Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Lord of the Rings belong to their respective creators, Joss Whedon and J.R.R. Tolkien.
They rode back to Minas Tirith through the dark of night. For the first hour he whispered to her the different stars in the sky, like the Helluin, the Borgil, and Gil-Estel, Earendil's Star, and he traced the shapes of the heavens for her as she leaned her head against his shoulder - Menelvagor, Remmirath, Wilwarin, and the Valacirca, the Silver Sickle.
At a while she slept, and he rode in silence, listening to her breathe and his own thoughts. He remembered again the look of her against the bow, and how she looked at him, how she looked at everyone, as if she had never met her match, her head unused to bowing, her eyes unused to giving way. He thought of how she walked, unabashed, how unlike a maiden, how like a lord, and how she did not hesitate to protect those she deemed in need of her, whatever the cost.
The going was neither slow nor fast, for he did not want to disturb her where she slept against him, and he let Kho have his head. The downs here were wide and dark, with the fires of hearths and torches few and far, the patrol come and gone. The night was filled with the odd noises of the country, of fox barks and owls and crickets, noises long gone from Ithilien, and under it was Anne's hushed, soft sleep.
He heard no hoof beats or any whinny, and when a shape, large and quick, streaked by on his right, he stiffened and stilled, pulling Kho to a halt.
Anne sighed but did not wake, though her eyes and her mouth moved as if she were conscious and speaking. He held her close with his free arm, considering whether to stand and fight, or to urge Kho into a run. He could hear nothing.
And then, without warning, he was aware of a horse standing before them.
Though the night was bright with stars and moon, he could hardly see the beast in front of them. He made out its shape, its long, arching neck, its long, long legs, but it was as if a shadow was hung over the rest, for he could tell nothing else, and that shadow seemed made of things deep and dark that drank the light of moon and stars and grew only darker and deeper still.
There was no wind, but the night was suddenly bitter cold. He realized that he could hear nothing. All animal and insect noise was gone as if everything everywhere had fallen silent at once, and neither could he hear anything from the black horse, not harsh breath, not the fidgets of any horse standing still. The only sounds were of Kho's breathing, his tail switching from side to side, his own heartbeat, unnaturally loud, and the black, stagnant thing, motionless as no horse was motionless.
He looked down at Anne, and realized she had become very still. He could hardly tell if she breathed, so listless and silent was her small body against him, and fear crept into his heart as he looked down on her lolling head.
When he raised his eyes again, the horse-shape was still there, but now he thought he saw a light, dark and small and nightmarish, shining dully from two black holes in the creature's head, and now Kho shuddered once, an awful shudder that seemed to shake the very bones of his body, and he did not look away but took Anne, cold, still Anne, in his arms and faced resolutely ahead.
Then the horse-shape was gone, the road empty and bright with moonlight, and from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a shining white horse go by.
Anne stirred in his arms and sighed, and her skin grew warm. She looked up at him, her half-lidded eyes filled with sleep, and whispered, "Damrod?"
He exhaled slowly, stroked Kho's neck to find it damp with sweat, and saw Minas Tirith, white and fair, up ahead.