#Haradrim

[mirra-kan]

Faithful Haradrim portrait for a friend of mine.

I painted her as a part of the story she creates and she was kind enough to let me share it with you ^^

I think she's gorgeous and I gotta practice painting women more often.

@konartiste I tag you coz I promised 😁✅

[ettelenethelien]

"Harad" in the Third Age having insanely complex politics and factions... People willingly fighting on Sauron's side. People forcibly conscripted to fight on Sauron's side. People fighting against Sauron (and their own neighbours in the process). Legitimate armies resisting him, and rebel cells consisting of twenty youths with ten swords between them.

Some of the people allied with Sauron are simply evil, and others have longstanding beef with Gondor, and sometimes it's being colonized by Gondor proper, and other times it's the memory of Númenor -- who in fact acquired most of that enemity in its years of being in practice led by Sauron. Some knowing who they're ultimately allied with, others having been recruited by less scary intermediaries. And it's just such a mess.

[gnomescarfcomics]

Middle-earth shots of the week

[lotrscenery]

[mithrilandvilya]

12th – language/culture/beauty 

Beauty in Harad 

She was Hastalteth, healer.  It was a title, assigned to a slave whose duty was to scour the battlefield for the fallen but not-yet-dead, and make them fit for further duty.  Aside from this, she had no name that she could remember, and recalled no life other than as Hastalteth. 

She was claimed by Qol Kai Chek, a large beast of the men of Harad.  Technically, he was Khandish, but his trade was war, and Harad had been his place for most of his career.  A fearless and commanding general, he led his troops with brutal efficiency and cunning, crafting his path to higher stations with ruthless ambition.   

This particular hastalteth was uniquely gifted at her craft, and this had become well-known amongst all the Southland battalions.  In a sea of clashing bodies bent on destruction, those who recognized her stepped aside and wielded their axes and maces in other directions, for the chance that should they fall, she would make them rise again. 

Nevertheless, her body was tainted with myriad scars and bruises, with  unnatural slight bends and bumpsi n bones here and there from ill-healed breaks.  There was no life without pain in Harad, especially for a slave.  There were no healers for the hastalteths, forbidden to aid one another and left to the help of only what they could do for themselves.   

She helped herself little, because when she saw a fallen soul on the hot, blood-stained dirt at her feet, she gave no heed to who he was or who he served.  All broken souls called to her equally, and it pained her more to hear the cries in her head and heart and do nothing than it did to face the lashes, violations, and beatings of her master for aiding an enemy. At the end of a battle, her exhausted body would be carried off to his tent by some servant or other, and she would face his wrath.  There was no expression of gratitude for saving his strongest, fastest, or best archer – another day of life was all she could expect in exchange for a successful rescue.  Although he would never speak it, despite her willful disobedience at every battle, her unparalleled healing ability made her too valuable to dispatch.  Because she was his, his reputation was all the better; she served his ambitions. 

Thus she lived on a narrow precipice of survival, mourning little for her own fate.  The lowness of her station was drilled into her self-perception, inextricable. She could not imagine a world where she was treated differently or deserved a different kind of life – the very language of Harad which gave her no name ensured it. 

At least, that was almost so.  The Southlands were bleak and razed, baked by hot sun, repeatedly coated in suffocating black ash, and strewn with anger and death.  But her eyes and soul were drawn to the rare flashes of beauty that persisted, and she could almost envision the power of the beauty encompassing all, scouring clean the filth of evil, freeing minds and hearts. 

Her mind’s eye held onto the memory of a loyal friend carrying his comrade to her through the greatest peril.  She had seen the friends later, arm in arm, laughing away pain and darkness for one more day.   

She had seen rare, dainty white sand-lilies springing from cracks in the dried, hard earth, and intrepid bees packing their legs with pollen steadily with no mind to the bloodshed all around them.   

She watched magnificent sunrises and sunsets, and moonrises and moonsets, enhanced by the persistent smoke over Harad. 

She had once gone as far north as the southern edge of the Dead Marshes, witnessing the ghastly fallen spirits in its murky waters, while over them a family of beavers busily built their lodge, old swords, bows and staffs picked out of the choked bottom made part of its construction, so that the lodge was an entrancing work of art. 

She routinely noted bird nests tucked into layered cliffs, parents feeding their young amid soft, sharp chirps of excitement exuding from the nestlings. 

And she had twice knelt over and healed exquisite forms of the most beautiful elves, deemed merely mythical creatures this far south, and saw their shining eyes delight as the Halls of Mandos slammed shut before their spirits entered.  These had laid their hands on her in otherwise unknown gentleness and gratitude, inviting her to go with them, which she had refused because she desired not to make them a focus of her master’s worst intentions.  But ever since, she dreamed of them and the beauty that must fill the lands of such stunningly elegant people. 

She held on to these flashes of beauty, secreting them away in her mind, using them to keep from breaking entirely. Qol Kai Chek had complete control over her body, but he never knew what was in her mind.  That was hers and hers alone.  She had trained herself so that when he bore down on her with whips, chains, straps, and fists to leave her body and instead be with the bees, beavers or birds, or even with the elves.  He would grow frustrated that his punishments never changed her behavior, but when he ran out of breath at his exertions against her, he knew nothing else to do short of killing her, which he did not want.  He was clever enough to spin all in his favor in the eyes of charges and superiors, so it mattered not.  

Hastalteth steadfastly healed hundreds or maybe even thousands before Qol Kai Chek finally fell.  In the chaotic aftermath of his ultimate defeat, his remaining soldiers scattered confusedly in all directions, all thinking only of themselves, and none thinking of her.  She trudged wearily amongst the fallen, seeking any near enough to life to revive, until she happened upon the corpse of the general, not knowing he had fallen until then. She heard a far-off call from his soul to hers, pleading for life, but when she went to touch him, she felt his spirit violently jerked back away from her, and there was no more of him in this world.   

She stood, turned, and looked all around her and found herself utterly alone in the desolation. Above her, the sky was fiery red at the brink of night, and a single dark form cut across it from South to North.  A great eagle slowly soared, coming low as it passed over her, and she could see the beautiful fine detail of its powerful yet graceful feathers. It uttered a sharp, plaintive peal, seemingly calling her to follow.  

Hastalteth was apparently no more, but what she now was, she didn’t know.  The eagle was already far ahead of her and disappearing beyond a ridge as she set out after it. Her path was slow and treacherous over rocky, broken, and battle-shredded terrain, but by dawn, as she pulled herself up the final ledge of a cliff, she saw a trail of daisies before her, heading down into a very narrow green valley surrounded by bare black and red mesas in all directions.  The green winding canyon bottom was strikingly solitary and the only way forward.  Her eyes followed it as far as possible, and where it disappeared at a bend miles in the distance, she believed she could see a stand of lush trees, something she had never before seen but instantly recognized. 

There was a word for these trees, rarely used because they were rarely seen, nearly archaic in the Haradrim tongue. Santi, it was.  As she thrilled at the possibilities before her, she carefully made her way toward the stand of Santis, though it would take her nearly the full day to get to them. Looking on them as she drew near, and felt transformed by the sudden change in her fate.  She felt inspired to give herself a name.   

“Santi I now am,” she said out loud to herself, “and I will follow the path of beauty before me to see where it leads.”   

That night she laid under the boughs of her namesakes and dreamed of elves in splendid lands somewhere in the north and west, for the first time thinking perhaps she would actually see them someday.  The gently swaying Santis saw her beneath them, and having heard her say her name, reckoned her as one of them, and kept her safe in their embrace through the long night.  They sent out whispers through the earth and on the winds to all the places they knew, telling about her, and thus enchanted her journey. Creatures small and large welcomed and protected her wherever she went for the next several months.  Whenever she felt uncertain which way to turn, some creature would inevitably appear on her path, leading her around obstacles gradually north, and now and then west.  The enchantment continued until she first stepped into the realm of elves, where it ceased, no longer needed. 

Santi had no idea she had made it to the lands she dreamed of seeing, but she knew she was surrounded by overwhelming beauty.  Perhaps those from these lands took it for granted, but she herself was continually surprised and amazed at all she saw.  She sat down to rest, but fought against closing her eyes for more than a few moments, slightly fearful that when she re-opened them she would find this all a fantasy and awake with the brutish form of the general hovering over her, freshly laid welts and bruises marring her body, as she cowered in the corner of the tent of her master.  Eventually her eyes did close, and she slept without knowing. 

Night fell, starless due to low, wet clouds, when a soft touch on her shoulder stirred her and she was greeted by a voice she had heard once before.   

“Santi, I am relieved that you have found and followed the path we laid for you to come to us.  You are welcome here as long as you wish to remain.” 

Before she could ask, the elf continued, “We know your name from the trees, for we hear their voices as well as yours.  Come now to the halls of healing where you may rest and eventually work if you so desire.” 

Only then did she understand the solitary green line pointing her north, through the Santis to here, had been laid for her by the elves.  The two she met had both invited her to go with them, but had not forced her when she refused.  However, they did not forget the beautiful heart of the Haradrima healer that had tended them, and with a gentle touch at their departure had inserted themselves into her dreams to comfort her while they prepared her way out of the lands of darkness.  

Never before had Santi felt loved.  But once she knew it, she recognized love as the source of all beauty.  She understood that what Harad suffered was from its lack, and she pitied those she had left behind. 

 After a long respite with the elves, she followed the now-decaying green line back to her homeland.  As she passed the Santis, she thanked them for their name and protection but set them both aside and again became Hastalteth.  She spent the rest of her life healing as many as she could with loving care, with no master other than her own heart.   

On a particularly bleak, smoke-filled winter day less than a half-decade after her respite, two elves collected her shattered body from beneath a sullen rocky precipice deep inside the realm of Harad and carried her away to lay her to rest under the Santi trees, who again embraced her as their own.   

Those who saw her die mourned for themselves over it, but continued on their way to another battle they would soon face. However, among those she had healed were a few who were touched by her compassion and inspired to carry some of it themselves.   Nameless, she was before long forgotten in Harad except by the Santis, the only evidence of her life a small light in the hearts of some she healed and a few more that they themselves touched with compassion.  It went on and did not extinguish, helping to keep the full domination of darkness ever so slightly at bay. 

[theworldsoftolkein]

Assurance From Faramir - by Breath Art2004

"But fear no more! I would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway. Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and I alone could save her, so, using the weapon of the Dark Lord for her good and my glory. No, I do not wish for such triumphs, Frodo son of Drogo."

[sonneteer-fool]

@tolkienocweek Day 7 (27th August): Freeform /jumps under the closing gates the last moment/ I have 10 Tolkien OCs And very little time ::::`d I wish i could tell about every one of them but that s not in my powers for now. I hope throwing everything at once like that is not rude djirojdriojdriod

Lómenorto or Almenesta is a trickster and a Maia of Irmo. His task was generally to paralyse people during their sleep - which he finds very dull and boring. Therefore he either slacks (and that s why people sleepwalk) or send very weird dreams and nightmares (sleep paralysis basically). Tried to follow Melkor once - yet discovered he did not like being ordered around. Ended up constantly changing sides, sitting on two chairs at once. While he pretends to work for both the Valar and Melkor - he, in fact, just sabotages and annoys everyone. Loves everything silly.

Udhos of Harad was made for the Silmarillion Steampunk AU RP. He is an evil (?) alchemist who used to do errands for Sauron - yet grew dissapointed in his intrigues and tried to escape along with the prisoner he was assigned to torture (steampunk!Maedhros). Is generally very mean to everyone.

Raivo is a traveller from Forodwaith. Has a very cheery and chaotic character. The sword (or more like what was left from it) they are carrying was won in a fight with some icy Giant (according to Raivo's own words). They are interested in tales of dread and set off for their journey to write down every creepy legend they can hear in Middle-Earth. Are in search of a story that could actually scare them.

[dartxo]

"Men against Men"

2022

He wondered what the man's name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace.

-"The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers", by J.R.R. Tolkien

A small scene from a small passage, but a very significant one in that it portrays Tolkien's antiwar thoughts. I am glad that in the Extended Edition they give those lines over to Faramir, him being after all not a warrior by choice. 

[mirra-kan]

In the 1050 of the Third Age Gondor was at the height of its power and "defeated the Men of the Harad, and their kings were compelled to acknowledge the overlordship of Gondor…the kings of the Harad did homage to Gondor, and their sons lived as hostages in the court of its King."

RotK, Appendix A, I, iv, Gondor and the Heirs of Anarion

✔ Close-up of Haradrim Prince -> click here

[ettelenethelien]

The peoples of the South and East

A companion post to my fic that change not with the changing of the years

Ok, so "Harad" just means "South" and it's definitely not an actual name the people living there have for themselves, just a catch-all phrase for anything south of Umbar as used by everyone north of Umbar. And it cannot be a single country. That said, the following is 100% pure and unadulterated headcanon, and none of the names here, except that of Khand come from anywhere within Tolkien's works.

There is a lot of city-states, mostly because they're easier to invent, haha, but Selih on the edge of the desert, and the Bay of Kenteh, lie inside countries of their own. Sarakhir, Verna and Ekithmar are city-states proper.

The people of the river Verid are a curious case, because aside from a city-state or two, there is no unifying power governing them. They are tribesmen and village folk; fishermen, farmers and herdsmen most of them; sharing much of a common culture (though they are an amalgam of several peoples), but forming no political state. They are reasonably well-off for country folk, and they hold the current arrangement optimal -- unless they are currently being invaded, in which case it really doesn't help. By the War of the Ring, a fair bit of the region is under the power of Sauron with many of the youth brainwashed into supporting the army they have been conscripted into, and an important fiercely rebelling undercurrent.

Zûnar lies near enough to the Verid, though not, itself, beside it, and is in fact the westernmost region of a small kingdom, rather than a principality itself. It might have some Númenorean influence -- yes, I'm mostly thinking of that because I spelt the word with the Adunaic-typical weird triangular accent -- so the kingdom likely has access to the sea.

I have imagined Evralthum and Mridyanva to have some Indian influence, although I'm not 100% sure on it yet. Evralthum, as mentioned in the fic, has been forcibly swallowed up by Mridyanva, however it will become a country again in the general upheaval following the War of the Ring. Mridyanva itself might support Sauron's army to an extent, but possibly through an intermediary empire pressuring it, rather than of itself.

Milyan-kai definitely has some East-Asian influences, probably Japanese rather than Chinese. I'm on the fence regarding Ta-L'nau, and Olonde is something of a "typical fantasy kingdom minus the medieval England/Germany thing". They're too far off to be influenced by Sauron, although they might be fighting his armies on their fronts.

Khand is probably one of the human kingdoms closest allied with Sauron; not the only one, but the best known. I haven't named any others yet. There's also the Corsairs of Umbar who are universally hated by everyone in the region, because corsairs.

[vandacarnelme]

One of my favourite quests in King's Gondor begins at Halach with Irodon.

You find this mystery supplier easily, an old soldier of Harad dressed in lordly attire named Asórkho, pouring over some sacks.

The quest ends here, but on returning to Halach later you find-!

Asórkho in Halach, with he and Irodon in conversation :')

[daddyklingon]

I love the Temámir so much.

I"m not 100% which Tolkien clan they're supposed to be, but they're a different clan from Gimli that lives *vaguely* South.

Potentially in Harad?

They're very Byzantine.

[sotwk]

Not to contribute to the endless pile of asks in your askbox but I suddenly remembered you saying something about a Haradrim oc and I'd live to hear about them! Of course if you don't want to share at this point that's grand, just thought I'd ask :)

@hobbitwrangler You are SUCH the investigative journalist, always digging through Writer's brains for their secrets! <3 It's devious yet thoughtful and fun in a way that I appreciate so much! XD

I really should not overshare ahead of time regarding the Haradrim OCs and headcanon lore I am cooking up, but I can say that there will be some brief hints of them in Part 3 of "Taken", which I am still writing at the moment!

Huh? Why that fic?

The Haradrim, especially as they canonically appear during the War of the Ring and in the Fourth Age, will feature heavily in "Change the Stars", my spin-off sequel to Taken. This multi-chapter Éomer x OC Shieldmaiden fic is in the active plotting stage and although the story picks up immediately where "Taken" ends, it will feature tons of flashbacks that sheds light on the years of history shared by the "Reader" in Taken and Éomer. I mean, he has to love her so deeply for a good reason, right? (I don't really favor insta-love.)

And what do the Haradrim have to do with all that drama? Well, Haradrim OCs will directly affect the fate of our (seemingly) doomed lovers.

My goal is to promote the truth that not all Haradrim were evil men, and some were actually GOOD men striving to do the right thing. I'm happily taking notes and inspiration from other artists and writers who have created works along this same theme, such as @mirra-kan (see their whole blog!), @jane0error (Songstress of the Southern Realms), and @mithrilandvilya (Beauty in Harad). I still have a long way to go with research and development for it, though!

Nonetheless, there are also still bad Haradrim running around post-RotK, so you might be glad to know there will still be some of this type of Éomer energy going on:

Thank you as always for the great ask, Ace Reporter! ;)

[theworldsoftolkein]

The Battle of the Pelennor Fields - by Alan Lee

[chloe-caulfield94]

Life is Strange/Lord of the Rings crossover fanfic. Basically Max and Chloe go to Middle-Earth and back again.

While this crossover might seem eclectic, I think there are some common themes between LiS and LotR. Ordinary people faced with impossible situations. The power of love and friendship allowing people to endure untold hardships. Destiny and what should people do when confronted with it. "The smallest person changing the course of the future".

If you don't like crossovers in general or fantasy in particular, consider reading the beginning of chapter one and the entire chapter four, which take place before Max and Chloe leave their universe and after they come back respectively. That way it becomes a short story about Max's and Chloe's visit to Away. But then you'd miss the part where I describe how Max's and Chloe's engagement rings look like (how could I write a crossover with the Lord of the RINGS and not touch upon this subject), as well as one particularly sappy and drawn-out declaration of love made by Chloe before they go into battle.

If you think that David doesn't deserve Chloe's forgiveness for his "tough love", my answer is - nobody ever deserves forgiveness. It's always something better than we deserve. I think Chloe is a kind-hearted person. She was able to almost immediately forgive Max. I imagine she would also forgive David. And I find the prospect of Chloe and David being reconciled much more appealing than Chloe hating him for the rest of her life, even if she has legitimate reasons for doing so.

While my nickname on AO3 might suggest I hold extremely unorthodox views on Middle-Earth, I honestly don't think what I wrote is incompatible with what we know about the world of LotR. I don't think what I wrote is a complete retelling, like "the Last Ringbearer". In my mind, I just provided a different perspective on the events we already knew about.

The belief that death is a divine gift and rejecting it is wrong, which is held by the "good guys" of LotR, allowed for some nice contrast and conflict with Max's life philosophy, which seems to be all about saving people who are "destined" to die, like Chloe and Tristan.

[wylanzahn]

I’ve been getting really into Middle Earth and the lore behind the scenes… what if we had a story set within the folks of Haradrim where the Númenoreans did not fall, or rather the lands were not controlled by the “Black Númenoreans”. It would be interesting to see the society and peoples of Númenor continue in mainland Middle Earth.

Haradrim and Gondor hand in hand in the fight against the dark shadow of Mordor.