In Dreams Chapter 7 – Merry
Rose G
Merry dreamt vividly but reminiscently that night. Dreams of home, the Green Dragon, fireworks at Bilbo's party. Even dreams of the splendours of Rivendell, and feasting in the Halls of Fire. Only one dream that he failed to understand marred his night; a dream of horses and men who looked somewhat like Strider but different and grim.
Merry had no experience with horses; had know only the ponies of the Shire until he had briefly met Glorfindel's grey horse, Asfaloth who had surely been foaled in Valinor; was no more a horse than Merry was a man. In his dream, he walked through rows and rows of chargers, larger and stronger than Asfaloth. They were tethered up tightly, chafing at the restraint and the tack that some of them bore was grim and warlike, not beautifully elaborate as Glorfindel's had been.
They stamped and neighed, sweat starring and foaming on great chests and flanks. Tails swish-swished relentlessly; dark patient eyes rolled to show white as their heads raised in response to a horn blow. The saddles creaked with their movement as men run to saddle the others, struggling into their armour as they run with swords by their sides.
One of the men took Merry by the hand, legged him up behind the saddle of a bay horse and then mounted himself. The silent man wheeled the bay into line, joining the procession out of the camp. By the time Rana, the moon, soared full above them, they were cantering in a line, ghost horses and ghost riders behind and ahead, stretching out of sight. Merry's horse screamed his defiance as the horn rung out again, wild and thrilling, a warning to enemies in the night and they cantered on.
He slipped away from the horse, into another dream of home.