The bruises had begun to fade. Swirls of brown, black, purple, and yellow still mottled the left side of her face like an unsavory tapestry. But her turquoise eye was no longer swollen closed, though the crimson splotches of broken blood vessels continued to decorate her eyelid, tracing around beneath and kissing the top of her cheekbone. She could see a dim reflection of herself in the window opposite the table where she was sitting. The darkness outside provided a gloomy backdrop to the grim sight of her visage.
A tankard of ale sat before her, and she was hunched over it, her hands lightly holding it between them as if it might escape otherwise. The tavern's common room was nearly empty, just a few voices filtering across the stale, smoky air, dimly lit by a half-hearted fire in the hearth.
Beside her, on the table, was a bow. Rather small, fitting her demure stature. A closer inspection would reveal that the wood had been delicately and lovingly carved with various motifs.
She stared blankly at her image in the window's pane for a time. A well-meaning man, young and dark-eyed, halted on his way past the table and inquired if she wanted any company. His forehead wrinkled with concern - or was it revulsion? - at the sight of her. She dismissed him with a silent glare, like a wounded, sharp-fanged fox. He did not linger.
Her gaze sank slowly, focused on some invisible point halfway between the window and the grimy tavern floor. It hovered here for a moment, before sliding lower, until she regarded her left hand. The pale, slender fingers flexed lazily. A dull ache throbbed from her knuckles, dancing over her wrist and up along her forearm.
Turning her eyes forward again, the hand reached out and subtly pushed the bow away from herself with a soft, scraping sound. Fingers lifted then to brush a lock of copper-colored hair from her brow and tuck it behind her ear. She resumed staring at herself in the dark glass of the window. Minutes crawled past, the ale remained neglected, and the night deepened.
