The man before her wore a heavy hooded cloak, held together by an intricate silver clasp with swirls of gold highlighting the ridges. Under it, he wore a type of metal armour which Tara was unfamiliar with. 'Medieval' was the first thought that flashed in her mind's eye.
"Who is your Master!" The octaves of his words rung in her ears. Daring to meet his gaze, Tara felt her spine tingle at the ferocity of his chilling grey eyes; his brow was covered in the sweat of the chase. He glared menacingly at her as if she was a putrid evil he needed to rid the world of. Confusion almost overrode her mind-numbing fear.
His heavily crafted sword glinted in the light, causing the Tara to flinch. She felt air leave her lungs in an effort to utter something. Anything. Sound evaded her. But Boromir waited, running his eyes over the orc-spy. The long hair plastered to her face was the blackest of black, although the blood seeping into her coverings was as red as his. Tara felt warm turn into cool on her abdomen. She tried to feel pain to keep herself from blacking out, to stop the spinning, but she felt no pain. Only cold.
Her lack of co-operation frustrated him. She may very well die by way of bleeding, without him getting any facts from her. For a moment, he was torn;
He wanted information. But he also wanted her dead.
And while he wanted her dead, he wanted it to be by his sword.
The Captain's breath was loud and slow. He matched it to the witch's, and realized she was dying faster than anticipated. She was going to fade out.
"Boromir!" cried another man. Tara paid no attention to the figure springing forth through the forest towards them. All she focused on were the sensations and vibrations around her. The cooling of her bloodied t-shirt, the ripples of sound in her sphere… her slow breath, and her even slower heartbeat. Closing her eyes, she was ready for death to take her. She never feared it, but she hadn't expected it to come so soon.
"Menilmir!" Cried Faramir, agitated by his brother's indifference to the woman's suffering. "Menilmir!" A burly man with an untrimmed red beard made haste towards the noble archer. His gut was larger than that of his fellow soldiers, as he was not a warrior, he was a healer who Boromir and Faramir trusted with their lives, having known each other since infancy. The brothers had yet to venture a single journey without Melinmir by their side.
"We must stop the bleeding, milord." Melinmir huffed out, obviously challenged by the chase the mysterious woman led. "Put pressure on the wound, here." The healer worked quickly, unraveling his rough strips of cotton. Faramir tried to let calm take him, for if she were to live by work of anyone's hands, it was Melinmir's.
Tara, through half-lidded eyes, spoke out to the angel with warm hands. He felt like an oven against her torso, and she revelled in the feeling. The contrast between the cold of her body and the heat of his reminded her of a hot bath on frigid Winter mornings. Especially Sundays, when she was entitled to guiltless relaxation, facing another week's worth of dreary desk work. She whispered her lust for a bath, almost too low for the two men to hear. She asked again.
Faramir caught the faint smile on the lovely face of the dying girl.
It terrified him.