion. He lowers his hood, revealing the sharp cheekbones and defined jawline of an Altmer. A scrap of velvet has been tied around his head, covering his eyes— or where his eyes should be. The material dips in, revealing the curve of empty sockets.
"Vorandil," she breathes, horrified. She and Cicero left him for dead on the steps of the Thalmor Embassy. Oh, this must be some kind of cruel joke. Or maybe it's divine retribution for all the horrible things she's done. She took her time with Vorandil. She learned how to make him scream, and when she grew bored of the screaming, she mutilated him and dumped him. She thought he would die. She didn't think he'd come back to haunt her.
His mouth draws back in a lazy smile. "Very good. Now we don't have to waste time with introductions."
"Wait." Pontius pushes away from the wall. "How do you two know each other?"
"I said we didn't need to waste time with introductions," Vorandil snaps. "And I don't intend to waste time explaining anything to you when you can't even get a prisoner to obey a simple command."
"How?" Lumen gasps, scarcely able to believe her eyes. "How are you alive?"
"The ancient Dwemer made far more than just centurions. My people have studied their inventions, and adapted them." Vorandil's mouth curls in contempt. "You left me for dead, and you would have succeeded had you not left me on Elenwen's doorstep. Did you forget I come from a superior race? We are advanced. Not just in mind and body, but our society as a whole. You are not the first of your kind to underestimate an Altmer, and you will suffer the consequences of your foolish pride."
Lumen's hands are shaking. Each breath quick, too quick, and she can't seem to get enough air. This is her fault. She's damned them all because she didn't make sure Vorandil was dead. She didn't follow her instincts and kill Pontius when they found him in Falkreath. This is her fault! She could scream. She could rage. She could call a storm from the sky and burn this place to the ground— with herself in the middle of it.
She's doomed them all.
"She looks a bit pale," Pontius purrs. "I think she's frightened."
"Good." Vorandil smiles. "Everything you did to me, I will give back to you. Tenfold. You took my eyes. You took my hands, my legs, my—" A shake of his head. "You took everything, and I will take everything from you. Your lovers, your precious Sanctuary, and finally, your life. I will finish what Malrian started and more."
A smirk curls her mouth at his stumbling. "Hey, Garnag," she says, knowing this will cost her. "Did he tell you what else I took?"
"Don't care," the Orc grumbles.
"His hands and legs, easily fixed. The eyes? Less so. But I'm willing to bet they didn't even try to replace his— well, his manhood, for lack of a better term." A thrill of giddy malice warms her at the thought of the last and final insult she delivered to Vorandil on that fateful night in Northwatch Keep. What better way to punish a sexual predator than to remove his weapon?
"Silence," Vorandil hisses. He motions for Pontius, and with his aid, he stomps forward and snatches her up by the neck, dragging her to her feet. "You'll pay for that."
"Eh, add it to the list," she grits out, summoning her strength, her breath— her Voice.
Vorandil's fingers dig into her neck. Stars dance in her vision. And Lumen plays the last card she's got.
"Yol Toor Shul!"
A plume of dragon fire engulfs Vorandil. He releases Lumen and stumbles backward, the gears of his Dwemer-made legs grinding as he falls to the ground. Pontius barks a curse and summons a frost spell to combat the flames. Garnag tries to restrain her, but Lumen is able to break free of his grasp.
She bolts out the door, down the hall, and to the atrium. But once she's there, she doesn't know where to go next. There are too many halls. Too many options. Cicero and Arnbjorn could be anywhere.
"Listener."
Something tightens in her chest as the sound of Lucien's voice. She doesn't know if it's the link of their so-called bond within the Void, or if she's just happy to see him. But she doesn't care. "Lucien," she says, grateful for his sudden appearance, but— "Where the fuck were you? Why did you let him take us?"
"The hunters were hiding in the trees. I didn't stand a chance." Lucien's form flickers as he drifts into one of the many corridors. "This way."
Lumen races after him. "Where are we going?"
"We are leaving," Lucien says. "I killed the guards. You have a way out."
"What about Cicero and Arnbjorn? I can't just leave them here!"
"Their cells are locked, and neither are capable of walking, let alone running. The poison is still in their blood and will be for at least another day or two. I can't help them, and neither can you. All I can do is get you out of here. You are the Listener. The Brotherhood will not survive without you."
"No!" Lumen stumbles to a stop. "I am not leaving without them!"
Lucien's brows stitch together. "Listener, please—"
"I don't even know where I am!"
"Bruma," Lucien says, looking around as if he is just now seeing the place. "This is what's left of the Bruma Sanctuary."
The sound of approaching footsteps has her heart racing faster than it already was. "Lucien, if I leave, they'll be furious. They'll kill Arnbjorn and Cicero before I have a chance to come back and save them."
"They're going to kill them anyway."
"Shor's fucking balls," Lumen rubs her face, thinking fast, and finally settling on a terrible decision. But she's out of options— and time. Bad choices are all she has left. "If I stay, Arnbjorn and Cicero might stand a chance. They're going to draw our deaths out. They want somethingmore than just suffering from us, I know it. Why else would they keep us alive? This is more than revenge. It has to be."
"You risk too much," Lucien says, growing increasingly more impatient by the second. "Your life is the one worth saving. They would both agree."
"Well, you're all fucking idiots," she snaps, feeling her panic rising until it threatens to choke her. "I won't leave them behind. I won't!"
"Give me a command, Listener," he says, his voice rough with rare emotion. Fear, she realizes. "Tell me what to do, and I will obey."
"Luka!" She tenses when she sees the guards come around the corner. These guards no lowly grunts or hired thugs. They're Thalmor assassins, and they are heading right for her. "Tell him what's happened. He'll know what to do." He doesn't immediately leave. She can sense his hesitation. "Go. Now! I promise I will not die today!"
"I expect you to keep that promise, Listener."
Lucien vanishes, and the assassins close in.
Rough, ill-intentioned hands close around her; grasping too hard, touching where they shouldn't. A gag made of scrap linen is shoved into her mouth, and a dagger rests against the small of her back. The blade digs into her skin as she is lead back to her cell.
She will have her revenge. They will all die by her hand. And that thought gives her the strength to continue, to ignore the derisive remarks, and the leering eyes.
For now, all she can do is hope and pray that Luka finds them in time.
Notes: And here we go! Things have officially gone to shit for the Dark Brotherhood! If you don't remember Vorandil, he was in chapter 48 of Causa Mortis.