Not every Northwoman has long, braided hair.
Some refuse to take the risk.
*******
On the river Running floated a very lonely raft. With the swirls of current it slowly turned and bobbed, its one passenger too preoccupied to steer. The long pole lay unused at her side, while she knelt upon the soaking wood and stared in distant horror into the brown, rushing flow.
Merys sucked in a sudden breath and raised her head, looking around her as if for the first time. She sniffed and rubbed at her eye, trying to clear it so she could find her wits, her gear, her steering pole… her bearings. Where was she? A glance at the sky told her nothing. Gray and uniform, as it ever was this time of year. She turned her head, looking back. The movement caused the whole square of her raft to slowly rotate back, facing the upstream, the dry grass hills, and beyond the thin veil of dead trees, the rising hands of smoke.
Something within Merys shook, shuddering up through her til it rang out in a heart-wrenching cry, as loud as it could possibly hurl itself from her. Yet as it left her, it didn't seem enough. She turned, bowing her head and balling herself up, burying her face in her arms and not caring that the raft spun in circles, continuing its unguided journey. She tugged fitfully at her hair. Half of it was already gone, and she knew where it was.
The images rushed through her mind and Merys could not help but relive it again and again. How long the villagers had held back the Easterlings, she did not know. It seemed like barely an instant before they had begun ramming the Hall door. The screams, the shining metal masks. Her mind was merciful and blotted out the time until she awoke just outside of town. She moved her hands and found them bound. Her feet were tied as well. She tried to raise her head and immediately fell back to crane her neck. Her long red hair, as long as the small of her back, had been stretched out, wrapped around and tied to an Easterling's chariot wheel. In a panic, she cast wild eyes around her. The cries from her village were distant, fading. The battle must be near its end. Judging by the piles of furs and meager treasure lying around her, Merys was a plunder of war. And soon, her captor blotted out the gray light overhead as he peered down at her. He muttered something in a foreign tongue to another soldier crouched nearby, counting coins. The soldier tossed the remaining coins onto the pile and rose to eye Merys. More indistinct muttering.
Merys yanked her head around, but it was too tightly lashed. She tried to writhe free of the ropes holding her hands, but nothing budged. All she could do was stare up at the Easterlings who began to smile wide…
Until they were struck by arrows.
Merys startled and tried to whip her head around. The other Easterlings in the group scrambled for their weapons and ran over their fallen comrades to pursue a band of Dalish youths now running down the hill. With the jingle of soldier's armor now fading, Merys looked back to the fallen. One had a dagger at his belt. She strained til her feet just barely caught hold of the hilt, then popped it loose and slid it at her face. Perhaps not the best maneuver, since it nearly skidded into her eye, but she managed to turn her head away in time. She made short work of the ropes at her hands, then feet, then gave her head a few more desperate tugs. The hair wouldn't move. Raising the dagger, she sawed through her braid like rope until her head came free. On her feet now, she gazed at the hill beyond, at the thick smoke and the red flames. She took a step towards it, but then… the jingling. Whipping around, Merys could see the glint of metal armor rising back up the hill towards her. She took the dagger tightly in hand, and ran.
Now, hours later, adrift on the river, Merys took up the dagger again. She tilted it, eyeing the way the bent blade caught light. Then, in a swift, decisive movement, she took hold of her hair in one fist, and sliced it away with the blade. Balling up the handful of hair, she tossed it away and watched it sink into the water. Again, and again, she sliced it away, sheering herself of her hair, for lack of ability to sheer out the memories. The last strands of orange hung in her hand a moment longer. She regarded it, released a small breath, then opened her fist and watched it pass away.
At least it could never endanger her again.
