Macayla didn't expect to feel aches when she was dead. Her body felt different as well: it wasn't as broken as she had thought it would be. It felt whole and semi-healed. Other than the aches of bruises, she was warm.

How did I survive?

She could visibly and physically remember Teane and Edvar beating her. In all her imaginations, she thought Sovngarde a haven; no pain, just peace. The more she pushed her mind to figure out what had happened, a sensation washed over her: briefly she had felt weightless and transparent; the dark blue, black, and purple wisps around her seemed to pass through her. Then her body felt like it suddenly existed as a woman spoke. It was all too foggy though to remember her exact words, but the woman's voice was powerful and Macayla had felt the swelling of her absolute faith in her; she couldn't tell if it was a memory or a dream...

The comforting pop of a fire pulled her back into her body—she wasn't dead; someone had found her. She groaned in displeasure.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't wake, lass," a man said near her.

"I was hoping I wouldn't," she said as she opened her eyes. Trees stretched high above her to the darkening sky of evening. The stars hadn't emerged yet, but they weren't far off. She could see the quiet picture perfectly—her face was stiff and sore with bruises, but it wasn't swollen enough to hinder her vision. Strange, since Edvar had broken her right cheek.

"So you're saying I should have left a half-dead woman on the side of the road..."

She could still taste the rust of blood in her mouth. "It wouldn't have made a difference to me." After bracing herself, Macayla forced herself up, wincing at the pain in her abdomen. She rubbed her wrists, chafed and red from the ropes. "But I'm not going to take this away from you; thank you for saving me." She looked over at her rescuer.

She had to admit he was quite handsome: he looked to be her age—mid to late twenties—a square face with those masculine lines of strength, reddish-brown hair just brushing his shoulders, stubble outlining his mouth, and deep-set green eyes with a twinkle of cunningness and mischief. He looked like one to be trusted with a secret, but not a valuable. Nothing really stood out on his clothing: attire consisting mainly of leather, multiple pouches and flaps, and armed solely with a dagger. She could place septim on a bet that he had at least one or two other daggers hidden somewhere on him. It took a thief to recognize another one.

He nodded in thanks as he handed her a healing potion. "You're welcome." He turned back to the fire as she drank it. "My name's Brynjolf."

"Macayla."

The potion worked immediately, eliminating all twinges of pain or aching bruises and renewing her strength. "You said you found me on the side of the road? If those goons left me there, no wonder I'm not dead."

"You weren't on the side of the road, per se." He nodded behind her. "The road is about half a mile from here and Solitude another ten to the East."

Brynjolf focused back on the fire, and now she could smell the stew he was preparing. "So you knew who attacked you?"

She folded her legs in to sit better and to face him. "Well, I know the one who pays them: he was my employer, too."

"What did you do to make him want to kill you?"

"He didn't, but I pushed him to try." He looked at her as he waited for more. "I was a thief for Edvar Clear-Blood; he sent me out to rob a Thane in Markarth's court and I kept a certain medallion for myself—thought it would bring me a large sum of septim. Somehow, he found out—I've stolen many things from him, so I don't know how he discovered this time. Not that I cared, though.

"My parents had fallen into debt with Edvar and we were forced to working for him to pay it off. We stole for him—from the wealthy and the poor—planted stolen goods to incriminate those that had crossed him, and provided... other services." She let him imagine what services she had meant. "We weren't employees; we were slaves. I wanted to get out but couldn't, other than dying. My brother died when he developed an infection from his hand being chopped off for being caught stealing. My mother and father were returning from a job in Rorikstead when they ran into a group of Imperial soldiers—some altercation happened and they were slain. Once they were gone, I was ready to go too."

"And then I come along and take the freedom you suffered for." Brynjolf looked sorrowful at hearing her tale.

She gave him a small smile. "He probably thinks I'm dead, so I'm free from him; that's all I've ever wanted, so I don't think you've ruined anything. Probably made it better—now I can experience what freedom is like."

"But not without better clothes," he said as he turned back to finishing their dinner.

Macayla looked down at herself to find her tan and green jerkin dirty, torn, and bloody. Now she registered the lack of weight on her back and hip; she felt of her boot to check for her dagger: her sword, dagger, and bow were missing. "Or without weapons."

"I'm sure we can find something in Solitude for a good price."

"Free?" She cut her eyes at him.

He smirked. "Knew you would figure out what I was; as soon as I saw your eyes, I knew what you were too, lass. That's how I found you out here in the woods; I was returning from a job."

"Where was the job?"

He handed her a bowl of stew. "The Thalmor Embassy."

Macayla's eyebrows shot up. High Elves despised Skyrim and its Nords, so their dislike only increased their arrogance and cruelty. No one liked those High Elves; she didn't think their own kind liked each other either. The Embassy was nearly impossible to infiltrate without being a well-known High Elf, and Brynjolf got in and out? She hoped he had robbed them blind. "You like to live dangerously then. Good job, though?"

Brynjolf nodded. "I could buy you everything you need tomorrow, if we wish to be civil."

She blew her spoonful of soup to cool it. "I'm not that civilized."

He shared her devious smile. "Me neither."