They were cold things, dead things, that hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every creature with hot blood in its veins. They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score, riding their pale dead horses and leading hosts of the slain. All the swords of men could not stay their advance, and even maidens and suckling babes found no pity in them. They hunted the maids through frozen forests, and fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children.
Or maybe it is a dream. Your dream, my dream. I do not know. These are questions for wise men with skinny arms. You are the moon of my life. That is all I know and all I need to know. And if this is a dream… I will kill the man who tries to wake me.