I had a strange dream last night.
In my head, there were visions of tall, golden grasses and of the mountains of Gondor; their white caps shine like the bleak sun in the cloudy winter sky, towering over the hills and plains of the lands of the Horse-lords. I believe they call this land Rohan.
I saw people, tall and fair-skinned, with hair as vibrant and numerous as the grasses they walked upon, mounting great steeds built for war. Their towns are worn in style, bristling with the many spears and shields of their peoples: men, women and children all armed and ready to defend against the tides of darkness that consume all Men, like my brethren to the south. Their faces were grim and unforgiving, as if they knew their fates could be no less than that of any slave or dead man.
I feel for them, as they face what my people have already seen for years: fear, torment, death and subjugation.
Then the dream progresses, and I am among them on my own steed. I fight alongside these proud warriors in defense of a land that is not even mine, but in a way, I feel, I fight for these men because I could not stand to defend my own. Perhaps it is a way of redemption for the guilt that I carry, being the last of my tribe.
Perhaps I will go to Rohan some day.
