June 1, Fo.A. 3

It was a foolish choice, and one she would take care not to repeat. Coping with her grief had resulted in some decidedly odd habits, and now she was stuck, quite literally. Ardith had not looked at her own hair in five years, keeping it covered while awake, and plaited back while asleep. But this foray into the wilderness was wrecking havoc on her carefully constructed customs, routines she had built into her life as a widow, alone in the forest.

Her compulsion had even gone so far as to take down and braid her hair away from the firelight, so that Aharron could not see it's color. And this night, tucked away near a tree, she was quickly trying to comb it through when a wind stirred up some small branches whose gnarled fingers reached down and grabbed for the long golden locks. Now here she sat, each gust of wind pulling painfully at the strands tangled around the small branches.

Ardith tried in vain to undo the snarled sections of hair, but only managed to make things worse. She sat very still, hoping against hope Aharron wouldn't notice she was just sitting there, instead of returning to the fire to fetch her bedroll. But of course he did notice. He noticed everything.

It began with just a glance. He knew the routine and how long it took her. Next was another glance, a hesitation, and the decision to pull out her pack and arrange her bedroll himself. A third glance, longer this time, and could she make out his features in the dim glow of the fire, questioning. Another uncertain pause and he walked towards her.

"We should turn in if you want to leave at first light," Aharron said, unable to bring himself to say what he wanted. Why are you just sitting there? You could have braided your hair three times over. Why do you move away from the fire to do this each night?

"Yes," Ardith said simply, looking past him into the dark of the forest and wishing he would turn and leave now that he'd said his piece.

As she made no move to rise, Aharron frowned and shifted on his feet. "Is something wrong?" he asked gruffly.

"Not at all," Ardith replied, but in an effort to appear nonchalant, she tilted her head to pretend to gaze up at the sky and winced as the branches tugged at her hair.

Aharron caught the expression and stepped sideways to peer at her hair. "You're all snarled up here," he said in exasperation. "Why didn't you say so?"

"I'm perfectly capable…" she began, but the disbelieving snort from the man behind her silenced the remaining words.

"Hold still," he muttered, and Ardith could feel the long strands of hair being gently lifted and unwound from their scabrous captors.

"There," Aharron said decisively after a few moments, and Ardith darted up from her seat and away from him, halting in the shadows beyond the firelight. She saw him scowl and war with himself over whether or not to question her bizarre behavior, but he settled for simply shaking his head and returning to his seat by the fire.

Ardith tried to comb out her hair as quickly as she could, but the tree had tangled it terribly, and it took an inordinately long time, her scalp rather sore. Her own mind began to argue both for and against giving up the need to hide her hair. Ríndir himself would have found the habit needless. He gained no greater love or honor if she refused other's compliments for a feature she had no control over. And it was rather impertinent to assume anyone else would even think her hair attractive. But it felt like the last shared tie to her husband, and she was loathe to release it. Back and forth and around and around her thoughts swirled as she picked apart the knots and pulled the comb through over and over.

As she finished and moved to begin rebraiding, she caught Aharron watching her, a skeptical confusion written across his face. He probably thought her ridiculous, which until lately, wouldn't have bothered Ardith at all. But they had been traveling together for over a month now, the longest she had spent in anyone's company since her husband and sons had been killed, and she had started to consider the rough, taciturn man her friend. Heaven knows he put up with enough of her quirks, making sure there was extra water for tea and keeping the fire going longer so she had enough light to sew, perhaps just for tonight she didn't need to worry about her hair. Gathering up her courage, Ardith placed the comb in the little bag at her waist and returned to the fire.

Far be it from him to understand the foibles of the fairer sex, Aharron thought, internally shrugging. Her hair was quite pretty as far as hair went. She glanced at him once, uneasily, so he pretended to ignore the fact that she was sitting there for the first time with her hair unbound, a golden river spilling down her back.

The small black kettle he had placed in the middle of the flames began to sing, and he grabbed it out of the fire with forked stick. Ardith reached for the kettle with her hands well wrapped in a long piece of cloth, and poured the boiling water into her little cup. A lock of hair fell over her shoulder and she froze for a moment, her eyes darting from the kettle to the hair to Aharron's face and back again.

Aharron cleared his throat and leaned back on his elbows. "I expect you'll sleep better with your hair down. Head must be a bit painful from the branches pulling at it."

"Yes, it is," Ardith replied almost in a whisper.

Aharron gave a brief nod and said no more. He guessed he kept his own secrets well enough to allow her hers.