Slight AU where Madanach was never captured, and he became a briar-heart and had a daughter.

I still tasted salt from my impromptu plunge into the icy sea. That had not been part of my plan for the day. It had been a get in get out kind of job, I expected maybe a few bandits hiding in the abandoned sea watch tower, not an entire clan.

I shivered, my leather light armor clinging and freezing to my skin as I attempted to conjure up a small flame. Magicka. I spat in disgust as it kept flickering in and out of existence. Finally I just shoved my hand into the pile of tinder I had collected and tried lighting them again. This time the spark ignited the bundle with frightening speed, causing me to fall back from the rising flames. The burn wasn't severe, and as the fire died down to a controllable state, I crept closer and huddled by its warmth.

My leg was cut up pretty bad where that Nordic bastard had slashed me, and my blood had clotted and glued my leather trousers to my skin. That was going to be a bitch to get off.

I bathed the wound with what was left in my canteen, fearing the smell of the blood would draw wolves or worse. After I had warmed up and began to feel the leather armor dry, I put out the fire and headed out of the brush, limping cross country in search of a nearby path. It was dark but I was not scared. I was never scared. I just knew when it was better to flee than to fight.

Arriving at a path, I took a deep breath and relaxed my nerves. Creatures rarely strayed to the roads unless they were desperate for they smelled too much like human. The only threats I would have to worry about now were thieves, but I could handle myself. I patted my Daedric dagger reassuringly; my most prized and despised possession. The only thing left of my childhood—and my father.

As I came to a fork, I spotted a sign marking the paths to each of the holds and major cities, making them seem so close when they were all still days away. The North sign pointed to Solitude, the lands I was currently retreating from, while the South-West sign pointed to Markarth. The Reach. I head in that direction, my home, if it even deserves that name anymore.

xxx

I arrive in the stony mountainous city, viewed by the guards as any common, unimportant traveler. They only give me a few glances, seeing me in my wretched state, but cause me no trouble. One is kind enough to point me to the Warrens, where the homeless dwell. I give him a bitter smile, eyes flashing, but move on, purposefully in the opposite direction. A small, battered woman who seeks no help is not an uncommon sight in Skyrim. One learns from a young age that it's a land where only the strong and shrewd survive.

I head up the rocky stairs, the city's waterfall misting against my face and hands. I shiver, remembering my recent swim, which reminds me of my desperate leap from the cliff's keep, which reminds me of my failure to fight off the bandits, which reminds me of what I really am. Weak. I ball my fists, pressing my fingers into the cold stone wall along the bridge, forcing down those innermost feelings that have haunted me my entire life.

You are not weak, the all too familiar voice croons. You have power, but you refuse to use it. You could squash your foes under your boots if you would embrace who your truly are.

I jerk my head up in a flash, eyes boring into the cascading water, letting my hands clandestinely freeze the stone rail. I know I have power. I know I am not weak. But I breathe under my breath, hand suddenly clutching the wretched dagger.

"But I can become someone without them." I breathe, ramming the dagger into the stone. It cuts into it deep enough to hold it upward. Tendrils of red swirl on its sky black, twisted blade, reprimanding me with words I can no longer hear.

I lost myself in my thoughts then, drifting off to my almost seemingly impossible task. If my own father didn't think that I could succeed in my quest to greatness without Magicka, then how could I? I was just a weak little Breton girl, trying to outrun her past and become someone she's not. Trying to become someone she could never be, that no amount of Magicka could ever give her. Trying to become a Nord.

xxx

Drifting through the heights of the city where few people go, I see the local fencer, Endon, dealing with a hooded figure whose gear and spoils scream suspicion, power, and glory.

Her elf eyes flicker to me, all too aware of my viewing their illegal business. She simply nods at her partner, a shorter man completely clad in Daedric armor, who touches his blade, staring in my direction. His daemon mask completely covers his face and I'm left staring into the soulless, black holes where his eyes are hidden.

Ice claws at my heart and I turn away, fumbling for my blade. I hate the Daedra. I hate them. I hate this blade and what they did to my people and what my people did for them. What we sacrificed. I hate it and want nothing to do with it.

The pair, or couple perhaps, walks away, the tall, hooded elven girl sauntering with her armored partner clanking slowly behind her. Endon then turns to me, his brow cocked expectantly. Ever since IU learned he was a fencer, he had been willing to trade with me at his Thieves Guild rate, promising purchase any stolen or rare goods I could procure. He made this exception for a non-guild member because he knew how desperate and pathetic my quest was. Both of us opened way to much that night. I shuddered uncomfortably at the memory, vowing to never propose a drinking challenge with a man again.

But I had recently bragged to him about how I was going to raid this keep and how I would fins loads of rare elven armor inside, since it used to be a Thalmor watchtower. He shot down my aspirations, doubting I could pull it off or that I would even find anything.

"You think you're the only one who comes up with these ideas?" He had taunted. "Sweetheart, you'll either get yourself killed or comeback empty handed."

Now he was waiting to see if I had proven him wrong, if I had found the elven armor he had promised such a high price for. I looked down and walked away.

xxx

My stomach ached with hunger and my head was heavy with fatigue. I sat on a stone bench near the Warrens, absent-mindedly scratching runes into the framework. I had long finished the remains of my food, what little was left from their soiled remains that is, before I had even been able to see the towers of the city.

I had no coin with me. What small amount I had saved was stored in a grove on the outskirts of the city (I didn't trust the banks here in Markarth) and I lacked the energy and time it would take to venture out to retrieve it. So I had nothing, just the filthy leather armor on my back and my dagger. I grimaced as an unpleasant, desperate thought swam into my head.

I could sell the dagger for a good price, especially since it contained a powered soul, and that would give me enough money to rent a room at the Silver-Blood Inn with consistent meals for a month, and during that time I could enlist, or do some odd jobs, or even scavenge around the city and plains selling goods until I had enough to restock on my supplies and set out again.

The scolding he gave me shocked such traitorous thoughts from my head, and I nearly dropped the blade, which was swirling with red madness. I apologized quietly and slightly fearful, blaming it on a wondering, desperate brain and not true intentions.

"I would never truly consider pawning you off, father." I whispered to the dagger, my lips almost brushing the wicked blade. Deep growling then emitted from my stomach.

I sighed, sheathing the temperamental blade, and began to restlessly walk to the inn, hoping some drunk barfly might buy me a few drinks and a decent meal.

xxx

The smell hit my face before the warmth did. Food. Mead. Sweat. My mouth watered as I pushed the grand doors open and slunk in. I involuntarily sighed as the hearth's heat soothed my aching bones and timidly approached it. My stomach interrupted this desire, reminding me why I was here. I didn't want to waste any time. What I needed was food. And I was all too familiar with how to get it.

A blond man with a braided hair and red paint streaks on his cheeks was laughing merrily at the bar, jeering and spilling mead all over himself, to the inn-keepers dismay. He would wipe the spills up before they could even soak into the wooden table with an angry frown and hiss to be considerate of the sleeping guests. I let my dirty, mouse-brown hair fall, tousled it (while quickly weaving in a few Nordic braids), and unbuttoned my leather strappings just enough to tease. Loudly pulling up a chair beside him, I smiled coyly.

"I'll take whatever he's drinking!" I called to the bartender. I let my gaze shift to the man, whose eyes were on my but nowhere near mine.

"Hey, Kleper," he called to the bartender, "put that last drink on me!" Turning to me, "How about you have a nice time here with old Cosnach." A pause. "Not that I'm old."

I smiled and he roughly put his arm around me, drabbling about how fine I looked and about his miserable life as a porter and so on.

"They never give me any work," Cosnach said dryly, "so all I do is sit here and drink."

It didn't take long until I had gotten several bottles of mead, and beef roast, and an inn-room out of him. I almost felt bad, for he too was a Breton but then I remembered that almost everyone in that wretched city was part of our disgraced, untrusted minority. We were left to rot and breakdown here along with the crumbling city of stone. So few of us ever got work above that of a mercenary or hired hand. And it was all because of us Forsworn.

Cosnach had become so drunk that he seemed to have forgotten I was even there, instead just jeering at the bard to "play that song again", which he reluctantly complied for the fifth time. Finally feeling satisfied, I slipped out of the bar stool and walked to the hearth's welcoming heat.

I slid into a stone armchair and began to strap my bosoms and loosen my boots. I slouched in deeply, ignoring the cold, hard surface and began to close my eyes, loosing myself in the white noise.

"You look like a complete wreak."

My eyes jolted open, searching for where the rude voice came from. There was a man with shoulder length, dirty blond hair and red Nordic-Spiral war paint on the right side of his face. His eyes gleamed playfully and pitifully in the firelight. I bit back my disgust. A Nord's pity was the last thing I wanted.

"You would too if you narrowly escaped blood-thirsty bandits." I replied icily, closing my eyes.

He sighed, and I could hear him move restlessly. Figuring he was done with small talk, I let myself slip closer to sleep, but he spoke again. I opened my eyes in annoyance.

"A strong, Nord like yourself shouldn't have to reduce herself to that." He said, nodding at the wasted Cosnach.

I froze. "Excuse me?" The words blurted out of my mouth so fast I couldn't hide my shock. He thought I was a Nord.

"Sorry if I misspoke," he laughed, stretching his still body. "One to many bottles of mead. They'll mess with your words." He thought I had been insulted by his comment, not that he mistook my race.

"Well, you do what it takes to survive in this realm. Everyone knows that." I grumble, feigning offense at his words.

"Oh, I agree," he said, "I'll do whatever is takes to keep armor on my back, a sword in my hand, and food in my stomach." I noticed his voice was different from other Nords, with an almost imprinted Imperial accent that spoke of far travels and time in different lands.

"And what do you do exactly?" I asked, mildly curious.

"I'm what you call of soldier of fortune," he drawled with a smile, "Make me an offer and I might just fight at your side." He was still smiling, but he was dead serious.

I looked him over, immediately distrustful and suspicious. "So this was all just leading up to your self-advertisement?" I scoff, miffed by his self-love.

"I could tell you were a beat down adventurer the moment you walked in." he said, leaning forward, a sly smile on his face. "You're strong and smart, but you need some help. And I need some coin. A win-win, you see?"

"I can manage on my own." I say pushing myself out of the hard seat, marking an end to the conversation. AS I stalk to my room, he calls once more after me.

"Watch your back, kid." A small paused. "Or better yet, pay me to do it for you."

I slam my door shut in response.