Surely he had seen fair-haired women before, but none like her. Her hair shimmers like a dream of summer, a vision long-forgotten in this barren spring.

A flash of memory shines beacon-bright:  he is hiding his eyes in a golden curtain of silken hair, scented with lemon and rosemary.  “Where is my darling boy? Where is my Faramir, my jewel?” The game delights all three. His mother’s voice, like the music of flowing water, and his father’s soft laughter ring together in that faraway land.

“What do you wish, my lady?” He wishes he could bury himself in her hair.