Aeneid asked for drabbles about the Haradrim.
"Hradari to me!" cries lieutenant Fhelu'ut. Ahrit, clutching a spear, joins him. Defeat's in the air as Ahrit stares numbly at the White Tower rising over smoke and field, remembering.
Three months past, he stood awed beneath another tower, feeling his father's hands heavy upon his shoulders as Ahedri paid the salt tax in the only coin he had: "Here is Ahrit, my son, a man this day—one for Mordor, may he please the One."
Boyhood died in Mordor, and Gondor shall claim both man and manhood–he'll not see his fourteenth year, and he weeps as Gondor charges...
And so in this place and that, by burned homestead or barn, upon hillock or mound, under wall or on field, still [the Haradrim] gathered and rallied and fought until ... all were slain save those who fled to die, or to drown in the red foam of the River. – "The Battle of the Pelennor Fields", RoTK, 151