The work was harder than any she had ever done.
Her hands, once anointed with the sweetest oils, were rubbed raw by the washing of dishes, the cooking of food, the scrubbing of laundry, the chopping of wood. She fell into bed exhausted each night and each morning, the aches of yesterday still creaking in her body, rose to do it all over again.
Every once in a while she would think back on the dreams of her youth. How far away they all seemed; the things she had once thought she wanted. To be a hermit living by the seaside. To publish poems under a secret name. To be swept away by a prince from another land and never come back.
Silliness.
Though the hermit one did still sound appealing after a night of being jerked this way and that by tavern patrons.
But for the most part, she wanted for so little anymore.
In her unending labor, she found a type of solace. It prevented her from dwelling on things. It punished her, body and soul, stretching her patience to its limits and the soles of her feet past what she had once thought they could endure. Because of it, she slept deeply and dreamlessly and in the morning, for all her aches, she awoke cleansed.
For the first time in her life, she belonged to no one but herself. The money she made was hers. The room and board were paid for by the labor of her hands. Her well-earned days off were hers to do with as she wished (which was mostly sleeping and reading smutty novels). Despite her disgruntled demeanor and sharp way with customers, she was content. She had her little routine and her little room and wanted for nothing more.
*.*.*
In the early hours of the morning, after she had washed and dressed herself, Hulda asked her to pick up the new fire poker from the smith at the gates. A week ago, a bar fight had gotten out of control and the old one had been bent over one of the combatant's heads. Pleased to be out and about in the fresh air so early in the morning and not yet assigned to emptying the guests' chamber pots, she agreed. She grabbed the ratty old shawl they shared from the hook and threw it around her shoulders before she stepped out the door.
This was her favorite time of day - that time when the streets were quiet, while the greater bulk of the city still lay sound asleep in their beds, when she could still hear the sound of the songbirds over what would soon be the hubbub of the market square. She strolled leisurely, in no particular hurry to get to her destination.
She knocked on the smith's door and stood inside for a moment, before the shop was officially open, discussing the weather before she paid for the purchase.
By the time she stepped out, there was an argument happening at the gate.
A group of the Whiterun Watch, their hands on their swords, were standing there, blocking a pair of Redguard men in desert garb from entering.
She was at first caught between two states - joy at seeing travelers from her homeland and wondering if they had any news. And a funny sort of dread that started in the pit of her stomach and only got worse as she hovered on the doorstep of the blacksmith, listening.
"We seek a Redguard woman." the older of the two Redguards demanded huffily, his voice deep and gravelly. "With scars, here, here and here. We apologize heartily for the disturbance but we must"-
Unbidden, her hand rose to touch her face and she snapped it away before it could do so.
"You can't bring those weapons in here." one of the guards interjected, cutting him off. "Unless you have a permit from the Jarl."
The Redguard flashed the speaker a truly furious glare.
"Then might I see the Jarl and straighten this out? We are on a mission to bring back a wanted criminal. Surely you must"-
She swallowed thickly and turned away before she could hear any more. Her hands were trembling. She gripped the poker like a sword and tried to steady them.
She had to remain calm. Nonchalance was the best disguise. If she could pretend that nothing was wrong, that she was nothing more than an ordinary woman on an ordinary chore, that was her best chance of getting away.
She held her head up high, turned her back on them and pulled her shawl tighter, as though she had only caught a sudden chill. As leisurely as she had come, she walked back to the Bannered Mare, her scarred face a mask of feigned contentment.
She laid the poker on the bar, hung the shawl up on the hook and calmly as ever, ascended the stairs to her little room. There was so little she had to pack. Twenty-five years of a life in hiding and only one bag to show for it.
She put on her traveling cloak and pulled up the hood, adjusting it until it hid the scars. Everything she'd come to know, every little thing she'd found comfort in - gone, just like that. She took in a shuddering breath, struggling not to cry. She wondered who Hulda would hire after her.
And then, when she was calm enough to step outdoors without breaking down, she walked down the steps and out the back door, never once looking back.