Scenes from the Past - A Sword and it's Maiden

A Teenaged Daerundros was walking through the forest, sword in hand. She was running, flying, to some unknown spot. The birds chirped, but somehow it was very quiet... too quiet.
Out in the reaches of the northern Trollshaws, Daerundros was honing her training. Her training to become a warrior. She had but a simple black cloak, and an equally black robe, adorned on her. The long mane of black hair cascaded down her shoulder and hip, not a single strand out of place, but Daerundros would recoil in pain whenever it got tangled in the bushes of the Trollshaws. She did not really like such long hair, and wished to cut it, but Candeth would never let her daughter do anything to her hair, and she knew that the loss of her long hair would darken both mother and daughter's hearts.
Suddenly, a rustle was to be heard in the Bushes. Daerundros whipped around, searching for the source, but after a few moments of silence, nothing happened. Daerundros shrugged, moving on, but gazing around, alert.
The sunshine was excrutiatingly painful today, shining upon Daerundros' already warmed head, and she wished for shade, hastily wiping away sweat from her face. She left Eregion on a cool, windy night, after telling her mother that she would be going out to practice with her Elvish blade. A young spirit, hopeful and optimistic, one could say.
There was another, short rustle, and yet, when Daerundros whipped her head around for the second time, nothing could be seen. Frustrated, she sat down on the ground, playing with the dirt and wondering why on earth she had decided to come to this place at all.
Slowly, she dropped her blade and lay down on the ground, looking at the clouds, the narrow gorge in which she was currently located, and the plants about her. She smiled up at the sky, thinking that it would be better to relax, rather than practicing with her blade--
SHING!
In slow motion, Daerundros rolled aside, but not before the blade grazed her arm, and she cried out in pain. A few droplets of blood oozed from her robe, dripping on the ground. Holding her arm, she looked up, and Standing before her was a filthy, armoured Orc.
A scout! Thought Daerundros, running for her blade. The Orc yelled and attempted to slash at her, and she retiliated with a slash to the legs. The Orc yowled, before a goblin, carrying a spear, appeared behind him, and both of them tackled her to the ground.
Again, she rolled aside, as the orc dived and plunged his blade into the exact spot where Daerundros' chest would have been had she not swerved away quickly. The goblin attempted to hit her with his spear, but swiftly, Daerundros' blade pierced his heart, and he crumpled to the ground, dead.
Daerundros stood over her vanquished foe triumphantly, the heat of the moment giving her tingling, exciting feelings, yet, in her haste, she had forgotten about the Orc, and he, having snuck up to her, now grabbed her by the hair, breathing in gruff westron:
"That's some pretty hair eh, girly?" She struggled to kick him off, but he had her securely by the hair.
Suddenly, Daerundros' sleek hair slipped out of his grip, and she proceeded to ferociously slash at him back and forth. As his blade came whipping to her neck, she ran forward, and stabbed him in the chest.
Black blood dropped on the ground, and she, victorious, gazed at the body, disgusted. She would let it rot there for now, but she wondered; How did orcs manage to come as far as the Trollshaws? Was there some secret dwelling of Orcs here, or were they simply mountaineers and came down from the north to spy? An orc had not been seen for a long time, and she was amazed to be standing here, looking at the corpse of one of the foul creatures.
Daerundros turned around and looked back at the body of the goblin, when she, horrified, cried out as she saw something dear to her on the ground, broken.
Masses and masses of hair stood at her feet. She felt her head, hoping it was not so, but she realized that her hair had been cut by the foul creature, just as she rushed at him to impale him with her blade.
Furiously she felt the tip of her freshly-cut hair with her hands, touching the base of her neck to feel the strands.
Water. She needed something, anything reflective which would give her an idea of how bad the cut was! Her bleeding arm meant nothing to her now. With dread, she despairingly wept as she realized that it would take very long for her hair to grow back to it's original state and her tears flowed as she acknowledged how unprepared she was to deal with this sudden change. Perhaps she should have wished otherwise. Stumbling warily, she picked up her blade and left the scene of the battle, still weeping.
Coming out of the gorge, she saw the Ford of Bruinen and the high cliffs towering above it. Relieved, She slowly sat down by the bank, rolling up the sleeve of her hurt arm. She dipped her bleeding arm in the water, sighing as the soothing flow of the liquid washed away most of the pain.
Peering down at her reflection, she saw how her roughly cut hair looked. It was mostly jagged here and there, but she could easily cut it into a neater style. She observed as her she flipped her hair about, covering her face, before she patted it back in to place.
Slowly, she took the blade she had been holding, and washed away the foul black blood in the Bruinen. Drying it with her cloak, she held her hair with one hand, gazing down at the water, and  put the blade behind her.
Some small strands of hair fell into the water. She examined her reflection anew, and, though it was not very neat, she felt better knowing that she had cut her hair properly now, instead of letting that foul creature ruin it.
It would take years and years until Daerundros' hair shaped itself into what it is today.