A handsome man, kingly, with hair dark as sable. It is so soft, she whispered, his golden-haired bride. He would bury his face in her hair, breathing deeply of lemon, rosemary, jasmine.

The bright beacons of hope are long burned out, and now, with hair grey as ash, he watches. The black granite of the mountain reflects the red-gold of the flames, a world full of fire, and ash, and dust, as the city burns.

Forgive me, my lady. I could not keep our sons from harm. All would soon be ended, ash and smoke blown away on the wind.

Surely she had seen dark-haired men before, but none like him. His hair shines blacker than the sable trimming her finest robe. She  wonders if it feels as soft.

The future had always seemed a faraway land, but she sees it in a flash: husband, home, children. Shadow or not, the future shines beacon-bright, with a dark-haired man at her side.

“My little sister,” Eomer presents her, laughing, ruffling her hair.

 “A pleasure, my lady,” Lord Boromir smiles. He bows low, as if she were a great lady of Gondor, not a thirteen year old girl with scabby knees.

Surely he had seen fair-haired women before, but none like her. Her hair shimmers like a dream of summer, a vision long-forgotten in this barren spring.

A flash of memory shines beacon-bright:  he is hiding his eyes in a golden curtain of silken hair, scented with lemon and rosemary.  “Where is my darling boy? Where is my Faramir, my jewel?” The game delights all three. His mother’s voice, like the music of flowing water, and his father’s soft laughter ring together in that faraway land.

“What do you wish, my lady?” He wishes he could bury himself in her hair.