He stands on the road, and behind him

the castle huddles against the night 

windows dotted with warmth
voices echoing out to him

Before him is the shape of the woods

a road cold in moonlight
and the figure on the horse
towering above him
outlined in steel by the stars

their hand is outstretched

an invitation, palm open
and his own hand is halfway between them
but his head is turned,
to the castle huddled against the night.

The figure above him straightens

straight like a sword
hand still hovering. 
“I will come again.”

And then it is just the man

and the castle huddled against the night
and he feels he’s made a wrong choice.