20th of Rain's Hand, 4E 203.

"I'm sorry tidbit, I must've misheard you. You want me to make a— what?"

"Well… Lucien referred to it as a 'phallic torture device' but Cicero called it a 'drilldo' and I like that version better. It's catchy. Kinda rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"

Arnbjorn ran a hand down his face. "I don't care what it's called. Why in the Void do you—" He opened and closed his mouth, looking (and feeling) like a fish out of water. "Why?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? I'm going to torture someone with it."

"I'm confused," Arnbjorn said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I thought you were adamantly against torture?"

"I wouldn't go that far, Arn. I just didn't want a torture chamber in the Sanctuary. I don't shit where I sleep, you know?"

"Right…"

"Anyway, the petitioner wants us to torture the victim. So if it's within the parameters of the contact, then who am I to refuse?"

"So you have to torture the victim with a…" He couldn't say it. Try as he might, he could not get the words out.

"A drilldo."

Arnbjorn squeezed his eyes shut. "No," he finally said. "This is too weird."

"Oh, come on!" Lumen threw her hands up in a fit of pique. "I'm asking you because any other blacksmith would ask too many questions. But here you are… and you're asking too many damn questions! I need you to do this for me! Please? It's a fitting end for this Blackthorn guy. He's easily the worst person we've ever gone after and I want him to suffer!" Lumen punctuated her statement by smacking her palm with her fist.

"Don't act like you're doing something noble," Arnbjorn said, torn between amusement and irritation. Listener or not, one of his greatest joys in the world was calling Lumen out on her bullshit. "You want him to suffer because you get off on it."

"Well… well, I… " Lumen grasped for the right words and came up short. "So? It's what the petitioner wants!"

Arnbjorn took a breath and met her gaze. "Let's say I make this wretched thing, what do I get out of it?" He hated himself for asking. But when Lumen wanted something, not matter how ridiculous the request, he often gave in. Sometimes he needed more coaxing than others.

"A happy Listener." Lumen said with a smile. "That's always good, right?"

"If I am going to utterly debase myself for you, I'll need more than that."

"You're not— oh my gods— you're being so dramatic—" With each insult, Arnbjorn's eyes narrowed, and Lumen quickly changed her tune. "Fine! Why don't you just tell me what you want?"

"You know what? I don't actually know, yet. But I'm sure I'll think of something." Arnbjorn's lips curled into a smirk. "Looks like you'll just have to owe me a huge favor. Or many small favors. Maybe you'll owe me an endless amount of favors. And I can call these favors in at any time I choose."

"Okay. You got a deal."

"Really? You're just going to agree? Just like that? I asked you for an open-ended favor. We didn't even discuss limitations or consent or anything."

"What are you planning to ask for? I thought these would be simple favors, like shirking cleaning duties or something. Are you wanting sexual favors?" Lumen's grin was ravenous. "That's it, isn't it? You're gonna ask me to do all kinds of dirty, depraved things, aren't you? Why, Arnbjorn, I never knew you were so devious. I like it."

"Oh, shut up. I wasn't planning on asking for anything sexual. I'm just surprised, that's all. You must really want this, uh, phallus."

"It's a drilldo, Arnbjorn."

"I'm not calling it that."

"Fine," she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "So tell me again how badly I want this phallus."

"That's it." Arnbjorn grabbed her by the shoulders, spun her around, and marched her toward the doorway. "Get out. Go away. We're done talking."

"No, we're not!" Lumen's feet skidded across the floor. "We haven't even discussed how the drilldo should look!"

"If you want it, then you need to draw the plans. I'm not doing it."

"But I can't draw!" Lumen shouted, drawing the attention of the other assassins now. "You can! That's not fair! You can't just deny me your talents at a time like this! We have a contract!"

"Too bad," he said, giving her a final push until she was beyond the walls of his forge. "If you want it then you'll have to commission the plans or draw them yourself."

"Fine!" Lumen snarled before storming off in a huff.

Nazir sat at the table in the common area, with a book in his hands and a warm mug of tea steaming nearby. He watched Lumen stomp away before turning to Arnbjorn and asking, "Do I even want to know?"

"No," he sighed. "You really don't."

Memories of family are all that sustain Arnbjorn in this place. He holds them tight, like a child clinging to their favorite toy during a storm. It's torture, in a way, that he can remember times when Lumen has driven him close to madness easier than times when she was sincere. But those rare, quiet moments when it's just the two of them, and her guard is down, and she's willing to bare her soul to him, are so exquisitely painful he can hardly stand to recall them. Those memories are like memories of Astrid; tinged with the bitter ache of loss, riving his heart in two with all the finesse of a dull blade.

Those memories will not ground him. They will not keep him human. Distraction, humor, the general insanity of the Sanctuary, those things are too complicated for the wolf to latch on to. And for the longest time he thought the wolf only understood lust and rage. But after Astrid died, he quickly learned about the wolf's taste for sorrow.

So, he distracts himself with memories of lighter times so he does not lose himself. It is easy, at first. But it's been harder since he felt the rumble of Lumen's Thu'um. He hoped that sound heralded her escape from this wretched place. But that hope has since been dashed.

The Orc, Garnag, fetches him from his cell and escorts him to a large, circular room, the flood of which is stained with so many decades of blood that it's turned black— and that's when he sees her; shoved into a barred cell along the back wall, bound and gagged, with a lifetime's worth of rage simmering in her eyes.

A crowd of Bosmer, Altmer, and one lone Orsimer fill the room with their excited chatter. But Arnbjorn barely notices them. Beyond their taunts and jeers, beyond the smell of too many sweaty elven bodies — leather, metal, and the mossy rot of the forest floor — he can smell Lumen's fear. Instinctively, whether it's due to his lupine curse or the curse of caring too much, he reacts to the bitter taste of it. His heart races, his hands shake, and it's all he can do to keep his anger in check because anger is a stupid, reckless emotion and it will get him killed.

Arnbjorn can see her sometimes, over the tops of the guard's heads or in between the crush of bodies. Lumen paces back-and-forth like the caged thing she is, the heat of her anger beyond words— nearly as ravenous and feral as his own. The sight of her had almost been his undoing. The only thing her Thu'um had earned her was a beating. The evidence is all over her body; a black eye, bloody nose, and a myriad of cuts and bruises along her tawny skin.

If he could, he'd kill them all. If he could, he'd save her— and Cicero, too, even though he's an annoying little shit. But Cicero is his annoying little shit. After everything they've been through, he could hardly abandon him now.

"Arnbjorn," comes Pontius's lilting voice. "You're looking— uh, well, you've looked better. But you're here and that's all that matters." He throws a smirk in Lumen's direction. "At least you're in better shape than that savage bitch. Do you like the improvements we made to her face? I think that black eye really gives her some character."

"You do realize my hands are unbound," Arnbjorn warns. Though they are surrounded by dozens of guards, it would not be difficult to snap Pontius's neck. He could rip the little bastard in two before a single guard is upon him.

Pontius takes a step back, but he quickly recovers.

Arnbjorn doesn't know why he's been brought to this chamber, but he suspects the Thalmor intend to make a spectacle of him. He has no intention of rising to Pontius's baiting. Breathe. Focus. Calm yourself. If you're to die, you'll do it with dignity.

Pontius circles him— out of reach, but close enough. Too close. "I'm sure you're wondering why you're here," he begins. "You see, many of our guards were born and raised in Cyrodiil, and they miss the excitement of the arena. Being a low-born whoreson from a backwater country, you wouldn't know what the arena is, so I'll enlighten you. It's where our best warriors test their mettle against beasts and criminals alike. And, as luck would have it, you're both. You can refuse, of course. But if you do, our boys will have to make their fun elsewhere." Pontius's eyes meet Arnbjorn's. "What's that old adage? Ah, yes— boys will be boys." His gaze slides to Lumen's cage, a smirk curling his lips. "How long do you reckon she can last before she's begging for death?"

"I'll fight," he snaps. "I'll do whatever you want. Just— leave her out of this."

"Oh, Lumen's in the thick of it, I'm afraid," Pontius laughs. "But you've been nice to me, so I'll be nice to you. We'll leave her alone. For now. Just know that I can't make any long-term promises."

"Pontius, could you drop the theatrics and just get on with it already?" comes a voice from the crowd, triggering a roar of laughter.

"Aye!" Another calls out. "We came to watch a fight, not watch you flounce around!"

"We can do that any day!"

There is a general murmur of agreement rising up from the crowd. It would almost be funny if the stakes weren't so high.

"Fine." Pontius bares his teeth in a feral grin. "Just one more thing—" he lashes out, smooth and quick, cutting Arnbjorn's arm with a small blade. The cut itself would be insignificant, if not for the silver blade that delivered it. "A touch of silver and wolfsbane. It wouldn't be fair if you transformed in the middle of the match."

Arnbjorn does his best to ignore the sting of the cut, and the poison burning into his veins. "Right," he growls. "I'm certain this will be a fair fight."

"As long as we're all on the same page," Pontius grins as he steps out of the makeshift ring— a boundary line put in place by the onlooker's bodies and nothing more. "Introduce yourselves, gentlemen."

Pontius takes his place beside the one and only elf that is sitting rather than standing. The elf is an odd one; draped in a thick cloak and reeking of Dwemer oil. A Justiciar, if his cloak is anything to judge by. Arnbjorn entertains the thought of dodging the fight and attacking the Justiciar. But he's not an idiot. It would do nothing for his — or Lumen's — current situation. If he cut this elf down, another would rise up to take his place.

"I expect you to keep things civilized, Nord," Garnag growls, shaking Arnbjorn from his thoughts.

"I will if you will," Arnbjorn says, sizing him up. The Orsimer is old, but that's no reason to underestimate him. Orcs are the shortest-lived of all the elves, but their strength never wanes.

A tusked smile curls Garnag's lips as he throws the first punch.

The air is thick with the tang of leather and sweat. Cheers erupt from the crowd every time a hit connects, or Garnag stumbles, or Arnbjorn spits out a mouthful of blood. It is savage, this fight. It is fixed. Brutal and unfair. Despite knowing this, Lumen can't help but feel a glimmer of hope everytime Arnbjorn lands a punch that sends Garnag sprawling to the ground.

In this place, hope is a false idol. There is nothing to hope for. Arnbjorn will suffer regardless of how this fight goes.

This is my fault.

The words rattle through her, again and again. Lumen cannot lie to herself. She cannot ignore the bitter truth. This is her fault. It's her fault because she left Vorandil alive and bleeding out on the steps of the Thalmor Embassy. She thought he'd die. She knew he'd die. But there he is, sitting on the other side of this wretched room, watching his pet Orc tear into her brother who she is sworn to protect.

And then there's Pontius— that wretched, traitorous viper. Lumen should've obeyed her gut instinct and killed him where she found him. But she fucked up and walked them into a Thalmor trap, and Cicero was so angry with her. At the time, she was willing to do anything to make it better. So, if it meant going against her better judgment and opening their home to someone like Pontius, then so be it. He'd worked so hard to gain their trust in the end, it's almost impressive.

The crowd screams, and there it is— a change in the air. A change in the fight. Through the crush of bodies, Lumen is able to catch a glimpse of Arnbjorn falling to his knees, spitting out a mouthful of blood and vomit. They poisoned him to throw the fight. She clenches her jaw, and even though the pressure sends a painful throb through her broken nose. Those fucking bastards. I'll kill them. I'll kill them all.

Lumen's eyes water when she tries to pull her right arm free of its bindings. The left is broken, or dislocated— she can't be certain. But she has to keep trying. She has to break free… And then what? Even with her arms free and the gag removed, she's still caged.

The crowd moves closer to the fighters, all craning for a better view of the carnage unfolding just a few feet away, and that's when Lumen sees it— a ring of keys is attached to the hip of the elf nearest to her. His back is to her, and he is far too wrapped up in the excitement of the fight to notice a pickpocket. If she could only free her arm, it would take her a matter of seconds to reach forward and unclip the keyring. It's doable, and even if she gets caught, it's better than standing here doing nothing while Arnbjorn suffers for her mistakes.

To free her right hand, she needs to keep her left arm as stiff and still as possible, but she cannot flex the arm. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Lumen presses her broken arm between the stone wall at the back of the cage and her body. The gag in her mouth soaks up the tears rolling down her cheeks and her agonized cry. It's not the worst pain she's ever felt. She knows it isn't. But the pain of a broken bone compressed between stone and the weight of her body is so great she barely registers the burn of the ropes as she rips her right hand free.

What she doesn't expect is the white-hot agony that surges through her arm when she pulls away from the wall, and this time her legs buckle beneath her, and she lands hard on her knees. Get up! Lumen scrambles to her feet, fighting to stay upright because she cannot afford to wallow in pain while Arnbjorn is fighting just a few feet away. She pulls the gag away from her mouth and tosses it to the floor.

Lumen is almost free. The ropes are gone. The gag is off. The cage is all that holds her now. All she has to do is grab the keys, get out of this damned cage, and then take out as many of these fucking Thalmor as she possibly can. She doesn't have a blade, but she's not helpless. She's got one good arm, two legs, a mouthful of teeth, and her Voice.

Reaching between the bars of the cage, she grasps at the keys dangling just beyond her reach. The elf cheers when the rest of the crowd cheers and Lumen's fingertip grazes the edge of the keyring. "Just a little closer," she hisses, her words muffled by the din of the elven horde. Stretching her arm as far as her body will allow, she spreads her fingers, hoping to catch the keyring at that perfect angle to unlatch it without drawing the attention of its keeper—

And then a gloved hand closes around her wrist.

Her breath catches in her throat as her eyes travel up the length of her captor's body— a Bosmer, judging by the short stature, but it's hard to tell. He's wearing the black leather armor of a Thalmor assassin, and his face is concealed within the shadows of his hood. He does not alert the others when he releases his hold on her. Instead, he just stands there, staring, for what feels like an eternity.

Lumen jerks her wrist from his grasp. "Swine," she growls. "Fuck off to your master and leave me be."

The assassin tilts his head. He holds a finger up, telling her to be quiet, before pulling a lockpick from his sleeve. In a matter of seconds, the cage is unlocked. But the assassin does not pull her out as Lumen thought he would, he just drops the lock to the floor and leaves the room through the unguarded door.

So, the seeds of dissent have been sewn among the Thalmor swarm. Lumen doesn't have it in her to be surprised by this revelation, and she doesn't care. Carefully, she nudges the door open, just enough to slip free. The rusted hinges groan, but there's not a single elf in the crowd that notices, they are too eager to watch human blood flow.

Cradling her broken arm against her chest, she steps out into the deserted hallway. I have to find Cicero. We have to save Arnbjorn. If Garnag doesn't kill him, the crowd will!

The assassin steps out of a shadowed alcove and motions for her to follow.

Lumen's feet are rooted to the floor. She needs to get far away from this roomful of Thalmor, but she's not ready to put her trust in anyone, not even the assassin who freed her. But he's not leading her back to her prison, she can tell that much. Where he intends to take her and what he intends to do with her remain to be seen.

He motions again. More impatiently, this time.

"What choice do I have?" she murmurs, following the assassin.

The noise of the crowd fades as they walk the winding hallways of a long forgotten Sanctuary, and when there is no sound save for the gentle tapping of their feet upon stone, the assassin grabs her and pulls her into an empty storage room.

"Don't!" She pushes away from him. "If you touch me again I will fucking castrate you!"

"Wait! It is only Cicero, sweet Lumen," he says, lowering his hood. "You have nothing to fear."

"Oh, Sithis—" Lumen throws herself forward, grabbing him in a fierce embrace. Her broken arm is crushed between their bodies, but she doesn't care. Cicero is alive and right here. A little pain is nothing, and she would endure it forever if it meant never letting him go. "H— how did you—" She cannot find the words. They are lost in the rising swell of pain and sorrow and relief. Lumen buries her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent and soaking his armor with a rather embarrassing amount of tears.

"Cicero broke out of his cell, killed a couple guards, and stole some armor. He couldn't just sit around knowing his sweet Lumen needed him!"

Lumen chokes on a watery laugh. "You make it sound so easy…"

Cicero's eyes are bright as he studies her. "What have they done to you?" His hands flutter across her body as if he's terrified to touch her. "Oh, sweet Lumen, what did they do?"

"Nothing I can't recover from," she says, grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze. "Tell me this is real. Tell me this is you and that this isn't a moment of delirium."

He pulls her close, mindful of her injured arm, and presses his mouth to hers. "I am real," he whispers, kissing her again. The kiss is fraught with anger, and desperation— and fear. Lumen tastes the salt of his skin, revels in his heat, his touch. Cicero's hands tremble with restraint. He is so gentle, so wary of her injuries, but Lumen wants more. She wants to feel him, and she doesn't care if it hurts. All that matters is that Cicero is here, now, and he's solid and real.

For a long moment, they breathe each other's air. Cicero thumbs feather across her cheekbones, down her neck, and to her shoulders. His fingers pick at the frayed scraps of her dress as he scans her face.

"Cicero would gladly kiss you forever," he says. "But we have to go."

His words bring her back to reality. "What about Arnbjorn? They're going to kill him!"

"They're planning to kill us all, but they will not have you," Cicero says, his voice hard. "Arnbjorn would agree!"

"But I can't abandon him!"

"You're not. Cicero will come back for Arnbjorn, but he cannot focus on getting our brother out safely if he has to worry about you too."

"You don't have to worry about me. I just need to secure my arm, and I'll be fine to—"

"You are in no shape to fight." His thumbs keep stroking her shoulders, gentle and steady.

"But this is my fault, and I can't just sit around while you clean up my mess!"

"This is not your fault," he snaps, but his anger is not meant for her. "I blame Pontius. I blame the Thalmor. But I will never blame you. You have given so much, sweet Lumen. Have you forgotten how you tracked a dragon-god to the afterlife and killed him? You saved the world— now let Cicero save you."

Lumen swallows around a lump in her throat. "Kinda hard to argue with that..."

"Cicero is very good at arguing. He's had years of practice." His takes her hand. "Come, let Cicero lead you to safety, and then he will return for Arnbjorn."

No words pass between them as they slip out of the room and into the hall. Somewhere, the fight is still raging, they have yet to notice their prize prisoner has escaped. But they won't be ignorant to that fact for much longer.

They step into a long corridor, at the end of which is a staircase leading to the Black Door. Freedom, blessed freedom lies on the other side of that door.

"What are you going to do?" Lumen asks.

"Cicero will think of something." He takes her face in his hands — so gentle, for the hands of a killer — and says, "I need to you promise me that you will run. I need you to run and to keep running and never turn back, no matter what happens. If Cicero dies, then he dies. But if you die then so does the Dark Brotherhood."

"Fuck that," she snaps, fighting back the tears that have regrouped and are threatening to fall. "I have nothing if I don't have you."

Cicero kisses the corner of her mouth. "The odds are not in my favor, but I do not intend to die. I just need to know you are safe. If Cicero knows you are safe and waiting for him, then he has a reason to live, and he is not likely to do anything risky."

"This is already risky."

"You know what I mean."

"All right," Lumen says. "Fine. I'll do it."

"Thank you."

"Don't you dare die on me," she says, her voice shaking with pent-up emotion. "It is not your time. Sithis cannot have you. I will march into the Void and steal you back if he tries to take you away from me."

Cicero breathes a tired laugh. "Of that, I have no doubt." He leans forward to kiss her one last time. "I love you."

He is gone before she can respond.

"I love you," she whispers to the shadows. "And I will love you for as long as I draw breath."

Notes: Hello! Apologies for taking so long to update. School has been keeping me quite busy. But I'm on break now, so here's a chapter! The next chapter is halfway written so hopefully I will have that posted soon.