She was too wary to call anything certain, but Llathasa was confident the assassin couldn't see the triumph and sadness underneath. She would kill her, and her entire Family.

†††

The pool below was pitch black, and two bodies floated within. They were completely coated in what looked like oil, but oil didn't do that to people; their limbs were shrivelled as though they'd been dead for decades.

Poor Veezara. The tail gave him away. He was riddled with long shards of glass. At least that would have been a quick death.

Beyond the water, Arnbjorn snarled up at her. He couldn't get to her, but the sound sent her scurrying back from the edge. When she had mastered herself, Llathasa stepped back into his view, watching as the skin on his muzzle curled in hatred.

She was tired and curiously empty. Or perhaps empty of curiosity. The werewolf was no especial enemy of hers, though obviously he didn't see it that way. He howled again, then looked all about the sanctuary, absorbing the scenes of destruction. He howled, but it pitched up into a whine. Then his great head whipped around to the stairs.

Another werewolf stepped over the piled bodies there, into the fiery arena. Veren. He was smaller; his hide was balding with age, but that only accentuated the scars that marked it. Many fights with many wolves. No losses.

Llathasa's uncle squared up with Arnbjorn, who was already bleeding from the few sword cuts the soldiers had managed to inflict. But then Veren shrugged – a very human gesture – and stepped aside. He'd exhausted his transformation, and yet his face, when it emerged, was impassive.

Another werewolf came hurtling in, wilder than Veren.

"Mordryth," Llathasa said blankly. Here to avenge his brother, and the contract that had been placed on his own head.

Both of the passages out of the chapel were collapsed, but she needed to leave. Arnbjorn was doomed. Veren would do the honourable thing and let Mordryth have his fight. Llathasa had to make her exit before the smith died, because her cousin did not differentiate.

The waterfall was still flowing sluggishly, purging the poison from the top level at least. Llathasa turned herself invisible, for all the good it would do, and crept to the edge.

Arnbjorn and Mordryth were tearing great shreds off each other.

She lined herself up with the closed part of the shore and leapt. She rolled with the landing, and came up staggering, then running. A soft body shifted under her as she reached the stairs, but then she was through. Behind her, one of the werewolves went into the pool with a horrified yelp.

There was no sign of Nazir or Festus in the office, and the ring that Llathasa had intended to pilfer, was gone. Amazing that she could remember that when there were angry werewolves behind, smoke everywhere, and likely vengeful soldiers ahead.

The exit was clear for the moment, but she hesitated. Some instinct made her pause and recast the spell to detect life. There were more soldiers outside, but there was also a whisper of something in Astrid's bedchamber.

Llathasa entered and tried to reconcile the upturned room with her memory of the place. The fire was mostly burnt out. The bookshelf was lodged against what Llathasa initially took for the collapsed chimney, because she could sense a space beyond it.

She looked over her shoulder and uttered a small curse before climbing awkwardly. She swung her legs through the narrow gap at the top and slid through.

†††

Candlelight. It was almost completely dark in the tiny chamber beyond, except for a ring of tiny golden flames. And yet the smell was death. Bloody, scorched, terrible death, and when Llathasa heard the frail rattle of a breath, she cringed in pity.

White magic gathered on her fingertips. Llathasa could heal – maybe not as powerfully as Veren – but if she did nothing, whoever she was sharing the dark with would perish. A human figure was spread-eagled in the centre of the circle, burned alive. The cracked voice was Astrid's. The ruined face could have been anybody's.

"You're alive…thank Sithis."

Llathasa released her spell, urging the magic to flow, but it didn't seem to take. The light revealed the dull facets of a gem. It was a black soul gem, and it was stabbed deep in Astrid's chest.

"I tried…" the assassin stuttered. Her withered arm jerked wildly, out of her control, brushing her dagger and sending it skittering further out of reach. "I…invited the Listener to come here. To talk. I thought I could make him understand that this was my…sanctuary. That he could bring back the old ways in Dawnstar, but not here."

Llathasa said nothing. All she could do was bear witness.

"He said I could not be Speaker, that it wasn't for me to lead. Why did he choose you?

"I…tried to kill the Listener. When he wasn't looking, I tried to use a frenzy rune. Just like you, ha! He would have blamed you. The Listener would attack the sanctuary, and we would defeat him together. But it did nothing to him. He wounded me, killed me – he said I would die, and this…thing…in my chest would make sure I was forever lost. But you're here now, you can save me."

"What are you asking?"

"I prayed to the Night Mother! You must send me to her. I was a fool, but I would prove my remorse and sincerity. This is a contract…do it quickly," Astrid begged.

Llathasa did. Quickly. Before she could think about it, her hand snaked out and took possession of Astrid's blade. She wrenched the soul gem free and plunged the dagger in instead.

She had no sense of wanting to, but she was in the habit of killing when this woman asked her to.

†††

Outside the sanctuary, reinforcements wrestled with more tubs of explosives. The soldiers truly meant to collapse the cavern. Many were down, bowled and bloodied by the escape of at least one werewolf.

Llathasa walked among them, invisible. Also ignored was Nazir, sitting in a ring of bodies. He wasn't dead. However, there were ten neat holes in his chest from the claws that had knocked him down. Festus was nearby, standing, but only because of the multitude of arrows pinning him to a tree.

There was a spectacular crater though – Llathasa had energy enough to regret not seeing a spell that potent.

Surely that was everyone. They were all dead. Dying.

Llathasa called forth the spell to check that once more, but all she could see was the surge of live bodies, the soldiers carting in more casks to destroy. Then she realized that was the wrong spell. There was one among the Brotherhood who was invisible to that magic.

Babette, if she had survived everything so far, had no chance against ten fresh soldiers.

Llathasa cast her second spell, hoping to see nothing because absence of knowledge was not definite. Of course, the field lit up with the newly dead everywhere. It was hopeless. But there was a flicker of un-life; child-sized and still moving.

It didn't make sense, she was right above where the cavalry had just charged in. Llathasa shivered, clutching her arms around herself, and then she remembered the cold breeze at the door. Babette was climbing the chute.

The vampire emerged, invisible as Llathasa was, but glowing to her spell. She froze, but then tilted her head – the posture of a perplexed child. Running now seemed like too much more of a betrayal. In Llathasa's peripheral vision, a new silhouette lit up. Nazir had just died, yet he took a long time to fall.

In all the years Llathasa had known that spell, she hadn't watched the transition from living light, to dead flame. It was mesmerizing.

She was tired and slow. Now she'd taken her eyes off the concealed, betrayed vampire for too long.

Babette's familiar unbreakable grip found her hand, and then her throat, the small fingers stretching to reach. Perhaps the vampire was just going to hold her here, until her invisibility ran out and the soldiers saw her.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, reaching for Babette's slim shoulder. She could feel the girl shaking. "Please, come," she begged, thinking of one last thing she could offer.

The hollow was filled with enemies, but as Llathasa led the vampire out through the trees, she saw a dark shape between the trunks. Shadow, loyal steed, was waiting patiently.

They were still invisible, and yet the horse knew where they were. Llathasa guided Babette's small foot into the stirrup and boosted her up. Her invisibility faded. She stared up at the empty-seeming saddle.

"Go," she said, with a watery smile.

†††

"I trust my immunity is secured? That was what was offered."

"For one murder," the nondescript Imperial who had accompanied Veren protested.

"Can you prove more that one murder?" Llathasa said bitingly. "Name more than one victim?"

Veren stood with his arms folded, unbothered by the proceedings, but a little too thoughtful in the way he looked at Llathasa.

The Imperial fussily checked the papers in front of him, then slammed the book closed in exasperation.

"Yes, fine. Immunity. So long as you leave Skyrim by Frostfall."

†††

The Dawnstar sanctuary was even less subtle than Llathasa's one-time home. Or perhaps she was Beserane now. She wasn't sure. To leave Skyrim, she'd needed to go north, to Soltheim or Morrowind as the whim took her. North, and then east, but the latter hadn't happened yet.

The skull door leered at her. It was part of a rock face barely a minute out of the coastal settlement. There was a well-beaten track where hunters had needed to pass, or else lose hours climbing up and over the rocky ridge.

Llathasa had so many reasons for not wanting to knock. She was free of the assassins now. Her life was imperilled every day she stayed in Skyrim. And she didn't want to hear, one way or the other, if she was still 'worthy'. Still, she did.

"Silence, my brother," was ready on her tongue when the chill voice spoke differently:

"What is life's greatest illusion?"

Llathasa paused, then laughed until she wept. Had they changed the passphrase? Perhaps the door hissed a refusal at her, but she didn't hear it.

"Control," she said to the door, patting the skull on the cheek. Tears spilled, freezing in the stiff sea breeze, but she still chuckled in relief. "Control," she repeated as she departed, not sure whether she'd lost it or found it.

†††

Five years later

There were dragons again in Skyrim, raining fire, ice, and death from the skies. They were here in Solstheim as well, but for now, they seemed content to watch.

Raven Rock was flourishing, now because the ebony mines were flowing again, but earlier, because a quiet elf named Isane had coaxed streams of silver and gold from the old iron mine of Damphall. It had seemed miraculous, then slightly disappointing when the windfall was revealed to be mortal magic, not something more. But the silver was silver, and the gold, gold.

Isane was flourishing. She was no peer, as the Telvanni wizard Neloth was above having peers, but neither was she a mere student. She had melted dwarven automatons into slag. Since there was no hiding her potential from Neloth, she revelled in it, casting fierce spells for the sheer joy of it.

She no longer feared the Dark Brotherhood, not really. She left it to others to turn gray at the mention of them, or grayer.

She had served them, directly and indirectly. And they had more ambitious contracts to fulfil – they had just slain an Emperor of Tamriel.


A/N: Phew, this was an experience to write. I've been out of practice for a few years, writing only for work - dry computer reports. Then, based on a long time OC of mine, I decided to have a go at writing a one shot of how the elf now known as Isane Telvanni came to join the Dark Brotherhood. Her assassin name was "Llathasa", after a minor character from Oblivion. From 1 chapter, I then planned 8, which turned into 11, and this story practically demanded to be written, emerging over 2 weeks.

I've loved it, but it's been exhausting. I hope you've enjoyed it :D

This was what I had to start with:

* Isane is an intrepid mage with more intelligence than wisdom

* Isane is not her real name - she's had a few, because she has a knack for getting into trouble

* Isane's nice cousin was assassinated by the Dark Brotherhood instead of his feral werewolf brother

* Isane teamed up with her uncle to infiltrate and destroy the assassins

That was it.

This thing ended up incorporating most of both branches of the Dark Brotherhood questline: the lead-up to the assassination of an Emperor, and the obliteration of the Falkreath sanctuary. For readers who know Skyrim well, I hope you've enjoyed the many little references and easter eggs I tried to include. The only characters I invented were Llathasa and her family, Askr the bandit, Lakeisha the assassin, and Ignatius the ill-fated junkie. Everyone else exists somewhere in the game (although some of them don't have official names).

If you want to read more about the OCs here, my tumblr is TheDragonAspect. Thanks for reading!