#isayne

So, “Character falls in love with other character” could be the plot of any romance, but I think Twilight was more purposeless than some. Bella’s only characteristic for much of the series is her unquestioning devotion to Edward, because he’s pretty and she loves him. Pride and Prejudice is another love story, but it’s not just about how and why Elizabeth and Darcy fall in love, but also the different ways they have to grow up to get there.

Pride and Prejudice

What is the story: Stubborn man and woman manage to fall in love

Why is Elizabeth in the story: The story is about a lot of characters, but Lizzie is the most interesting, effective viewpoint to tell the story from. She is in the same situation of needing to find husbands, or be cast on the mercy of male relatives - but Lizzie is both the most meddlesome, and the most aware of this. So, driving the story falls on her shoulders - her efforts and insight are the story.

First, we have Medrin and Imyari - Meya’s parents. Medrin was born in Skyrim, where he trained as a blacksmith. He met Imyari when he apprenticed himself to an ebony weaponsmith in Morrowind. They live in Falkreath at a smithy called Blackforge - Medrin gets some work as a regular blacksmith, but most of their income comes from commissions for ebony weapons. He might only make one every few years, but they are phenomenally valuable (going by in-game prices). Meya was a surprise, as Imaryi had long since accepted that for whatever reason, children were not in the cards for her. They are loving, responsible parents, but strict and very reserved in showing affection.

Medrin is unflappable - absorbed in his work, he doesn’t get worked up about wars, politics, whatever adventures his daughter gets up to, and so on. Imyari finds it harder to bear the recent increase in “Skyrim belongs to the Nords” rhetoric.

Merisi, Medrin’s younger sister was the polar opposite to him; warm and expressive, and openly devoted to her husband. Ondrelas and Merisi were hard to dislike, as cheerful, hardworking farmers who welcomed all. Ondrelas was a heartthrob. They had four children - Iredril, Feryn, Faryth, and Isayne - and would have had many more if they had lived. They, and many of their workers died when a fever swept through their settlement - a small town called Lakeview (refurbished as the site of Lakeview Manor by the time of the Skyrim civil war).

How did mistakes like that even happen? On the one hand, Suvanen – thoughtful, distractible scholar. On the other, his brother, living feral, gnawing on skeever bones in some gods-forsaken cave.

***

There was no more singing. Nor sleep, nor conversation, save for Gunjar murmuring to his horse, keeping the carriage steady. Llathasa hadn’t noticed him doing so before, so she wondered if the quiet refrain of “easy, girl,” and “she’ll be a’right,” might be for her benefit. Perhaps it was for Gunjar himself.

There was an assassin sitting next to her. This was not part of the plan, and something about their moment of eye contact – when the deadly little man looked through her – suggested that he did not know of Llathasa’s recent initiation. Nor was there any suggestion of kinship between two Dunmer on the cold roads of Skyrim.

Llathasa was still wrapped up in the moth-eaten cloak. With the hood up, she couldn’t see the man beside her, but she could hardly move to lower it either. She couldn’t hear him. The silence was deafening, as she tried to perceive a breath, a fidget, or anything.

The carriage just rolled on to the next settlement, Rorikstead, where the townsfolk hastily found reasons to head indoors. Those outside looked anywhere except the road.

Two blond girls came hurtling around one of the buildings, laughing, but a farmhand swiftly cuffed the girl in front around the ear. She sat down in shock, and the other stepped timidly out of reach. They stared, and Llathasa felt a flutter of fear for them. She met their reproachful gazes and willed them to stay still.

They had seen the assassin’s face, if he hadn’t raised his cowl since Llathasa saw him. But whose fault was that? He seemed to be relying on a different kind of invisibility; the kind that came from people being too afraid to admit they could see him.

“Not today, ma’am,” Gunjar said suppressively to someone out of Llathasa’s view. He whipped the horse forward, and they passed a bent old woman, hand outstretched, a confused protest stalled on her lips.

Was this what Llathasa had to look forward to? She was used to being distrusted or disliked on sight – which she liked to meet with unassailable cheer, because people hated that – but this was something else.

Llathasa wondered whether dropping in Astrid’s name would make things better or worse. The Dunmer cutthroat, with his expressionless red eyes, might take offense or decide she was talking above her station. And where would Gunjar be, if he inadvertently learned that name?

What was always going to be a long journey became interminable. As the trees thickened, and the crisp air gave way to rain and the earthy smell of home, Llathasa hunched down, trying to stay as dry and small as possible. There was a slightly different quality to the forest-smell in Solstheim – the difference between ash and soil.

It was hard to believe that the assassin could still be there. He hadn’t made a sound after mile upon mile.

But one hour to the next, travellers flinched at the sight of them. A Hold guard turned his anonymous wooden faceplate away and patrolled on without a word. All was quiet, until the carriage caught up a rowdy trio, propping each other up or else falling down the road together. They were despicably drunk.

“Move along there,” Gunjar said harshly. The low stone walls meant he couldn’t overtake. One of the men gave a comically exaggerated start, before sweeping a wild bow.

“At once, yer majesty,” he replied grandly, though he didn’t move. “Give us a lift, kind sir?”

“Nay, off with you lads,” the driver answered. He cracked his whip in the air, not that they took any notice.

“It’s wet out,” the another remarked, more to himself.

“Go on!” Gunjar roared, driving the horse into their midst. They scrambled hastily out of harm’s way, but the lurch unseated Llathasa. She threw herself forward, to avoid landing in the assassin’s lap, and collided painfully with the opposite bench. She didn’t know where the other Dunmer went, only that she hadn’t hit him, and now he could be anywhere.

She huddled in the carriage bed, blind, while the drunks shouted curses after them. The blow she feared didn’t fall, and the angry voices faded – with distance, not with the cut-off screams she’d envisaged.

Just when she thought it might be safe, that the assassin had actually moved on, he spoke:

“Pathetic.”

That was it. She wasn’t moving until he left, though her awkward posture seemed to magnify every bump on the road.

Finally, Gunjar blew a great sigh. “Bastard’s gone, lass.”

Llathasa picked herself up and looked around at the towering forest. They were approaching Falkreath’s gates, and the black-clad figure might never have been there. She’d missed her stop – the gloomy hollow west of the town, but that might have been his destination as well.

“Well! I’m sorry for the rude introduction to Skyrim’s finest,” Gunjar said tiredly. “First that fool boy, then that skulker…”

He spat pointedly.

“And the drunkards,” Llathasa added. Gunjar looked at her sharply, then grunted in agreement. He stopped the carriage alongside the inn.

“And now I’ve got to find another driver to take Rorikstead’s post back…and Askr’ll run his mouth again, scrambling for septims. Damned boy’s getting dumber ‘n meaner,” he sighed.

“You sound like you knew him,” Llathasa said carefully.

“I’m not his pa, if that’s what you’re thinking. But I loved his mother once, so I deliver what she asks me to. The Jarl’s men will clear them out one of these seasons, then he’ll be dead, and she can stop worrying.” He shrugged and disembarked, coming around to help Llathasa down. They were both drenched, and water streamed off the carriage beams and nearby buildings.

“Good luck to you, elf. I’ve a sweet golden lady to carry on to Riften, and I don’t suppose I can get any wetter. Keep the cloak, if you’ve a mind to.”

Llathasa lingered for a moment. “Aren’t you afraid the assassins will hear you talking like that?” she asked while he retrieved some things.

“Nah. Something to remember about their kind – we are beneath their notice. Not worthy of a kiss from their blades.”

He spat again to emphasize what he thought of that philosophy.

“They don’t care what we say. More’s the point, they don’t have ears everywhere. But if you have to be around them, like I do on occasion – don’t be stupid, or annoying, and you’ll be safe enough.”

***

Llathasa felt like a traitor when she slunk out of the town. Like she was ignoring something fate was delicately trying to tell her, after she furtively watched Gunjar depart. She considered drying off with magic, but in a melodramatic sense, she wondered if she deserved it. Besides, the more pitiful figure she presented, the better.

She’d kept the cloak. She wanted to be as unlike her usual self as possible for her first impression on the Dark Brotherhood, without being conspicuous about it. Hence the short, lank hair clinging to her face, the simple Solstheim garb, and now the ratty brown cloak that had come out of the bowels of a carriage.

For a secret lair, the assassins’ sanctuary was easy to find. It wasn’t obvious, but many stealthy feet had beaten a small track through the grass.

Llathasa picked her way down into the hollow and looked balefully at the entrance. The Black Door wasn’t visible from the road, but it was only a stone’s throw away. Sheltered by the natural rockface, the door was cast in shadow, except for a vast white skull. Someone had smeared a bloody handprint on its forehead.

Fathomless eye sockets brooded over the carved skeletons of a woman and her children – the Night Mother, and her offspring that she sacrificed to the same dread lord who conceived them. Llathasa knew the lore that the door depicted, but it was strange to see it in person.

She stepped up, determined to knock before she lost her nerve. As she grasped the polished ring, the sound of the rain, her footsteps, the wind, died. The sudden quiet set her heart hammering – it came too soon after she had been sat next to an assassin she couldn’t see, nor hear, but neither forget his black presence.

It wasn’t just her heart. There was a beat, a slow, sick rhythm that wasn’t coming from the door, but from behind her.

Llathasa spun around, releasing the door ring as though it had burned her. There was no one there. The metal loop thudded against the stone.

“What is the music of life?” the door hissed, though the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once. For a hideous moment, Llathasa couldn’t remember what to say.

“You are not worthy,” the door concluded, before she found her voice.

She gawped in disbelief and stepped back from the force of the rebuke. It wasn’t the voice – the door was sinister, but the effect was wearing off. It was the experience of all her cleverness collapsing around her pointy ears. And the prospect of returning to her grieving uncle, task undone.

The rain was falling thick and fast, and Llathasa found she was shivering. Perhaps she was crying – she couldn’t tell. She was alone, soaked, in a darkening clearing ringed with waist-high nightshade.

A brittle laugh escaped her when she remembered she was also broke. Nothing for it, but to try the door again.

To her relief, the sibilant voice repeated its question, and Llathasa answered correctly: “Silence, my brother.”

“Welcome…home.”

The Dark Brotherhood made a mistake when they killed Suvanen. It was literally an error, even before you got to the consequences. A representative, dressed in the same sleek assassin's armour as Astrid, came to his father with a sack of gold – the forfeited contract fee. Sorry sir, someone paid to have your son murdered, but we got the wrong one. We hope this covers it. He took it better than could be expected – he didn't even kill the messenger, but it set certain wheels in motion.

Llathasa let herself out of the shack, trying not to see the garish bloodstains halfway up the walls. Astrid didn't follow, but then, that would have been an awkward journey. Better to part on a clandestine note of intrigue than travel together, while Llathasa's myriad questions overflowed as chatter.

It was deathly cold outside. The shack was barely above the water level on an island of frozen mud. And it was at this point that Llathasa noticed she was still wearing her night-things – a long shift, a shirt for modesty, and thick leggings. And no shoes. A particularly mournful howl of wind echoed her dismay. Now what?

The obvious answer was to go back inside and ask for help. Astrid seemed reasonable, but Llathasa was a prospective assassin now. Self-reliant, and all that, and she was too proud to seek assistance after less than a minute.

Solstheim was frequently colder than Skyrim, where death by exposure was by no means uncommon. One of the first skills mages – and prudent folk in general – learned was to keep warm by magic. That skill was usually supplementary to good boots and sensible attire, but Llathasa could make do without. Still, she was conscious of appearing too capable. At least the city of Solitude, standing proudly atop its rocky spire to the west, gave her the excuse to find her bearings.

The spell for warmth was essentially a reduced, internalized flame cloak, and there was not much to see after the initial heat shimmer faded. It only became obvious if you stopped moving, because the mud would start to steam.

She trudged around the dismal island, hopping a little because magic or no, the ground was freezing against her bare feet. All she could find was a small boat, presumably Astrid's means of transport. The night's snowfall had collected as slush at the bottom. Llathasa glanced slowly between the boat and the windowless shack, but then under the eaves she spotted a familiar satchel. She seized it possessively, and rifled through it, then relaxed as she found none of her worldly goods missing.

She extracted her small purse from the toe of a boot, then pulled them on. Her staff was there too, although it wasn't visible. Llathasa knew exactly where it was, and she could summon it to hand in an instant, even if 'where' didn't exist in the traditional sense. That was one reason people didn't like wizards – their souls and staffs could turn up with impunity, ignoring the natural order of things.

Her clothes were unavoidably Dunmer in style, but they were all she had. Llathasa dragged the breeches and outer tunic over her layers and headed toward the closet thing the island had to a bridge – a treacherous span of dirty ice. It was going to be a long walk to Skyrim's capital.

The fisherman Llathasa flagged down demanded half her coin to ferry her across the river mouth, suspicious greyskin that she was, and then the carriage driver took the rest to pay her way to Falkreath. She slept a little and rode in silence until they reached the marvel that was Dragon's Bridge. The structure stretched away unbelievably, high above the Karth river.

The scale of it defied memory. Llathasa stared unashamedly.

"S'matter, never seen a bridge before? Like they don't have bridges in Morrowind-" the carriage driver muttered, stopping abruptly when he realized Llathasa was looking at him. The gracelessness of his comment was too surprising to be offensive: he had the startled look of someone who had not intended to speak aloud.

"Are those dragon skulls?" Llathasa asked, turning back to the bridge. The driver harrumphed as he halted the carriage alongside the inn, but his tone was more polite when he started to explain.

"Yes and no, they're not real skulls, but modelled after them – the scale is true."

"Aren't they just a myth?"

"No, no. you climb up in those mountains high enough, and you'll find their bones. Though many were buried properly in barrows that you'll see here and there."

"Now," he said, heaving himself down from his seat, "stay put while I fetch the mail bag. Or stay close, if you have to stretch your legs, I'll not wait for you. There's bread 'n cheese of some kind under the seat there."

Llathasa obediently kept her place, though she was not yet hungry enough to go delving beneath the bench seats.

The Nord driver came back with the bagged mail over one shoulder, puffing under the weight of an awkward, padded bundle.

"Stand up and hold that a moment," he said briskly, passing the shrouded object to her. It was heavy for its size. Through the wrappings, Llathasa felt a humanoid shape. "It's a Dibella," the driver grunted as he climbed aboard the carriage bed. He opened the storage space below her seat and stowed the statue tenderly. The mail he tossed in as an afterthought, before rummaging in another compartment.

Without looking, he thrust an unexpectedly decent loaf at Llathasa, followed by a waxy cheese, waterskin, and a couple of small apples. Lastly, moving Llathasa from perplexed gratitude to indignation, he unfurled a decrepit cloak over her.

"You'll need that later," he said as she bundled it up in distaste. He sat opposite her and took a great swig of something. One of the apples then disappeared in three bites. Llathasa nervously followed suit, eating quickly, puzzled by the driver's changed demeanour.

"Now," he began in a business-like tone, as soon as she'd finished, "I thought you looked like trouble when I picked you up, but you've given me none. So. Work with me, and I'll get you where you're going." Llathasa said nothing, but the driver continued undeterred.

"I need you to keep an eye behind us, as there's a fair lump of gold in that statue. There's a chance of trouble at Robber's Gorge, but I'll see if I can dodge the toll for you. They won't search me, but they usually ask 5 gold for safe passage We just need to persuade them you're not worth the trouble.

"Cover yourself, and your bag, with that cloak, and try to look as broke as possible." Llathasa scowled – he had seen her take the last septim from her purse to pay his fee.

"Aye, just like that!" he declared with a guffaw, clapping Llathasa on the shoulder. He clambered back onto the driver's perch, bottle in hand, chuckling heartily at his own joke. Llathasa had a sinking feeling there would be singing to follow.

There was singing, but the Nord was more poetic than he looked. He hummed through old laments when he couldn't remember the words. The path was increasingly hemmed-in by rocky outcrops which bounced the sound back at them. Between verses, the driver slipped in a warning, breaking Llathasa's half-dozing state.

"Gorge is around the bend. Cover up now, and keep your head down."

"Ho, the watchman," he called ahead, before carrying on in song.

Llathasa drew the cloak in tight, huddling down as though she was asleep. The hood restricted her vision, but looking off the rear of the carriage, she could see shadows from above. They passed what looked like a log palisade, then a bridge which they paused under.

Someone stood watching them, leaning casually against a post.

"Ho, Gunjar," they called down. "Toll is per head, wake her up if you have to."

"Not this one, Askr, she's skint," the driver replied with convincing indifference. Llathasa watched tensely as the shadow on the bridge leaned down to inspect her. She suspected the shape in his hands was a bow.

"You're driving her, aren't you?"

"Aye, but I'm a soft touch, aren't I."

"She pretty? Maybe she'll pay her way with a wee kiss," the bandit suggested. He reached out with the bow and roughly jabbed Llathasa's hooded head. It hurt.

"Pretty as you, Askr," Gunjar replied, pushing the bow away. "If you're wanting the letter from your ma, don't trouble me none." He got down with a thump, ignoring Askr hovering in the background.

"She wants you back at home, gods know why," he called up, while he fished out a letter. Briefly, he met Llathasa's eyes, and she had to respect his utter calm. He tossed the bandit the missive, then a hefty sack. Askr dropped his bow in his hurry to catch it, which Gunjar caught and threw back contemptuously. "She cares whether you're eating properly, and I'll bet, whether you wash behind your mangey ears!"

The driver stepped back into his seat, and flicked the reins, keeping his balance instinctively.

"Hold, Gunjar, wait a second," Askr spluttered after them. This time, the bow clattered noisily on to the cobblestones.

"Ye gods, what is it, lad?" Gunjar growled.

"We've got a passenger for you."

Gunjar gave a bark of laughter. "Don't tell me one of you boys has grown tired of the bandits' lot. Freedom, brotherhood, fleas…that's the life, oh–" He stopped and sat down heavily, either injured, or very much shaken.

Llathasa strained to hear anything, thinking desperately. If the driver was down, she could summon her staff and send lightning streaking between her foes, but she might take any number of arrows in the process. Her magical defences were woefully thin, compared to her usual standard, and there was no subtle way to conjure better. Then Gunjar spoke. He was anxious. There was conspicuous courtesy in every syllable.

"Please, step on up, sir. Don't mind the lass, she won't bother you."