Darkness creeps around the young woman-- hardly more than a girl really, a girl endowed with a woman's gifts. But a child nevertheless. Naive fears clench about her heart, sending it into shocks of fierce beating against her heaving chest. Terror fills her and, apart from the ragged breathing of one so lost to fear, she does not stir.
Froze, teeth clenched and eyes wide so as to ward away the demons in the darkness (to see your enemy is to give you power), she dreads the rise and fall of her breast beneath her shielding covers. Every breath of wind, every stirred shadow seeps into her psyche, becoming her demons. Shivering strings of moon-light bring the unseeable, unknowable things into existence.

Alone, in the dark, each night the fear of this crushing and bleak nothingness fills her heart with dread, where in the daylight hours her senses scold her for such foolish ideas. She is, in herself, a mother and child. But the daylight holds not power in the dark as she cries for lack of sleep and internal ghost stories keeping the nightmares alive.
But when she does sleep, she dreams of the light that saves her, and gathers her in its arms. It is a person, but neither male nor female, at once both gentle and firm. This grasping light holds with such strength that it can sometimes hurt, and the pain burns deep. And she is soft and cold as the snow. But it radiates with such love, that she would gladly melt it, for the darkness dares not approach to tease her soul.
Each night she struggles to sleep to dream, praying-- as she might-- for the time that she might wake to find that she is held by the sun.