Bleary eyes peered out from between the fronds of a sun-dappled fern, their blue-green hue streaked with pink after a restless and weary night. The shape of a pale, freckled face was mostly hidden by lush greenery, as she inspected the forest, ears keenly tuned to any sounds that went beyond the whispering wind or the skittering of squirrels' claws in the leaf litter. Once satisfied that her resting spot had not been discovered and was not being watched, she withdrew into the shallow hollow and turned her attention elsewhere.
Trying to sleep without removing her bow and quiver had proved pointless. But she had been unwilling to give up her weapons after that squatty wad of shirtless muscles had chased her halfway back to Bree, hurling rocks and branches and everything else he could get his hands on. Bellowing all the while about what an infamous "thrower" he was. Barrel-thrower, he said. What the hell was a barrel-thrower? Never mind that his first projectile had been just that; a barrel of some sort, impossible to say in the dark. Though, when it missed her head by a hair's breadth and exploded against a tree, the smell that erupted was nearly enough to knock her senseless. And one of his rocks had, in fact, struck home, colliding with her hip hard enough to almost send her sprawling headfirst into the ground.
She tugged the hem of her tunic up to her waist, grunting as her torso bent awkwardly while she twisted to look down at her side. The other hand snagged the waist of her trousers and yanked down. She winced at the sight of the sickly yellow-purple bruise burgeoning over her pale skin. A finger prodded gingerly at the flesh. It didn't seem anything had been broken, since she'd been able at least to limp and stagger away to her hiding place.
The evening hadn't started out so unpleasant. She'd been merely curious when she stumbled upon the packed-up camp and group of men in the Chetwood. They were armed and looked like simple, rough sorts, but they were no Blackwolds; she knew the appearance and ways of those filthy animals better than anyone. Intending to follow and see where these men might lead her had gone awry when one of the younger lads decided to walk over and take a piss not three feet from where she crouched. The game was up and she delighted in the cat-and-mouse banter for a brief time, before ducking away into the forest, only to run face first into Mister Barrel-Thrower himself. And he wasn't interested in banter, but rather in smashing her skull, it seemed.
Why had she not shot the brute the moment she ran into him? Her bow and arrow were in her hands! Why had she hesitated?
Letting her clothes fall back into place, a deep sigh escaped her lips. She adjusted her position with a quiet grunt of pain, lifting her gaze to the canopy overhead. Always, she seemed to look to the sky when a thoughtful mood took her.
Grudgingly, she acknowledged that her hesitation was due to the pesky conscience that had been planted within her mind many months before, by a certain man. She was so reluctant now to shed the blood of another human being, whether it was deserved or not. She tried to tell herself that there had been no time to shoot, that the man had hurled that barrel as soon as he saw her...but it wasn't true. Even a split second was time enough to loose an arrow. And she hadn't. She ran instead. Her pale brow furrowed as she pondered these things.
Of all the days to wish he were nearby, only to know that he wasn't.
Grumbling lowly, she got to her feet and climbed out of the hollow. Her face was a pinched, sulking mask of irritability. A moment of "decency" (was that what it should be called?!) and now she was limping like a lame horse. She rolled her shoulders, adjusting her bow and quiver against her back and her hip. She began walking east, in the direction she'd last encountered the men.
Let those brutes show their faces again. Better to deal with a twinge of regret than a broken body.
