Disclaimer :: Lord of the Rings belongs to JRR Tolkien, as do all the characters and places mentioned in this story.
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She stands, cloaked in the anonymity of night, waiting for the epiphany that will clear away the smoke left by a dark flame long extinguished in body, yet smoldering still in spirit.
Throughout the day the shadow recedes, unable to breathe amidst the presence of the light and the living. Yet as night falls and sleep comes to those whose dreams are free of ghosts, then he haunts her, brushing her face with his cobweb hands and stealing her breath as his memory fans her fears.
She stares off into space, eyes open yet closed, seeing everything and nothing.
As she leaves reality and enters a darker world, he watches, waiting for her to return, wanting her to know that he can see her presently, through the dismal shadows of the past and the crushing uncertainty of the future to the woman, the warrior, inside.
But he can't bring her back to this place, for he understands that she must walk through hell alone for her to regain her confidence.
He, too, has had to face the dark: stare into its inky, soulless eyes as the red-hot flames lick his oil-soaked sin. When the dreams fade, he tries to believe that for all its promises and threats, darkness only sows lies and reaps fear.
Now, she must make her own journey, and though he can't help her along, his spirit stands close, ready to light the way as soon as the time is right.
He has no doubt that she'll conquer.
She is, after all, the White Lady.