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Sometimes,
when he is alone in his thoughts,
this inscrutable Lord of the Western Lands,
standing there in the open ground underneath a warming sun,
and the air is still and quiet,
the wind comes up, unexpectedly,
and nuzzles against his neck,
kissing his ears,
playing with his silver hair,
caressing his cheek
and he remembers her fiery eyes,
and voice,
and unspoken longings,
the whiteness of her bosom,
his final witness.

Something in him stirs, then,at those moments,
and he pauses,
thinking briefly at the might have beens
that were not,
that could not be,
that did not happen,
and knows the touch of regret,
and like the wind,
sometimes, he sighs.