Mazun is a Khôlar Wise-man, to the people of places such as Gondor and Rohan he would be known as an "Easterling Sorcerer".
However while he was born in a small village near the Sea of Rhun, and trained amidst the Wizards known as Yirokhsar and Yetkeyin...he is not maligned like his brethren that invaded Gondor and Rohan.
Mazun's ambitions are simple. To assuage the ill-boding sickness of the lands he comes across, to break curses, to free Oathbreakers, to learn of the wilds and to study the tongues of the world.
He is by all means against Sauron much like his mentors, and has only flourished after the Dark Lord's defeat...
Currently he is aiding Umbar and Harad with fighting ancient evils, using his knowledge of the hidden lore of the world.
Summary: “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and right-doing, there is a field.
I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.” -Rumi
The air was cold. It was always cold in Hirming. I clutched the blanket that I had intended to get for Maitimo. Now I just had to make it back to his room. Just open the door, walk out, and help my brother.
I focused my attention on the blanket. Its color was the darkest green in a peacock’s feather. It was knit carefully with precise stitches. A small undeserved token of comfort that reminded me so much of home back in Aman.
Maitimo’s door loomed in my view. Sighing I opened the door to be welcomed by a poorly lit room. Despite belonging to the Lord of Hirming the room was barely furnished. It held a desk that loitered with a mess of documents that needed my brother’s attention. The opposite corner of the room was occupied by the closet that was carved by Curvo.
And lastly was the giant bed made specifically to cater to Maitimo, who loomed over everyone. The giant bed that now engulfed the wraith-like figure of my brother.
“Hanno” I forced my feet towards the bed to cover the shivering figure on it. Maitimo’s eyes followed my voice but there was no other movement leave for that. His entire body shook with tremors so fierce that those could be felt through the bed.
I tucked the blanket to ease his suffering. “Hanno” My brother seemed unaware of everything. Fingon’s death had done this to him. My cousin’s death had left him so vulnerable and on the cusp of fading.
“Please look at me Maedhros.” I switched his epessë with the Sindarin name. Ever since his rescue mirrors had become his foe and our mother’s name for him a curse.
“I-I did it!” Whispers of self-blame continued from my brother’s mouth. Ever since the failure of the alliance Maitimo blamed himself. He tortured his fea for Fingon’s demise. This is led to where we are right now.
“No hanno. None of this was your fault.” My arguments went unheard by the panicking ellon. “Here have some of this tea hanno.” I slid a hand under his shoulders, avoiding his hair, to allow him some of the healing droughts.
Maitimo sipped some tea in the midst of his breakdown. Much to my relief, it was enough to calm him down and offer some sleep.
With the panic now subsiding Maitimo held my hand as he murmured unintelligible phrases in the haze of sleep. His hair was a mess after laying down for a week. I wove my fingers in the tangles to soothe his fitful dreams.
Unintentionally I started humming the lullaby my brother had so lovingly sung to me in our childhood. I prayed to Illuvatar, his Ainur, the Valar, and anyone willing to listen to a kinslayer. I prayed all night for the sake of my withering brother.
I knew it was selfish to force Maitimo to stay, to demand him to continue living after being through the worst of fates. Yet, I couldn’t imagine being alive without him next to me. From my very first second of existence I had known him and to be without him on this ruthless land felt like a fate worse than ever-lasting misery.
In the company of my sleeping brother my traitorous mind wandered to her. It had been my fault. Her people had joined the enemy without blinking an eye. I should hate her as an elf, as a Noldo, and as Maitimo’s brother.
I should hate her but I couldn’t.
------------
“It is said that the intensity of henna’s color tells how much one’s future spouse will love them.” the edain woman who stood two heads below me proudly presented her hands to me.
“Then it seems like yours will love you to the end of times, my lady.” A slight redness gathered on the apples of her cheeks. A feature found only in second children, a feature that seemed too endearing. I found it impossible to not trace the intricately drawn patterns on her hands.
As I stared into the kohl-lined eyes that held untainted innocence. “And what about the kohl? Does it carry another tale of your people?” The woman next to me giggled tucking a wayward strand of her braid “My lord, not everything we do carries a romantic background. Kohl is just a protection against infections.”
It felt so easy to smile. Call of Silmarils felt a distant hum when the woman next to me enthusiastically chatted about the most trivial things.
Next to me, the edain wore heavy clothes that engulfed her small frame. From what I heard from some men, people from the East found the West to be extremely cold. In fact, it was clear from the child-like fascination in my companion's eyes just by looking at the piling snow.
“Listening to merchant’s tales I had often wondered if snow felt like the fluffiest flower of cotton that grew in nearby farms.” Much to my amusement, the woman next to me held a handful of snow “And how did you find it to be? Does it stand up to the stories?” I asked the woman whose fingers were now reddening.
Feeling the snow in her hand her nose scrunched as she said “Hmm rather than the softest cotton of our fields I'd say that it feels more like the ever-changing fine sand of our deserts.” I pried her freezing hands off the snow she clutched in her trembling fist.
She muttered thanks putting on the mittens I handed her “Yet, it is quite the opposite.” She flexed frozen fingers. Taking her covered hands I tucked them into my cloak.
---------------
A letter. In a shabby envelope that barely held on to its ends. The handwriting inside it is shabby and unusual. The curve of letters so distinct from that of my kin. It was her, the writing that was worse than that of an elfling. The faint scent that surrounded her lingered on the tattered pages.
To The Lord Who Sings,
I hope you find this letter. I have heard that the summer of Hirming brings the most beautiful scenery to life. The snow melts to reveal the crisp grass and the barren trees bare blooms found nowhere else.
In the past few days, I have found myself learning the language of your people. I struggle with the effortless strokes of the letters that I saw you make so easily. However, since you are reading this I have managed to write something coherent at the least.
I expect nothing in return for this letter. I do not seek a reply or any form of assurance. I am aware that the betrayal of my kin leaves no ground for me to ask that. Yet, I find myself writing this letter in the wake of a sunset. I fear that I left you plagued with bitterness, restless in your own agony. I am afraid that I have added to your burdens instead of lessening them.
I do not ask for your forgiveness for the crimes of my people are irredeemable. I simply want to let you know I never intended to forsake you. How could I ever think of that?
However, the passage of time cannot be reversed. My regrets cannot help but from countless scenarios of if onlys that mean nothing.
So, comfort your heart, my lord. Do not let the resentment strain your views of Hirming.
May the darkest shade of henna grace your hands.
Yours Eternally,
----------------
In the ice-cold cells of a dark prison sat a woman. Her bony fingers were bloody from writing endlessly. The floors are covered with letters addressed to a lord who sings, who plays, who smiles, and broods. Letters that make no sense because of her terrible writing from shaking hands. Piles of unsent letters that carry blood stains from untreated wounds and scraped fingers.
She writes as the breath leaves her body.
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and right-doing, there is a field.
I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.”
part-Easterling!Aragorn and part-Haradrim!Boromir, courtesy of the Miruinverse
(the red hair on Aragorn refers to historic descriptions of early Turkic peoples as often having red hair and also to fill out the trio of red brunet and blond for the inevitable throuple with Theodred)
Hi! I just discovered your blog and I love your art! I was wondering if you could please draw the nazgul(human or wraith, whichever you want/however many you want)?
I wanted to finalize my drafts of Maliku the Easterling who is featured in my Olog-hai verse and is such a pivotal character for Bruce.
Easterlings pride themselves on their dyed cloth and leather that achieve vibrant shades thanks to their methods and native tuber roots that grow around Rhûn. Although they favor scarlet hues, clothes for venturing outside their realm are often reversible with a more camouflaged interior side to evade unwanted attention from possible enemies.
Maliku, an Easterling from Rhûn, had traveled throughout Middle Earth as a peaceful scholar, his profession resembling that of anthropology but in studying all races of Middle Earth. He had been able to persuade a few number of goblin clans, villages of men both to the east and west, and a some members of Lothlórien elves to grant him permission to observe their cultures. However, believing that his studies were secrets and accounts of vulnerability of the observed groups rather than merely notes of the races’ culture, an orc commander from Mordor, Gunag the Feared, captured Maliku and held him prisoner.
Imprisoned for disappointing the crowd with his non-lethal fighting methods, Bruce was caged with Maliku. Upon seeing that the olog actually enjoyed conversation more so than most ologs or orcs, Maliku passed the long nights telling Bruce tales of the west, and the lands beyond Mordor. Upon his release, Bruce still visited the scholar, sneaking past the guards to listen to Maliku’s words. Though Bruce’s days were spent in the ferocious fighting pits, the companionship and conversations of the man brought the olog relief each night.
Eventually, both Bruce and Maliku devised a plan to help the man escape Mordor. However, the commander Gunag realized the uselessness of the man’s observations, and received no new knowledge of how to defeat the mentioned races in Maliku’s notes. The night before Bruce could help Maliku escape, Maliku was captured; he revealed his plan to escape, but refused to mention Bruce’s name. Hoping to elicit some sort of rage-fueled entertainment for the fighting pits, Gunag told Bruce that the commander had killed Maliku and wore his skull upon his armor.
Unbeknownst to Bruce, Maliku had managed to slip out of his binds and escape Mordor through the various tunnels and disguises. After the War of the Ring, Maliku returned to Mordor in search for Bruce, but did not know the Olog left several years earlier.
It was Maliku’s teachings of love, the freedom beyond Mordor, and the breaking the cycle of violence that finally motivated Bruce to leave Mordor for good.
And here come the Easterlings. And this is Bor, who swore allegiance to Maedhros and even kept this oath, which was surprising at the time. In general, for all the good things he's done, the elven lord allocated good lands for Bor and his tribe and gave him the nickname "Faithful", also known as "Vorondo". I have a whole bunch of headcanons on the relations of these leaders, but one thing is certain: to Himring Bor brought coffee, oriental chic and peace of mind for Maedhros.
This is a costume concept, in fact, for the future summer Journey and for the light of my soul – Bor. Or for the darkness of the soul. Can it be told this way? This concept is inspired by my beloved pictures with oriental boys of all kinds and the historical reconstruction of the harness of the horse of the Scythian leader XDD
Culture is good at pointing to things and calling their name but not so good at describing the relationships between things or the repertoires they enact. It privileges declarations, right answers, litigious proofs, universals, elementary particles and telos. It circles modernist scripts that celebrate freedom and transcendent newness — narrative arcs that bend toward a utopian or dystopian ultimate. This collective mind that looks for the one or the one and only is so often organized like a closed loop.
