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
Call me out if I'm being daft, but I don't like how the only 'good guys' in Rhûn and the Haradwaith (which are basically accepted as being inspired by the Middle East and parts of Africa) are the people that listen to the Blue Wizards, aka the 'missionaries' of the one true King of the World.
Realms of Men 2026 | A Middle-Earth Monthly Calendar
July · Harad, the Sindarin word for South, described the hot desert lands south of Gondor and Mordor. Its inhabitants, the Haradrim, were a belligerent people, who even managed to tame wild Mûmakil for war.
Took the ME armies out of stasis to give them some TLC, poor bastards are old and broken as hell.
I don't have a lot of hobby motivation lately, so I figured I should play doctor for my older minis instead.
Les Champs du Pelennor (L'attaque des oliphants) / Pelennor Fields (Attack of the mûmakils) (Tolktober 2025, jour 31), 2025, plume, pinceau, lavis, encre de Chine sur papier, 21 × 14,8 cm
There would be several things we would need to consider about the island at the time Sauron was "captured". Firstly, the island is ruled by Ar-Pharazon, experiencing the height of Numenorian power and decadence. Pride is high, ambition higher. The island boasts a fearsome navy, a reputable army and occupies territories on the mainland. Harad is apart of that occupation, though only the coastline is securely taken.
Haradrim, if any, would be taken back to the island as slaves, spectacles and trophies. Stripped of armor and pride, the Haradrim would be seen as less than a Numenorian born peasant. Their language would be forbade, forced to speak Adûnaic. Should a slave be caught speaking Haradric, they would revive capital punishment.
Next, we come to Sauron. He has given up the fight against Ar-pharazon, coming quietly back to Numenor in chains. He is compliant, docile even, and silent. When placed in confinement he is not stripped and caged excessively. He is contained, chained, clothed and fed, but no more. Ar- Pharazon wants him controlled but un spoiled, relishing in his power over the fallen maia. Sauron sits in his little cell, silent, observant, listening. He sits cross legged, eyes closed as if in rest or meditation but it is a falsehood. He is aware, very aware and ever scheming.
Here- Rehja enters. She has been summoned to the detention wing, delivering a prisoner their meal off a day old loaf of bread. No one told her who she feeds, only that she is to obey. And she does. Outwardly she is the image of wiped pride and a broken people. Within she seethes.
She is allowed entry to a darkened chamber, no light is available save for the moonlight rutting across. No one is in the chamber, only leads of black chains and shackles.
Than she sees them. Who harvest moon eyes of amber opening in the dark. Warm, unblinking, wrong. Rehja froze at the sight. She did not retreat or throw the bread into the darkness. What ever lurked there was chained to the wall, that much she could tell.
Stepping into the moon beam she crouched, becoming eye level with the gaze as though it were an animal to be coaxed out of hiding. What sort of prisoner had such eyes?
Sauron at once knew she was Haradric. His head tilted slightly, chains clinking softly in the dark. He had not expected to see a child of Harad, yet there she was. While Numenor had conquered Harrad's coast, the amount of Haradrim on the island could not have been more than ten in total. Interesting. She did not shy from him or toss the bread as other had, not that it mattered. Yet, her consistent eye contact proved an enlightening addition to his thoughts.
And then a voice, his voice.
“Zânûk balûm min Nadîrah, zhurûn-sahîr.”
'You are far from your anchor, desert child.'
Rehja gasped slightly, those were no mere words spoken into the dark. They were Haradric. She tilted her head and leaned forward, eyes wide. The cadence was perfectly spoken, her mother's speech, her grandmothers' speech, sang before her as though she had never left Harad.
“Zânûk anîr-kin.”
'You are my own, my blood, my kin.'
She whispered, no chancing a guard to hear. A small huff of air passed from the dark, not quiet amusement but something similar.
"No." Came the voice again, this time whispered in Adûnaic, a language she understood. "I am not your kin, but I know them."
She blinked, astonished, but nit understanding what he meant. How can one speak the mother's tongue so well and not be Haradric?
She furrowed her brow.
Carefully then ahe extended the loaf of bread past the moon beam, into shadow.
"A friend then." She whispered.
Chains shifted along the floor, and the amber eyes rose slightly, then leaned forward. The outline of a face drew close. High cheek bones, a pointed nose, tanned skin, pointed ears, and lengths of honied hair.
Rehja stiffened. Not with fear this time, no, she was shocked by beauty. Even imprisoned, even chained and dirtied, the creature before her was striking to behild. Her mouth parted slightly.
"...your an elf. "
The being watched her, eyes not blinking once.
"As you say I am."
A hand, chuckled and far too large for a mortal man, reached, gently taking the bread. He inclined his head once. A soft expression on his face that did not reach his eyes.
"Zahîr."
He whispered.
'Thank you'
She inclined her head in return, watching his shape recline back into darkness. She turned theb to leave, stepping silently back toward the chamber door. Rehja looked back once into the darkness and found, the eyes remained open, watching. She felt unease and lured in tandem.
Rehja would return to the chamber night after night. She delivered his single loaf and, when they spoke, he delighted her in Haradric. They would whisper her mouther's tongue and if any stood near the door to listen, they would only hear the hiss of wind.
One day, Rehja caught a glimpse of the prisoner, dragged in chain and shackle from the detention wing to the palace proper. She watched, out of sight, till he and guards were gone. She pressed her self to a stone pillar, offering a prayer for his spirit as she was certain she was never to see her strange elf friend again.
A week had passed when she received a duty change. she was to report to the eastern wing of the palace, cleaned, dressed with new linen and polished bronze shackles. She was to be a house slave, attending to the lord or lady there in night and day. The wing stood in a solitary tear of the palace, but was no less luxurious b Numenorian standards.
Rehja had expected a lord-ling upstart, pompous lady or some peacocked admiral to be her new master and tormentor. But what she saw with in was none of those.
