They sat by the bank of the river that flowed down from the height of Thror's Combe. Their campfire burned brightly, too large to go unnoticed should seeking eyes find it yet both Nimrandir and Fairlain felt the need of its warmth and dared the risk.
It was likely two more days travel until they reached Eregion, but the task they had been given had been accomplished and there was no reason to hurry the pace of their return. As they both huddled close to the flame's comfort Nimrandir saw Fairlain unsheathe one of her daggers and begin to hack at the locks of brown hair that once again began to grow long. She threw each handful of hair on the flames, pausing to watch it burn before reaching up to grab another. Nimrandir watched this happen two, three times, wincing each time the brown hair went into the flames. Then he spoke,
"Faerlhain, why do you do this?"
The hand holding the dagger paused, then lowered and came to rest.
"It is better to wear armour with. It ...it does not matter. It is only hair..." She glanced away remembering the beauty of Galadriel's hair, the golden warmth of Iaurmenel's locks, the glossy, raven-wing locks of the young woman in the Inn...
Nimrandir began, "Did you know that the great artisan Fëanor thought of creating the Silmarils only after beholding the beauty of our Lady's hair?" Fairlain shook her head to the contrary.
He continued, "Three times he asked for a lock of her hair and three times she refused him, for she saw that his love of the things he created had cast a shadow upon his heart. Do not say it does not matter. If one sees a tree of great beauty, how can it be right to take a blade and hack away its branches?"
Fairlain looked at him across the campfire. An expression of quiet dignity passed over the glade-walker's features.
"He would agree with me," Nimrandir concluded.
"You speak in riddles again Nimrandir" answered Fairlain, yet she placed her dagger back in its sheathe and drew closer to the fire's warmth.
