Work Text:
The Haradrim’s footsteps echo through the earth.
Mûmakil swing their great tusks, drawing dust into the air.
Sweet notes sing from the rombalaith of Harad upon the air.
Wind whips their faces, brightens their solemn eyes,
Piercing through the sandstorm rapidly forming.
War paint dries on deep brown skin, a warm olive tone
Shaken by whites and reds. The altar spits dark flames.
Zigur (Sauron) has walked amongst them for centuries uncounted,
Draining their life and poisoning their wells. For four hundred years
They were corrupted by his words and guiles.
No longer.
The Gondorians enslaved their sons, drained their land of resources.
They laughed in the faces of their chieftains, whose only ask was to be free.
The Gondorians tell themselves they are good,
That they escaped the depravity of the King’s Men.
But have they truly outrun their enslaving ancestors, who perished in the sea?
No longer will the Easterlings accept their position as a lesser people.
Not to the Numenoreans, not to their descendants the Gondorians, who colonized their land.
They are not orcs, they are not trolls. They do not roll in filth and evil.
Khamûl is dead, faded to ruin, their cruel king holds no sway over them now.
He fled into Mordor a generation ago, leaving behind a vacuum of power easily filled by Zigur.
They march to Mordor, march to war. The calls of men echo in the silent landscape, the gentle
Creaking of the wooden howdahs on the Mûmakil’s curved backs,
The shifting of sand under those giant feet fill the warm, dry air of Umbar.
Gondor awaits them, the fell king Ciryandil rules over them with an iron fist.
They think that they are better than the king’s men. They believe in their
Supremacy over all other men. The gods have blessed them, they say.
Somehow that entitles them to the Haradrim and their land.
Somehow they forget that their own people destroyed their own land, Numenor.
Ciryandil is going to die, the Haradrim shall reclaim Umbar, their rightful port city.
But for tonight, they rest upon the backs of their Mûmakil,
Unknowing that this attack will forever brand them as servants of Sauron,
Reducing their humanity to that of the orc, with Gondorians unable to see that
They are the conquerors. The dark numenoreans will be blamed for this attack, as if it is
Not the Haradrim planning to take their own land back.
Perhaps in 2,000 years they will realize where their path has brought them.
That despite the fact they were lured by Sauron, they were never loved by his enemies.
Haradrim, lennaet! Haradrim, alcaranna! Haradrim, dan Gondor!
(Haradrim, go forth! Haradrim, for glory! Haradrim, to Gondor!)
Ringing cries break the empty night as Gondor approaches in the distance.
The white city gleams under the full moon,
Calling them to their sacred land.