The Haradrim march to the Pelennor Field and one makes his final choice. Feel free to correct any misinterpretations regarding Tolkien's world.
Friendly Fire
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Halt.
This is all I hear as we march to the Black Gate of Mordor, apart from the Nazgul screeching above us. The blackness of the coming night matches my mood. I have taken my family's place in the Dark Lord's ranks. My father would be proud to see me now. But then again, if he were alive now, I would not have had to fulfill this duty.
"The Dark Lord will see to it that those Gondor dogs are defeated! Harad will take back what is hers!"
He yelled these words to our tribe. Roars of approval were the response. Afterwards the men sharpened their knives, scimitars, and arrows. The women remained unseen, as was their place. I barely knew my own mother. Being the youngest, I was sent to the temple to learn the magic of the priests. That was my place. Tribal leaders raised the eldest of us to become a leader of the Haradrim, the second became a skilled warrior and healer, and the youngest was sent to the temple. In all rights, I should not be here.
Fell beasts fly above us, roaring and screeching, signaling the time has come.
Behind I hear the ranks of Orcs snarling in their blood thirsty way.
I march when I am told to and keep in line, because this is what I have been trained to do.
There is so much death around, I feel suffocated. It surprises me that my father and brothers survived as long as they did. As the gates draw nearer I know I shall never see Harad again. The gates open can and I see nothing but empty land as we begin our march towards Gondor. Our commanding officers have ordered we march until we reach the walls of Minas Tirith. We have been told we have a day to reach Osgiliath. From there it is only fifteen miles until we reach the white city. This will be the final battle. I can feel it in my bones, there is no escaping now. Either you fight or you die.
One of my comrades has fallen. We are ordered to keep the ranks straight, to keep marching ahead. My heart clenches with grief as I step on his body in our forward march but I dare not let my face show any emotion.
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A whip cracks in the distance behind me, but I need not turn my head to know what is happening. An elder Haradrim has fallen behind by the slightest of steps. A whip is used to straighten the ranks. It is disgusting what this war had done to us. Our tribes are divided more than ever. We treat each other with no respect. We act like half starved dogs begging their master for lick of his empty plate; eating every lie we are fed.
A Nazgul's screech affirms my thoughts.
We are the Dark Lord's dogs. Harad will never rule Gondor. Harad will be lost to us.
The dawn rises as we reach Osgiliath. We are given a small rest as the Orc ranks are relocated infront of us. They will be the first to fall
My feet sore and my body weary from the march. Our commanding officers do not feel this tiredness. Sauron had Wargs from the north mounted for the officers to ride. Others sit atop Oliphaunts with our archers.
Our march begins.
Siege towers have been erected as the Orcs approach the White City. Catapults fling the bodies of Gondorian soldiers who lost their lives at Osgiliath. Even from where I stand, I can hear the cries of women and children. Their cries are the first thing I have heard apart from the screeching Nazgul and the commanding officer.
My mother cried when the Dark Lord's servants returned with my father's tortured body. My mother cried when the Dark Lord's servants returned with my eldest brother's lifeless body. My mother cried when the Dark Lord's servants returned without my other brother's body. Soon after, she died. Those are the only four memories I have of my mother. She was not there to see me taken away, nor will she be there to cry for my death and pray for my soul.
No one will cry for me when I return. But, countless Haradrim mothers will cry when their sons do not return, when they are forced to burry their fathers and husbands. Gondor will cry too.
A horn blows from the north. Rohan has come.
Rohan will cry too.
'One who relates with a corrupt person likewise becomes corrupted'. This is what I was taught in the temple. The Haradrim have sworn allegiance with the Dark Lord. They have replaced their gods with the Dark Lord. They follow his every word without question, killing without feeling.
I denounce this life. I denounce my heritage as a prince of Harad. I do this because Harad is no more than the Dark Lord's lap dog.
The commanding officer orders our ranks to face the north. I am now in the front, just behind my officer. He yells the command. We raise our scimitars. The Rohirrim charge. Our commander orders us forward.
A Rohirrim throwing spear pierces my shoulder as I embed my weapon into the back of the Haradrim commanding officer. Another arrow hits me from behind and I fall forward. As the might Rohirrim horses trample my body, at least I have found peace within my soul, and no one will cry on my behalf.
End.