There was an unspoken language among the race of men; one that was hardly acknowledged, but daily practiced. The language of messages through hairstyles. Just like flowers, one's hairstyle spoke volumes, especially when one is of age. For men, it was a simple language, easy to decipher, but women's hairstyles were an entirely different level. After all, a woman's hair was her crowning glory. In the privacy of her own home, a woman might wear her hair in whatever style she wished, but the moment she steps out the door, thought must be taken to her hairstyle. What was her destination? Who would she associate herself with? What are the circumstances surrounding her? And it is with this introduction that I begin my story.
He first saw her in a long healer's braid. Simple, plain, and effective. He could not deny her beauty, but now was not the time or place to acknowledge it to her face. He had seen hair like hers before on the heads of the slain, dying, or fighting men. And she was young, so young to be seeing the ugly remains of the battle's unwanted. She floated from mat to mat, tending to the wounded until another healer whispered a word in her ear and took her place. He really should not have been watching her. He should have been more concerned for her sister, now sleeping on the cot beside him. And with a sigh, he turned his attention back to his sister and the unfinished war.
oOo
She approached the cot bearing the warrior lady of Rohan. As befitting her gender and station, the lady was separated from the others. Beside said lady sat the newly minted warrior king. She had felt someone's gaze on her while she worked. It was strange, emanating a power she did not recognize. And that power sourced from the young king. His helmet hay at the foot of the cot, white horsetail still white despite the day it had seen. His golden hair gleamed in the candlelight. It lay limp after long hours on the saddle and battlefield, with the bottom half looking like a matted mass. The top half seemed to remain undisturbed, still in its braided half-up-do and held together by a bit of leather. Such was warrior's style of choice for hair too short for a functional braid, but still long enough to be a nuisance.
She placed her burden on the table near the cot. It was just a tray with a bit of bread, a bowl of broth, a cup, and a small pitcher of water. She felt his eyes on her as she turned away.
"Lady Healer," he said, just loud enough for her to pause and turn, silver eyes meeting golden. "Will you care for my sister in my absence?"
She did not speak, only nodding and curtseying before turning to attend to her cousin.
It was the coronation of his brother-in-arms, Gondor's long-awaited king when he next saw her with her hair twisted into elaborate braids, trailing down her back like hanging vines. A circlet of silver or white gold, detailed like a vine and entwined with delicate flowers, rested on her brow. From what he could tell by the intricacy of the hairstyle and the circlet, this lady was of high ranking. Since her hair was not piled on top of her head into a bun, she was unmarried. Neither was she mourning, for she wore no black. Her dress was instead rich blue, like the sky in the early stages of twilight. Silver threads rippled throughout the garment, giving the appearance of a running river.
He learned her name that night. And though he could not speak the elvish language, he knew what her name meant. He rolled the syllables of her name around in his mind. It sounded so beautiful and divine, yet the meaning was simple and humble. Flower-garlanded maiden. It suited her, especially when in her "lady" mode. She was beautiful and divine, yet she preferred a simpler, humbler lifestyle. One with a less ostentatious display of falsity.
oOo
His hair was clean this second time she met him. No helmet hair on the upper half and rat's nest on the bottom half. Just a sheet of beautiful golden with the front pulled back into his warrior braid and tied with a dark green velvet strip. She had a name for him. It flowed beautifully though some would say his name was rough like his culture and people. It was a versatile name, one that could strike fear or inspire hope. She liked it, nearly as much as she fancied the man.
They met many times again at various events, for there were many. Funerals, weddings, celebrations. And it did not take long before he made an offer for her hand in matrimony. And so, it was on their wedding day that she appeared before him in a dress of blue so pale, it nearly appeared white. Her gown was styled after the style of her land, giving her a distinctly elvish appearance Her hair was styled in a manner similar to when he met her at the coronation of Gondor's king. She disappeared momentarily between the ceremony and feast to change. It was a custom in her land, she said, for the bride to change clothes just as her status had. When she reappeared, she wore a gown befitting the queen of Rohan (which she had become) with her hair in a simple up-do.
But he most loved it when her hair was untamed by braids and coils. No one saw her with her hair spread across his pillow. No one saw her wearing nothing but a sheen of sweat. It was a sight reserved for him and him alone.
oOo
On their wedding day, he wore his hair tied back by a cord of blue silk. She noticed that he changed it to green. And that night, she finally got to run her fingers through his golden mane. It was uncouth for an unmarried (or even married) lady to touch the hair of a man. The only exceptions were for relatives when they had no one else to do their hair for some ceremony and for healers when they had to. It was a strange, unspoken ritual, yet she found that it made the moments between her and her husband special.
When the blessed king of Rohan passed away, he was buried in a mound outside Edoras with the kings and famed men of Rohan. Though his mound sat on the western side, he faced east. For the sunrise, he said. But few knew that it was a sunrise that brought him to his lady. While many thought that the warrior braid was an homage to his early life and role, few knew that was how he met his lady. And only his family knew of the tress of braided black in hand.
The passing of the queen of Rohan came quietly and slowly. She faded, many said. They could not quite explain how. She still appeared young for age, but there was always something about her. At her request, they buried her with her husband, still black hair in a simple healer's braid. They did not know, and it was long enough that no one would be able the trace their king and queen's history through their tresses.