Stephen Colbert is, quite famously, a huge Lord of the Rings fanboy, with the Late Show host frequently challenging guests (including Lee Pace, Elvenking) to Tolkien trivia battles and even casting himself as Darrylgorn, Aragorn’s slightly sexier older twin brother, in a bit of studio-budget fanfiction.

Now, he can add “show-and-tell with Galadriel herself” to the list. During a socially distanced episode of The Late Show, Colbert video-chatted Cate Blanchett, who proceeded to whip out not one but two shiny prop weapons from the set of The Hobbit. 

The host’s reaction says it all:

Screenshot: The Late Show with Stephen Colbert on YouTube

The weapons in question were the twin fighting knives wielded by Tauriel (Evangeline Lilly) as Captain of the Woodland Guard.

Buy it Now

“Pretty cool,” said Blanchett, showing off some moves. “I mean, some people stock toilet paper, but I got these.”

“Wait, you have Tauriel’s fighting blades?” asked Colbert. “Why do you have Tauriel’s fighting blades? Why doesn’t Evangeline Lilly have them?”

“Well, I dunno,” the actor responded, before stopping herself and stashing them out of sight. “Actually, you did not see those. Don’t speak to Evangeline Lilly anytime soon.”

Pivoting very smoothly to distract from the mysterious origins of Tauriel’s fighting blades, Blanchett quickly moved onto another iconic piece of cinematic weaponry, one last seen in the hands of Natalie Portman. “You know how that Thor film was shut down in Australia? It wasn’t anything to do with COVID-19,” she said. “It’s because I got the hammer.”

Screenshot: The Late Show with Stephen Colbert on YouTube

Blanchett is speaking, of course, of the fourth installment in the Thor series, Thor: Love and Thunder. Although the production is currently on hold, Taika Waititi remains hard at work behind-the-scenes. In an Instagram Live watch-party for Thor: Ragnarok (featuring special guests Tessa Thompson and Mark Ruffalo), the director revealed that the film has gone through five drafts so far and will feature the Starsharks, new armor for Miek, and more Korg (who will not be getting a love interest due to a lost love), but not the Silver Surfer (or the resurrection of Tony Stark). He also said Love and Thunder is so “over-the-top” that it makes Ragnarok “seem like a really run of the mill, very safe film.”

There’s no word yet on a release date, or if Blanchett will reprise her role as Hela. (If she managed to get her hands on Mjolnir, though…)

Watch the full clip here:

I vaguely remember my first introduction to The Hobbit, through the BBC radio dramatisation—a spectacular 8-episode series that my friends had on tape. We listened to it on long car trips, enthralled by the adventures of Bilbo, Gandalf, and the Dwarves. Years later, I fell just as much in love with The Lord of the Rings, so different in tone and yet still a story in which small, seemingly insignificant people find their courage through impossible situations and support their friends, emotionally and practically, through dangerous adventures.

In neither story did romance take a major role, and at the time, I did not question it.

* * *

Only recently have I been comfortable enough to say that I am asexual. Maybe it was pure shyness, maybe uncertainty about committing to the term, but for a long time it wasn’t something I would have talked about aloud. But looking back, it’s always been part of my makeup, and as with many lovers of fantasy, part of how I’ve always constructed my identity has been through fictional characters. By my early twenties, I hadn’t encountered many examples of clearly ace characters in fiction, save perhaps for Sherlock Holmes, who I found a bit intimidating rather than relatable. In my favourite stories, however, I found characters who helped me to figure myself out. Bilbo Baggins, and later Frodo, defined my identity for me in different ways, before I had the vocabulary or understanding to describe it for myself.

Perhaps I didn’t have a word for it as such, but in the grand tradition of euphemisms and metaphors, I thought of myself as “like Bilbo,” or, when I was more romantically inclined, “like Frodo.” What hit me later was that neither of these characters were not defined in terms of what they lacked, and because of this, I didn’t think of myself as lacking something either. Finding myself single and inclined to remain so, at an age when most of my contemporaries were dating and hooking up, I wondered if I should feel differently about it, or whether my own fantasies (strong friendships, sincere declarations of love) were asking too much of a world driven by sex. Still, two of my fictional mainstays seemed unbothered by bachelorhood…

In Bilbo’s story, and later in Frodo’s, there was nothing wrong with being single. I recognise now the rarity of that situation, and its value to someone struggling with the realisation that what works for most people is not working for them. Singleness in Middle-earth, generally, does not seem to bear the burden of social stigma. Over half of the Fellowship are unmarried and childless. The idea that a fulfilling life and meaningful contributions to society did not depend on my wish to marry and have children has given me the kind of hope that these stories convey so well—a quiet but tenacious hope that sees me through difficult times.

* * *

Buy it Now

It was not until I took a class on Tolkien in the third year of my undergrad studies that I started thinking about this more seriously. My professor pointed out the distinct lack of female characters in The Hobbit, as well as the lack of a love story in it, and asked us what we thought. Aside from the implication that a woman would necessarily act as a love interest (an infuriating assumption that my professor didn’t intend, but that is another conversation) there was the subject of romance brought into the open, and its absence noted. I do wish that there had been more women in Tolkien’s work, not least because I love those that he did write as fully fledged characters. The lack of a love story, though, did not (and does not) bother me.

By that point I was past the age of pretending to be above such things as romance: I’d realised that I did like it, I liked reading about it, I was a little uncertain about myself in regards to it, and I wasn’t keen on the notion of sex. It was nice that other people liked it so much, but I wavered between thinking that I was too young for it (I was perhaps 21 at the time of the course) and thinking that I was too busy (I was, as mentioned, a third-year undergrad and one of those who was constantly overwhelmed by something or other). The fact that there was no love story in The Hobbit had frankly gone over my head.

Bilbo never seems inclined toward romance, certainly. From the beginning, he lives comfortably alone, welcoming visitors—the consummate host, and probably an excellent friend. Following his adventure, he settles down again to enjoy his newly increased wealth and later adopts Frodo, finding familial fulfilment in the role of cousin and guardian. There is none of the emptiness or brokenness that accompany stereotypes of single people, and though the neighbourhood thinks him eccentric, Bilbo remains confident and popular right up to his famous disappearance on his eleventy-first birthday.

* * *

Frodo, on the other hand, has a profound romantic side. I read his relationship with Sam as a romance without sex, and in hindsight it should have been searingly obvious to me that this being my ideal said something about who I am and what I want in my life. Shipping is legitimate, and wonderful, but when it came to my own reading there was something elusive and intriguing there, something that I wanted. (Not the Ring, to be perfectly clear on this.) They were together, in a way that I could see myself being together with someone. (Not in Mordor, again to be clear.) Theirs was a love that differed from casual or even closer friendship, and I appreciated that, even while trying to work out what exactly it was that I appreciated.

While there is a class difference between them and professional loyalty may be part of Sam’s devotion to Frodo, the longer the two are together, the less this matters. Throughout The Fellowship of the Ring, despite their closeness, theirs is still a master-servant relationship to some degree, and Frodo is more prominent. But then come two books’ worth of wandering with only each other and Gollum for company, terrible dangers, and a rescue from the hands of the orcs. Sam becomes Frodo’s equal in narrative weight, in character, in significance, and Frodo comes to see him as such: as Samwise the Stouthearted, a hero in his own right.

It is strange to think that the best and most powerful parts of their love story come at the darkest points in the books, when they have run out of any hope save for what they find in each other. Then again, perhaps that’s the point… When all else is stripped away, what is it that sustains them? Sam storms the tower in which Frodo is imprisoned and sings in the darkness, seeming to hear “a faint voice answering him.” They face the worst places they can possibly go together, and are ready to die together. It is a love that responds to the direst of circumstances by growing only stronger, and that ultimately saves the world—and the idea that love could do that without being necessarily sexual in nature inspired me inestimably.

I don’t like to talk much about the end of the third volume, because I have yet to complete it without devolving into undignified tears. But I think it is important that the bond between Frodo and Sam is not forgotten even as Frodo departs the shores of Middle-earth: Leaving the last few pages of the Red Book, Frodo trusts Sam to complete the work, just as they completed the journey together. (As a writer, I can only hope to have someone in my life who loves me enough to complete my own unfinished stories.)

* * *

Brokenness, and eventual unbelonging, are part of Frodo’s story, of course. Bilbo’s too, but he only leaves Middle-earth as a much older hobbit, and has had the chance to enjoy years of a fulfilling and happy life beforehand. This brokenness is not tied to his singleness, because while he certainly was in no frame of mind for courtship on his return to the Shire, Frodo had also gone fifty years before the quest without marrying or falling in love. It is something else, a trauma or sadness that he cannot share with others and which causes them to worry about him—but even this lingering damage serves to highlight the importance and strength of the relationships he has, and the love that he and his closest friends share.

I mention this because brokenness and unbelonging have been part of my experience, too, for far different reasons than the lingering effects of an epic quest. I move around a lot, and in doing so, find it hard to keep in touch with many of my friends. I have not had a sustained group of friends in one place for many years. The pain that results from this is as real and profound as that of forsaken romantic love, and it has been important in shaping who I am. It isn’t because of my disinterest in sex, and I am not lonely for that reason, but because of other kinds of love and belonging that I wish I had. That I can find these in a beloved book is some solace, and especially seeing them so highly valued, and their loss mourned.

This valuing of friend-love is demonstrated so early on in The Fellowship of the Ring that it would be easy to pass it by unnoticed, but the “Conspiracy Unmasked” chapter strikes such a strong note for friendship that it must be mentioned. This chapter also shows how different Frodo’s journey will be from Bilbo’s, and foreshadows some of the elements that will decide major events later on in the story. To my mind, it is also an indication that Frodo’s priority is friendship, as it is these friends whose impending parting he agonises over in the preceding months…

While it may be easier, from a narrative standpoint, to have a single hobbit going off into the unknown, not leaving behind a wife and children, it may bear different complications, as evidenced by Frodo hating to leave his friends, trying to depart unnoticed. It doesn’t work, of course, because his friendships are the strongest bonds in his life. If Bilbo was able to run off into the blue with a gang of unknown dwarves at a moment’s notice, Frodo had no such chance in “Conspiracy Unmasked,” because in lingering too long he tipped off his friends that something was going on.

Leaving again, at the end of The Return of the King, is no easier. Frodo tries once again to slip away unnoticed—and again fails. His friends catch him up. His Sam sees him off and understands why he has to go. Though Sam by this point is married, I continued to believe that Frodo was the love of his life, but in a different way. Merry, Pippin, and Sam have the chance to bid Frodo farewell and share the pain of parting, in a sober echo of that earlier, more ebullient scene.

* * *

The resonance of fictional characters depends on many things. It isn’t always a set of statistics that lines up exactly as expected, but sometimes a surprise: sometimes the characters I identify with are the ones that seem nothing like me at first. But this does not change the fact that representation matters, and that when some part of ourselves that we rarely see reflected in fiction makes its appearance, we recognise it. It comes as a great joy and relief.

I found myself in the Bagginses—characters who seemed a little at odds with their communities, perhaps, but with strong social lives. Characters who seemed intelligent enough, but still made mistakes that wiser characters could have warned them against. They were not confident, they were dreamers. Bilbo rushed out the door without a pocket handkerchief. Frodo inadvertently led his friends into danger within two hours or so of walking out the door at Crickhollow. These are the kinds of people who would be well set up for a heroic romance, if they had been so inclined, but Bilbo was quite content with no romance at all, and Frodo shared a different kind of love with Sam through their adventure and beyond. For me, their relationship is a romantic friendship, simply because that is my ideal and I like the thought of sharing it with them.

They resonated in different ways. Bilbo’s life as an ordinary bachelor (before the adventure) and as an eccentric bachelor (after) made me realise what fun singleness could be. Frodo’s upbringing, simultaneously comfortable and threaded with a yearning for adventure, followed by a journey that left him neither rich and happy like Bilbo nor married like a typical adventure hero, made me see the importance of having people to rely on in dark times, to “trust…to stick to [me] through thick and thin—to the bitter end,” as Merry put it. And in both cases, my emerging ace brain responded with the persistent feeling that I was like them—not because of something we lacked, but because of all that we shared. The road goes ever on and on, and I’m glad to be able to follow it in such good company.

Isobel Granby is a writer, PhD student, and artist currently based in Newfoundland. Her hobbies include violin, fencing, and gazing upon the raging sea. She is currently seeking an adventure that will be terribly exciting but not cause her to miss second breakfast.

In this biweekly series, we’re exploring the evolution of both major and minor figures in Tolkien’s legendarium, tracing the transformations of these characters through drafts and early manuscripts through to the finished work. This week’s installment is the final one in a short series looking at Fëanor, one of the greatest Noldor, father of seven mighty sons, and creator of the Silmarils.

We’ve come now to the end of Fëanor’s story: to the infamous Oath and the havoc it wreaks on Valinor, Middle-earth, and especially the Noldor. In the title of this series of articles, I’ve called Fëanor the “Doomsman of the Noldor” for this reason. Mandos is known as the Doomsman of the Valar because he is the one who pronounces fates, sees the future, and is especially good at seeing through difficult situations to their cores. I’ve named Fëanor similarly because it is his Oath, his set of ritualized words, that bind the Noldor in a doom they can’t escape.

In the last installment, we ended in near darkness as Fëanor rejects the plea of Yavanna and then curses Melkor to everlasting darkness, naming him Morgoth. He also accuses the Valar of greed and selfishness, though in one of Tolkien’s drafts he spurs his people on to a sort of “manifest destiny” project—one that’s distinctly racialized, and one that uses as its foundation the very lies Morgoth has been spreading. But there was a glimmer of hope in the words of the narrator, who points out that at this point, Fëanor still had a chance which, if he had taken it, would have changed the courses of history.

Only he doesn’t. Fëanor strides from the feasting place of the Valar into the utter darkness and disappears for a while. He returns suddenly, The Silmarillion tells us, and “called on all to come to the high court of the King upon the summit of Tuna” (82). A powerful scene ensues: Fëanor is a master artist, of words and not just of metals and gems. And here, illuminated by red torchlight and in the high place of the King (a mighty, symbolic gesture), he fashions a great speech.

The story as it’s told in the first Book of Lost Tales (BLT1) emphasizes Fëanor’s madness in this moment. Tolkien writes that “many thousands of [the Elves] come to hear his words bearing slender torches, so that that place is filled with a lurid light such as has never before shone on those white walls” (180). It’s particularly interesting to me that the light here is described as “lurid.” The OED gives a couple of useful definitions for the word: “Pale and dismal in colour; wan and sallow; ghastly of hue,” or “Shining with a red glow or glare amid darkness.” We should pay particular attention to this because light is such a powerful symbol in Tolkien’s work. And this is the first light we have come across since the murder of the Two Trees plunged the world into darkness. Their Light was pure and holy, bringing health and piece. The light of the torches in this moment is in direct contrast to that, emphasizing that Fëanor can’t reproduce that hallowed light. This is important because, as we’ve discussed previously, Fëanor had forgotten that the light imprisoned in the Silmarils wasn’t his own; this “lurid light” reminds us that though the Noldor are looking to Fëanor during this harrowing experience, he can’t even begin to offer what Ilúvatar and Yavanna had given them in the first place.

The Silmarillion goes on to say that the voice of Fëanor:

…had great power over hearts when he would use it: and that night he made a speech before the Noldor which they ever remembered. Fierce and fell were his words, and filled with anger and pride; and hearing them the Noldor were stirred to madness. […] He claimed now the kingship of the all Noldor, since Finwë was dead, and he scorned the decrees of the Valar.” (82)

I suspect that Tolkien did not approve of Fëanor taking the kingship, even if he had a right to it. Much of the literature and culture Tolkien studied as an academic (such as Beowulf) insists that a good king is, above all, generous towards his subjects: in fact, kings were often called “ring-givers” or “treasure-givers” because it was seen as their duty to reward those who were loyal to him with gifts. An ungenerous king is no king at all, nor does he deserve loyalty and respect from his subjects. Good kings, on the other hand, are givers. Fëanor does not fit the bill. He’s close-handed, stingy, and locks his treasures away so that only a select few can even see them. This is, I think, the first sign that Fëanor is not just a bad king—but that he had no right to be king in the first place.

Fëanor then gives a speech that directly implicates the Valar in the actions of Morgoth, for “are not they and he of one kin? […] And what else have ye not lost, cooped here in a narrow land between the mountains and the sea?” he asks (Sil 82). His words appeal to the variety of people gathered to hear him speak: those who are grieving for the loss of their king; those who are afraid because of the darkness; and those who, like Galadriel, are desirous of wider lands to explore and rule. And yet, The Book of Lost Tales 1 calls him “demented” in this moment (180). As we discovered in the last installment, Fëanor can’t seem to see that his words are just building on the lies that Morgoth has been disseminating.

Buy it Now

He then appeals to their sense of wonder and their courage, invoking their memories of Cuiviénen—memories which, ironically, he himself doesn’t share because he was born in Valinor. “Shall we mourn here deedless for ever,” he asks, “a shadow-folk, mist-haunting, dropping vain tears in the thankless sea? Or shall we return to our home? In Cuiviénen sweet ran the waters under unclouded stars, and wide lands lay about, where a free people might walk. There they lie still and await us who in our folly forsook them. Come away! Let the cowards keep this city!” (Sil 82-83). So Fëanor urges them on to glory and great deeds, which in itself is not wrong. But he does so by casting aspersions on the Valar and driving the Noldor to a seething madness that will not easily be assuaged; his speech, like that of Saruman after, is manipulative and calculated to produce a specific response.

And then, in the heat of the moment and to crown his moving speech, Fëanor does as he should not have done:

Then Fëanor swore a terrible oath. His seven sons straight-way sprang to his side and took the selfsame vow together, and red as blood shone their drawn swords in the glare of the torches. They swore an oath which none shall break, and none should take, by the name even of Ilúvatar, calling the Everlasting Dark upon them if they kept it not; and Manwë they named to witness, and Varda, and the hallowed mountain of Taniquetil, vowing to pursue with vengeance and hatred to the ends of the World Vala, Demon, Elf or Man as yet unborn, or any creature, great or small, good or evil, that time should bring forth unto the end of days, whoso should hold or take or keep a Silmaril from their possession. (Sil 83)

The narrator then observes that “many quailed to hear the dread words. For so sworn, good or evil, an oath may not be broken, and it shall pursue oathkeeper and oathbreaker to the world’s end” (83). The Oath of Fëanor and his sons is unlike any other that we see in Tolkien’s legendarium. In The Lord of the Rings, for example, Merry and Pippin swear oaths to Théoden and Denethor, respectively. We know that the Men of the Mountain swore an oath to Isildur, which they then broke, binding themselves in eternal torment until a time of reckoning. But Fëanor’s oath is something altogether different. It does, interestingly, follow a lot of the conventions of oath-taking (medieval and likely earlier): it’s sworn on weapons, it invokes deities (as both witnesses and presumed judges of the oath’s keeping), it names a sacred object (Taniquetil) as a witness, and, finally, it lays out specific stipulations that define the keeping of the oath.

I think this is part of what the narrator means when they say that “so sworn, good or evil, an oath may not be broken.” Fëanor and his sons did everything appropriately: since the Oath was sworn in this manner—correctly, in other words—they aren’t allowed to break it. But of course, there’s something else going on, too. Think about how powerful the words of Fëanor are, and think about the fact that in this early age of Arda, the making of things is always accompanied by the speaking of a word or words; a good example is of course Ilúvatar creating the world through the words “Eä! Let these things Be!” (Sil 20), but we could also think about how Yavanna often sings to make things grow.

Naturally, Fëanor doesn’t have the power of Ilúvatar or of Yavanna, but I think his Oath acts in a similar way. Because he’s speaking the Oath in a ritual (and thus very serious and sacred) context, they seem to have even more power than his words normally do. So when the narrator says that if you swear an oath in this way it can’t be broken, part of what may be inferred is that the Oath can’t be broken because Fëanor is speaking highly ritualized language in a time when words have actual, physical power to shape the world.

And because of this, his words literally come to life. The narrator says that the Oath “shall pursue oathkeeper and oathbreaker to the world’s end.” Even the one who keeps the Oath can’t escape from its bounds. After this, too, the Oath is consistently spoken of as an active agent: it is not passive, not mere words—it is alive. It sleeps. It wakes. It drives and pursues. It bides its time and then goes to work with a vengeance.

Furthermore, the language of the Oath is painfully specific: Fëanor and his sons must pursue any “Vala, Demon, Elf or Man as yet unborn, or any creature, great or small, good or evil, that time should bring forth unto the end of days” (Sil 83). Every living thing that ever is or shall be is implicated in the Oath—every desire, every fate. Indeed, most if not all of the ensuing violence and chaos in The Silmarillion can be traced back to the Oath in some way. The all-inclusive language used in relation to time here is particularly significant, for it allows the Oath to reincarnate itself: so long as the Silmarils exist, they might be retaken or even named in desire, causing the Oath to awaken once again. The Oath can be kept, per se, but it cannot ever be fulfilled, so long as that threat remains. This is why the Oath “shall pursue oathkeeper and oathbreaker to the world’s end.” Its fulfillment is forever out of reach, “beyond all hope,” as Maedhros says (Sil 252).

I think one way we can begin to understand the Oath is actually to compare it to the One Ring. Both the Oath and the Ring threaten to bind in everlasting darkness and both pursue and possess the oathtaker/Ring-bearer. The Oath of Fëanor is sworn in order to rule the Jewels, which hold “the fates of Arda, earth, sea, and air” (Sil 67), and which have their current resting places in (you guessed it) earth, sea, and air. The Ring is forged to dominate all life, yes, but specifically the three Elven rings, rings of earth (fire), sea (water), and air.[1] Domination is the key term, here. It inspired the swearing of the Oath and the forging of the Ring, and it demands the keeping of each. And the Ring, like the Oath, has a mind and will of its own, often being spoken and written about as something that is capable of acting on its own.

Now, it’s important that we understand just what Fëanor—and by extension, his sons—has done before moving forward. He has, in effect, doomed the Noldor by creating a new reality through language. He has unleashed a force of malice upon the world—a thing that is (pardon the expression) alive without breath. From this point forward, the Oath ravishes the Noldor; none, it seems, are safe from its grasping claws and slowly but surely, all the fates of the Noldor are inextricably bound together, hurtling towards inescapable darkness.

The Oath sworn, Fëanor implicates all the Noldor in its fulfillment as he urges them on to departure, fearing that if he lets up even for a moment, he’ll lose their interest (Sil 84). So they move too quickly, leaving no time for their hearts to cool after the scene they just witnessed. In that hour Manwë sends a messenger to the Noldor, declaring that Fëanor has been exiled forever because of his Oath; but he urges the others to stay and avoid the folly that is driving them. But “the voice of Fëanor grew so great and so potent that even the herald of the Valar bowed before him as one full-answered” (Sil 85). Thus the Noldor continue on their way, but many, Finarfin and Finrod included, lag behind, often looking back “to see their fair city, until the lamp of the Mindon Eldaliéva was lost in the night” (85).

The Noldor then came to the Teleri, and asked use of their ships, but the Teleri are skeptical of the madness of their cousins, and more devoted to the Valar, so they refuse the use of their precious vessels. So Fëanor begins to take away the ships by force, and the Teleri, naturally, resist him. Thus the first battle is initiated, and because they are of lesser strength and had not, as the Noldor had, poured so much energy into the making of weapons, the Teleri are defeated. The Noldor escape with the ships. This is the first Kinslaying: “Uinen wept for the mariners of the Teleri,” the narrator observes; “and the sea rose in wrath against the slayers, so that many of the ships were wrecked” (Sil 87).

But they escape, and are met by yet another herald of the Valar: “Some say it was Mandos himself, and no lesser herald of Manwë. […] Then all halted and stood still, and from end to end of the hosts of the Noldor the voice was heard speaking the curse and prophecy which is called the Prophecy of the North, and the Doom of the Noldor” (Sil 87). The first half of the prophecy and curse addresses specifically the evil launched by the Oath:

Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever. (Sil 88).

Fëanor then, in his madness and his pride, adds to the Doom of the Noldor, saying:

We have sworn, and not lightly. This oath we will keep. We are threatened with many evils, and treason not least; but one thing is not said: that we shall suffer from cowardice, from cravens or the fear of cravens. Therefore I say that we will go on, and this doom I add: the deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda.” (88)

Then most go on, but Finarfin and many of his people turn back, for he was kin to the Teleri, and his grief was too heavy to bear. The others, driven by the raw will of Fëanor, go forward until the come to the Helcaraxë, the grinding ice at the northernmost point of the Encircling Sea. And there, in the night on those cold and pitiless shores, Fëanor sneaks away with his house in the ships, leaving Fingolfin and his house behind. When Maedhros, his eldest son, innocently asks whether the ships in returning might bring his friend Fingon back first, Fëanor laughs “as one fey,” and he reveals that he has no intention of bringing anyone else across…

Then Maedhros alone stood aside, but Fëanor caused fire to be set to the white ships of the Teleri. So at that place which was called Losgar at the outlet of the Firth of Drengist ended the fairest vessels that ever sailed the sea, in a great burning, bright and terrible. And Fingolfin and his people saw the light afar off, red beneath the clouds; and they knew that they were betrayed. (Sil 90)

Some stories say that unknowing Fëanor left one of his youngest sons in the ships, because he had fallen asleep; and so he was burned alive, and Fëanor lost the first of his sons as Nerdanel had foreseen.

Fëanor and his people then push further into Middle-earth, making war against the hosts of Morgoth, until “upon the confines of Dor Daedeloth, the land of Morgoth, Fëanor was surrounded […]. [At] the last he was smitten to the ground by Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs” (Sil 107). Fëanor’s sons bear him away, but on a mountain pass he has them halt. He lives out his last moments as he lived the rest of his life:

…he cursed the name of Morgoth thrice, and laid it upon his sons to hold to their oath, and to avenge their father. Then he died; but he had neither burial nor tomb, for so fiery was his spirit that as it sped his body fell to ash, and was borne away like smoke; and his likeness has never again appeared in Arda, neither has his spirit left the halls of Mandos. Thus ended the mightiest of the Noldor, of whose deeds came both their greatest renown and their most grievous woe. (Sil 107)

“The Death of Fëanor,” by Jenny Dolfen

But the story of Fëanor does not end here, in fire and doom: it is written that in the last days, Fëanor will rise again to finish his long fight against Morgoth, and in the end he will yield up the Silmarils to Yavanna, so that she might renew the broken world (The Shaping of Middle-earth 198). This is a comforting thought. Even Fëanor is not outside of the arc of redemption. The Doomsman of the Noldor, the one whom Tolkien called the “chief artificer of the Elves” (Letters 148), will be taught wisdom, restraint, and generosity in the halls of Mandos, so at the end of time he will be the one to make the healing of the world possible.

[1] I have spent an undue amount of time considering the possibility that the Elven rings were actually forged to represent the Silmarils or even to protect the resting places of the Silmarils against Sauron. With that comes the possibility, then, that part of Sauron’s purpose for the One Ring was to gain access to the resting places of the Silmarils through the Elven rings, and thus to allow for the return of Morgoth (since he will return only when the Silmarils are again gathered together). If this is true, it adds special significance to Galadriel’s rejection of the One Ring: she might have been rejecting a chance (as the last of the Noldor) to once again reclaim the Silmarils. If so, then her triumph over the temptation and her symbolic redemption of her people is even greater than we had supposed. So far I have come across nothing to prove my wild theory beyond a doubt, but I cling to it with fervor all the same.

Megan N. Fontenot is a Tolkien scholar and fan who’s happy to have a way to share Tolkien with fellow fans even when the world seems to be falling to pieces, and even happier to find a glimmer of hope even in a dark tale. Catch her on Twitter @MeganNFontenot1 and feel free to request a favorite character while you’re there!

A biweekly series, The Ursula K. Le Guin Reread explores anew the transformative writing, exciting worlds, and radical stories that changed countless lives. This week we’ll be covering The Farthest Shore, first published by Atheneum in 1972. My edition is Simon Pulse, mass market paperback, 2001, and this installment of the reread covers the entire novel.

In fantasy publishing, the joke goes, all is trilogies. You want to write a novel, better have an idea for the next two books if you want a contract for the first. That wasn’t so in the late 1960s when Le Guin wrote A Wizard of Earthsea—trilogies were quite rare and SFF books were often sold as separate set pieces, bound together occasionally as part of a larger storyworld. This carried on the tradition of pulp magazines, which saw in seriality the dollar signs promised by a regular audience. So we have John Carter and Conan by the dozen, Asimov’s robot stories by the far-too-many, enough Witch World for a lifetime, and not as much Jirel of Joiry as we need.

Le Guin intended A Wizard of Earthsea to be the only book of its sort: a tale of Earthsea, no more. But as I explored in my reread of The Tombs of Atuan, Le Guin was driven by the muses of Oregon’s desert mountains to return to that world, to rejoin the story of Ged and tell another song of his Deed. (An insistent agent probably helped, too.) So, another two years after Tombs, we come to The Farthest Shore, the end of an impromptu trilogy finished while modern genre fantasy was still in its infancy—two years before the end of the Ballantine Adult Fantasy series and five years before The Sword of Shannara birthed the doorstop fad and solidified the 1980s rage for epic fantasy.

Like Tombs, Farthest Shore is part of Ged’s story, and it is also, like Tombs, not really about Ged. Le Guin continues her decentering of the great wizard-hero Sparrowhawk by focusing instead on a boy-prince of Enlad on the edge of adulthood: Arren (true name: Lebannen, “rowan tree”). Some twenty years after Tombs, Ged is now aged—in his forties or fifties, a student of Roke guesses—and has been five years on Roke as the Archmage, the Master among Masters of the Arts of Magic. But Ged is restless; he is not done with doing, and a great deed remains to be done, for magic is waning in the world. Arren brings news from the northwest that this is so, and after consulting with the Masters of Roke (who are as much in the dark as he is), Ged sets sail once again to track the source of the fear growing at the roots of the Immanent Grove, weakening magic and the trust of humans in one another.

Two Admissions

Forgive me readers, for I have sinned. Doubly. First, I have to admit that the first time I “read” The Farthest Shore, I did not finish the book. In fact, I left off just after Ged and Arren left Wathort, after the hazia drug-den incident and after Arren was kidnapped by slavers. I was bored. It wasn’t the right moment for me to be reading Farthest Shore; I wanted more of Tombs and less of this angsty boy looking up to Ged, driven by chivalric notions of duty and love. It didn’t help that someone I quite dislike said it was the greatest fantasy novel of all time. As if! So I put the book away, read a summary, and moved on. Some months later I returned to Earthsea in the embrace of Tehanu, loved it more than any Le Guin book, and didn’t think Farthest Shore was worth returning to after that. It happens. Sometimes the context in which one reads is as important as the thing read.

As someone who has now written dozens of book reviews, more than a few out of duty rather than interest, I’ve learned how to finish a book that bores me—especially when I have the opportunity to write about it. Returning to The Farthest Shore was indeed a duty, but also after reading Wizard and Tombs back-to-back, having thought on them rather intensely, and having read all your many and insightful responses, it was not a duty that dismayed me. Moreover, my partner quite likes Farthest Shore, and her enthusiasm tempered my annoyance with Arren. On returning to the novel, however, I found Arren less annoying than simply a teenager struggling with what it is to meet ones heroes, find them all too human, to be roiled with anger and despair, and to finally come to terms with the idea that you might be more capable than the adult before you. Arren’s story, moreover, requires him to rarely draw a sword; he does no great deeds of fighting or magic except for the struggle that brings him and Ged out of the Dry Land. There are dragons, a focus on the growth through journey, raft-people, and a necromancer who, rather than battle to the end, despairs of the evil he has wrought and gives in. It’s great. It’s so…not what we expect of fantasy with wizards and dragons and king-prophecies.

My second admission is that in having not finished Farthest Shore in the past, I erred in claiming that Tombs’s end—when Tenar and Ged sail on Lookfar into the harbor of Havnor, a crowd gathered in exultation, the Ring of Erreth-Akbe held aloft—is the most Tolkienian moment in Le Guin’s Earthsea saga. Indeed, it is not, for The Farthest Shore is nothing if not a direct response to the concept of an abandoned throne, and of the testing of the king who returns. This is both Tolkienian and Arthurian, posing the question of who gets to be leader, of what virtues they possess, of how their time spent not as a leader prepared them to wear a forgotten crown. 

Buy it Now

Certainly, the scene of Tenar and Ged sailing into Havnor is easily pictured in the luminescent, moody, neo-Romantic paintings of John Howe or Alan Lee, artists who shaped our visual understanding of Tolkien’s Legendarium. But Farthest Shore enters into a discourse with Tolkien on a much deeper level—it is, I feel, a novel Tolkien would have greatly enjoyed; his novels had battles, but he was hardly interested in them for their own sake; Le Guin did away with them, and the result was a far greater characterization and tighter focus on the meaning of the quest than Tolkien achieved. For this, I won’t apologize even to the Tolkien stans (admittedly, though, Le Guin has no Tom Bombadil, nor that puzzled fox in the fir-wood of Hobbiton).

It’s fair to say, then, that the final half of Farthest Shore is by far the most Tolkienian part of the Earthsea saga. And why should this matter? Why is Tolkien a reference to point to, and to care about? In short: we’re talking about an American fantasy trilogy about power and wizards and rings in the decade after Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings became big in the United States. Tolkien is a major referent for readers, and was a clear starting point for Le Guin: What is the youth and training of a great wizard, like Gandalf or Merlin, like? A Wizard of Earthsea provides one possible answer. Moreover, Earthsea is a world very much like Arda, where magic and power are coterminous, where a great kingdom of humankind is without a king, where wizards are known far and wide for their magnificent deeds, and where death is but another side of life. 

And both are worlds on the verge of change. As my colleague Farah Mendlesohn suggests in her book Rhetorics of Fantasy, Arda and Earthsea are quintessential immersive or “secondary-world” fantasy stories: power is waning, the world as it has been known is coming to an end, things are changing in incredible ways that threaten the lives of many good folk. This is the doing, in Tolkien, of Sauron, Saruman, and the simultaneous passing of the Elves into the West; humans are the predominant people of Middle-earth, and they are greedy, belligerent, foolish—but some rise from among the lot to lead. In so doing, however, they do not prevent the change of the world but rather shepherd it into a new age. So, too, in Earthsea, which stands on the precipice of the Unmaking thanks to the necromancer Cob’s selfish desire to conquer death. Here, though, one single foolish human’s ambition has wrecked all; by comparison, Tolkien’s world is a bit more resilient, taking centuries and a great evil to unravel. But is this not realistic? Has not the greed of a few wrought the pain and death of so many? And, as with The Lord of the Rings, The Farthest Shore operates as both immersive fantasy and portal-quest fantasy: Frodo and Arren both set out into worlds that are completely unknown to them, traverse great distances and dangers in search of a final goal, a final confrontation, and in meeting the end of their journey achieve a new ordering of things. Kings now sit upon thrones.

Of course, comparisons aren’t everything. Farthest Shore is alone a powerful novel. It is certainly the least appropriate of the Earthsea novels for the label of children’s fiction, though perhaps I underestimate children. Indeed, the world would be a far better place if we learned the lessons Arren does at his age and younger. Farthest Shore is something of a triumph of fantasy as “critical work,” with Ged as a regular mouthpiece—for pages at a time!—for musings about power and responsibility, life and death, doing and being, among other subjects. As with the previous novels I’ve returned to, there’s too much to be said here, in one essay, and so I hope to hear from you how you reacted to Farthest Shore now or in the past. 

Though I leave the further depths of this novel to be plumbed another time, there is something to be said about The Farthest Shore as a response to Tolkien’s conception of the return of the king. I want to explore that a bit further, given some of its implications with other of Le Guin’s “masterwork” novels we have read.

A King in Havnor?

All is, between Making and Unmaking. The birth and the death, between them living and dying—doing and being. But as with all things, life and death, doing and being are but two sides of the hand: palm and opisthenar. 

This is the lesson of The Farthest Shore, but it is not its only lesson nor the final truth of Le Guin’s Earthsea saga. It is, as much else Le Guin wrote in this period of her life, infused with Taoism—teaching that whatever power we humans might have, it should not be used to profane the binaries that structures meaning and life; that way lies evil—and with anarchism—teaching that to seek power over is always to corrupt life itself, it renders inhuman whoever would seek to dehumanize. Cob, who has no true name, has forgotten it and become like the Nameless Ones who pursue evil against others for its own sake, seeking to undo that which makes life life: death. In so doing, Cob commits a great evil against all by lighting the final spark that will consume the world without a king: society and order collapse, men throw spears at strangers, sacrifice babies, burn crops, murder and pillage, turn to slavery, and play with the dead.

At the same time, Farthest Shore is dedicated to the restoration of kingly sovereignty; the lack of a central ruler binding together the preordained order of all things in Earthsea is the cause, as we learned in Tombs, of political disorder, of tyrant-princes, of slavery, and so on. Where local governments proliferate by the hundreds, so does chaos without a king to bind them in unity. This is the very idea of “power over,” which Le Guin mentions with greater frequency in both Tombs and Farthest Shore, and which she identifies in both as a great evil—or, at least, as a thing which so often leads to great evil, if not necessarily an evil in and of itself. So while The Farthest Shore might seem to be a novel about stopping a necromancer, it is ultimately a novel about what danger an empty throne has done. Cob’s great evil, his opening of the way between life and death, his perforation of what should be an ineffable boundary, and his killing of death—however temporary—is only possible because the White Towers of Havnor are without a king, because assless is the throne.

Those of us who love Le Guin, who see in her a great political thinker, how are we to make this vision of medievalist monarchy restored fit with all we have (re)read so far? What to do with the King of Havnor?

Is this just the fulfillment of generic tropes? This seems hardly the case, both because Le Guin is not so easily canalized and because, although we can look back on The Farthest Shore with the hindsight of fifty years of fantasy fiction, Le Guin could not and so had little in the way of generic expectations to draw on at the time she was crafting this work. Myth, fairy tales, and some recent novels, yes, but Farthest Shore is hardly a continuation of any grand tradition. We might call out Le Guin for “failing” to imagine a fantasy world without kings and prophecies and magic rings, much as she failed to imagine that a woman could be a wizard. We might also look a little more generously at her work and the context in which it was written and note that in writing about kings and prophecies and magic rings, she might very well have been trying to say something about how those things had been done before.

In response to my post about Tombs, commenter Raskos observed that while Le Guin is not “enamoured with the idea of hereditary privilege,” she nonetheless “speaks well of natural aristocracy.” Raskos uses the example of both Arren (“King Lebannen of Havnor”) and the physicist Urrasti Atro in The Dispossessed, who has “an aristocrat’s contempt for money and demagogic power” shared by Shevek. I agree with Raskos that Le Guin is certainly interested in how some folks, freed from the tyranny of poverty and afforded the privilege of opportunities to lead, might hold “the attributes that we recognize as virtues in an ideal ruler.” Le Guin has never been interested in outright demonization of political systems she finds abhorrent.

I think, too, that Le Guin wanted to critique Tolkien’s framing of the throne of Gondor as Aragorn’s birthright, something he had merely to claim, as if the claiming of the throne were the thing that proved him worthy to lead. Certainly, Aragorn isn’t a bad man and he does not covet the Ring of Power (as Boromir and others do). But in The Farthest Shore, we meet a boy bound by duty to his father, who gives his loyalty to Ged and follows him across the world, into death, and back. Although Arren and Aragorn, aside from their similar-ish names, both have grand journeys across the world, Arren’s is one of self-discovery, of deep challenges to his personhood and his beliefs. I’m not interested in a one-to-one comparison of Arren and Aragorn (or any other characters), as I think these ultimately benefit us quite little and lead to a great deal of needless nit-picking. Le Guin, though, wrote a story of a boy-become-man who in the process of saving the world must learn what it means to be responsible to life itself, to do only when doing is needed. 

It is significant that, although The Farthest Shore is technically the story of how a king comes to sit on the throne of Havnor, to rule and unite Earthsea, and is a coming-of-age story about that king, the book shows no interest in his crowning or in him as king (at least, not until Le Guin writes The Other Wind almost thirty years later). Indeed, that Arren will become king is only hinted at (albeit a bit obviously) before the end of the novel when Ged directs Arren to rule long and well. The Farthest Shore is a novel about becoming king, and it is a novel about giving up power, and about mortality as that which gives life meaning. It is also about duty: Le Guin provides an alternative to monarchic life in Earthsea when Ged and Arren visit the raft-people, who live a largely egalitarian life—they could choose to stay, but this would doom many.

Farthest Shore has a lot to say and Ged says much of it. I have said much, too. What say you?

***

With The Farthest Shore, Le Guin was done with the doing of Earthsea. Except, she wasn’t. Twenty-odd years later, she returned. With Tehanu. With The Other Wind. And with further tales aplenty. But unlike many writers who return to a successful “intellectual property” years after its popularity has faded into nostalgia, Le Guin returned to Earthsea with the brilliance of a sun rising on the shores of Selidor, its red-golden rays greeting the manling who would soon be king in Havnor. 

But Tehanu and The Other Wind must wait. Having finished the reread of what I described in my initial post as Le Guin’s masterworks, her best-known contributions to SFF, we will now go backward in time and continue the Ursula K. Le Guin Reread chronologically, starting with three Hainish novellas. Join me then in roughly a month, on Wednesday, June 3, when the Reread digs into Rocannon’s World (1966)! Be seeing you.

Sean Guynes is a critic, writer, and editor currently working on a book about how the Korean War changed American science fiction. For politics, publishing, and SFF content, follow him on Twitter @saguynes.

I’m here to discuss everyone’s least favorite character in The Wheel of Time—Gawyn Trakand. While Gawyn is almost universally hated by fans, in many ways he is one of the most interesting, flawed characters that Robert Jordan brought to life in the pages of his epic tale. And in my current reread of The Wheel of Time, undertaken in anticipation of the upcoming Amazon TV series, something new about Gawyn occurred to me…I realized that this heavily disliked character (written as a parallel of the famous Sir Gawain of Arthurian legend) mirrors in many ways another iconic fantasy character that most people love and admire: J.R.R. Tolkien’s Éowyn.

[Spoilers for The Wheel of Time (and The Lord of the Rings, for that matter) below.]

It isn’t just the similarity in names, of course—both characters are born to nobility, but in positions where they will never rule. Éowyn is constrained to her role as a caregiver due to her gender in a patriarchal society. She is cold and unhappy and spends her days dreaming of the valor by steel that her male relatives earn as Riders of Rohan. Gawyn is destined to become the First Prince of the Sword for his sister, Elayne, who will one day become Queen of Andor, where the ruling line is matriarchal. Thus, both Gawyn and Éowyn are overshadowed by their relatives due to gender and the limits it places on their roles in society.

Both characters also desire people who embody the qualities and status that they themselves covet. When Éowyn meets Aragorn, she is drawn to him, even believes herself to be falling in love with him. Tolkien writes, “And she was now suddenly aware of him: tall heir of kings, wise with many winters, greycloaked, hiding a power that yet she felt.” Aragorn comes from a line of great kings and commands the power and respect from men that Éowyn herself can only wish for. When Aragorn prepares to ride for the Paths of the Dead, Éowyn asks if she might join him. When he tells her that she must stay behind, she answers: “I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.” When he asks what she fears, Éowyn answers that she fears a cage—“to stay behind bars until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.”

Buy it Now

Gawyn spends the majority of The Wheel of Time trying to decide where his allegiance truly lies. In the same way that Éowyn doesn’t want to be pinned down in her life and actions, Gawyn struggles to stay with one side before committing to Egwene al’Vere. During the splitting of the White Tower, Gawyn turns against the man who trained him, Hammar; although this results in Gawyn becoming a Blademaster and leader of the Younglings, an impromptu military band, his importance is short-lived. The Amyrlin that he dedicated himself to and has known since childhood sends him and the Younglings on a mission that is conveniently meant to kill them. And while Gawyn has fallen from being a prince to someone viewed as disposable, important events have been unfolding in the world around him, centered around a farmboy he once met. Eventually, Gawyn betrays the Younglings by leaving them behind, without saying a word to them, to go on a mission to save Egwene—thinking that in doing so, he can finally become the hero he aspires to be.

Gawyn first becomes infatuated with Egwene when she is training as a novice in the White Tower, with no rank. He struggles to see her as powerful and capable of making her own decisions, believing that she has been manipulated by Siuan Sanche and Rand al’Thor. Eventually, Egwene becomes the Amyrlin Seat and is one of the strongest Aes Sedai. Gawyn has trouble reconciling Egwene’s power and dominant role with how directionless and useless he feels in comparison. As Brandon Sanderson notes, “Perhaps Gawyn resisted Egwene’s demands because he wanted to lead, to be the one who accomplished her heroic acts. If he became her Warder, he would have to step aside and help her change the world.” Gawyn longs for greatness on his own terms but resigns himself to a supporting role, becoming Egwene’s Warder and husband. “I had to learn to surrender,” he tells Egwene.

In The Lord of the Rings, after Aragorn stops Éowyn from riding into battle, she does so anyway in secret, disguising herself as a man named Dernhelm and fighting in Théoden’s escort. Similarly, when the Last Battle arrives, Gawyn also finds that he cannot control his desire to take part in the fight that is raging all around him. Rather than stay by his wife’s side, Gawyn uses the Bloodknife ter’angreal to hide himself in order to win glory in his own right. He tries to convince himself that he is doing so for the greater good: “Once, perhaps, he would have done this for the pride of battle… That was not his heart now.” Gawyn goes on to think to himself that “he had the chance to change things, to really matter. He did it for Andor, for Egwene, for the world itself.” But his actions are undertaken under the cloak of secrecy, motivated by the desire to finally get the recognition he feels he truly deserves.

Both Éowyn and Gawyn engage in combat with characters that are second-in-command to the main evil power in their respective stories. Éowyn manages to kill the Witch-king of Angmar with the help of her friend and companion, Merry. She does so after her uncle, the King of Rohan, is mortally injured. She bravely challenges the Witch-king directly, facing him even with her shield splintered and arm broken—removing her helmet and revealing her true identity, she drives her sword through the Witch-king’s face after Merry uses his dagger from the Barrow-downs to slash the Nazgûl’s knee, distracting him in a crucial moment.

In contrast, Gawyn leaves behind his companions to track the Forsaken Demandred, who generals the Sharan forces in the Last Battle. The Bloodknife rings allow Gawyn to hide in the shadows. Instead of facing Demandred in battle head-on, Gawyn sneaks up behind him, attempting an assassination, which fails.

Though severely injured, Éowyn recovers and lives on past the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Her depression isn’t lifted by the feat of killing the Nazgûl and all of the renown she has earned through her courageous deeds. As she heals, however, she meets falls in love with Faramir and eventually realizes that she doesn’t need to be a warrior or queen to attain happiness, embracing a new role as a healer. Tolkien writes, “Then the heart of Éowyn changed, or else at last she understood it.”

Gawyn doesn’t get the chance to change. He is mortally wounded in his confrontation with Demandred, and his actions cause not only his own death, but also factor in the death of the person he loves most. As Egwene’s Warder, Gawyn is given benefits that aid him in battle such as increased resistance to injury, fatigue, hunger, and thirst, along with the ability to sense Shadowspawn. The bond also allows the Aes Sedai and Warder to feel the other’s emotions. However, the bond is not without drawbacks. Should the Aes Sedai die, the Warder almost always dies shortly afterwards, as he will lose the will to live and often die pursuing vengeance. If the Warder dies, the Aes Sedai will feel the death through the bond, losing control of her emotions and entering a deep grief. As a Warder, Gawyn knows the effects that his potential death would have upon his wife and, as a result, on the other channelers she commands during The Last Battle. While the death of a Warder does not kill an Aes Sedai in the same way a Warder is impacted when the reverse happens, the resulting emotions would still be amplified more than usual and would likely impair Egwene’s judgement.

While Gawyn believes that he is doing his part to serve others, in actuality he fails to consider the results of his actions upon others. When he dies, the broken Warder bond causes Egwene to be consumed with rage. Her resulting recklessness is part of why she draws too much of the Power, killing not only Mazrim Taim and the Sharans, but also herself. Even if Gawyn had not died in battle, the Bloodknife rings would eventually have killed him, a fact he was aware of previously—he had been told that the users of the Bloodknives fight most ruthlessly because they are already guaranteed death by poison. Gawyn’s reckless actions and selfishness lead him to tragedy.

Both Éowyn and Gawyn are tragic characters, struggling to achieve the level of valor and recognition held by those closest to them, their family members and loved ones, impatiently waiting for their chance to prove themselves. Gawyn is a Blademaster and his short life is spent centered on conflict. However, we get a brief glimpse at one point in the narrative indicating that this isn’t what he truly wanted out of life. In Lord of Chaos, when Egwene and Gawyn steal moments together at an inn in Cairhien, he beckons her to run away with him: “We will both leave it all behind,” he says. “I have a small estate south of Whitebridge, with a vineyard and a village, so far into the country that the sun rises two days late. The world will hardly touch us there.”

Had Gawyn made different choices, he could have lived, like Éowyn, to see the peace after the final battle. Perhaps Gawyn would have also realized that the life of a warrior was never really right for him. Gawyn spent most of his short life trying to understand himself, but failed to ever grasp what his deeper values truly were, and where his priorities should lie. Had Gawyn gained enough insight to understand the cause of his motivations, he might have lived, and found contentment…

Both Gawyn and Éowyn grow up convinced that they will only find glory and fulfillment in combat and performing famously heroic deeds, while in reality their paths to happiness lay elsewhere. Éowyn is able to survive her confrontation with evil and grow to know her own heart. She finally achieves an inward peace with who she is, no longer needing or desiring outward glory. Gawyn doesn’t earn the same opportunity—he doesn’t live to see a world without war and become something other than a Blademaster. Rather than embracing true bravery and companionship in his moment of crisis like Éowyn, he exhibits only a stubborn recklessness, which leads to his death. This behavior, this essential flaw, is what leads so many readers and fans of The Wheel of Time to despise Gawyn, while Éowyn remains an admired figure in epic fantasy. It makes sense…and yet it’s still possible to find some sympathy for Gawyn, who couldn’t find himself or reach contentment, and though misguided, played out his part in the Pattern, woven as the Wheel wills.

Brittany is a journalist from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She picked up her first Wheel of Time book at a book fair in elementary school and has been hooked on fantasy novels since.

In this biweekly series, we’re exploring the evolution of both major and minor figures in Tolkien’s legendarium, tracing the transformations of these characters through drafts and early manuscripts through to the finished work. This week’s installment explores the creation of Faramir, one of the quiet heroes of The Lord of the Rings.

In a 1944 letter to his son Christopher, J.R.R Tolkien wrote:

A new character has come on the scene (I am sure I did not invent him, I did not even want him, though I like him, but there he came walking into the woods of Ithilien): Faramir, the brother of Boromir—and he is holding up the ‘catastrophe’ by lots of stuff about the history of Gondor and Rohan (with some very sound reflections no doubt on martial glory and true glory): but if he goes on much more a lot of him will have to be removed to the appendices. (79)

Tolkien’s words are tinged with self-deprecation: The Lord of the Rings was taking quite some time to write, in part because the plot was being interrupted by long and sometimes rambling discourses on the histories of languages, pipe weed, and other such distractions. Many of these passages—and Tolkien was well aware of this even as he wrote them—would ultimately be removed from the main text and either stowed away in various appendices and prologues or relegated to obscure drafts that were only discovered as Christopher arranged the History of Middle-earth series. Tolkien was “holding up the ‘catastrophe,’” and he knew it.

His attitude towards Faramir here is thus one of self-conscious amusement, for though he often said he identified with hobbit-culture, he knew very well that “As far as any character is ‘like me’ it is Faramir” (Letters 232). He felt that he understood Faramir quite well, though, as is often the case, the character did not appear in the tale as organically and suddenly as Tolkien himself claimed. Tolkien might have felt that he “did not invent him,” but as Christopher later notes, the drafts suggest otherwise (The War of the Ring, hereafter WR, 147).

When JRRT set out his outline before drafting “Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit,” “the emergence of Faramir and the Window on the West was totally unforeseen” even while such details as “the broken statue at the Cross-roads was already present” (WR 132). In this regard, then, Faramir does come “walking into the woods of Ithilien” rather abruptly—but he does not do so as Faramir.

In the two earliest drafts of that chapter, Faramir is Falborn, son of Anborn, a distant relative of Boromir who was born in Ithilien and, along with his men, was acting as a sort of Ranger in an effort to keep the advances of Sauron out of that region (WR 136). Falborn was dropped altogether by draft C; Anborn, on the other hand, became one of Faramir’s few named followers. Remarkably, however, the meeting of Falborn, Frodo, and Sam is at this stage “achieved without hesitation” and is only different from the version in The Two Towers in a few small details. In fact, as Christopher notes, “Falborn’s conversation with Frodo and Sam proceeds almost exactly as does that with Faramir in TT” (WR 136), though at this point “there is yet no indication that he will play any further part” and the narrative does not suggest that Falborn means to detain the hobbits (137).

At this point Tolkien paused in his drafting to wrestle once more with chronology, for “the story was entirely changed by the entry of Faramir” (WR 142). It meant a delay in Frodo’s progress towards Mordor and also had implications for Gandalf and Pippin’s arrival in Minas Tirith, for Tolkien soon saw that Falborn/Faramir would return to speak with Denethor. Ultimately, however, Christopher believes that once the chronological difficulty had been solved, the drafting of “The Window on the West” took little more than a week and was “not extensively amended later” (WR 144).

The arrival of Faramir sent shock waves into the rest of the text. In the throes of writing the Faramir chapters, Tolkien was coming to terms with the fact that the opening chapters of “the Hobbit sequel” would need radical revisions in tone—they were too lighthearted, too childish. He had a darker story to tell.

We can see that sentiment, I think, through the original conception of Faramir as Falborn. Falborn, Christopher observes, is “harshly uncomprehending in tone compared to the later Faramir” (WR 165). And it’s true. Falborn has a tendency to respond severely to Frodo’s remarks—and to Sam’s, even more so. He claims, much like Boromir, that evil follows those who enter the Golden Wood; Faramir’s distinct respect for the Elves is missing. Pride and hardheadedness often marks Falborn’s tone, whereas Faramir is often described as “gentle.” Falborn’s response to Sam’s accidental revelation of the Ring is also less forgiving and less noble, though he does still immediately reject the idea that he might take it for any reason (unlike the notorious film-version of Faramir). What’s more, even as far as the second well-developed draft, “there is […] no suggestion at this point that the hobbits will not be allowed to go free” (WR 146). So Falborn is far more like Boromir than Faramir turns out to be: these early lines are not so clearly drawn, and the unfortunate hierarchy between the soon-to-be-brothers has not yet emerged. At the same time, however, we can see the shadow of Faramir as he will be: gracious, and most of all merciful.

At this point in the drafts, something changes. Tolkien gets a new idea. Christopher writes that JRRT’s “handwriting speeded up markedly and becomes very difficult, often a sign that a new conception had entered that would entail the rewriting and rejection of what had preceded” (WR 147). That new conception was Faramir’s vision.

Tolkien had toyed with the idea of a vision before. When Falborn and Frodo discuss the finding of Boromir’s horn by the Men of Gondor, Tolkien noted that Falborn’s men certainly already knew of Boromir’s death—but how? “A man riding 70 miles a day,” he determined, “could have brought news of Boromir’s death by word of mouth to Minas Tirith before Falborn and his men left the city” (WR 146). But was this what had happened? Perhaps Falborn and a handful of his men had seen a vision of Boromir’s death as they camped in Ithilien (WR 146, 149).

It seems that in the moment described above, as Tolkien’s handwriting became considerably more illegible than it already tended to be, he decided that Falborn had indeed seen a vision. This is the first of a few moments in which the Faramir character experiences something like second sight: we’ll see it again later as he and Éowyn await news from the Black Gate.

Buy it Now

Interestingly, it’s the addition of Falborn’s vision that also introduces the idea that he and Boromir are brothers (WR 147). This does not yet affect Falborn in any significant ways. He retains his name, perhaps suggesting that Tolkien had not yet settled on the fraternal naming conventions of the people of Gondor.

Falborn becomes Faramir in draft C, which, Christopher explains, is curiously “written on odd bits of paper, much of it very roughly, […and it] is not continuous” (WR 148). In this draft, however, some of the important adjustments were made to Falborn’s temperament and tone that transformed him into the Faramir of the finished product. He responds less sharply; his reverence of the Elves is elaborated on; and he shows more respect for what we might call gentility. He is still a hard man in many ways, as Faramir is and must be; but nevertheless, he begins to develop that air of gentleness and kindness that ultimately sets Faramir apart from his father and brother.

In draft D of the chapter “Faramir,” the Stewards of Gondor make their first appearance, and they do so in nearly their final form, though Tolkien had never before written anything concerning them (WR 153). It’s clear that JRRT at least had them in mind some time before committing their description to paper.

Tolkien also starts to develop the stark contrast between Boromir and Faramir, writing that the latter “was doubtless of a different temper [than the former], but Frodo feared the power and treachery of the thing he bore: the greater and wiser the stronger the lure and the worse the fall” (WR 167). Later, he speaks of Denethor, saying that “whatever be his ancestry by some chance the blood of the men of Westernesse runs true in him, as it does in his other son Faramir, and yet not in Boromir whom he loved most. They have long sight” (WR 281). Here we see that Faramir’s “second sight” is in fact a condition of his Númenorean ancestry. It sets him apart from his brother because he, much like his father, has the ability to see further into situations and thus determine a wiser course. Boromir, by contrast, often makes up his mind rashly, and once decided, refuses to be swayed.

Faramir, on the other hand, is willing to let himself be changed. When he first comes “walking into the woods of Ithilien,” the young captain is represented in ambiguous but subtly threatening terms that are slowly softened by his graciousness and grave wisdom. In the beginning, he questions Frodo and Sam harshly, enforces a radical political binary, and sternly resists an easy acceptance of what he sees. Instead of instantly passing judgment on the situation, he devotes precious hours to developing a deeper understanding of the two hobbits who have fallen into his hands: he says that he will “‘spare a brief time, in order to judge right justly in a hard matter’” (LotR 665). We learn later that he has been a student of Gandalf’s and that in peaceful days he was more inclined toward learning and lore than war.

In a letter to an unidentified reader that was never sent, Tolkien resisted his reader’s shallow understanding of Faramir’s gentleness and gravity. “I think you misunderstand Faramir,” he explained. “He was daunted by his father: not only in the ordinary way of a family with a stern proud father of great force of character, but as a Númenorean before the chief of the one surviving Númenorean state. He was motherless and sisterless […], and had a ‘bossy’ brother. He had been accustomed to giving way and not giving his own opinions air, while retaining a power of command among men, such as a man might obtain who is evidently personally courageous and decisive, but also modest, fair-minded and scrupulously just, and very merciful” (Letters 323).

Faramir continues to grow into this character as the story develops. “Once [he] began to write it,” Christopher notes, JRRT finished out The Two Towers “virtually without hesitation between rival courses” (WR 171). Book V turned out to be more difficult.

Tolkien wrote and abandoned more than one version of Book V’s opening. Faramir’s place in it is obscure at first, and minor. According to a few of the many outlines Tolkien attempted, Faramir was to return to Minas Tirith but play no other distinct role until he stormed Minas Morgul while the main force assaulted the Black Gate (WR 260). At this point, there’s no indication that Faramir will return to defend Osgiliath; no hint that this will nearly cost him his life; no foreshadowing of his near death on a heathen pyre alongside Denethor. Most of Faramir’s major plot points, in fact, are developed as Tolkien drafts.

It’s not until the first drafting of “The Siege of Gondor” that Faramir sets foot in Osgiliath (WR 324). Then, as in the finished Return of the King, he and his men are forced into a disorganized retreat, saved by his own strength of will and Gandalf’s power.

The meeting of Faramir and his father is a cold one. Mocking Faramir’s gracious manners, Denethor barks that “in these black hours gentleness may be bought with death.” When Faramir responds, “So be it,” Denethor attacks him with a dark scenario from his own imagination, calling up the memory of Boromir: “So be it […]; but not by your death only. The death also of your father and of all your people whom it will be your part to rule ere long—now Boromir is no more” (WR 328).

But the following passage is softened somewhat in the early drafts, though slowly and surely Tolkien revises it to be as hard as stone. It’s a well-known scene. This is the first version:

‘Do you wish then,’ said Faramir, ‘that our places had been exchanged?’

‘Yes, I wish that indeed,’ said Denethor. ‘Or no,’ and then he shook his head; and rising suddenly laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Do not judge me harshly, my son,’ he said, ‘or think that I am harsh. Love is not blind. I knew your brother also. I would only wish that he had been in your place, if I were sure of one thing.’

‘And what is that, my father?’

‘That he was as strong in heart as you, and as trustworthy. That taking this thing he had brought it to me, and not fallen under thraldom.’ (328)

The second draft is made even less troubling: Denethor’s response to Faramir’s question becomes qualified:

‘Do not judge me harshly, my son,’ he said quietly, ‘or believe me more harsh than I am. I knew your brother well also. Love is not blind. I could wish that Boromir had been at Henneth Annun when this thing came there, only if I were sure of one thing.’

‘Sure of what, my father?’

‘That he was as strong in heart and selfless as you, my son. That taking this thing he had brought it here and surrendered it, and not fallen swiftly under thraldom.’ (332)

Of course, the final version (made even more devastating in the film) is the harshest of all as Tolkien realized exactly what the strained relationship between the Steward and his youngest son had to be. I’ve discussed this passage in detail in my piece on Denethor, though, so we won’t spend more time on it here.

The other pieces of Faramir’s story fall into place with relative ease when compared with the rest of his tale. Many times, the first drafts achieve nearly the final form, save for occasional minor changes. Faramir returns to Osgiliath, is nearly killed, and returns to Minas Tirith where he lies unconsciously burning in a fever. Denethor, gone mad at last in despair and helplessness, attempts a live cremation and Faramir is only just saved by the bravery of Pippin and Beregond, and the timely arrival of Gandalf. Later Faramir is healed of his wounds by Aragorn, and falls in love with Éowyn while the two are confined in the Houses of Healing. He offers up his post as Steward at Aragorn’s coronation, but is reinstated and given Ithilien to rule. He and Éowyn, with the help of Legolas, cross the Anduin and rebuild a garden more beautiful than any other in Middle-earth.

One moment in particular stands out to me as we draw to a close. Sam Gamgee is often identified as the hero of The Lord of the Rings—even by Tolkien himself. It’s fitting, then, that Sam and Faramir share a moment in which they suddenly understand each other far better than they have any right to, given the short time they’ve known each other. Faramir sees beyond his preconceived notions and realizes that Sam is “praiseworthy.” Sam senses that Faramir is of high quality, and like Gandalf—a spiritual emissary sent from the Valar.

‘Good night, Captain, my lord,’ [Sam] said. ‘You took the chance, sir.’

‘Did I so?’ said Faramir.

‘Yes sir, and showed your quality: the very highest.’

Faramir smiled. ‘A pert servant, Master Samwise. But nay: the praise of the praiseworthy is above all rewards. Yet there was naught in this to praise. I had no lure or desire to do other than I have done.’

‘Ah well, sir,’ said Sam, ‘you said my master had an Elvish air; and that was good and true. But I can say this: you have an air too, sir, that reminds me of, of—well, Gandalf, of wizards.’

‘Maybe,’ said Faramir. ‘Maybe you discern from far away the air of Númenor.’ (LotR 682)

To me, Faramir is one of the great heroes of The Lord of the Rings, not because he necessarily performs great feats in battle or because he pushes himself to the limits of endurance and sanity. No, he’s a hero to me because he manages to maintain his gentle, patient, and selfless spirit even in the most brutal of circumstances. Faramir makes an effort to understand and value those around him in a way few other characters take the time to do. He literally undergoes trial by fire—and comes out the other side an even kinder and wiser man than he was before. He’s an important male role model in the book because he doesn’t make his way through the story with bravado and arrogance, but with humility and respect.

[1] “‘There are no travellers in this land,’” he says: “‘only the servants of the Dark Tower, or of the White’” (IV, iv, 657). Frodo’s response, “‘But we are neither,’” resists this simplification imposed by the laws of the Steward of Gondor (presumably Denethor) and holds that space open for one who is something else entirely, someone who is in-between.

Megan N. Fontenot is a Tolkien scholar and fan who’s an unabashed fan of Faramir and who wishes everyone to know that he’s really nothing like he seems in the films. Catch her on Twitter @MeganNFontenot1 and feel free to request a favorite character while you’re there!

For the last week, I’ve been thinking about this piece from The Cut, which poses the question, “Are You an Aragorn Girl or a Legolas Girl?” Which led me to some questions of my own:

What kind of girl (or guy, or person) were you when you first loved someone from the safe distance of fiction?

Did you dream big? Did you aim high?

Or did you see yourself, your plain ol’ human self, with clear eyes and know you were never meant for the center of the Fellowship, but that could never be the the only Fellowship in a world as big as Middle-earth. Once you aged out of being a Legolas girl and really thought about Aragon and his king-sized baggage, there could be only one choice left for someone who likes the side quests more than the main mission.

If so, then maybe you’re a Faramir girl.*

If you’re of a certain age, you grew up on the Lord of the Rings movies and watched the trilogy over the course of three very formative years. I’m a bit older, so I feel Jurassic Park was that film for me. “Yay! Dinosaurs!… Why do I keep looking at shirtless Jeff Goldblum when there are dinosaurs?” I wondered in my preteen, proto-Tina Belcher confusion.

But I was probably an outlier; there’s a reason “Legolas girls” are absolutely a thing. It’s a tale as old as time. Legolas is beautiful, androgynous as a boy band (or goth band) member, safe, and clean-cut. And that’s valid! But he’s elf royalty, and when combined with his immortality, too aloof. Legolas will never understand your anxiety, will never empathize with your existential dread or the heartbreaking frustration of a bad hair day. (Note: this also applies to Galadriel girls.)

Anyway, why would you even pick Legolas as your elf boyfriend when Elrond and his library are right there?

Aragorn, though. Now that’s a man. Literally, he is a Man of the line of Dúnedain, which makes him already preternaturally extra. From his smoldering first appearance in The Prancing Pony, he exudes that grungy ranger goodness with the perpetually wet hair of a ’90s wrestler. He’s long-lived, but not immortal. He’s Seen Things. He’s Done Things…dark, unfortunate things in those forests of Rhovanion. In the R-rated version of Lord of the Rings that plays out in your teenage brain, Aragon surely has sex. Then you get to Rivendell and it turns out he’s royalty, too. Can anyone just… be who they are? I don’t have a grand world-saving destiny. Probably. Maybe you do, reading this, but the odds are pretty slim.

Naturally Aragorn’s got a girlfriend and because this is Tolkien, who else can be waiting like a prize at the end of a secret king’s journey but a perfect, beautiful elf princess?

Screenshot: New Line Cinema

When another mysterious, hooded ranger walked onscreen, I sat up in my theater seat.  Who was this young captain with an eerie dream of his brother Boromir’s death and a friendship with Gandalf?  Sure, actor David Wenham was once voted Australia’s sexiest man, but my love for this other man of Gondor didn’t begin in earnest until I read the books. Movie-Faramir’s got nothing on Book-Faramir, aside from perfectly feathered ginger hair and a memorable profile.

I never read Tolkien in high school. I thought I was far too cool and too dark for hobbits. (I wasn’t.) But I came to the Lord of the Rings movies as a huge Peter Jackson nerd and promptly fell in love with the beauty of New Zealand and the battle between good and evil that seemed comfortably clear-cut in the months after 9/11. I watched the movies amazingly unspoiled. I read each book only after I saw the movie. And I didn’t truly appreciate Faramir’s role in the world of Middle-earth until I saw him through Pippin’s eyes in The Return of the King:

Here was one with an air of high nobility such as Aragorn at times revealed, less high perhaps, yet also less incalculable and remote: one of the Kings of Men born into a later time, but touched with the wisdom and sadness of the Eldar. He knew now why Beregond spoke his name with love. He was a captain that men would follow, that he would follow, even under the shadow of the black wings.

—The Return of the King, Book 5, Chapter IV: “The Siege of Gondor”

Faramir is the best of both the human and Elvish worlds.

While his shitty father Denethor lavished more praise—and pressure—on his older brother, Faramir turned to his passions. As the son of the Steward of Gondor, he was well-educated in warfare and politics and when we meet him in Ithilien, he has his company’s utmost trust. Yet his favorite studies were the things he believed men should fight to defend: art, music, and literature. Like Aragorn, Faramir’s innate nobility and otherworldiness reflected his own, more distant, Númenorean ancestors, and showed truer in Faramir than in jock-boy Boromir.

Faramir was “a Wizard’s pupil,” after all.

Neglected by his own father, it isn’t hard to imagine a young Faramir latching onto Gandalf’s every word when the Istar visited Minas Tirith’s library and developing his own moral philosophy under the teachings of the Third Age’s wisest voice. This is the Faramir who can face the One Ring and decide he “would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway.” The movies did Faramir so wrong, it’s true.

Screenshot: New Line Cinema

But Faramir really shines in the Houses of Healing.

You can’t be a Faramir girl without also being an Éowyn girl.

Yes, Éowyn didn’t really want Aragorn; she wanted the idea of Aragorn and the glory of battle. But, come on, she also wanted Aragorn and you can instantly read the look in her eyes when she hears about Arwen. How can I compete with that? Some might say it’s low self-esteem, that insecurity is unattractive, but so what? It’s also highly relatable. Arwen’s grace elevates her to a near-mythological figure and it’s a perfect counterbalance for Aragorn and his long road to reclaim his birthright as the King of Gondor. Éowyn never stood a chance against the power of such archetypes and neither would you.

Buy it Now

You know who isn’t in competition with anyone? Faramir.

You know who is perfectly fine with being someone’s second choice? Faramir.

He’s been a distant second in his father’s heart his entire life and never resented Boromir for it; they were best friends. Further, it is literally his duty as steward to step aside at the return of the King of Gondor and he does it without hesitation. He does it with the understanding of the rule of law, in recognition of Aragorn’s proven wisdom and abilities to lead and, most importantly, to heal, and with genuine gladness for the coming restoration of his beloved city. That’s a class act.

But what really, really makes Faramir something special is his patience and compassion for Éowyn when he meets her at the lowest point of her life, after the Pelennor Fields and the death of her uncle Thèoden. The endless endings of ROTK make the shieldmaiden look fickle in her affections, though less so in the movie’s extended cut. But in the books, Éowyn has space to grieve the loss of everything she thought she could be. And with Faramir, she finds someone to talk to.

As someone who’s lived adjacent to a greatness but never desired it for the sake of having it, Faramir is in a position to see the whole of a situation. He’s known rejection, loneliness, and griefs fresh and old. He knows Éowyn loved Aragorn as more than a king. I mean, her thirst was visible from the top of Mount Doom… But he can admit it. It doesn’t bother him. He accepts Éowyn in her sorrow and her bravery and with the knowledge that she’s had a past before him. And he does all this pining for her without being creepy about it! He believes in hope and that while they are together, the Shadow of Sauron cannot touch them. And it is quite literally true.

Screenshot: New Line Cinema

Tolkien said that the character he most felt he resembled was Faramir, a warrior who hates war. Faramir showed up quite unexpectedly in a burst of inspiration and the author liked this reluctant soldier so much, he gave Faramir a recurring dream that once belonged to Tolkien’s mother: that of a great wave washing over a city. This dark pall of death and uncertainty over Minas Tirith retreats not during Aragorn’s coronation, but when Faramir first kisses Éowyn:

And so they stood on the walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew… And the Shadow departed, and the Sun was unveiled, and light leaped forth… and in all the houses of the City men sang for the joy that welled up in their hearts from what source they could not tell

—The Return of the King, Book 6, Chapter V: “The Steward and the King”

Faramir is an epic kisser! This is canon.

Faramir feels more complicated and more real than most of Tolkien’s characters, despite having less time in the story. It’s an unfair punchline that this noble leader is seen as some kind of beta-man, less than Aragorn and Boromir, and more unfair to malign him for a rough childhood that was not in his control. He’s clearly a respected warrior; everyone he meets recognizes this. Yet Faramir’s ultimate destiny is to have a nice garden, raise a happy family with the love of his life, and be a dutiful citizen. It’s an achievement that’s no less impressive for its simplicity. If being kind, patient, and wise were so easy, well, the world would be a better place. And if everyone kissed as well as Faramir, obviously that would be even better.

Forget those fancy kings and elves.

Look for your Steward.

*I’m using the word “girl” here because that’s how the original article framed the argument, and it’s a term I’m comfortable using in relation to myself, but obviously this phenomenon isn’t limited by sex or gender (as Sangeeta Singh-Kurtz also points out in that piece).

Theresa DeLucci likes big noses and she cannot lie. Look for her on the fifth day, at dawn, to the East. Or just on Twitter.

In this biweekly series, we’re exploring the evolution of both major and minor figures in Tolkien’s legendarium, tracing the transformations of these characters through drafts and early manuscripts through to the finished work. This week’s installment explores the role of Samwise Gamgee, one of the celebrated heroes of The Lord of the Rings.

Sam Gamgee is, without a doubt, one of J.R.R. Tolkien’s most beloved characters. The simple hobbit’s journey from wide-eyed gardener with an inexplicable fascination with Elves to a hero hardened—but not crushed—by toil and suffering moves readers to both fondness and awe. Few can forget that stirring moment when Sam, bowed by exhaustion, thirst, and despair, lifts the incapacitated Frodo to his shoulders and hikes the winding road up Mount Doom. Tolkien himself, in a parenthetical remark, called Samwise the “chief hero” of The Lord of the Rings (Letters 161). In another place, Tolkien wrote that Sam was, of the five major hobbit-characters, the most representative of his race despite the education he received from Bilbo; this, Tolkien admitted, made him “lovable and laughable” if also infuriating and irritating (Letters 329).

Despite the monumental role Samwise Gamgee was to play in the narrative, he does not appear in the story right away. Vestiges of his fascination with the Elves and his surprising capacity for the appreciation of beauty can perhaps be found in Frodo Took, an early character who was to accompany Bingo (later Frodo Baggins) on his journey. Christopher Tolkien notes that this Frodo Took “is seen as a less limited and more aware being than Odo [a sort of early incarnation of Pippin], more susceptible to the beauty and otherness of the Elves” (The Return of the Shadow, hereafter RS, 70). Often, whole scenes and chapters in the early stages of the book come close to the final product in the published Lord of the Rings despite the fact that Sam (and Aragorn!) are not yet present. Clearly, though the hobbit’s presence alters the entire course of the narrative, his introduction affected the early chapters of the book very little.

In the middle of the third draft of “Many Meetings,” Tolkien set the chapter aside in order to get his bearings. A two-page manuscript of notes titled “Queries and Alterations” bears witness to this fact. It is here, in the margins, that Sam Gamgee’s name first appears. It floats alongside a worry that the story was beginning to have “too many hobbits” (RS 221), but at this point is still largely unattached to any specific ideas, as JRRT wrote only that Bingo [Frodo] perhaps meant to go alone, with Sam. Here the first seeds both of Frodo’s trust in Sam and of Sam’s devotion to Frodo (both complex ideas that we’ll discuss more later) appear, though little enough is done about them at this stage. In fact, Tolkien did nothing with the name “Sam Gamgee” until some time later, when he returned to the beginning and began to rewrite the early chapters.

Buy it Now

So it is that Sam Gamgee makes his first true appearance in a chapter called “Ancient History,” which would later become “Shadows of the Past.” This chapter was inserted into the manuscript after a re-writing of “A Long-Expected Party,” in order to justify the somewhat darker turn the story was taking. Here Sam is a part-time gardener for the Baggins who is first met having a conversation with Ted Sandyman in the Green Dragon (RS 254). Even in these early chapters, Sam’s role is surprisingly complete. He is very much the Sam Gamgee of the first chapters of The Lord of the Rings, and even “the surprising of Sam outside the window, and Gandalf’s decision that he should be Bingo’s companion” is nearly in its final form—Christopher writes that it “was reached almost at a stroke and never changed” (RS 267).

It seems evident to me, upon perusing the old drafts, that the name “Sam Gamgee” birthed in Tolkien’s mind a rather complete, complex character. At one point, Tolkien made a note suggesting that Odo’s name simply be replaced with Sam’s, but the substitution was not so simple: the characters just didn’t fit (RS 273). For some time after, both Sam and Odo were hobbits accompanying Bingo, so that instead of evolving from a preexisting character, Samwise Gamgee developed his own personality and distinct function. Christopher comments that “Sam was too particularly conceived from the outset to be at all suitable to take up Odo’s nonchalance” (RS 323). He was distinct.

And what was that personality? Tolkien, writing to a reader in 1963, described Sam as having “a mental myopia which is proud of itself, a smugness […] and cocksureness, and a readiness to measure and sum up all things from a limited experience, largely enshrined in sententious traditional ‘wisdom'” (Letters 329). Sam, Tolkien said more than once, was rustic and content with a simple, hearty life. His name, derived from an Old English compound we’d translate as “half-wise,” was another reflection of that. I’d hazard a guess that we all know at least one person like Sam: a little conceited, stubborn as a mule, down-to-earth, and set in his ways, full of witty aphorisms that don’t so much help the situation as make him feel that he has a grasp on it.

Sam is, I think, gradually saved (for himself and for the reader) from unbearable small-mindedness by his genuine curiosity and reverence for things that he has no actual reference point for. Don’t get me wrong: he still tends to measure things by the lessons impressed upon him in the Shire (hence the recurring “my old Gaffer used to say” variations), but he is also capable of approaching them with a wide-eyed wonder that, over time, helps to soften his “cocksureness.”

In fact, the greatest changes in Sam’s character come not through the individual drafts or stages, but in the actual progress of the narrative itself. Small changes come and go in the drafts (in one brief episode, for example, Sam stabs a Black Rider in the back as he and Frodo flee the Cracks of Doom [Sauron Defeated, hereafter SD, 5]), but, as Christopher Tolkien pointed out, JRRT clearly had a clear vision of what and who he wanted Samwise Gamgee to be.

So, let’s take a look at Sam’s development within the narrative. The first thing to note is that the treatment Sam receives by the other major characters is decidedly classist. Sam is a working class servant, and for the most part, he’s treated like it. Everyone, even Frodo and except for perhaps Gandalf, seems surprised when Sam shows an interest in old stories or shares some bit of lore that he learned from Mr. Bilbo. Faramir tells Sam that he’s a “pert servant” (LotR 682). Frodo is consistently referred to as Sam’s master by the narrator and other characters, despite the fact that Sam rarely does so himself, and only when he is speaking about Frodo to someone of a technically higher rank, like Glorfindel, Boromir, etc. Frodo himself often takes Sam’s blind devotion for granted, as a matter of fact, rather than the unusual gift it is.

And in fact, this is one of the primary areas of growth for Sam. While he follows Frodo loyally, he does not, in the beginning, treat him with the same deference and love we see later in the tale. In fact, if my ebook search feature and my own taxed memory are correct, Sam never directly addresses Frodo as “master” until Book 4. Before that, he uses the terms “sir” and “Mr. Frodo” indiscriminately, and as noted above, only refers to Frodo as “my master” on a select few occasions (more on this later). But along with the advent of Book 4, we’re inundated with the title “master.”

What changes? The answer is two-parted. First, the first chapter of Book 4 is “The Taming of Sméagol.” The second word of that chapter is “master,” coming from Sam and directed at Frodo. In other words, Sam doesn’t start calling Frodo “master” directly until they have left the rest of the Fellowship behind and Gollum comes on the scene—at which point the hobbit’s devotion becomes all-encompassing. Sam, seeing Gollum’s pandering obeisance, transforms himself into a sort of devotary, rivaling the miserable creature in prostrating himself before his “master.” We can see a shadow of this decidedly unfriendly competition in Sam’s mocking of Gollum’s speech patterns from time to time (see “Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit”), not to mention his constant (if well-merited) mistrust of his fellow servant. Of course, Sam’s devotion is not unworthy because it began with less-than-admirable intentions. The important thing is that perhaps Sam pretended long enough that what he pretended became fact: and so he went the extra mile and sacrificed his own well-being for Frodo’s even after “winning” the competition.

Half-wise. Sam is not one of the Wise like Gandalf or Galadriel, but he does have flashes of clarity that even he doesn’t fully understand. He sees beyond face-value to a deeper level and is able to offer the most fitting description of Galadriel that Tolkien ever gives us. He sees in Faramir a high quality, some sort of spiritual light that, though he cannot name it, reminds him of wizards—spiritual messengers. He understands that Lothlórien and the Elves who dwell there have made each other, that they’re in a mutual, equal partnership. He’s the one who sees the star gleaming above the murk of Mordor and takes hope in the good that he cannot grasp.

Likewise, he recognizes in Frodo a power that is beyond him. This idea forms the core of our answer’s second part. Sam begins calling Frodo “master” because he is impelled to do so by the power of the Ring. The few times that Sam refers to Frodo as “my master” before Book 4, the influence of the Ring is a direct factor. The first two times occur just after Weathertop, as Frodo fights the Morgul blade traveling towards his heart. Later Sam uses the phrase when telling Galadriel he wishes she would take the Ring, and again when he praises Faramir for apparently understanding the pressure his master is under.

The text is sure to emphasize this idea after Book 4, too. Each time Sam refers to Frodo as “master” during a situation in which the Ring’s influence is a factor, the term is capitalized. More specifically, Sam begins calling Frodo “Master” (rather than “master”) when he returns the Ring to Frodo in Minas Morgul. That is, Sam, as a former Ring bearer, must bow to the one who holds it now. The Ring and its power has become part of the dynamic of their relationship. Take Gollum as a comparison: he calls Frodo “master” from the beginning of “The Taming of Sméagol” until Frodo’s betrayal of his confidence at the Forbidden Pool. Then, as if to emphasize that his devotion to Frodo is compelled by the Ring and nothing else, he begins calling the hobbit “Master.”

The Ring thus plays an important role in Sam’s service, just like it does that of Gollum, but I would insist that unlike Gollum’s situation, the Ring is not the most important factor in Sam’s devotion. The important difference is that Sam chooses to serve Frodo, whereas Gollum is forced into servitude, slavery even, by the power of the Ring (a heavy topic for another day). It’s easy, good even, to feel uncomfortable with the way Sam is treated as a servant. Like I said above, Middle-earth is driven by class distinctions that are never quite erased even though Sam eventually receives a place of honor in the Shire; he begins life as a servant because he isn’t landed or moneyed. We have to acknowledge that at first he has little choice in occupation or social standing.

Having acknowledged them, then, let’s set aside class discussions for a moment to look at Sam’s story in a different light. We should pay attention to the fact that the “chief hero” of the greatest fantasy epic ever written is a servant, that he eventually chooses to be of service even as, stripped down to essentials, the hobbits have become equals. Despite this, Sam chooses to serve Frodo. Why?

I think Sam’s story contains an important lesson about doing life with other people. Let’s face it: Frodo can be difficult and irritating at times. He needs constant care; Sam looses sleep, food, and water in his vigilance. Sam runs himself ragged for Frodo’s good and consistently sacrifices his own wishes for Frodo’s sake. But what began as an ill-tempered competition eventually births in Sam something beautiful: love. At some point, he stops being smug about his devotion, stops bickering with Gollum over it. He chooses Frodo’s good every time without thought. He instinctively puts Frodo first—in fact it doesn’t occur to him to do otherwise. For Sam, service becomes a joy.

Now, the situation is obviously an exaggerated extreme. Ideally, Frodo would be reciprocating service with service; they would each seek to put the other first. What the story is trying to emphasize, though, is that Sam is sacrificing for someone who can’t return the favor, as it were. Sam is giving without asking whether or not he’s going to get something from Frodo. He just does it. And that’s love. It would have been an important idea for Tolkien, whose Catholic sensibilities reverenced a Christ who announced that he came to serve the very least, the most destitute, and who gave without thought of personal gain.

This is an important lesson for us even now. Sam has no particular reason to love Frodo. Frodo Baggins is his employer. But service changes a person. Generosity transforms. And even though Sam begins from bad or at least less-than-desirable impulses, he eventually comes to the point at which his service is a gift that he gives out of love. As C.S. Lewis once wrote:

“What is the good of pretending to be what you are not? Well, even on the human level, you know, there are two kinds of pretending. There is the bad kind, where the pretence is there instead of the real thing; as when a man pretends he is going to help you instead of really helping you. But there is also a good kind, where the pretence leads up to the real thing.”

This is something that service, even and especially service to people we don’t know or don’t like, does particularly well. If you choose to serve and do so faithfully, service will become the midwife of love—and we could use a lot more of that in this world.

Sam’s story is thus an important one because it illustrates for us with startling clarity that love born of service and service born of love can save the world. It is Sam’s sacrifice and love, more than anything else, that makes the defeat of the darkness possible. And in a world being harried by darkness, fear, and hate, his life teaches a lesson we can’t afford to be slow in learning.

Megan N. Fontenot is a Tolkien scholar and fan who is thankful for the light and hope that can be found in Middle-earth, as well as the encouragement of the lessons the characters embody. Catch her on Twitter @MeganNFontenot1 and feel free to request a favorite character while you’re there!

In this biweekly series, we’re exploring the evolution of both major and minor figures in Tolkien’s legendarium, tracing the transformations of these characters through drafts and early manuscripts through to the finished work. This week’s installment is the first in a mini-series exploring the Vala Ulmo, Lord and Wielder of Waters, Dweller of the Deep, the Pourer: the god at whose prompting Gondolin was founded and through whose protection Eärendil made his renowned journey to the Undying Lands.

Despite playing little more than a supporting role in Middle-earth’s great dramas, Ulmo casts a long shadow—even for a god. Read through The Silmarillion and The History of Middle-earth and you’ll get the distinct impression that the Lord of Waters is a force to be reckoned with. And not because he’s constantly showing off his power; rather, it’s because he sees far more clearly than his peers and sets his pieces in motion before anyone else realizes there’s a game to be played.

In the early stories of Middle-earth, Ulmo is able to accomplish so much because he is fore-sighted, even more so than Manwë, according to one telling (The Book of Lost Tales 1, hereafter BLT1, 198). As Tolkien wrote and rewrote the origin stories of Arda, this characteristic fades into the background, especially once Mandos comes on the scene. However, it’s still an important facet of Ulmo’s ability to see the long game—and win.

Ulmo is less imposing in the earlier drafts, though. He very much fulfills the sort of traditional sea-god role in that he’s severely aloof, quick to anger, and impressively armored in scale-like plate and a belt of gigantic pearls, with blue-ish hair and a magic car pulled by glow-in-the-dark fish (BLT1 113; also check out (BLT2 156-157). Now, Ulmo’s appearance here is certainly impressive–but this Ulmo carries with him the vague hints of fairy tales, which, while by no means negative, is certainly a far cry from the powerful, stern god of the later stories.

This early Ulmo is also more closely connected with sea creatures than he becomes later. Besides the three phosphorescent fish who follow him constantly (BLT1 113), Ulmo is also attended at one point by a mystical whale named Uin, who helps move an island across the Great Sea (BLT1 127). Furthermore, Ulmo is cited here as the creator of the fishes and other fantastic water beasts. Feeling deeply the loneliness of the vast waters, Ulmo seeks out Yavanna, at that time a noted spell-weaver, for words that will allow him to people the waters with creatures of his own devising. She complies, and Ulmo creates all sorts of miraculous animals that join him in the depths (BLT1 113. He does not, the text is anxious to point out, create shellfish or oysters, which are a mystery even to the Valar, and may or may not have existed even before Melkor the Dark Lord came to invest the world with violence and disorder.

It’s important to pause and note here that at this point in Tolkien’s creative process, the Valar were far less powerful and virtuous than they later become. The part that the Valar (especially the nine great Aratar, at that point only four in number) play in Arda’s creation is particularly vague. While they’re certainly involved, it’s at a much less personal level; they aren’t required to do quite the same amount of work as they are in The Silmarillion, for example. So in this early stage, Ulmo’s creation of fishes is much more personal than his almost-metaphysical creation of Water as a concept. That’s why he has such an apparently personal relationship with them, and why, incidentally, Ulmo is so concerned when Melkor’s violence starts affecting the lives of his fish.

Buy it Now

As Tolkien revised, he steps away from Ulmo’s connection to sea creatures and other water creatures, emphasizing instead Ulmo’s relationship with Water itself. The god delights in waters for their own sake, and because they are beautiful and make beautiful things. And with this transformation appears a fascination with the relationship between water and music.

It’s at this moment, I think, that the character of Ulmo begins to gain great depth. We find that Ulmo, fascinatingly, was “the Ainu whom Ilúvatar had instructed deeper than all the others in the depths of music” (BLT1 53). Such a statement has several particular implications we want to explore. The first is that with this statement, Tolkien gives us a credible origin point for Ulmo’s powers of foreknowing. Remember that in the “Ainulindalë,” the Music represents both the powers of creation and the fabric of history. The more one understands one’s own, and others’, part in the great theme, the more wisdom one gathers concerning the workings of the world and Ilúvatar’s plan for it. Ulmo is incredibly wise, and, as we’ve already mentioned, sees further than any of his kin. He is prepared. I like to think of him as a particular agent of Ilúvatar on earth: the One has taken him aside, given him a few pointers—instilling a sort of “I’m counting on you” bit of confidence that goes a long way towards making the world a better place.

Ulmo’s connection to music also explains his particular rivalry with Melkor. Melkor, or Morgoth, was first and foremost a bad musician. He is like the player in the orchestra who, becoming bored with his own part, begins to embellish it with thoughtless trills and cadenzas. Because he has ceased to listen to his part in the whole, he cannot see that next to it, his own part has become frivolous and even obnoxious (especially to those around him, who may begin to play badly themselves because they can no longer hear aright).

Ulmo is, of course, radically different. Ulmo is like the good concertmaster who is in tune and rhythm with the conductor. The good concertmaster may, and often does, have a special solo part to play, but it only embellishes and enhances the whole, rather than diminishing it. For this reason, Ulmo’s solo music, water, is utterly incomprehensible to Melkor. One passage in Morgoth’s Ring even points out that water is “almost entirely free of Morgoth” (401). Because water works in concert with the Music of Ilúvatar, it takes on a spiritual quality that makes it a particularly effective symbol of goodness and purity (and brings new significance to certain textual information, such as the fact that even the water of Mordor is defiled).

So the Lord of the Waters understands the Music. Music and Water working together in a pure relationship undefiled by Melkor makes each an important spiritual symbol in its own right, but we don’t have the time or space to go into that here—after all, Tolkien scholars have written books about it.

All the same, it’s important to recognize the fact: it makes Ulmo’s role in the story far more important because we can presume that he knows more of Ilúvatar’s full plan that at least most of the other Valar (and potentially more than all of them). We need that perspective before we launch into the full expanse of Ulmo’s righteous scheming.

I want to point out, too, that while Ulmo is water’s creator, and while he fashions it with love and reverence, he is neither possessive of it nor greedy of its development by others. An important passage in The Silmarillion explains this:

And Ilúvatar spoke to Ulmo, and said: Seest thou not how here in this little realm in the Deeps of Time Melkor hath made war upon thy province? He hath bethought him of bitter cold immoderate, and yet hath not destroyed the beauty of thy fountains, nor of thy clear pools. Behold the snow, and the cunning work of frost! Melkor hath devised heats and fire without restraint, and hath not dried up thy desire nor utterly quelled the music of the sea. Behold rather the height and glory of the clouds, and the everchanging mists; and listen to the fall of rain upon the Earth! And in these clouds thou art drawn nearer to Manwë, thy friend, whom thou lovest.” (8)

Ulmo responds joyously, exclaiming that “Water is become now fairer than my heart imagined” rather than being contorted to cross-purposes by Melkor. The Vala’s response is nothing short of miraculous. In this series, we have tracked the response of many characters to the use and abuse of their various creations. Even Aulë, I would venture to say, is not so gracious. Ulmo goes on to literally praise how Melkor’s attempted violence transformed his solo creation into things of surpassing beauty—into snowflakes and rain. He does not rail against Melkor’s evil, but rather finds the good that he can glory in.

I call the response miraculous because, as Tolkien repeatedly shows us, it’s incredibly hard to be so generous with the works of your hands. Even Tolkien himself, who wrote these words and who once said he wished to leave room in his legendarium for other imaginations to play, often balked at adaptations and transformations of his ideas, and instantly rose up in righteous anger against the pirated U.S. edition of The Lord of the Rings.

But Ulmo knows Ilúvatar’s plan better than anyone else, so he is gracious. He lets go. He finds the strength to set aside greed and power to rejoice in the fact that even transformed by the wiles of the Dark Lord, his creation is still bringing Ilúvatar glory. He closes his response to Ilúvatar by promising that he will seek out his brother Manwë and the two will, together, continue to reprise their original work.

If the rivers and streams are indeed the veins of the earth, it’s no wonder Ulmo has his finger on the pulse of Arda. We’ll see next time how his special connection with the Music, and his commitment to following Ilúvatar’s plan even when he must go against the decrees of the Valar, allow him to become one of the prime movers in Middle-earth’s tumultuous early history. We’ll follow Ulmo’s influence through the arrival of the Eldar in Middle-earth, through their journey to Valinor and the Exile of the Noldor, to the founding and later fall of the great city of Gondolin, and finally to the voyage of Eärendil and the final battle against the machinations of Morgoth and Sauron.

Megan N. Fontenot is a Tolkien scholar and fan who is thankful for the light and hope that can be found in Middle-earth, as well as the encouragement of the lezssons the characters embody. Catch her on Twitter @MeganNFontenot1 and feel free to request a favorite character while you’re there!

In this biweekly series, we’re exploring the evolution of both major and minor figures in Tolkien’s legendarium, tracing the transformations of these characters through drafts and early manuscripts through to the finished work. This week’s installment takes a look at Meriadoc Brandybuck, hobbit of the Shire and squire of Rohan.

I don’t remember Merry Brandybuck leaving much of an impression the first few times I read The Lord of the Rings. He’s quiet, unobtrusive, and does nothing quite as eye-catching or memorable as many of the other characters. Apart from his (relatively) accidental heroism at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, Merry tends to recede into the background. But, the more I read The Lord of the Rings, the more I am struck by Merry’s quiet constancy, his willing to do the task at hand. Merry is, if anything, competent. Merry is prepared.

For example, Merry prepares Frodo’s new house for him in Buckland, all the while knowing that Frodo will likely turn around and leave the next day. All the same, he takes care to make sure that the little house is as much like home for his cousin as possible. Indeed, he spends days, even weeks, ensuring that Frodo’s last memories of the Shire are pleasant and homelike. And when the secret comes out, and Frodo admits that he must leave immediately, Merry is there, prepared as always, so that they might leave within the hour. He has even taken the time to get to know the path they must follow, and though the Old Forest defies the knowledge of everyone (apart from Tom Bombadil, perhaps), Merry still respects it for its mystery and age. In fact, in the epilogue that Tolkien ultimately decided not to include in The Lord of the Rings, it’s said that Merry is busy writing a book about the fantastical lives of plants (Sauron Defeated 124).

We often hold up Sam’s loyalty and love for Frodo as being something exemplary, as it certainly is. But what about Merry? Merry offers us a picture of more achievable friendship, of a friendship that, while extraordinary in its own right, is very much a goal that we might all reach. Merry may not save Frodo from the fiery effusions of Orodruin; he may not give up his last bites of food and last swallows of water to Frodo as they both drag themselves through the gasping wasteland of Mordor; he may not offer to carry on his own shoulders the greatest burden Middle-earth knows in this late age—but he does assure Frodo that he will be there no matter the cost. He does not intend to desert Frodo, and despite everything that happens, Merry fulfills that promise. It’s the promise he makes in the little house in Buckland:

You can trust us to stick to you through thick and thin—to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours—close than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo. […] We are horribly afraid—but we are coming with you; or following you like hounds. (LotR 104-105)

If you said that all of Merry’s actions in the story are an attempt to keep this key promise, I think you’d be absolutely correct. He fully intends to honor his friendship with Frodo, even when it means placing his own life at risk to help the enemies of Sauron. He carries out his place in the mission as well as he can. Even upon finding himself stranded in the vastness of Fangorn with only dear, clueless Pippin by his side, Merry doesn’t falter. He studied maps in Rivendell, it turns out, to prepare for just this eventuality, and he leads and protects his young friend to the best of his ability. Though his devotion to cousin Frodo inspires his early actions, his friendship with Pippin deepens considerably over the course of the story, and shouldn’t be discounted.

But of course, Merry’s ability to be reliable and constant isn’t born out of nowhere; he has to practice. We can see that growth in the way the character developed over time. Tolkien’s drafts show us a character who, even in the beginning, is trustworthy. He’s there with Frodo (or, in the early days, Bingo) despite all that attempts to divide them. In some cases, Meriadoc Brandybuck—or Marmaduke, as he was then called—is the only one to accompany Frodo on his great exodus out of the Shire.

In the first draft, “Marmaduke Brandybuck” is simply a friend of Bingo who receives the majority of the latter’s wines upon his unexpected departure (The Return of the Shadow, hereafter RS, 33). But, once Tolkien decided that Bingo was to be accompanied by others, Marmaduke was immediately one of the party, despite many question marks and vague notes about characters who, ultimately, were never realized (RS 42). Soon thereafter, Tolkien wrote into the narrative Marmaduke’s special role in riding ahead to Buckland to prepare Bingo’s house as a diversionary tactic (RS 51). He has it ready when Bingo and his companions arrive; and even this early in the drafting process, the memorable bath scene has emerged. In the earliest drafts, however, Marmaduke is accompanied by Gandalf, a few dwarves, and a handful of Elves and prepares the guest-house of Brandy Hall rather than a free-standing residence (RS 101).

Buy it Now

It was more difficult to decide whether or not Marmaduke already knew about the Ring. Tolkien waffled on this point considerably, even playing around with the idea that Bingo had already taken a few friends (the Merry prototype included) into his confidence concerning it (RS 83). Of course, Tolkien ultimately decided on the “conspiracy” narrative: Merry knows far more than Frodo suspects.

The names Meriadoc and Merry first appear in a draft that would become “In the House of Tom Bombadil” (RS 76). As it turns out, the name suited him. Merry has neither the lackadaisical lightheartedness of Pippin nor the dogged hopefulness of Sam, but rather a steady (there’s that word again) cheerfulness that carries him through. Of course, Tolkien would be disappointed if we didn’t observe that Meriadoc’s true Hobbit name was the “high-sounding and legendary name” Chilimanzar (The People of Middle-earth, hereafter PM, 50). Choosing a Welsh name to stand in for such a unique and unwieldy Hobbit name seemed fitting, Tolkien wrote, because “Buckland in many ways occupied a position with regard to the Shire such as Wales does to England”—and because, conveniently, the nickname of Chilimanzar meant “gay or merry” (PM 50).

This hardy cheerfulness emerged in stages. The original Marmaduke is decidedly snarky. Upon meeting his friends on the Road and observing their fear, he does not sympathize but rather asks, “Are there some big bad rabbits loose?” (RS 99). Later, when his friends are taking too long in the bath, he calls in to them, exclaiming, “there is such a thing as supper. I cannot live on praise much longer” (RS 102). Some of these remarks survive into the published Lord of the Rings, but on the whole, Merry becomes significantly more good-natured and long-suffering.

Upon reaching Rivendell in his drafts, Tolkien paused. He was facing some serious difficulties and questions about the progress of the story thus far, and they simply had to be address. There were just “too many hobbits,” he lamented, and Bingo was a stupid name (RS 221). He suggested instead that perhaps only Bingo/Frodo and Merry “ride into exile—because Merry insists” (RS 221, emphasis original). Here is the seed of Merry’s great promise in the little house in Buckland, the tenacity that ultimately plays an important role in his character.

The worry that hobbits were overpopulating the narrative drove Tolkien to make radical cuts in the story. Because of that, Merry takes on (for a time) characteristics that we later see in Sam and Pippin: he is often shown as treating Frodo with the quiet solicitude and offering him service just as Samwise Gamgee will; and many of the hasty and thoughtless actions later attributed to Pippin also fall to Merry’s lot.

After a serious and intense re-writing period, however, it looked like Merry’s role in the story was coming to an end. He was going to be left behind at Rivendell. “Merry will be grieved, it is true,” Gandalf says, “but Elrond’s decision is wise. He is merry in name, and merry in heart, but this quest is not for him, nor for any hobbit, unless fate and duty chooses him. But do not be distressed: I think there may be other work for him to do, and that he will not be left long idle” (The Treason of Isengard, hereafter TI, 115).

If Merry was not “left long idle,” it was because Tolkien quickly abandoned his decision to leave the hobbit behind. Still, it wasn’t until Tolkien reached Moria that Merry and Pippin began to have any real agency in the story. According to Christopher Tolkien, the notes containing the “story foreseen from Moria” constitute the first time that Merry and Pippin are conceived of as having a “central position in the story” (TI 214).

Originally, Merry and Pippin were simply meant to wander off, distraught by the loss of Frodo and Sam, to encounter Treebeard and other Ents in the “Topless Forest” (TI 210). Perhaps surprisingly, it took Tolkien quite a while to reach the idea that Merry and Pippin were the ones captured by Orcs and taken towards Isengard (it was Legolas and Gimli at first) (TI 346). Once he did reach this decision, however, the shape of Merry’s narrative quickly emerged (TI 409).

At this point in the drafting process, Merry Brandybuck begins to receive more depth and greater purpose as a character. We learn that “he loved mountains, and the desire to see and know them had moved him strongly when he and his friends had plotted to go with Frodo, far away in the Shire” (The War of the Ring, hereafter WR, 241). He also looses many of the qualities, mentioned above, that we now instinctively identify with Pippin and Sam. He becomes more thoughtful and noticeably more competent; though he makes mistakes, he endeavors to be prepared and informed before throwing himself headlong into dangerous situations. Essentially, Merry’s tendency towards introspection, along with his stubborn commitment to honor and duty, increases.

We can see this by looking at the role Merry plays among the Rohirrim. At first, there is no indication that the small hobbit will play a part in the slaying or unhorsing of the Witch King on the battlefield (WR 263), and the complications in his service to Théoden have not yet appeared. When he pledges his sword to the King of Rohan he is armed by Éowyn (WR 317) and it is taken as given that Merry will ride into battle seated behind Théoden or another Rider (WR 317-318). Indeed, Merry is repeatedly, and in multiple drafts, given express permission to ride to war (for example, WR 343).

But as Merry’s ability to question his own motives and actions deepens, the situation itself develops unforeseen complexities. Part of the way through a draft that would become “The Ride of the Rohirrim,” it occurred to Tolkien (after imagining Merry’s forlorn realization that he wouldn’t be much use on the battlefield) that Théoden would never consent to send a helpless, untried hobbit into battle as a soldier. It would not only be unwise, but downright cruel. He immediately abandoned the draft and rewrote the chapter (WR 347).

This decision rocks Merry’s world, as it were. If we examine the finished scene in which Théoden orders the hobbit to stay behind, I think we can see both Merry’s character and his dilemma in clearer terms. When Théoden formally declares that “I release you from my service, but not from my friendship,” Merry is nonplussed. He speaks to Théoden in terms that the king ought to understand: in the language of honor: “I should be ashamed to stay behind.” Of course, Théoden still refuses. Merry becomes desperate. “Then tie me on the back of [a horse], or let me hang on a stirrup, or something,” he cries. “It is a long way to run; but run I shall, if I cannot ride, even if I wear my feet off and arrive weeks too late” (LotR 801).

Even considering his role in defeating the Witch King, I believe that this is in fact Merry’s finest moment. These words are powered by his faithfulness, his tenacity, and his constancy. In the face of direct orders and blatant dismissal, Merry longs to fulfill his promise. He seems to understand that for all Théoden’s pleasantness and genuine affection, the king doesn’t think much of the vow that passed between them. Théoden would not cast off the formally-sworn word of a Rider in this fashion; vows in this culture are not so easily broken. Merry’s words are a desperately plea to be taken seriously, to be allowed to give as much, to fight as hard, and to face the enemy with as much bravery and fear as the men he’s surrounded by.

For me, this scene only increases the power of Merry and Éowyn’s partnership. Éowyn has, perhaps for her whole life, faced the same sort of assumptions about her courage, commitment, and competency. She has been told to stay behind more often than she can count, left to prepare the house for the heroes’ return, much as Merry prepares the little house in Crickhollow for Frodo. Seeing how distraught and hurt Merry is, she immediately steps into the breach caused by this betrayal and fits Merry out with armor and weapons despite her uncle’s orders. And then, perhaps even inspired by Merry’s passionate words, Éowyn Dernhelm rides into battle with the little castaway at her back.

It would be unfair to both characters to suggest that Merry and Éowyn don’t know what they’re getting into. Both are thoughtful and introspective, and Éowyn at least has lived in a war-driven culture long enough to understand death. As for Merry—well, his travels have taught him more than most about the fear of battle. Faced with the most powerful foe on the battlefield, neither one fails their promises. In the end they walk similar paths to healing and are brought back into the embraces of the people who love them best. They are rewarded beyond what they ever anticipated, in large part because they both give without thought of receiving in return.

Merry’s is a steady sort of friendship, one that you can count on. He isn’t one to be taken by surprise by what his friends need; he is always there ahead of time, sometimes before they are aware of the need themselves. Merry is reliable. He is loyal. He is the friend who always makes you feel at home, no matter how strange the ground beneath your feet. And that, I think, makes him one of the more quiet and poignant heroes of The Lord of the Rings.

Merry’s example is an important one, especially in our current day, when constancy is not the first impulse. We’re forced to live fast-paced lives that don’t always leave room for us to be like Merry, anticipating the needs and desires of our friends and carrying out our duties with fierce determination. We struggle to be present and to support those around us who are suffering, to offer home to others—in part because we ourselves are deep in the tangled woods of our own pains and difficulties.

In such a time, Merry’s example offers us hope. If a small hobbit could do such things in the midst of such great darkness and doubt and fear—why not you and me?

Megan N. Fontenot is a dedicated Tolkien scholar and fan who loves, almost more than anything else, digging into the many drafts and outlines of Tolkien’s legendarium. Catch her on Twitter @MeganNFontenot1 and feel free to request a favorite character while you’re there!

When I first came across Kip Rasmussen’s work, I knew it was exceptional, and that I’d probably like everything he made. His paintings present all the best components of high fantasy: long hair flowing from beneath helms, brazen swords, gleaming spears, fire-breathing dragons, primordial godlike beings, imposing pinnacles of rock, and an insanely huge spider. Yup—these were scenes right out of J.R.R. Tolkien’s legendarium, instantly recognizable as features of Middle-earth. But curiously, only a few of them depict characters in The Lord of the Rings itself. Here was a Silmarillion-leaning artist. Oh, hell yeah.

When I contacted Kip to ask permission to use some of his work in my Silmarillion Primer, he just happened to be mulling over three ideas in his mental queue and he was quick to ask me to choose which subject he’d tackle next. I chose “Tulkas Chaining Morgoth,” so when he finished it later, it was right on time for the War of Wrath segment of the Primer. That made me very happy. And now, once again, I’m debuting a new painting in this article: Kip’s take on that legendary conflict between a certain lionhearted shield-maiden and a certain overconfident lord of carrion.

As soon as I realized I wanted to interview some of my favorite Tolkien artists, I knew Kip Rasmussen would be on the list. Not just because some of his paintings would make awesome Led Zeppelin album covers—or frankly, any prog rock album since the 70s—but because he’s a down-to-earth human being who’s more than meets the eye.

So let’s get right to it.

Kip, can you tell me, in a nutshell, how you fell into Tolkien’s mythologies? At what age did you first encounter his work, and at what age did you actually sink in deep beyond the point of no return?

Kip: At age 8, I found The Hobbit on my brother’s bookshelf, opened it, and that was it right there. I couldn’t believe what I had found. I still can’t believe it. I moved right into The Lord of the Rings and the free fall continued. I remember sitting in class in fourth grade reading the Moria passage, stressing out visibly. A classmate looked over and said, “What’s wrong?” I barely looked up and lamented, “Gandalf just died!” Poor kid looked very confused.

Obviously this was before Gandalf became a household name, because of the films. (Though arguably, he already was a name in some households, but that’s another story.)

“Túrin Approaches the Pool of Ivrin” by Kip Rasmussen

Now, I know you as a kick-ass painter who favors Tolkien above all. But you’re also an author and film producer? Can you tell me about that?

Kip: I work with the filmmaker Tom Durham. We met at a party and found we shared a love of science fiction and fantasy. He directs the films and I help him with a bunch of tasks involved in independent films—help with story ideas, concept art, props, fundraising, etc. His first feature is 95ers: Time Runners, which is a time travel thriller. He is now involved in a wonderful local television show which tells the story of the ups and downs of the lives of everyday people. Kind of the idea that everyone has a story to tell. Our goal is to move into a multi-season science fiction or fantasy series such as can be found on channels nearly everywhere. He is a tremendously talented artist with infinite energy.

Nice! And hey, my brother’s got the DVD, even backed the Kickstarter for that film. And yeah, you have an IMDB page, don’t you? Keep growing that! But you’re also a therapist, too, right?

Kip: Yes. My day job is as a family therapist and I have published a book on parenting. I took what forty years of research has revealed about the most effective parenting elements and derived easily usable tips from that body of research. The cool thing is that, because of that research, we don’t really have to guess much anymore. In a nutshell, the most effective parenting involves a lot of love and support coupled with some reasonable rules applied as gently as possible to get the job done. We don’t have to yell or punish in the traditional sense. We just have to make sure we lean enough that kids follow the rules that will help them be successful in their lives without triggering their natural impulse to be defiant against us. It’s been very helpful with my own kids and the kids of my clients.

What do you mean by lean?

Kip: I use the comparison of the “weight of the leaning elephant” rather than a charging, trampling, or goring elephant. Kids are awesome and if we are just insistent and “lean” on them when they need correcting, the research shows that we get better long-term results. If we yell, we generally get short-term compliance, but we also show them that we are out of control and they tend to not trust us as much. Most of us hate being bossed around and kids are very prone to defiance if they feel we are abusing our authority. This all hits the fan when they turn 13 or 14.

I’m officially bookmarking this article to refer back to in a few years, in that case! Thanks. So before I circle back to Tolkien specifically, what’s your authorship status?

Kip: I am expanding a novella about two warriors who venture into a mountain fastness to try to kill a dragon-like creature which has been terrorizing their city. They don’t expect to live long but what they find is much worse than they foresaw. It’s fun to build a world, something which yet again shows me how astonishing Tolkien’s genius was.

I know, it’s downright intimidating—that is, doing your own world-building when you’re a Tolkien fan. But it’s still worth doing. Like that time when Morgoth, the first Dark Lord of Middle-earth wanted to destroy the Two Trees of Valinor but needed the help of the hideously powerful, light-craving Ungoliant. He had to work out an agreement with her, and she was difficult, and it didn’t ultimately go swimmingly for him. Say, you painted that outcome…

“Ungoliant Ensnares Morgoth” by Kip Rasmussen

But it was worth it in the long run, is my point. He did manage to destroy the Trees, sow chaos in Valinor, and make off with those shiny Silmarils. Likewise, it’s a lot of extra work to devise your own setting in the shadow of what Tolkien did—but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.

So, I would say that most casual fans of Tolkien understandably extol and reread The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit. A smaller percentage, from what I can tell, really know The Silmarillion well or have even read it. But even a quick look at your website’s gallery reveals that, in fact, most of your work is based on that book. You’ve called it more “fundamental” than his other books, and “one of the most preeminent works of art ever created.” And I certainly agree! Can you elaborate, or give any specific examples of why you think so? Do you find it a more enjoyable read, page by page?

Kip: All of Tolkien’s work has its glory. Unfinished Tales is probably my second favorite book. But The Silmarillion is just so infinite and transcendent. It takes everything we love about The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings and gives us exponentially more. More gods, Elves, Balrogs, dragons, battles, marvelous cities and dwellings, love stories, and origin stories. If we want to learn about where everything comes from, from Elves to stars, from Ents to Orcs, it’s there. Tolkien forgot almost nothing. The origin story of Dwarves and Ents is particularly fascinating because it involves a fundamental disagreement about the nature of the world from a couple of married gods! Also, could there be anything more riveting than the story of Beren and Lúthien, in which a woman saves her love from death several times, eventually literally from the God of the Underworld himself…by singing of her eternal love? So many, many timeless themes, from our relationship to authority and God (Morgoth, Ulmo, and Fëanor), to the nature of sacrifice and suffering (Barahir and Finrod), to the self-destructive pride of the most talented among us (Fëanor, Turgon, Túrin, Thingol) to the necessity of reigning in our darkness (Maeglin, Ar-Pharazôn).

Well, you get points just for name-dropping Finrod. But maybe that’s just me. Oh, and speaking of Thingol, you illustrated his famous meeting with the songbird-themed Maia, Melian, in the forest of Nan Elmoth. This is easily one of my favorites. I’ll share that one further down.

Anyway, go on.

Kip: The Silmarillion is not just one of the greatest works of serious world literature, but one of the greatest achievements in all of artistic endeavor. For me, it is by far the greatest work by the most expansive single creative mind of all time. Other than the really important things such as family, etc., my most cherished dream in life is to introduce this magnificent creative achievement to those who might appreciate it. But it can be a locked treasure trove because of all the new names. It took three times reading it for me to understand what was happening. But if people can be helped through images to get through all the new names, I hope it can lift them like it has me.

Only three? Good on you! But yeah, you’re certainly right. If anyone asks me what my favorite single book of all time is, I dodge around The Lord of the Rings using the flimsy three-book excuse (because of course it isn’t three separate books in the author’s mind) and so now I just say The Silmarillion.

I’ve noticed there’s a fascinating sort of “zoomed in” style in your works, in contrast to other Tolkien artists, where it’s clearly focused on an individual, monster, or scene, and yet the landscape is stretched out behind them in a very…stretchy way, if that makes sense? Almost like you’ve got a sort of Ken Burns effect on your paintings at all times. Like with your illustration “Beren and Lúthien Plight Their Troth.” I find myself looking at the figures at the top, then gradually pan down and marvel at the curiously treacherous yet beautiful place they’ve chosen to pledge undying love! It’s cool.

“Beren and Lúthien Plight Their Troth” by Kip Rasmussen

And in “Tuor and Voronwë Seek Gondolin,” you either look first at the jutting mountains and then notice the travelers at the bottom or else you see them first then sweep upward and gape at the frozen challenge ahead of them. How do you do that? Can you talk about your style a little bit?

Kip: What is this new devilry? You are totally reading my artistic mind. It’s a seriously perceptive tribute. Thank you. Tolkien’s world is nearly infinite and The Silmarillion is for me a book in which immortal, meteoric characters are nonetheless caught up in events which overwhelm and consume them. For all the greatness and glory of Fëanor, Melian, Túrin, and Turgon, they are caught in a struggle which is worthy of depiction in all ways, but which they cannot win. The world and the themes are bigger than they are. I love depicting these environments to show the difficulty of the task they have ahead of them. Tolkien’s landscapes can be sinister and malevolent. Mirkwood, the Old Forest, and the Dead Marshes are all enemies which strive to hinder the heroes. I love painting stone, trees, and especially mountains as much as I love warriors and dragons. Tolkien was essentially made of the organic stuff of the earth. The landscapes are often active characters and they deserve their own “portraits.” Caradhras the Cruel, for example, is a living entity and will receive a “close-up” soon. I feel an urgency, a suffocating yearning to depict Middle-earth itself. For me, it’s kind of like the One Ring. I want viewers to be immersed in that marvelous world. This is what moves me so much about the work of Ted Nasmith and Alan Lee. They really breathe the misty, fathomless depths of Arda.

Wow. Well, given how much you’ve personified features of geography—as Tolkien certainly did with “characters” like Caradhras, as you suggest—now I have to ask you my first hypothetical question. If you were one of the Ainur who’d help sing the World into shape (Eä, or at least Arda itself), which named geological feature or landscape would be your favorite? It would be one that, maybe, you’d have had a hand in making? For example, the River Sirion in Beleriand was unquestionably Ulmo’s favorite river of all time (and that guy knew rivers!).

Kip: Probably the water-carved arch of Alqualondë. There are a lot of them I would like to have taken credit for: the Echoriath, the Pelóri , etc. I’m crazy about mountains. I love unusual rock features. I might have some Dwarvish blood :)

Then I think you’d probably be a Maia in service to Aulë. Of course, his Maiar don’t have the best track record…. But it does make sense. Those who worked with Aulë, the Great Smith, are intrinsically crafters and sub-creators. Painters would fit in there nicely.

What sort of paints do you use and why? And do you ever do anything digitally?

Kip: I started out in oils but found that they dry slowly and the clean-up can be messy. I switched to acrylics, which are kind of unforgiving but work for me since I can’t devote full time to painting. I would love to learn the digital world but I am a more organic person. For example, I create Japanese-style gardens and love physically arranging trees, rocks, and dirt. It’s a tactile thing for me. I like physically applying paint rather than drawing on glass. I am about to go back to oils, I think, since I have discovered additives which can help them dry quicker, and that there are alternatives to toxic solvents as well. But oils blend easily and are more luminous. Frankly, I am still learning to paint both artistically and technically. Boris Vallejo once described painting as a dance. For me, it’s a kind of combat. I lose often and even when I produce something to show the world, it’s from a series of compromises with time and skill level. Every painting is a low-key haunting regarding what I originally wanted to do but couldn’t pull off. It’s a blessing and a curse to paint the work of Tolkien. I never want to disappoint Tolkien or Tolkien fans. They deserve the best I can muster up.

Speaking of mustering… Rohan! You’ve recently tackled one of the Rohirrim ancestor-kings, Fram, and his legendary slaying of everybody’s favorite scathing hoarder, the long-worm known as Scatha!

“Scatha and Fram” by Kip Rasmussen

You know, with only a couple of exceptions, I’ve noticed that whenever you’ve got only two characters depicted in a given painting, they’re either falling in love with each other or trying to kill each other. Just an observation.

So talk to me about dragons. What sets Tolkien’s apart from all the rest?

Kip: Tolkien’s dragons are not just content to be powerful and destructive, they are also malevolent. Glaurung, for example, wasn’t content to just kill Túrin, but to destroy Túrin’s mind and family. Really disturbing. For me, it’s one of the most tragic stories ever written. Just gut-wrenching. Tolkien’s dragons have a vicious intelligence. One does not simply ride a Tolkien dragon, at least not the organic kind.

“Dragons of Tolkien” collage by Kip Rasmussen

So where is a region of Middle-earth—or anywhere in Arda—that you wish Tolkien had fleshed out more? If you got an exclusive description from the hand of the professor himself of one place, character, or scene, where would that be?

Kip: When we describe Tolkien, we should start at genius and then go upward from there. And he spent all of his life building this world. And yet it’s never enough for us. We want more. I wish he had described virtually all lands a little more rather than playing cards. Apparently he loved a form of solitaire called “patience.”

Anyway, I’d love to hear more about Valinor. And the actual structure of Rivendell? Was it the last homely house or a fortress compound as it appears in the war involving Celebrimbor? I know Gondolin was described pretty well, but I’d dearly love an actual map. I want to see Númenor, a nation so magnificent that it astounded Sauron himself.

That’s too many answers! (But they’re all good ones.)

Kip: I’ve struggled to understand how to depict “bright Eärendil.” Was he just so good that he “shone” or was it that he literally glowed? The most curious passage though is how he possibly could have killed Ancalagon while in his ship. That one needs clarification.

Hah! Well, I think the diamond dust dust he kicked up outside of Tirion was a contributing factor. And I think it’s like glitter; once it’s on you, it’s on you for good. Especially Noldorin gem-glitter. But given that by that time he’d already strapped the Silmaril to his brow, the dude was a walking nebula of awesome already. But yes, the chapter starts with him being called “Bright Eärendil.” Still, I think that’s because the narrator is speaking in the past tense; he already knows what Eärendil’s fate will be in the telling.

All right, setting aside all existing films and movie scores, if you had the power to point to a living musician or band of musicians and they had to (let’s say got to) put together an album of Middle-earth music, who would you choose?

Kip: This group is really good: Clamavi De Profundis. Loreena McKennitt has the most marvelously haunted voice. For me this could be Yavanna singing for the trees or Lúthien lamenting the death of Thingol. As for those not living—

Breaking the rules again, I see.

Kip: —there are several. I know these are in Latin and they’re specifically Catholic but they feel so “Elvish” to me. Both kind of fit for Tolkien, though. For example, for me, this piece is the Music of the Ainur. Also, the work of the mighty polymath Hildegard Von Bingen just transports me to Arda. And for those who aren’t overtly religious, here’s one about the plants she wrote about. Like everything in the natural world, Tolkien loved plants, too.

Close enough to my actual question, I guess, you scofflaw. But I dig ’em, and I concur especially that McKennitt could have rendered us some excellent Middle-earth music. Why hasn’t she? Alas.

Okay, back to painting. You’ve just finished this piece, “Éowyn Stands Against the Witch-king.” Now, this is not only the favorite scene of many a Tolkien fan, but it’s also a beloved moment to paint. But every Tolkien artist does it differently, as they should. Some show the Nazgûl’s beast already slain, some have Éowyn delivering that fateful strike. You’ve shown them simply squaring off, the outcome uncertain.

“Éowyn Stands Against the Witch-king” by Kip Rasmussen

Can you tell me why you chose this particular moment in time, and about your angle?

Kip: I had done a compositional sketch and the gesture of Éowyn was so perfect that I tried to copy it in the larger painting. I was much less successful in doing so but didn’t have the chops to really change it so that it matched the energy and immediacy of the sketch. In the sketch, she was kind of hunkered down bracing for the onslaught. My reference photo looked good in camera but looked too stiff when it was painted. It just happens like that sometimes. That painting really strained my current abilities and took a ton of time. I like it less than some others and want to do another one when I have improved because it’s probably the most iconic scene in Tolkien’s body of work, which is saying something. I just don’t have the energy in my figures that Frazetta does, not that many artists ever have. I do have a nefarious plan to try to get better and better and give the Tolkien work the treatment of Vermeer or Caravaggio. Nothing like pressure!

As far as the moment of the painting, I wanted it to have a bit of “potential” energy. She could still run away if she lost her nerve in the face of this horror, but her protective instincts are so great that she stays and fights. It just felt like the tipping point a bit. I did the same thing with “Thingol and Melian,” where they hadn’t yet sealed their relationship by clasping hands so it is still up in the air. A bit more dramatic tension, I suppose.

See, I hadn’t thought about that—Elwë seems to fall so fast and hard for Melian that it’s easy to forget how much time really goes by in their meeting, technically. Years, in fact, maybe far more once they actually join hands. And then, of course, it’s after this meeting that he goes by the name Thingol. Because renaming is what Elves do.

“Thingol and Melian” by Kip Rasmussen

All right, now for some easy lightning round questions. Regardless of the subjects of your own illustrations, who is…

Your favorite Elf of the First Age?

Kip: There would be many. Fingolfin fought Morgoth! Fingon rescued Maedhros. Turgon built that city. Eärendil brought on the War of Wrath. Idril was just such a great maternal figure. I love Beleg also. But probably the favorite is Finrod, who just knew he was going to die but had to honor his oath.

I only let you rattle off multiple answers because you did conclude with the greatest Elf of all ages of the world. Finrod for the win! Not only did he have Beren’s back, he also made first contact with Men and arguably ensured the Edain, and thereby the Dúnedain, would come to pass. If any other Beleriand Elf had encountered Men first, especially one of the sons of Fëanor, the story might have been very different.

Favorite mortal man or woman of the First or Second Age?

Kip: Tuor, but Húrin comes in a close second.

Favorite minion or monster of Morgoth?

Kip: Ancalagon. Sooooo huge.

“Ancalagon Departing for the War of Wrath” by Kip Rasmussen

A Dwarf you wish we knew much more about?

Kip: Durin the Deathless, the original.

A.K.A. Aulë’s very first stab at a creature of his own. The prototype. But yeah, Durin’s cool.

One more question. You’re an experienced parent and a therapist and a lifelong Tolkien fan. How could one get a child—say, a 5-year-old—well on his way to becoming a solid Tolkien reader without one coming on too strong? Asking for a friend.

Kip: That’s the question a great parent asks. Seriously.

Pair the experiences with Tolkien with some good times with you. I watched Fellowship with my son when he was five and it didn’t seem so scary for him. I watched it after we made brownies together, then watched Wallace & Gromit afterward. He still considers it the most cherished memory of his childhood. Not sure you want to introduce him to the books using the movies, but if he feels a closeness to you, he will naturally have an affinity for Tolkien. Be the good parent you seem to be and have the material around and he will most likely start to love it. Read The Hobbit to him for his bedtime story over the course of weeks. You both are probably in for a treat. I talk about it all the time with my grown son. Good luck!

Thanks! And thanks for giving your time and sharing your work. Folks should check our your website—and whaaaat, you can get a phone case with your art on it?

I’d like to end by displaying one more recent piece of yours. For all your Silmarillion pieces, you’ve still clearly got a few Third Age-related soft spots, like this one. What made you depict the animal that the “horses of the Nine cannot vie with,” who is “tireless, swift as the flowing wind,” and whose “coat glistens like silver” and by night “is like a shadow”?

Seriously, Tolkien gives Shadowfax more of a physical description than Legolas!

“Shadowfax on the Highlands of Rohan” by Kip Rasmussen

Kip: As we all know, there are many astonishing scenes that beg depicting in Tolkien’s work. I have a queue that is literally hundreds of images long. So, if enough fans at conventions ask for a certain image, I move it up the list. People love their gods, Elves, and dragons, but horse lovers are very passionate. And I love painting horses. Challenging but dynamic. The Shadowfax painting came together better than most for some reason.

It’s also a wonderful moment of peace, even though it’s bursting with energy and force. This is Shadowfax, chief of the Mearas, at play.

Thank you for your time and your visions, Kip!

Okay, wait, no—there’s still one more I need to share. Kip’s has several new Tolkien-inspired paintings that have debuted since this interview, and everyone reading this should totally check them out on his website. You’ve got Gandalf and the Witch-king, Aulë and Yavanna, the father of Dwarves (Durin!) taking the longest nap ever, a close-up of Ancalagon’s fearsome mug staring down tiny Vingolot, and more. Not on his site (yet) is a really striking one: Olórin in the Gardens of Lórien. Yes, that’s a beardless Gandalf taking a moment to breathe in Valinor. His sorrow is deep.

But I also wanted to share one new painting right here. This is “Morgoth Musters the Winged Dragons for the War of Wrath,” and aside from it being another display of Kip’s tall, sweeping compositions, we get to see Morgoth flanked by some of his greater servants—which gives one artist’s interpretation of scale. A troll, a black-robed figure who’s got to be Sauron, a Balrog (look, Mom, no wings!), and an Orc looking like he’s in way over his head in present company. All of them are dwarfed by the dragons.

I love the fact that the setting is a dark pit in the depths of Angband, a dark contrast to Kip’s wintry “Ancalagon Departing for the War of Wrath” shown earlier. These wyrms haven’t yet taken to the skies to terrorize Beleriand. But they are clearly eager to stretch those wings and snack on some Elves and Men.

“Morgoth Musters His Winged Dragons for the War of Wrath” by Kip Rasmussen

Top image from “Varda of the Stars” by Kip Rasmussen.

An earlier version of this article was originally published in February 2019.

Jeff LaSala, who’s personally responsible for The Silmarillion Primer, will now hold Kip Rasmussen personally responsible for his own son growing up right. Tolkien geekdom aside, Jeff wrote a Scribe Award–nominated D&D novel, produced some cyberpunk stories, and now works for Tor Books. He sometimes flits about on Twitter.

In this biweekly series, we’re exploring the evolution of both major and minor figures in Tolkien’s legendarium, tracing the transformations of these characters through drafts and early manuscripts through to the finished work. This week’s installment takes a look at Théoden, son of Thengel, King of Rohan and a champion in the fight against Sauron.

King Théoden of Rohan is undoubtedly one of the most influential figures of the Third Age, despite the fact that his greatest deeds were accomplished in the last few weeks of his life. Without his stout courage and compelling leadership, Gondor and the West would surely have fallen into Shadow. Théoden’s career is brief but brilliant: one that, in the end, proves to be nothing short of glorious.

His father, Thengel, had left Rohan for Gondor when only a young man; there, he met Morwen, whom he married much later. She carried three children in Gondor, and her second was Théoden, the only son (and thus heir). When Fengel, father of Thengel and King of the Mark, died, Morwen and her husband were summoned back to Rohan. It is said that Thengel “returned unwillingly,” and retained the use of the Common Speech in his house, much to the chagrin of many among the Rohirrim (LotR 1069). It is not recorded how Morwen felt about the summons. She bore two more daughters after the family’s return to Rohan, of which Théodwyn, the last, was particularly beloved by Théoden.

Théoden thus spent the early years of his life surrounded by the so-called “higher culture” of the people of Gondor and speaking the Common Tongue as his “native language” rather than Rohirric (The Peoples of Middle-earth, hereafter PM, 296). Indeed, in Appendix A to The Lord of the Rings, Gondor is specifically referred to as “the land of his birth” (1069), which imparts special significance to the attentions given to his body after the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Théoden ascends the throne of Rohan at the age of 32, and is described by Tolkien as “vigorous and of martial spirit, and a great horseman” (Unfinished Tales, hereafter UT, 384).

By the time The Lord of the Rings begins, however, Théoden is an old man. He has seen much, endured much, and lost much. All his siblings and (presumably) their spouses and children have been laid to rest, even dear Théodwyn—with the sole exception of her children, Éomer and Éowyn. Elfhild, Théoden’s wife, is dead also. And Saruman’s growing power and influence, which by the time of Thengel was already emerging, has fully encroached on the sovereignty of Rohan. Théoden is tired, and surely feels himself to be alone.

Tolkien was not aware of all this when Théoden first came on the scene, during the drafting of the “Riders of Rohan” chapter. Indeed, at this early stage Théoden was not even a king, but rather simply the “First Master” of Rohan, a rank that would later be transformed into that of “Marshal.” Christopher Tolkien notes, however, that “if other names preceded [Théoden’s] they are lost in the underlying erased text”—Tolkien had a habit of erasing drafts written in pencil and writing over them new drafts in ink (The Treason of Isengard, hereafter TI, 399-400). From the information available to us then, Tolkien did not here agonize over names like he so often did for other characters.

Théoden thus walks on the scene as Théoden in name, but he is not yet quite the man we see in the published The Lord of the Rings. In fact, what may be called the linchpin of his story is entirely missing.

After drafting the earliest version of “The White Rider,” Tolkien constructed an outline for the story going forward and “discussed the structural problems of the story that he foresaw” (TI 434). Here, there is no indication of Saruman’s control over Théoden, and Gríma Wormtongue is literally nonexistent.

Buy it Now

In this telling, as in the published version, Gandalf receives a hesitant welcome in Edoras, but this is because troubles seem to follow him rather than because of Saruman’s influence. Théoden laments that Gandalf has “come at the end of the days of Rohan. […] Fire shall eat up the high seat” (TI 435). Upon Gandalf’s request, Théoden gifts him Shadowfax, but the gift is accompanied by the accusation that the wizard intends to use the horse to get away if things go badly. Gandalf is offended, but “does not lose [his] temper. He says there will be no escape for anyone” (TI 435). He then encourages Théoden to arm himself and join his men in battle. Thereafter there is a battle near the Isen, rather than at Helm’s Deep, and here as in the final version of the story, the Rohirrim are victorious through the help of Gandalf, Aragorn, and the timely appearance of mysterious trees (TI 435-6). Théoden does not, apparently, attend the meeting with Saruman.

The first description of Théoden, too, reads somewhat like the final version: “In the chair sat a man so bent with age that he seemed almost a dwarf. His white hair was [?braided] upon his [?shoulders], his long beard was laid upon his knees. But his eyes burned with a keen light that glinted from afar off” (TI 444; bracketed terms indicate inconclusive transcriptions by Christopher Tolkien; JRRT’s handwriting is famously difficult to read). At this point, Gríma is little more than a “wizened figure of a man with a pale wise face” sitting at Théoden’s feet. He does not speak (TI 444). Indeed, many of the remarks that later are attributed to the Wormtongue are Théoden’s in this draft.

I think it’s important to pause here and notice this striking omission. For many of us, Gandalf’s “exorcism” of Théoden is a powerful turning point in the story: the first time we see the power of the White Wizard and the first indication we get that Saruman is suddenly in over his head, as it were. (And doubtless for many of us this memory is intensified by the powerful depiction of the scene in the films.) This moment blazes like a star among the often-depressing events that surround it. Théoden’s redemption cannot be taken lightly; later, the event even becomes incorporated into his name, as future generations know him as Théoden Ednew, “Théoden the Renewed” (PM 274). And yet, it was almost an afterthought.

When JRRT transferred many of Théoden’s words to Gríma, he still didn’t give any indication that the latter is wicked and a pawn of Saruman. This change happened quite suddenly, in the middle of drafting, when Tolkien decided that Éomer was in prison “by the instigation of Wormtongue” and not away in battle as he had been so far in the drafts (TI 445). Even then, the final transformation was relatively slow in coming because, as Christopher would later point out, serious problems in chronology made the final chapters of Book III tortuous to write (The War of the Ring, hereafter WR, 3). Much of the drafting process for these chapters consisted of arduous restructuring of timelines and dates.

In the midst of all this turmoil, Théoden’s character remains stable. It is the scene of restoration and renewal that serves as the anchor of his narrative, and it seems that once it was established, Tolkien understood precisely what the man’s story involved. Because of this, I want to take a moment to look specifically at that scene in the published Lord of the Rings in order to determine just how it contextualizes Théoden’s later actions.

First, Tolkien points out in a letter that Éomer and Théodred did all in their power to lessen Gríma’s influence when Théoden began to fall ill. “This occurred early in the year 3014,” Tolkien wrote, “when Théoden was 66; his malady may thus have been due to natural causes, though the Rohirrim commonly lived till near or beyond their eightieth year. But it may well have been induced or increased by subtle poisons, administered by Gríma. In any case Théoden’s sense of weakness and dependence on Gríma was largely due to the cunning and skill of this evil counsellor’s suggestions” (371).

That last sentence provides just the contextualization we need. Though the situation may of course be read in many different ways, for some time now I have interpreted Gríma and his whisperings as a personification of depression, anxiety, and self-doubt. Gríma is that quiet voice in the back of all of our minds that tries to convince us we aren’t worthy, good enough, strong enough, young enough, old enough, smart enough—whatever it is—to face life, succeed, reach our goals, be loved. It works hard to convince us that friends mean us harm and that we sit alone and surrounded by evil in the darkness. And it comes to us in the guise of truth. Even Tolkien knew it well.

As Gandalf describes it, “But for long now he has plotted your ruin, wearing the mask of friendship, until he was ready. […] And ever Wormtongue’s whispering was in your ears, poisoning your thoughts, chilling your heart, weakening your limbs, while others watched and could do nothing, for your will was in his keeping” (521).

Often when recalling this scene, my mind wanders to the drama and excitement of its cinematic portrayal. But in the book, the moment is far less dramatic, though it naturally has its moments:

[Gandalf] raised his staff. There was a roll of thunder. The sunlight was blotted out from the eastern windows; the whole hall became suddenly dark as night. The fire faded to sullen embers. Only Gandalf could be seen, standing white and tall before the blackened hearth. […] There was a flash as if lightning had cloven the roof. (514)

This particular passage is the most dramatic in the chapter, and yet nothing (apart from Gríma’s sprawling) directly occurs because of Gandalf’s actions. Rather, the wizard, having silenced the voice of doubt for a moment, asks Théoden to listen to him. He asks him to rise, showing him a small, unassuming patch of clear sky. And yet—“No counsel have I give to those that despair,” he adds. He doesn’t force a change.

In fact, what he does in this moment is reveal to Théoden the true state of things. It is dark. He is in the midst of a storm. But the voice that tells him he cannot weather it has been silenced.

Remarkably, courageously, Théoden rises. And as he does so—that is when the darkness within the Hall begins to clear. There is no conspicuous withdrawal of Saruman from Théoden’s mind; no sudden and miraculous change in the king’s visage.

Rather, Théoden makes a choice to stand up in the darkness and accept the help of friends. In a powerfully symbolic moment, Éowyn, herself suffering under as yet unknown (to us) griefs, guides him down the stairs, through the shadows, and out into the sunlight. (Notice, however, that at this point she is unfortunately sent back into the house by Gandalf. Her time of healing isn’t here yet.)

We can read the scenery as Théoden steps out onto the terrace as indicative of his mental state, I think, which we can also do later with Éowyn. The text says that “the sky above and to the west was still dark with thunder, and lightning far away flickered among the tops of hidden hills. But the wind had shifted to the north, and already the storm that had come out of the East was receding, rolling away southward to the sea. Suddenly through a rent in the clouds behind them a shaft of sun stabbed down.”

And Théoden’s response? “It is not so dark here” (514).

Darkness doesn’t pass all at once, of course. It still lingers overhead even though Théoden has made a step forward. But because of that step, he has seen the sunlight once again.

Slowly he begins to feel the effects of the change: “He drew himself up, slowly, as a man that is stiff from long bending over some dull toil. Now tall and straight he stood” (515). A moment later he smiles, and “so many lines of care were smoothed away and did not return” (515).

Théoden’s victory is not complete in this moment. But it is, in many ways, his greatest victory: the moment he looks beyond his present situation and sees that he isn’t alone and that hope remains.

And then he does what must be done. He gathers his friends and loved ones about him and he sets his face sternly towards the battle at hand.

There are many other things we might say about Théoden. For example, the fact that Gandalf tells him he’d be stronger if he was holding his sword (516) comes straight from the mouths of the warriors of the Old English poem “The Battle of Maldon.” These doomed men, led into a hopeless battle because of either honor or foolishness (it all depends on how you read it!), share encouragement by assuring each other that they’ll fight bravely so long as they have their weapons in hand. And Théoden’s speech to Saruman is also reminiscent of some of the speeches of the commander, Byrhtnoth, in that same poem.

Similarly, Théoden’s commitment to stand firm and face the enemy no matter how hopeless the situation, to “make such an end as will be worth a song—if any be left to sing of us hereafter” (539), is indebted to Old English literature and what we now call the heroic code.

Théoden’s “adoption” of Merry is another touching and powerful aspect of his story. Having lost his own son, the king takes the little hobbit under his protection and treats him with respect and love. Though he clearly doesn’t seem to comprehend Merry’s need to ride into battle, he only orders Merry to stay behind out of concern compounded with a first-hand knowledge of the horrors of war. What the hobbit sees as a bitter disgrace, Théoden sees as a generous mercy. And perhaps he is a bit selfish, too…perhaps he can’t bear to lose anyone else under his protection.

Each of these aspects of Théoden’s character only serves to render his death-scene on the Fields of Pelennor more affecting. In the very moment he cries out to his men to “Fear no darkness!” he is overshadowed by the fell, chilling presence of the Nazgûl. Théoden, crushed under Snowmane, is now trapped and paralyzed literally, where before his situation was metaphorical. Though this time he cannot rise, his spirit does not falter in the darkness: “My body is broken. I go to my fathers. And even in their mighty company I shall not now be ashamed. […] A grim morn, and a glad day, and a golden sunset!” (842).

Even after Théoden dies and is laid to rest, he continues to bless his people, according to one of Tolkien’s drafts:

King Théoden is laid on a bier in [the] Hall of the Tower covered with gold. His body is embalmed after the manner of Gondor. Long after when the Rohirrim carried it back to Rohan and laid it in the mounds, it was said that he slept there in peace unchanged, clad in the cloth of gold of Gondor, save that his hair and beard still grew but were golden, and a river of gold would at times flow from Théoden’s Howe. Also a voice would be heard crying

Arise, arise, Riders of Theoden

Fell deeds awake. Forth Eorlingas!

When peril threatened. (WR 385)

But all of Théoden’s great deeds rest on that one moment, a mere sentence: “Slowly Théoden left his chair” (514).

I cannot help but be inspired. We are also living in a dark time, and all around us things are grim and fearful—there is no use denying it. The world is in a turmoil of plague and violence, and sometimes, our time seems to be running out. But we can still choose to stand up and to look towards the sunlight; to rely on friends and other loved ones to support us when we cannot stand ourselves. We can still choose to look ahead to better days even if over our heads the storm still rages. And not only that—Théoden’s story also promises that the better days will come.

This is one of the more important lessons The Lord of the Rings has for us these days, I think. Take heart; be strong; and if you can’t muster hope, keep fighting anyway. Rely on friends.

Look for the light, and may you, too, find that it is “not so dark here.”

Megan N. Fontenot is a dedicated Tolkien scholar and fan who has been abundantly encouraged and inspired by the examples and influence of Tolkien’s characters. Catch her on Twitter @MeganNFontenot1 and feel free to request a favorite character while you’re there!

In this scattershot series, we’ll be delving “too greedily and too deep,” prying gems out of the glorious rough that is the extended legendarium of Tolkien’s world. This includes drawing on The Lord of the Rings itself, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, The Children of Húrin, and the History of Middle-earth (or HoME) books.

By and large, J.R.R. Tolkien’s legendarium hammers into us—as if on Aulë’s own forge—the fact that when Men kick the can, they don’t come back. Quite unlike their Elven counterparts, for whom “no sickness or pestilence brought death,” Men shuffle off their mortal coils with ease. In our present time, in the real world, where illness is often in the forefront of the news, I’ve personally found that it’s easier than ever to think about the death that all Men must face.

But even in Middle-earth, Tolkien’s secondary world, you sometimes have to wonder: was it supposed to be like this? Well, YES, insist the Elves and even the oft-omniscient narrator of these stories. Ahhh! But that’s not how Adanel—mortal Wise-woman of the First Age—tells it!

So wait, who’s this Adanel? I sure would like to know more myself.

Well, first, she’s not in the published Silmarillion (1977) at all, because she and her tale—like much of the material contained in the History of Middle-earth series—are not part of the “most coherent and internally self-consistent narrative” that was Christopher Tolkien’s priority in the late 1970s. Second, we only know Adanel and her tale, well, secondhand. Which is just something we have to accept that Tolkien liked to do. (I’m talking to you, entire siege of Isengard.) Truly, some of the most fun dialogue in The Lord of the Rings is simply quoted by someone else who’d been there. For example:

“Radagast the Brown!” laughed Saruman, and he no longer concealed his scorn. “Radagast the Bird-tamer! Radagast the Simple! Radagast the Fool!”

That’s right. In “The Council of Elrond,” we’re really just getting Gandalf doing his best Saruman impression for the gathered assembly. I like to imagine he’s standing stiffly and arching his eyebrows in classic Christopher Lee fashion. Who doesn’t enjoy some good Maia-on-Maia mimicry?

Sorry, where was I? Oh yes, Adanel. Adanel is a Wise-woman of the House of Marach (later known as the House of Hador), one of the three great clans of the Edain (a.k.a. the Elf-friends) that settled in Beleriand in the First Age. Who also happen to be the ancestors of the Númenóreans.

Now, the House of Hador specifically produces some of the A-list heroes of the First Age, including Hador (obviously), Húrin, and Túrin, all of whom Elrond cites to Frodo in The Fellowship of the Ring. Now, in one account, Adanel is the great-grandmother of Beren (of ‘and Lúthien’ fame). But she’s explicitly a friend of Andreth of the House of Bëor, another Wise-woman among Men. Which means both women are lore-masters of their people: Scholars, historians, know-it-alls. Though they’re friends, they’re also essentially distant in-laws; Adanel was probably like the cool, sagacious aunt to the younger Andreth.

And as shown in the non-comprehensive chart below, the people of both Hador and Bëor were not only friendly with one another, they got hitched in a few important places in the family tree.

In my last Delving article, I talked much about Andreth and her starring role in the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth (or the ‘Debate of Finrod and Andreth’), which is a conversation Christopher Tolkien included in volume 10 of the History of Middle-earth, Morgoth’s Ring. It centers on the preoccupation mortals have with death. (Understandably!)

Whether death was part of the plan for Mankind or simply had it foisted upon them (as Andreth asserts), they do have to deal with it. They fear it, they succumb to it, they suffer over it. Especially for those who love or at least consort with Elves—who don’t appear to physically age and probably don’t even get hangnails—death is front and center. Death is a hunter to Men. An affront! Andreth was clear on that point, and who can blame her?

“The Second Sorrow of Turin” by Peter Xavier Price

Tolkien was fond of a particular quote by French writer, philosopher, feminist, and activist Simone de Beauvoir, and was even filmed reading it aloud to an interviewer (and which just happens to be sampled at the tail-end of this excellent song by the Dutch rock band The Gathering):

There is no such thing as a natural death: nothing that happens to a man is ever natural, since his presence calls the world into question. All men must die: but for every man his death is an accident and, even if he knows it and consents to it, an unjustifiable violation.

The words are de Beauvoir’s, but Tolkien goes on to call them the “keyspring” of The Lord of the Rings. And when you consider the whole of the larger legendarium—that is, The Silmarillion and beyond—it’s nothing short of foundational. No, it’s not only about death; it’s also about consolation and recovery, free will, and the search for hope in the face of despair.

Still, death and mortality are clear and present factors in The Lord of the Rings. By the end of the Third Age of Middle-earth, Morgoth, the great instigator and the cause of so much death and misery, had already been ousted. He’d been shown the door—literally kicked out of the solar system—by his former peers.

But what a mess he’d left behind for the Children of Ilúvatar to fuss over, right?

In fact, here are some relevant glossary terms for this discussion:

• Ainur — The Holy Ones, the “offspring” of Ilúvatar’s thought. The beings that joined in the Music of creation, and included those who would become categorizes as the Valar and the Maiar.
• Aman — The continent west across the Great Sea from Middle-earth; contains Valinor, the home of the Valar and where a sizable percentage of the Elves have gone.
• Arda — The world (little “w”), which includes the Earth, the seas, skies, and even the firmament around them (the planet and its immediate celestial surroundings).
• Arda Marred — The version of Arda that is, as a consequence of Melkor’s meddling, not precisely the version of Arda that was meant to be.
• Children of Ilúvatar — Both Elves and Men. Biologically, these two races are of the same “species” and as such can “produce fertile offspring,” but the relationship between their respective spirits and bodies mark the greatest distinction between the two. It may be said that Dwarves are “adopted” Children of Ilúvatar.
• Eä — The World (big “w”), the entire universe itself, of which Arda is but a part.
• Eldar — A word generally synonymous with Elves. Technically, it doesn’t apply to those Elves way back in the beginning who opted to stay where they were and not get factored into any of its recorded history. Those are the Avari, the Unwilling, and they’re the one group of Elves excluded when Eldar are mentioned.
• Hildórien — A land in the far east of Middle-earth where Men first awoke in the world.
• Ilúvatar — Eru, The One, the singular god of Tolkien’s monotheistic legendarium.
• Maiar — Powerful spirits that were around before Arda itself. They are of a lesser order than the Valar, but some are nearly as mighty. Gandalf, Sauron, and Balrogs are all Maiar.
• Men — Humans, men and women both.
• Middle-earth — The massive continent where most of the stories in the legendarium take place. Contains regions like Eriador and Rhovanion. Beleriand once formed its northwestern corner.
• Melkor / Morgoth — The Enemy, the original Dark Lord and fomenter of all evil. Formerly the mightiest of the Ainur.
• Valar — The “agents and vice-gerents” of Eru, the upper echelon of spiritual beings, set above the Maiar, and established by Ilúvatar to shape and govern Arda.

Right, so the Firstborn are the Elves, and their heyday has passed. Most have already left Middle-earth for the deathless shores of Aman or Tol Eressëa (together known as the Undying Lands). Those who haven’t are either fishing for their keys and heading out the door toward the Grey Havens or they’re sticking around just a wee bit longer to play some final role in the resistance against Sauron.

Oh yes, Sauron: president emeritus of assholery in the Second and Third Ages, inheritor of his old boss’s legacy, the Maia who pulled that shit with the Rings of Power and has been steadily growing back his strength since Isildur failed to destroy the Dark Lord’s favorite bauble.

“Sauron” by Kenneth Sofia

Now, the Secondborn of the Children of Ilúvatar, mortal Men, can’t just bugger off. They’ve only got three choices concerning the threat of Sauron.

1. Resist . . . like the good guys do.
2. Despair of his inevitable-seeming triumph . . . like Denethor.
3. Throw in with him . . . which many do, like the Easterlings and the Haradrim, whether they’ve done so willingly or by coercion (probably a mix of both).

Bottom line is, like Hobbits and Dwarves, Men have no option to escape their peril while still alive. They cannot sail into the West; there is no Blessed Realm to receive them, no home base that the Dark Lord cannot eventually overcome. Yet—and this is the crazy thing—Elves maintain that Men have a destiny both within the world and without. On the one hand, the fall of Sauron will mark the Dominion of Men for Middle-earth . . . yet, when they die, no matter the state of things, they will leave that Dominion entirely and go beyond the Circles of the World, never to return. What a weird state to be in! Middle-earth is a revolving door for us, yet we’re meant to be in charge?

So, let’s back up and see how we got here. In Morgoth’s Ring, Tolkien presents a kind of “what if” version of the dawn of Mankind in the Tale of Adanel. This occupies a nebulous place in the legendarium, in that we can’t get reliable eyes on it—and possibly that was intentional. Even the Athrabeth wasn’t neatly tied into his retconned writings (it presented at least one continuity problem), and the Tale of Adanel is nested even deeper in that uncertainty. The bottom line is, Tolkien only noodled around with the true nature of Men and didn’t get around to putting a fine point on it. And maybe that’s for the best. If we learn too much, it’ll be demystified. Myth-busted. And Tolkien was all about myth.

But in the later years of his life, he was thinking a lot more about the souls of his creations (even Orcs, the topic of another article to come), and he did so, it seems, to try to make his secondary world more compatible with his own Catholic beliefs. He explored some of these diegetically, in-world, not just in treatise form. Finrod’s debate with Andreth is a prime example, since he set it during a specific moment in time—before Morgoth breaks from his confinement in Angband and kickstarts the incremental defeats of the Elves of the First Age.

Tolkien really did choose a very interesting point in time for his Athrabeth, too. There was so much more history about to unfold that would have informed a discussion like Finrod and Andreth’s. Imagine if he’d written a second debate about death, one between a different High Elf and another Wise-woman or man, except placed sometime after the rise and fall of Númenor in the Second Age—after the most gifted group of Men were soundly punished for trying to seize immortality from the Valar by force. Oh yeah, and after the world went global and became more like the Earth we know. Talk about having new context and new information, to discuss. Talk about revising beliefs!

Sadly, the Athrabeth Galadriel ah Elendil is just something I’ll have to pretend happened.

The truth is, we can only read about Tolkien’s deeper insights as unrefined possibilities via the History of Middle-earth series that his son curated for us. Again, these are the essays and stories that Tolkien hadn’t fully polished and so cannot be neatly dropped in among better-known works.

So yes, one such insight is the Tale of Adanel. It’s the apocryphal Disaster (capital D!) of Men, an event analogous to the Kinslaying among the Elves. Quite possibly it’s just a parable that Men cling to, to try to make their fate more comprehensible. It’s a short tale dropped at the end of the Athrabeth, and it’s told in the voice of Andreth as she relays the story that her friend told her. Remember, this is a narrative specifically not shared with the Elves at large; Finrod is extra special for hearing this—if even he got to—and so are we.

In this tale, it’s implied that Morgoth did, in fact, sneak out of his bunker in Angband at some point specifically to mess with Men soon after their awakening. There is some small but significant support for this even in The Silmarillion. From the chapter “The Flight of the Noldor,” where we’re told that Morgoth, forever trapped in the body of “a dark Lord, tall and terrible,” settles in Angband with his newly fashioned crown set with stolen Silmarils:

Never but once only did he depart for a while secretly from his domain in the North; seldom indeed did he leave the deep places of his fortress, but governed his armies from his northern throne.

Secretly—that’s the key word.

Then, in “Of the Coming of Men Into the West”:

But it was said afterwards among the Eldar that when Men awoke in Hildórien at the rising of the Sun the spies of Morgoth were watchful, and tidings were soon brought to him; and this seemed to him so great a matter that secretly under shadow he himself departed from Angband, and went forth into Middle-earth, leaving Sauron the command of the War. Of his dealings with Men (as the shadow of the Kinslaying and the Doom of Mandos lay upon the Noldor) they perceived clearly even in the people of the Elf-friends whom they first knew.

“First Sunrise In Hildórien” by Šárka Škorpíková

Armed with all this, let’s jump out of The Silmarillion and back into Morgoth’s Ring. Here we find Finrod, a Noldorin king (and the best Elf ever), imploring his mortal friend Andreth to tell him the story that’s apparently only ever told among Men. A story about how and why death was imposed on Men, as they believe. Throughout her debate with Finrod, Andreth maintained that Men were not mortal from the get-go, but were made that way only after the fact as a curse. Which is contrary to pretty much everywhere else the fate of mortals is discussed. It was a mind-blowing to Finrod, but he was receptive to the idea (like many Elves might not be).

In their debate, Finrod had asked:

Therefore I say to you, Andreth, what did ye do, ye Men, long ago in the dark? How did ye anger Eru? For otherwise all your tales are but dark dreams devised in a Dark Mind. Will you say what you know or have heard?

He doesn’t believe it remotely possible that Morgoth could shorten the lives of Men, but at least allows for the possibility that Ilúvatar could have done so as a punishment. He doesn’t understand how, which is why he presses to hear the tale. Andreth relents and tells it. And so here it is, or my version of it. And remember, this is secondhand information, since Andreth, in turn, was told this story by Adanel, who passed it down from her people’s lore-masters.

Let’s suppose it was presented as a kind of old-fashioned morality play. It might look something like this.

“Melkor reaching Arda” by Šárka Škorpíková

ADANEL’S TALE: A Play in One Act

Enter MEN (and women of the race of Men, of course).

Men: Look at us, we’re totally new. This is our beginning!

Other Men: Our origin story. And look, none of us have even died yet.

Other Men: Died? What are you even talking about?

Other Men: LOL, no idea. We don’t even have a language yet. We’re basically just miming things at this point.

Enter the VOICE.

VOICE: Listen up, all of you.

Men: Whoa, who are you? We hear you, though we can’t see you. You’re everywhere and yet right here, it seems. We’re listening!

VOICE: You are all my kids, and I put you here on Earth to live. In time, you’ll even be in charge of this place. But you’re still young and have much to learn first. Call to me; I will always hear you.

Men: And not even in a creepy way.

Other Men: We hear you in our hearts. But we’d love to use actual spoken words from our speaking mouths, so we’re going to have to invent some. Might take a while, since there aren’t that many of us yet, none of us are linguists, and this world is big and unfamiliar. We want to learn everything! Let’s get started.

VOICE: Exactly, that’s the idea.

* * * * *

Men: Well, we’re coming along, I guess. We’ve been calling for the Voice a lot, and it always responds, which is awesome. It really seems to care about us, but boy is it mysterious! Doesn’t always answer our questions.

VOICE: Right. I want you guys to find some answers on your own first. There is joy in discovery. It’s how you grow up, how you become wise. Don’t hurry, don’t try to skip steps or cut corners. There’s plenty of time.

Men: But we sure are impatient! We want to start making decisions about things before we properly even understand them. We can kinda sorta imagine how we want things to be. How about we do that! Maybe we don’t need to speak to the Voice so much, then?

* * * * *

Enter the GIVER OF GIFTS.

GIVER: What’s up?

Men: Whoa, who are you? We can actually see you. You look like us, but you’re…more remarkable and easier on the eyes.

GIVER: I came because I sympathize with you people. You’re basically unchaperoned. You shouldn’t have been left to figure things out on your own like this. The world is full of amazing wealth which you can access sooner rather than later, if you’ve got the know-how. You could have even more food than you’ve figured out how to get so far. Tastier, too. How about bigger homes? Would you like that? Way more comfortable ones, too, with, like, interior lighting and proper insulation. And you could even get ritzy togs like I’ve got.

Men: Yeah, your clothes are gilded and silvery! And look, you’re even wearing a crown! What are those little shiny stones in your hair?

GIVER: Pretty sweet, aren’t they? They’re called gems. If you like what you see, and want the things I’m talking about but without all the dicking around, then let me be your teacher.

Men: We’re hot for teacher!

GIVER: Exccccellent.

* * * * *

Men: So, umm, I really thought we’d be further along than this.

Other Men: He seems to be taking his time with the whole teaching thing, isn’t he?

Men: Yeah, we still have things we want to find or make. I have to say, all this waiting has only made us think up more things we want.

Enter the GIVER.

GIVER: Do not doubt me. Look, here are some of those things.

Men: Woo-hoo! Having things is great.

Other Men: Does anyone else notice he only seems to bring stuff when we get really antsy, though?

GIVER: Shush. I am the Giver of Gifts. Just keep trusting me and they’ll keep coming.

Men: The Giver of Gifts sure is swell. We should be totally deferential to him. Heck, we need him. No way would we have ever been able to get this much loot without him.

Other Men: Let’s not rock the boat. He’s our only way to maintain this swingin’ lifestyle, and there’s so much more to find out: animals, plants, how we were made, the Sun and the Moon, what those nighttime stars are all about, and all that spooky darkness in the sky behind them.

GIVER: Everything I teach you about is good, right? I know more than anyone. I know the best things. Everybody says so. And yes, let’s talk about that Dark up there. It’s the crème de la crème, that Darkness. It’s infinite! And I would know, it’s where I came from. In fact, I’m the master of the Dark, and I made the Sun and the Moon and all those stars that inhabit it. I will always protect you from the Dark, which otherwise would eat you up.

Men: That’s…not at all creepy.

Other Men: What about the Voice, though? Remember that, guys?

GIVER: NO. That was the voice of the Dark you heard. I’m its master, remember? It didn’t want me to come teach you things; it jealously wants you for its own appetite.

The GIVER leaves.

* * * * *

Men: So…why did the Giver of Gifts up and leave for such a long time?

Other Men: We feel rather…lacking. Empty now. Without the cool stuff the Giver brings us, we’re just not the same. Do we really have to go out and look for it ourselves?

Other Men: Also, what’s up with the Sun getting so dim? I mean, it’s really getting dark. Look, even the beasts and birds are quiet and afraid.

The GIVER approaches.

Men: Uh-oh! Everyone, eyes down! We shouldn’t anger him.

GIVER: Some of you are still listening to the Voice of the Dark, aren’t you? Ergo, the light is failing. Choose, you Men. Choose NOW. It’s me or the Dark. If you wish to have the Dark be your lord, so be it. There are plenty other places more worthy of my time. I certainly do not need you. Swear to serve me, or I shall go.

Men: We choose you. And only you. We will renounce that dumb old Voice and not listen to it anymore.

GIVER. Good. Now build me a temple somewhere high up, call it the House of the Lord. I will go there whenever I come to you. And you will call to Me and make your formal pleas to Me from there only.

* * * * *

Men: There, we’ve done it. And look, it’s lit! Even with fires, just like we think you wanted.

GIVER: Good. Now, if any of you still listen to the Voice of the Dark, come here before me.

None go forward.

GIVER: Did I stutter? Come before Me and bow. Name Me as your Lord.

All Men: You are the only one for us, Lord, Master, whatever you want. We are all Yours.

They bow.

GIVER: Behold my fire! [poof]

The GIVER disappears.

Men: Ouch, so hot! Wait…where did he go?

Other Men: And why is it so dark now? Let us flee this place!

* * * * *

Men: The Dark is still out there, above us, seeking us. It’s giving us the willies.

Other Men: Our Master isn’t coming by much anymore, either. And when he does, his gifts are slim pickings.

Other Men: We have gone into his House to pray to him, and we’ve heard him, but instead of giving gifts, he asks for gifts. From us. As payment! He wants us to…do things…to earn his attention.

Men: The things he commands us to do are not good things. And they’re getting worse.

* * * * *

Enter the VOICE.

VOICE: You have all renounced me, but you are still my children.

Men: Yay! The Voice is back!

Other Men: Uh-oh! The Voice is back!

VOICE: I put you here and gave you life. But you blew it. Now that life will be short, and each of you will return to Me in due time, and you will learn just who it is you’ve worshipped and called your Lord. (FYI, I made him, too.)

* * * * *

Men: Why has the Voice stopped speaking? Now we’re even more afraid of the Dark, since the Voice is the Voice of the Dark.

Other Men: Allegedly.

Other Men: And we look like shit. We’re starting to waste away here. Master, save us from this…death! We are afraid of that Darkness behind the stars.

Other Men: The Master doesn’t answer anymore, either. Maybe we should try pleading in the House.

Men go into the House.

Men: We have come here, Master. Save us from death! We bow down.

The GIVER enters.

GIVER: Well, look who’s come crawling back. Now you must do what I say. Remember, you are all Mine. What I don’t care about: that some of you are dying off, which feeds the Dark. Suits me just fine, since you’re multiplying on this Earth anyway, infesting it like bugs. Now, if you don’t do as I say, you will experience my wrath and die even sooner.

Men: Woe are we. Now we grow tired, and hungry, and sick. The Earth has turned against us. The elements, the flora, the fauna, all have become hostile to us. Even the shade of the trees, for crying out loud.

Other Men: If only we could go back to the time before the Master came.

Other Men: Shhh! We may hate him now, but he’s as scary as the Dark is. We just have to do what he says and keep our heads down.

Other Men: No, we’ve got to do more than what he says. We must regain his favor, no matter how evil our acts. At least maybe he won’t kill us that way?

Other Men: That’s not working so much.

Other Men: Speak for yourself. He shows some of us favor, we who are tougher and more ruthless and hang out in his House more often, worshipping. He still gives us gifts, and secret knowledge. We are more powerful than you. So we will command you as well!

Rebels Among Men: Yeah, well, at least we know who is the liar now. At least the Voice never wanted to kill us. But our Master, the so-called Giver of Gifts? He’s the Master of the Darkness; he lives in it. We will serve him no more. He is our Enemy.

Other Men: Then we will kill you, so that the Master doesn’t hear you saying these things and punish us all!

The rebels are hunted, and most are caught and dragged into the House and sacrificed in fire.

Other Men: That pleases the Master. He’s easing up on us a bit.

Other Men: Just a bit.

* * * * *

Other Men: Well, we got most of them, but some who resisted the Master have escaped us! They’ve fled into faraway lands. D’oh!

* * * * *

The Rebels Among Men: Well, we’ve gotten away, but we know the Voice is surely still angry with us, for we had bowed down to the Giver of Gifts, who is our Enemy.

Other Rebels Among Men: We’ve traveled far across the lands and now we’ve reached an insurmountable body of water. Can anyone swim?

Other Rebels Among Men: Well, crap. It turns out the Enemy is already here in this new realm before us.

“Melkor/Morgoth” by Kenneth Sofia

Annnnd…scene! That’s it. Full stop. It’s where the Tale of Adanel ends.

For those familiar with The Silmarillion, those rebellious Men who finally resisted the Giver of Gifts go on to become the Elf-friends. Led by Beör the Old, they meet Finrod after crossing the Blue Mountains, which cheers them up. But then they got the bad news: that Shadow of evil they’d tried to put behind them was actually living in Beleriand the whole time (well, just north of it). Apparently, his stint as the Giver of Gifts was just a side hustle.

As recorded in “Of the Coming of Men Into the West,” some disgruntled Men said to themselves:

We took long roads, desiring to escape the perils of Middle-earth and the dark things that dwell there; for we heard that there was Light in the West. But now we learn that the Light is beyond the Sea. Thither we cannot come where the Gods dwell in bliss. Save one; for the Lord of the Dark is here before us…

As should be plain, the Disaster depicts a kind of “Kinslaying” moment for Mankind, not so coincidentally reminiscent of the Christian Fall of Man for the massive ripple effect it has on the race forever more. Not only did Men kill one another at the bidding of the Giver of Gifts—the so-called Lord and Master of the Darkness itself—they worshipped him. And the Voice! That is seemingly Eru Ilúvatar himself—an astonishing fact, if true, since while the mighty Valar have spoken with their creator firsthand, none of the Elves ever have.

Buy it Now

So this is what Andreth didn’t want to tell Finrod during their debate, the reason why mortals believe they die: because they refused to obey Eru, and in their impatience, laziness, and greed, they stooped to the worship of Morgoth himself. Now, are we to consider this event as having been “real” in the context of Tolkien’s secondary world? Is this what he was really working his way towards retconning? (As he did some other things.)

Not necessarily. For one, it challenges all the ideas about mortal death throughout the legendarium. It’s counter to what the Elves believe, and what the Valar, in turn, were told about them. And though neither Elves nor Men were made by the Valar—their spirits, bodies, and fates were exclusively an Ilúvatarian project—the Valar were still given great authority over life and death. If Ilúvatar intended Men to live forever, only to put the brakes on that early in their development, I think Manwë and Mandos, in the very least, would have been informed. And that would certainly have been taken into consideration in the whole Númenor event, wouldn’t it?

Then there’s simply the evidence that Tolkien puts forth. After the initial “debate” with Finrod, yet before the Tale of Adanel, he writes (in his own voice, not even through a narrator):

It is probable that Andreth was actually unwilling to say more. Partly by a kind of loyalty that restrained Men from revealing to the Elves all that they knew about the darkness in their past; partly because she felt unable to make up her own mind about the conflicting human traditions.

He goes on to say that the Edain had written accounts of Andreth’s convo with Finrod, and according to some of the ones “edited under Númenórean influence,” she did eventually relent and tell him Adanel’s tale “under pressure.” Of course, the way the Giver of Gifts tricks these mortals into doing his bidding, turning them against their divine creator in order to attain greater worldly power, sure sounds like what Sauron did as advisor to the last king of Númenor. Coincidence? Was that Sauron acting out of his old boss’s playbook, or is it just too on the nose? The downfall of Númenor and the story of Men’s fall might simply come from the same mythic tradition. How many real-world cultures have stories about dragons without obvious connections between them, after all?

Then there’s Morgoth himself. In The Silmarillion, when the Sun rose for that first time and Men awoke in the far east, Morgoth was already trapped in his wicked-looking Dark Lord persona because he’d squandered his power and was unable to “change his form, or walk unclad, as could his brethren.” In his old “tyrant of Utumno” get-up, Morgoth cannot appear as pretty as he is so often rendered in fan fiction. By the limits of his own misspent power, he cannot assume a form like the one described in the Tale of Adanel:

and lo! he was clad in raiment that shone like silver and gold, and he had a crown on his head, and gems in his hair.

Just gems? Regular ol’ shiny rocks? And the headpiece we’re talking about here would have to be the very “great crown of iron” he’d forged for himself, set the three stolen Silmarils in, and that “he never took from his head, though its weight became a deadly weariness.” I’d think it would be hard to conceal this, even for him. Those Silmarils shine like the dickens! That’s kind of their whole deal.

“Morgoth” by Frédéric Bennett

So what’s the alternative? Was the Giver of Gifts still somehow Morgoth, or are we to believe he was hiding out in the bushes like Cyrano de Bergerac, whispering to some good-looking proxy and telling him what to say? We know he employs plenty of “shadows and evil spirits” throughout The Silmarillion, who engage in all kinds of espionage schemes. But would one of these lesser beings really be up to the task of corrupting the Secondborn of the Children of Ilúvatar on his behalf?

In theory, the Giver could even have been Sauron, right? Maybe Morgoth brought him along on his road trip to the far east. Though he was Morgoth’s lieutenant at the time, Sauron was perfectly capable of fair-featured, silver-tongued deception at this point in time, in terms of sheer power. But if Sauron played such a crucial role, corrupting the Secondborn and getting them saddled with the fate of death forever, that sure seems like a bigger deal than anything he’s associated with later. Including the Rings of Power. The Fall of Man would definitely have gone on his résumé, is what I’m saying.

So yeah, points and counterpoints abound. Elsewhere in Morgoth’s Ring, Christopher Tolkien shares another deleted scene concerning that time when Melkor/Morgoth goes to recruit Ungoliant(e), the gigantic primordial arachnid who was weaving webs in mountain clefts before it was cool. When she doesn’t come out to greet him, Melkor scolds her:

‘Come forth!’ he said. ‘Thrice fool: to leave me first, to dwell here languishing within reach of feasts untold, and now to shun me, Giver of Gifts, thy only hope! Come forth and see! I have brought thee an earnest of greater bounty to follow.’

Now, is it just a coincidence that Morgoth calls himself the Giver of Gifts here? Maybe he was just been workshopping that title, throwing it at a web to see if it sticks? If it works on an unfathomably evil giant spider, surely it will work on measly mortal bipeds! Hmm. Does coming up with a grandiose epithet only to drop it onto some lowly henchman sound like something Morgoth would do? And I must say, the corruption of Men through lies and alternative facts feels like it’s got that personal Melkor touch to me. Interestingly, but maybe not surprisingly, it’s worth remembering that when Morgoth is taken out of the picture in the Second Age, Sauron calls himself Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, when conning Celebrimbor and the Elves of Eregion.

Of course, even if Morgoth didn’t show up in person to coerce Men into worshipping him, there is one thing we know he did succeed with. Per The Silmarillion:

Death is their fate, the gift of Ilúvatar, which as Time wears even the Powers shall envy. But Melkor has cast his shadow upon it, and confounded it with darkness, and brought forth evil out of good, and fear out of hope.

Which is to say, death for mortals was never supposed to be a punishment, nor even seen as one. Only a sorrow, maybe, that is more like a parting before the next meeting. But Morgoth spoiled it. Pissed all over it. Made it scary and gross. Made it fearful. Got mortals all worked up over it so that it becomes a defining part of their culture. With wisdom, some of the Edain in later days do come to understand it…better, if not completely. The early kings of Númenor hand off their scepters to their successors and surrender peaceably to death without a fuss. Even Aragorn eventually does at the end of his long life. There is still mourning in the event, but there is also acceptance.

From Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings, King Elessar tells his wife, Arwen:

Nay, lady, I am the last of the Númenóreans and the latest King of the Elder Days; and to me has been given not only a span of thrice that of Men of Middle-earth, but also the grace to go at my will, and give back the gift. Now, therefore, I will sleep.

No, I don’t think Tolkien was preparing to throw Aragorn under the bus of revision and make false his deathbed words.

Screenshot: New Line Cinema

Andreth believed that the Shadow—Morgoth himself—imposed death on Men and that the Valar and the Elves simply couldn’t stop it. She felt Men were wronged. Yet Adanel’s tale places the wrongdoing on Men for the sins of worshipping a false god. There was shame in the story; hence it was kept mum. But there was also some blame given, if indirectly, to Ilúvatar; the tale suggests that for Men’s disobedience he changed their fates forever.

Yet for all its disjointed place in the legendarium, I appreciate that we have this account of the Disaster. Whatever its validity, the story resonates. It’s familiar. Maybe too familiar. It gives weight to Andreth’s bitterness and the human condition—whether there is truth in it or not, it places Tolkien’s “gift of death” at odds with humanity’s expectations. Or at least with its desires. No matter what, things weren’t going to add up smoothly for Men (or anyone), because this is still Arda Marred. Ilúvatar isn’t going to simply unmar it. That’s not his style. He allows the marring, and then uses its consequences for the betterment of all, “in the devising of things more wonderful.” Wisdom from sorrow.

Tolkien might have been considering the truth of the matter, or he might simply have been doing what he did with a lot of his writing after The Lord of the Rings: filling in the many, many gaps. Not just stories about what happened in the Elder Days of Middle-earth but the stories that its inhabitants told, factual or not. That’s what makes the legendarium so rich, so believable. Had Tolkien actually gone on to make the Disaster canon, then to me, it wouldn’t be as compelling. It upends his way-cooler concept of death as a gift—a release from the evils of Arda Marred. With this, death is a springboard to some other unguessable destiny.

But let’s not mistake acceptance of death for Men (when it comes) as Tolkien green-lighting suicide. Far from it—the characters in Middle-earth who take their own lives directly are making tragic choices. Túrin’s final act isn’t courageous, it’s despairing. Denethor’s hopelessness and self-made pyre play right into Sauron’s hands. Even Éowyn tells Faramir that she “looked for death in battle,” but Aragorn calls even that part of her “malady,” and in the aftermath her heart and mind find healing. To quote the words of another Tolkien fan (going way back), and a hero of mine, whose passing early this year is still a sadness of its own:

All of us get lost in the darkness
Dreamers learn to steer by the stars
All of us do time in the gutter
Dreamers turn to look at the cars

Turn around and turn around and turn around
Turn around and walk the razor’s edge
Don’t turn your back
And slam the door on me

Mortality seems to be natural for Men, but that doesn’t mean they—err, we—aren’t in many ways shortchanged. Even Finrod conceded that to Andreth. Death might come sooner than it should. We fear it, we even perceive it as unnatural, as though it’s some mistake. That’s part of the marring, and Morgoth—and sometimes humanity’s poor decisions—can rightly be held to blame for that. I can’t imagine any real-world belief system that wouldn’t regard death by accident, sickness, or violence as “an unjustifiable violation,” anyway. Simone de Beauvoir called it. The hope is for the rest of us to keep moving forward in spite of this, to seek the wisdom and compassion left in its wake.

After all, as Aragorn says much earlier in his life, when there was still a Dark Lord to fight, “We have a long road, and much to do.”

Top image from “Fog on the Barrow-downs” by Jonathan Guzi.

Jeff LaSala knows quoting Rush might seem like a deviation from Tolkien but assures you it isn’t. He can’t leave Middle-earth well enough alone and is unapologetically responsible for the The Silmarillion Primer, He also wrote a Scribe Award–nominated D&D novel, produced some cyberpunk stories, and now works for Tor Books. He sometimes sputters about on Twitter.

In this biweekly series, we’re exploring the evolution of both major and minor figures in Tolkien’s legendarium, tracing the transformations of these characters through drafts and early manuscripts through to the finished work. This week’s installment takes a look at Peregrin Took, the beloved Pippin whose clueless wonder lightens the heart in many dark places.

Pippin always seems to be an obvious choice for favorite among the hobbits, especially for young readers of The Lord of the Rings. He’s funny, naïve, endlessly loyal: rash with a dash of Tookish bravery (or foolishness) that often lands him in unfortunate situations. His endearing relationship with Gandalf is another point in his favor, for though the wizard only grudgingly accepts Pippin’s energetic, youthful failures, he also slowly comes to bond with the young hobbit in a grouchy, grandfatherly sort of way. Pippin plagues the ancient wizard, and they both know it. But it’s not as if Pippin remains a stagnant character who experiences no growth or maturity over the course of the narrative.

In fact, he is growing wiser and more competent all the time, perhaps taking a page out of his cousin Merry’s book. He still makes mistakes, of course, but they can be categorized less and less as mistakes of thoughtlessness and more and more as mistakes of a generous spirit. By the time he reaches Minas Tirith with Gandalf on the eve of the Siege of Gondor, Pippin has come so far that he impulsively throws himself on his knees before a man of whom he knows next to nothing, and pledges to him his entire life in service. It is hard to imagine the Pippin who pouted over missing “the best beer in the Eastfarthing” doing such a thing (LotR 88).

As it turns out, however, we very nearly missed out on Pippin altogether. Pippin does not appear in the drafts until what Christopher Tolkien refers to as “the fourth phase” of the writing process, which roughly corresponds to the sixth version of Chapter 1 and the fourth of Chapter 3, which is where “Peregrin Boffin” makes his initial appearance. (Chapter 2 had undergone many unnumbered and substantial revisions at this point; CT says it was “ultimately one of the most worked upon in all The Lord of the Rings” [The Treason of Isengard, hereafter TI, 21].) Later, in the same manuscript of Chapter 3, the name Peregrin Boffin was scribbled out and replaced more or less consistently with Peregrin Took (TI 30). Pippin’s name does not appear as the text was being written (rather than being a correction inserted afterwards) until a complete re-writing of Chapter 5 (TI 30).

Prior to this, there were what might be called “hints” of Pippin’s character present in the drafts. In The Return of the Shadow [RS], before he had successfully gathered all the drafts that would become The Treason of Isengard in the History of Middle-earth series, Christopher Tolkien remarked that “it made be said simply that ‘Odo’ became ‘Pippin’ while Frodo Took disappeared: of the individual speeches in this chapter which remained into FR [The Fellowship of the Ring] almost ever remark that was made by Odo was afterwards given to Pippin. But,” he adds somewhat wearily, “the way in which this came about was in fact strangely tortuous, and was by no means a simple substitution of one name for another” (RS 70). On the road to Bree, for instance, many of the characteristics, actions, and speeches later identified with Pippin are spread about between a few hobbits who were later themselves transformed or discarded entirely (see especially 324, 328).

Even when the text reached Rivendell, Pippin was still absent: the party then consisted of Frodo, Sam, Merry, Odo, and Folco (RS 365-366). Odo was present, in fact, because he had been kidnapped in Crickhollow and later rescued by Gandalf and brought to Rivendell (we can see here a vague suggestion of Fredegar Bolger’s later role).

The names Peregrin and Paladin (as son and father, respectively) do appear in a note appended to a new opening of the text, but not in relation to the characters who would inhabit the published Lord of the Rings (RS 386). In fact, for a short time Tolkien assumed that “Peregrin Bolger” was the true name of Trotter, the hobbit-in-disguise with wooden shoes who slowly and tediously evolves into Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

It was not until Peregrin “Pippin” Took entered the drafts as an individual, substantial character that Christopher Tolkien could properly chart the serpentine course of his evolution. Pippin’s is not as straightforward as that of others. Christopher writes that it is helpful to see in the proliferation of drafts and hobbits “a single or particular hobbit-character, who appears under an array of names: Odo, Frodo, Folco, Faramond, Peregrin, Hamilcar, Fredegar, and the very ephemeral Olo,” who is “cheerful, nonchalant, irrepressible, commonsensical, limited and extremely fond of his creature comforts” (TI 31). But again, it’s not all that simple, and ultimately too tortured to be properly laid out here. The curious should see page 70 in The Return of the Shadow and pages 30-32 in The Treason of Isengard for more information.

Buy it Now

By the revision of “At the Sign of the Prancing Pony,” however, “‘Pippin’ was firmly established” (TI 76), though he plays little role in events or conversation until the small company reaches Rivendell.

At this point, however, we nearly lose our friend Pippin again. Tolkien planned to leave the young hobbit behind in Rivendell. In fact, Gandalf says that Pippin “would go with [Frodo] out of love for [him], if he were bidden […]; but his heart is not in such perilous adventures,” despite the fact that he loves Frodo dearly (TI 115). Thus Pippin, like Merry, was to be left behind at Rivendell, not to be seen again: as Christopher notes, “For a brief while my father evidently suspected that Meriadoc and the [then-named] Faramond/Peregrin would be superfluous in what he conceived to be the last stage of the Quest” (TI 115). (Of course, it’s important to note that the “last stage of Quest” was at this point only another few chapters or so, as Tolkien didn’t suspect the “Hobbit sequel” to be any longer than its predecessor.) In fact, Tolkien thought that perhaps Pippin might stay behind and ultimately return to the Shire even after he had decided that Merry would accompany the Fellowship (TI 162). He made the final decision before moving forward on the draft, however—though even then he little suspected that Pippin and Merry would become central to the salvation of the West.

Again, Pippin plays a markedly small role in the drafts up to Moria, as he does in the published tale. However, when Tolkien reached Moria he paused to write a projection, a sort of outline, of what he thought would come next (which just goes to show you how little authors know of what they’re actually doing)—and here we almost lose Pippin once again. “Somehow or other Frodo and Sam must be found in Gorgoroth,” he wrote. “Possibly by Merry and Pippin. (If any one of the hobbits is slain it must be the cowardly Pippin doing something brave. For instance–” And here the outline ends, tantalizing us with never-recorded imaginings of Pippin’s brave self-sacrifice (TI 211).

This idea was, of course, rejected. Before moving forward, Tolkien made an important decision. He determined that it would be Merry and Pippin who would meet Treebeard, rather than Frodo, and thus “Merry and Pippin now move into a central position in the story,” as “through them Treebeard […] comes to play a part in the breaking of the siege of Minas Tirith” (TI 214). It would eventually be Isengard, not Minas Tirith, to which Treebeard would march; regardless, this signals the growing significance of the two hobbits who until now had been rather insignificant side-characters, very much the sort of baggage Merry would later protest against being lumped in with. Indeed, there is a small indication in an outline, “on a small, isolated scrap of paper,” that “Merry and Pippin become important” (TI 286). No further details were offered.

Stopping once again to look ahead, this time in Lórien, Tolkien suggest that Merry and Pippin, becoming separated from the Company, “are lost—led astray by echoes—in the hunt [for Frodo], and wander away up the Entwash River and come to Fangorn” (TI 329-330). But the narrative was still in flux. Later, Tolkien jotted down (but also later crossed out) the note that “it could be Merry and Pippin that had adventure in Minas Morgul if Treebeard is cut out” (TI 339). But clearly Treebeard wasn’t going anywhere; he had haunted the tale too long for that. Once this point was established, Tolkien plowed forward with little resistance: most of the changes made to Merry and Pippin’s narrative from this stage forward are minor equivocations and quibbling with details, insofar as we can be aware.

I say this here because the early drafting process for “The Uruk-hai” chapter has been lost; for Tolkien wrote it first in pencil, then the new draft over the old in pen, after which he erased the penciled draft beneath (TI 408). The draft we do have is “astonishingly close to its final form,” but this is likely only the case because we can no longer access the ambiguities and experimentation of the earlier draft (TI 409).

This is not the case with the “Treebeard” chapter, which Tolkien once boasted “did indeed very largely ‘write itself’”—at least once he had determined that it would be Merry and Pippin who fell in with Treebeard rather than Legolas and Gimli, as it was in an earlier draft (TI 411).

At this point, however, the significance of Pippin and Merry once again curiously recedes. In a set of notes which Christopher Tolkien labels “The Story Foreseen from Fangorn,” JRRT notes that after a battle along the Isen, rather than one at Helm’s Deep, “the horsemen of Rohan ride East [to the siege of Minas Tirith], with Gandalf, Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, Merry and Pippin” (TI 437). So in this version, we actually lose the whole story of Pippin’s transgression with the palantír and his subsequent conveyance to Minas Tirith post-haste on the back of Shadowfax.

The addition of the palantír came only gradually, especially as Tolkien found himself coming up against brick walls multiple times around this point in the story, and in response took breaks from the writing process that, in one case, lasted nearly two years.

Tolkien’s work on the chapter “The Palantír” is thus rough and uncertain; Christopher notes that his father clearly didn’t know exactly where the story was headed from Isengard, nor was he aware that Pippin’s actions would set into motion the beginning of the End (The War of the Ring, hereafter WR, 68). For instance, at one point, Gandalf takes out the “globe” to make sure it remains dark by night and “shows little”: he is reassured by what he finds, but the companions do catch a faint glimpse of Osgiliath in its murky depths (WR 69). Gandalf’s later caution in handling the palantír is remarkably absent, as Tolkien did not yet know the extent of the stones’ power. A bit later, for example, Tolkien notes that Gandalf “could not make out [how] to use it,” finding it “capricious” (WR 71). Again, at this point, Pippin’s role is not only absent, but entirely unforeseen. In fact, the whole issue is introduced by a rather innocuous phrase in an outline: “Then [i.e., next] episode of Pippin and Stone” (WR 72). The outline offers no further information save a seemingly (at this point in the narrative evolution) non sequitur remark by Gandalf: “Gandalf says this is how Saruman fell. He studied such matters” (WR 72).

As the drafting process continued, Gandalf’s vision of Osgiliath is absorbed into Pippin’s experience (WR 73), and once the idea was conceived, the entire episode closely resembles the published version of events, being “achieved all at once in all essentials,” not considering, of course, minor revisions of phrasing and details (WR 73).

Here, as Gandalf and Pippin left Edoras for the White Tower, Tolkien halted once more. “Foresight had failed,” he later wrote, “and there was no time for thought” (WR 77). He quit work on the manuscript for over a year, and upon taking it up again noted that “it is a painful sticky business getting into swing again” (WR 78). It seems he was uncertain of just how far-reaching and influential the actions of Peregrin Took would turn out to be. In the published version of The Lord of the Rings, Pippin’s foolhardy theft of the Stone prompts Sauron into action before he is fully prepared, leaving open the smallest chance of victory for the beleaguered West. The drafts are notably silent on this point.

Once he did start working again, Tolkien repeatedly found himself mired in problems of chronology and purpose, which explains many of the complexities Christopher notes in the drafts (for an example of this, see WR 140-143). The resolution of these issues is primarily marked in the text by small details like moon phases, storms, and of course, as Tom Shippey has noted, the crossing of the Nazgul back and forth over the heads of the sundered Fellowship.

According to the original beginning of Book V, Pippin and Gandalf were to have been present in Minas Tirith when Gondor was defeated in the great siege (WR 231). This was, obviously, later abandoned, but suggests quite a different outcome for the young hobbit than he otherwise got.

And this continues to be true. Tolkien, much like the Big People of his tale, consistently underestimates Pippin’s influence. For example, Christopher explains that there exist “half a dozen outlines sketching the content of” the fifth book. Tolkien “was determined that The Lord of the Rings should extend to one further ‘part’ only” (WR 255). The story is therefore in many places shrunken compared to its published and final stage even where the major evens remain the same. One major point is absent, however: Denethor’s mad attempt to burn his son alive is not intimated in any way, and thus Pippin’s rise to heroism is also missing (WR 260). Pippin still swears his impulsive oath to the granite-faced Steward, but this allegiance came with no real complications in the early drafts; indeed, in one version it is Gandalf who swears him in (WR 282)!

Again, Pippin’s potential is consistently overlooked. The young son of Beregond mockingly calls him “a ferret in the garb of a rabbit” (WR 285), and Pippin himself feels overwhelmed and unworthy of his new position, realizing for perhaps the first time that “this was a deadly serious matter, and no masquerade in borrowed plumes” (WR 325).

This all seems to change when Pippin’s quick actions save the life of Faramir, and Merry, on the battlefield of the Pelennor, distracts the Lord of the Nazgûl from his killing spree. Gandalf, perhaps like Tolkien, acknowledges that the deeds of the day would’ve been “far more grievous,” for “Faramir and Éowyn would be dead, and the Black Captain would be abroad to work ruin on all hope” (WR 387).

And yet the lesson didn’t immediately stick. Pippin is, originally, left behind when the company rides for the Black Gate, for as Aragorn says, it “will lighten [Merry’s] grief if you stay with him” (WR 415). A few paragraphs later, however, in what may have been an acknoweldgement of Pippin’s mettle as a soldier and of his right to represent his race before the threat of Sauron, Tolkien “decided that Pippin did in fact go with the host to the Black Gate, and he began” the passage again (WR 416). Pippin now carries himself honorably into the fight, and is nearly lost, save for Gimli’s patient and dedicated search for him beneath the heaps of slain on the battlefield.

Even then, Tolkien seemed reluctant to give free rein to Pippin’s abilities and competence. The young hobbit’s role in the Scouring of the Shire is minor compared with the published version. Similarly, in the early drafting stages of the chapter “The Grey Havens” “nothing is said of the hunting out of the gangs of men in the south of the Shire by Merry and Pippin” (Sauron Defeated, hereafter SD, 108).

Why this reluctance to give Peregrin Took an impactful part in the narrative? I don’t suppose it was entirely conscious on Tolkien’s part, though he does admit that he discarded many early, more comic scenes at the behest of C.S. Lewis. He “never really liked hobbits very much, least of all Merry and Pippin,” Tolkien later lamented. “But a great number of readers do, and would like more than they have got” (376). Clearly, he regretted not allowing Pippin and Merry more space in the narrative.

On the one hand, we might wish to recognize that Pippin in many ways is put in the story to represent a “type.” He is a Took; having Pippin around doubtless helps us understand why it helped that Frodo and Bilbo had Tookish blood—but importantly, not too much of it. Pippin (or a character like him) would not, I suspect, have filled the role of sacrificial hero well. More important to Pippin’s story is that fact that he learns how to be a little more like Frodo: a little more ready to give up his own desires and freedoms for the good of others. The episode with the palantír, and his remembrance of Boromir’s sacrifice as he stands before Denethor, seem to teach him this painful lesson. This is Pippin’s growth into maturity, and it becomes him.

Most importantly, I think Pippin’s character is appealing because he is so charmingly unassuming. He doesn’t put on airs, even before lords like Denethor (Tolkien notes that the people of Gondor probably assumed Pippin was of a high rank in his own country because he talks to the Lord Denethor as an equal and a familiar); he isn’t cowed by the severity of Gandalf and he still childishly refers to Aragorn as “Strider” in the presence of the latter’s bemused subjects. He’s too young, too happy, and too immature to be bogged down by the shadows of the world like Frodo is. Unlike Merry, he hasn’t had to be the one that everybody depended on. He’s not a servant or a working-class hobbit like Sam, who undoubtedly had seen at least some hardship in his life. Pippin is carefree and innocent, and as such he is a breath of fresh air in the musty, heavy atmosphere of a world on the brink of ruin. Pippin is wide-eyed with wonder at the world: sometimes he reacts foolishly and instinctively; sometimes he falls over his own feet or runs into walls because he is distracted—but we love him all the more for it.

Megan N. Fontenot is a dedicated Tolkien scholar and fan who has been abundantly encouraged and inspired by the examples and influence of Tolkien’s characters. Catch her on Twitter @MeganNFontenot1 and feel free to request a favorite character while you’re there!

Hobbits live the good life: they eat all day, they generally work with their hands and enjoy nature (unless they are wealthy and don’t work at all), and they live in an idyllic farmscape full of lush trees, rivers, and green hills. They also consume their fair share of ale in taverns, an ode to the pub culture that J.R.R. Tolkien himself heralded from.

But how much can a hobbit actually drink?

There is a joke in the Lord of the Rings films that is not present in the books—while hanging around at The Prancing Pony, Merry comes back to the table with a great big tankard. and Pippin asks what he’s drinking:

“This, my friend, is a pint,” he says wickedly.

Pippin’s eyes widen. “It comes in pints?”

It makes sense that hobbits would veer toward smaller pours because they are smaller people—you wouldn’t give a five-year-old a pint glass of juice because they have smaller stomachs and the glass would be harder to manage in smaller hands. But even if the average hobbit goes from half-pint to half-pint, that doesn’t mean that their rates of consumption are low in the alcohol department.

So how much can they put away when they’re tavern-crawling with pals? It depends on a multitude of interesting factors….

Hobbit measurements. According to Tolkien, hobbits are generally two-to-four feet tall, with the average height being three feet and six inches. This is during the events of LOTR; Tolkien claims that hobbits alive today rarely reach three feet. [The Fellowship of the Ring, “Concerning Hobbits”] Of course, a full-grown hobbit will average more body weight than your typical human child of the same height thanks to a slower metabolism and their famous love of food (“Elevensies” is a thing!), so we can estimate that while a 42-inch-tall child weighs 40.5 pounds on average, a hobbit will clock in at around 70 pounds. Being generally smaller also means having a smaller stomach, but that shouldn’t prove a problem; your average adult stomach can expand greatly to hold multiple liters if needed—that means a hobbit can probably stomach 1.5 liters (more than 3 pints) without much effort. So that means that volume isn’t too much of a concern while drinking.

Type of Beer. LOTR refers to hobbit brew as both “beer” and “ale.” As we observe various species getting drunk off of the ale presented, we can assume that Tolkien is not referring to the small beers of yesteryear, but the average fare one might find in a pub in the 20th century. The majority of hobbit ales can be labeled as session beers, lending themselves to long nights out after a hard day’s work.

Alcohol Content. Ale averages around 3-6% ABV. For the sake of easier math, let’s assume 5% ABV for your typical hobbit ale. Something that’s sessionable, but not so low that your average Man wouldn’t notice the kick, since the hobbits are clearly fine drinking beverages that are brewed with Big Folk in mind, too.

Buy it Now

Units of Alcohol. The specific unit for a measure of beer is also important here. It’s probable that a pint in Middle-earth is an Imperial pint, which is different from the American unit. (The Imperial pint is larger.) A full Imperial pint is 568 milliliters, making a half-pint 284 milliliters.

Alcohol Elimination Rate. This is one of the key variant factors in determining how quickly hobbits can process alcohol; contrary to what many people believe, your metabolism has very little to do with how quickly you process alcohol. The biological process that determines that is actually a construct called the Alcohol Elimination Rate, which is basically a calculation that determines how quickly your liver can filter the alcohol in your system.

One of the factors in this calculation is the frequency of how often you drink; a person who drinks regularly will eliminate alcohol faster than someone who only drinks once in a while because they’ve built a chemical “tolerance”. Another factor is the size of your liver compared to your body mass. If a hobbit’s liver size in relation to their body size is similar to that of an adult human, they will eliminate alcohol at relatively the same rate as an adult human. If a hobbit’s liver size is larger than an adult human one (which is true for children) when compared to their body size, than they are more likely to have an alcohol elimination rate closer to an alcoholic or a child. It is entirely possible—perhaps even probable—that hobbits have proportionally larger livers, the same way a human child would. Given that hobbits have a relatively constant rate of consumption (six meals a day, when they can get them), their systems are not exactly the same as one scaled for a human.

With that in mind, it’s time to do some math!

Blood alcohol content is generally determined by the Widmark formula. While this formula is not absolute, it gives us a helpful baseline. Here is an updated version of the formula:

% BAC = (A x 5.14 / W x r) – .015 x H

Here are the variables that you need to account for:

A = liquid ounces of alcohol consumed

W = a person’s weight in pounds

r = a gender constant of alcohol distribution (.73 for men and .66 for women—this one is tricky on flexibility)

H = hours elapsed since drinking commenced

The .015 in the equation is the average Alcohol Elimination Rate for a social drinker. If hobbits do indeed have a higher Elimination Rate, than that number should be altered to around .028 for the formula to give an accurate BAC%. We determine A by calculating amount of alcohol in the ale consumed, which is the number of liquid ounces in one beverage multiplied by the number of beverages consumed multiplied by the ABV of the beverage. If a hobbit consumes two half-pints of ale, the formula for A looks like this:

9.6 ounces x 2 half-pints x 5% ABV = .96 oz

If we use this formula to account for the BAC of a male hobbit who has had two half-pints of ale over the course of an hour on an empty stomach, with an average human Elimination Rate, this is what we get:

(.96 x 5.14 / 70 x .73) – .015 x 1

(4.934/ 51.1) – .015 x 1

.0965 – .015 x 1 = .082 BAC%

For the record, .08% puts you over the legal limit for driving in the U.S. (Granted, hobbits don’t drive cars. Do they need a license for ponies?) Let’s see what happens when we adjust for the Elimination Rate of someone with a larger liver, closer to the range of a chronic drinker:

.0965 – .028 x 1 = .069 BAC%

If we assume the latter, then a hobbit who puts away a pint in an hour would be in the “buzzed” territory—lowered inhibitions, a bit louder and more boisterous, emotions intensified. If the same hobbit consumed 1.5 pints in the same hour, their BAC would rocket up to .12%, leading to serious motor skill and memory impairment as well as poor self-control. Two whole pints in an hour would lead to a BAC of .17%, making this same hobbit start to feel dizzy or nauseous, with blurred vision and a possible risk of blackout. By three pints and a BAC of .26%, the poor guy is probably throwing up near some poor farmer’s stables and leaning on his pals for support because he cannot walk without assistance.

So, if a hobbit consumes a steady half-pint an hour, they’d maintain a vague euphoria. But if they plan on consuming at a more rapid rate, they have to watch themselves (or have some good pals looking out for them). Which means that hobbits process alcohol similarly to humans, just in smaller portion sizes. And they likely have awesome livers getting the work done for them.

Just some useful info for when the hobbits drop by your house looking to party…

Originally published in October 2016.

Emmet Asher-Perrin tried hobbit beer in New Zealand. It was delicious. You can bug them on Twitter and Tumblr, and read more of their work here and elsewhere.

Hobbits, amirite?

When they’re not avoiding anything that makes them late for dinner, they’re pilfering ancient artifacts, accepting age-ending quests, sticking with their friends through thick and thin to the bitter end, testing the patience of wizards, getting kidnapped by Orcs, befriending tree-shepherding giants, sitting on the edge of ruin while discussing the pleasures of the table, swearing their service to kings, stabbing smack-talking lords of carrion and voracious giant spiders…and even carrying their masters up the faces of active volcanoes. Hobbits are, when it comes down to it, just a bunch of irrepressible lads and lasses going off into the Blue for mad adventures.

And a lot of people are very fond of them. Accordingly, on September 22nd, the in-world birthday of both Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, we celebrate Hobbit Day. It’s Tolkien Week, in fact, which has been a thing since 1978. Far too short a time.

Now, this is not really an essay, just an opportunity to share my own fondness for the species that gave J.R.R. Tolkien’s first book its title and when on to become a foundation to the snappy sequel that followed.

“Long Way” by Julia Alex

Well, okay, maybe also a very short look at their past. So just where are Hobbits in the big picture?

Those who explore The Silmarillion and the extended legendarium learn that Arda—that is, the entire world, of which Middle-earth is but a continent—was made for the Children of Ilúvatar. Ilúvatar is essentially God in Arda and the Children are both Men and Elves. This is their habitat, for different lengths of time. Dwarves were shoehorned into this two-race scheme when one of the Powers that preside over the world fashioned them (without permission) but then got conditional approval for them to stay around. Ents and Eagles…let’s call them special projects of the aforementioned Powers. Then you’ve got Orcs, trolls, dragons, and other monsters, all of which stem from various R&D projects under the management of the first Dark Lord, made in mockery of those above with the goal of destruction.

Okay, so where are Hobbits in all this? Tolkien famously didn’t tie everything up neatly in his secondary fantasy world by the time of his death—allowing all of us, I suppose, to talk and debate the matter. I think most would conclude that Hobbits are connected to Men and therefore share in their long-term fate: they live for a relatively short span of time (compared to Dwarves and certainly to Elves) before passing beyond the Circles of the World. Which means they’re more like us than any other fantasy race.

In “Concerning Hobbits,” the prologue of The Lord of the Rings, we’re told…

The beginning of Hobbits lies far back in the Elder Days that are now lost and forgotten. Only the Elves still preserve any records of that vanished time, and their traditions are concerned almost entirely with their own history, in which Men appear seldom and Hobbits are not mentioned at all. Yet it is clear that Hobbits had, in fact, lived quietly in Middle-earth for many long years before other folk became even aware of them.

No kidding. Two long ages go by without any mention of Hobbits. If they developed from the family tree of Men, we’re not privy to the specifics. In this way they may be like the Woses, the Wild Men of the Woods, who are certainly human but time or happenstance have given them different physical characteristics. Anyway, it’s not until the year 1050 of the Third Age—note, well after Sauron’s loss of the One Ring—that anyone even wrote an account of the Hobbits’ existence, though Elves, Men, and Dwarves each kept track of their own triumphs and disasters.

Buy it Now

And even then, it was only upon the coming of the some Hobbits into Eriador that some noticed and thought to put pen to paper. These were their Wandering Days, their slow migration from the “upper vales of the Anduin, between the eaves of Greenwood the Great and the Misty Mountains.” There were the three basic branches of Hobbit-kind: the river-loving Stoors, the artsy and Elf-friendly Fallohides, and the hill-dwelling Harfoots. Interestingly, we’re told that it was due to the increase in the numbers of Men near them “and of a shadow that fell on the forest” (i.e. Sauron as the Necromancer settling into Dol Guldur) that prompted them to migrate westward.

The agrarian Hobbits eventually settled in some little-used lands in the wide Dúnedain kingdom of Arthedain. In the wars against Angmar and its ruler, the freakin’ Witch-king himself, we’re told that Hobbits contributed some archers once, “or so they maintained, though no tales of Men record it.” So they were there for a thousand years, minding their own business and never doing anything unexpected. Yet when old Witchy and his eight fellow riders go hunting for someone called “Baggins” in a placed called “the Shire,” well, it takes them a while. They’ve never heard of the place. They had to ask around, after all. Nevermind the fact that they once terrorized Eriador and ran roughshod over folks in the region for their boss.

So yeah, without even trying, Hobbits keep a low profile.

And when they actually try to stay hidden, they do a pretty good job of it. Bilbo might have famously botched his first burglar job, but that’s what being 1st level is like for any adventurer. He got better. And of course, the magic item he pocketed later helped in the stealth department. But Hobbits are naturally unobtrusive. Inconspicuous.

They possess from the first the art of disappearing swiftly and silently, when large folk whom they do not wish to meet come blundering by; and this art they have developed until to Men it may seem magical.

Almost as if by design, or by chance—if chance you call it. But it’s also a social trait, at least outside of the Shire and Bree-land where Hobbits are little more than a rumor. Denethor is amused by Pippin in Minas Tirith, but is hardly impressed. Théoden is genuinely appreciative of Merry but dismisses the idea of him riding to war.

‘And in such a battle as we think to make on the fields of Gondor what would you do, Master Meriadoc, sword-thain though you be, and greater of heart than of stature?’

Merry goes to war, anyway, with Éowyn’s help. And he suffers for his valor, yet he is overlooked in the ruin. While the bodies of the living and the dead are carried from the Pelennor Fields, Merry basically limps himself up into the city, stricken by the Black Breath, where it takes another Hobbit to notice him and steer him to the Houses of Healing.

“Pippin Comforts Merry” by Peter Xavier Price

Hobbits are tough as hell. “Concerning Hobbits” also informs us:

They were, if it came to it, difficult to daunt or kill; and they were, perhaps, so unwearyingly fond of good things not least because they could, when put to it, do without them, and could survive rough handling by grief, foe, or weather in a way that astonished those who did not know them well and looked no further than their bellies and their well-fed faces.”

Here is the great irony. Hobbits are beneath the notice of so many, right? We see it with the good guys and the bad guys alike. The Elves in Lothlórien know of them, but thought them long gone from Middle-earth (say, was Galadriel keeping her people in the dark about them?). To the Men of Rohan and Gondor they are halflings, “little people in old songs and children’s tales.” The three trolls don’t know what Bilbo is. Smaug’s never smelled one before. The Ringwraiths are sent to discover them because they’re an unknown quantity to their master. Sauron overlooks Hobbits big time, to his own uttermost ruin. Even Saruman, who at least knew about the Shire for far longer than his secret rival in Mordor, couldn’t be bothered with them until it was too late. 

“The Hobbit—Expulsion” by Donato Giancola

YET…

Yet we, Tolkien’s readers, find Hobbits anything but inconspicuous. They are the story. They are our eyes on the wonders and terrors of Middle-earth outside their borders. And almost every fan’s got their favorite Hobbit. I always want to default to Sam—of course I do: heroic, stubborn, loyal Master Samwise with all his folk wisdom and surprising spikes of empathy—but on some days it’s Merry or Pippin or even Frodo who takes the cake.

And Bilbo? Come on! And some part of me wishes the Tolkien Estate could hurry up and unearth The Lost Adventures of Belladonna Took and publish it already. And even Lobelia Sackville-Baggins has an entertaining character arc. And I always wish we knew more about Rosie Cotton. I wish Sam talked about her more throughout the dangerous quest to Mount Doom (but then that wouldn’t be like him, would it, as he is always sensibly concerned with Frodo’s well-being and their mutual survival?). At least Sam gets the ending he deserves.

“Sam and Rosie Cotton” by Ted Nasmith

For us, Hobbits don’t go unnoticed. For all that I love Tolkien’s most famous book, if you strip away Hobbits you’ve got a very different story that would still be beautiful and lofty—but it would be bereft of its heart. It would be less memorable. After all, everybody knows that Thorin Oakenshield speaks the truth when he says…

‘If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.’

This is a given, right?

But oh, I mustn’t leave out mention of one particular fellow that it’s easy to forget is (or was) something like a Hobbit himself. As Gandalf explains…

‘I guess they were of hobbit-kind; akin to the fathers of the fathers of the Stoors, for they loved the River, and often swam in it, or made little boats of reeds. There was among them a family of high repute, for it was large and wealthier than most, and it was ruled by a grandmother of the folk, stern and wise in old lore, such as they had. The most inquisitive and curious-minded of that family was called Sméagol.’

It doesn’t seem fair to leave Sméagol entirely out of the discussion, since it was his greed—and his single-minded obsession with the Precious—which drastically altered the course of history in Middle-earth. Twice in particular: when he first acquired it and when he regained it.

“Gollum” by Frédéric Bennett

And he endured for so long—living for hundreds of years, with the Ring’s help—by remaining unnoticed. How Hobbitish of him. While Frodo, Sam, Pippin, and Merry are often overlooked by bigger folk for their simplicity or even their resemblance (at a glance) to children, for Gollum it was usually pity or revulsion that stayed the killing blow. Of course, Gollum’s role in The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings is incredibly nuanced, and worthy of its own explorations. But I wanted to keep his name in the air, this week. He deserves some acknowledgment.

So who is your favorite Hobbit and why? I’d like to hear!

And, outside of the books, are you a fan of any particular adaptations? In audio form, radio, film, TV, or illustration? I’ve talked about Peter Jackson’s Hobbit trilogy before—here and here—largely in defense of them. I enjoy them, despite their many flaws, but I’m still glad of their existence. But I am especially fond of the Rankin/Bass version of The Hobbit  as it was one my first exposures to the story. But what else do you recommend?

And what about the books? Any stories you could share about their discovery with friends or with your kids?

I’ll close with one of my own. When I traveled overseas with my family to Venice two years ago, I made a point to look for bookstores. I desperately wanted to see what Tolkien looked like in Italian. I wasn’t disappointed. While I couldn’t properly scour the city, I did find a couple of books. One store, Giunti al Punto (Come to the Point) had what I sought, along with some notable Tor titles…

Photo: Jeff LaSala

So after flipping through Il Silmarillion and Beren e Lúthien, I purchased a lovely copy of Lo Hobbit, one illustrated by Alan Lee. When you know a book so well and know some of its passages by heart, it’s fun to recognize them even in a language you don’t speak. So while I can’t rightly read the story of how Bilbo Baggins, son of Belladonna Tuc, traveled with los nanos to La Montagna Solitaria to reclaim the treasure stolen by il drago Smaug, I know what’s going on.

Yet it’s The Hobbit illustrated by Jemima Catlin that I first read to my son when he was five. The art is endearing, and it makes the book seem smaller, more palatable to a little kid.

Also, what about costumes? Cosplay for conventions or moots or film parties? Or for Halloween? Let’s see your best hobbit impressions, if you’ve got them!

Happy Hobbit Day and Tolkien Week!

From Halloween 2015 (Photo: Jeff LaSala)

Top image from “Then There Were Three” by Donato Giancola.

Jeff LaSala can’t leave Middle-earth well enough alone, as evidenced by his Silmarillion Primer and now Deep Delvings articles. Tolkien geekdom aside, Jeff wrote a Scribe Award–nominated D&D novel, produced some cyberpunk stories, and now works for Tor Books. He sometimes flits about on Twitter.

J.R.R. Tolkien’s landmark novels The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings have been adapted numerous times for TV and the big screen—with varying quality and results—over the last forty years. The first of these is Rankin/Bass’ animated version of The Hobbit, first released as a TV movie on NBC in November, 1977.

As I rewatched The Hobbit, for the first time since elementary school, I tried to imagine what it would have been like to see the film when it first aired on television forty-three years ago. I picture a child sitting on a lime green couch in a wood-paneled basement, wearing a Darth Vader t-shirt she got after she fell in love with Star Wars (aka A New Hope, then still simply known as “Star Wars”) when it was released in theaters a few months earlier.

Our hypothetical child would have no idea that she was glimpsing, like a vision in Galadriel’s mirror, the future of pop culture.

Forty years later, now perhaps with children the same age she was when she watched The Hobbit, our heroine would find that Star Wars still reigns at the box office, the most popular show on TV features dragons, and everywhere we look, humble heroes are set against dark lords: Kylo Ren, Thanos, Grindelwald, the Night King, and even The Hobbit’s own Necromancer.

Screenshot: Rankin/Bass / Warner Bros.

But in 1977, all of that is yet to come. The animated Hobbit is merely the first step out the door. The movie is certainly aware of its larger context. It opens with a skyward-dive toward a map of Middle-earth entire, almost like the opening credits of Game of Thrones, and ends with an ominous shot of the One Ring. But despite the gestures towards The Lord of the Rings, the film largely seems content to be an adaptation of Tolkien’s children’s adventure. It even includes the songs. All of the songs.

The film opens with the sort of “someone reading a storybook” conceit common to many Disney cartoons. We then dive down to Bag-End, which is lovingly animated, but seems to exist by itself—we see nothing of the rest of Hobbiton or the Shire. Bilbo Baggins walks outside to smoke and suddenly, the wandering wizard Gandalf appears literally out of thin air. He accosts poor Bilbo, looming over the little hobbit, more or less shrieking at him, and summoning lightning and thunder. It’s a strange greeting, and a marked departure from the banter the hobbit and wizard exchange in the book.

But the overriding concern of the Rankin/Bass film, doubtless due to being a TV movie for children, is to cut to the chase (metaphorically; Peter Jackson’s Hobbit movies cut to the chase literally). Gandalf doesn’t have time to shoot the shit. He needs help, and he needs it NOW. The Dwarves, looking like discarded sketches for Disney’s dwarfs in Snow White, suddenly pop up behind various rocks and trees and Gandalf gives them a quick introduction. We then cut to dinner in Bag-End as the Dwarves sing “That’s What Bilbo Baggins Hates!”, though Bilbo does not seem all that put off by their presence in his house, nor their handling of his fine china. This Bilbo is less frumpy and fusty than either his book counterpart or Martin Freeman’s portrayal in the live-action movies. He seems more naturally curious than anything—less a middle-aged man steeped in comfort but quietly longing for something more, as in the book, and more a child willing to go along with whatever the adults around him are doing.

Screenshot: Rankin/Bass / Warner Bros.

That night Bilbo dreams of being the King of Erebor (an odd, but nice, touch that again underlines Bilbo’s naivety and curiosity) and awakens to find the Dwarves and Gandalf already saddled up and ready to go. No running to the Green Dragon for this Bilbo: Time is a-wasting! The party needs to cross the Misty Mountains, Mirkwood, and multiple commercial breaks before bedtime.

The party is captured by Fraggle Rock-ish trolls, saved by Gandalf, and then stops for dinner in Rivendell. Rankin/Bass’s Elrond sports a halo of floating stars, a high-collared cape, and a gray goatee. He looks vaguely like a vampire in a Looney Toons short who’s just hit his head. But this Elrond is still my favorite of all cinematic depictions of the Half-elven master (despite my inner nerd raging that Círdan the Shipwright is the only bearded elf). Ralph Bakshi’s Elrond looks like a bored gym teacher, and Hugo Weaving’s portrayal in the Jackson movies is too grim and dour. Rankin/Bass’s Elrond properly looks like a timeless elf of great wisdom. The star-halo in particular is beautiful and fitting, given the Elves’ love of the stars (and the fact that Elrond’s name literally means “Star-Dome”). We don’t see any other Elves at Rivendell, so it’s impossible to say if they look like Elrond or share some resemblance to the very, very different Wood-elves we meet later in the film.

Elrond reveals the moon letters on Thorin’s map, and a quick fade to black to sell shag carpeting later, Bilbo and Company are high in the Misty Mountains and seeking shelter from a storm. They rest in a cave, where Bilbo has a quick homesick flashback to the dinner at Bag-End, and then their ponies disappear and the party is captured by goblins.

Screenshot: Rankin/Bass / Warner Bros.

I imagine our hypothetical 1977 child viewer probably had more than a few nightmares fueled by what follows. Rankin/Bass’s goblins are toad-like creatures, with gaping mouths full of teeth, plus big horns and sharp claws. They’re much more fantastical than the Orcs as Tolkien describes them—and as Jackson portrayed them in his movies—but they fit the storybook tone of the novel and the film, and also helpfully sidestep the racist aspects of the Orcs that are found in The Lord of the Rings. These goblins are pure monster through and through.

But the goblins look like hobbits compared to the slimy, frog-like horror that is the animated Gollum. Rankin/Bass’s Gollum doesn’t look like he could ever have been a hobbit. He truly looks like the ancient subterranean creature Tolkien originally meant him to be when he first wrote The Hobbit. And he’s terrifying: He has sharp claws, a disturbingly hairy back, green skin, and huge, blind-looking eyes. He also looks like he might snap and devour Bilbo at any moment.

(Funnily enough, I jotted down “reminds me of a Ghibli character” in my notes during the Gollum scene. And it turns out I wasn’t far from the truth—the 1977 Hobbit was animated by a Japanese studio called TopCraft, which was transformed into Studio Ghibli a few years later. I like to think a bit of Gollum made it into Spirited Away’s No-Face two decades later).

Screenshot: Rankin/Bass / Warner Bros.

The Gollum scene is genuinely tense and frightening, though Bilbo again seems to take it in stride, as he also does the discovery of a magic ring that lets him disappear and escape Gollum’s clutches. The ring makes a very ‘70s-TV “vrawp!” sound when Bilbo puts it on and vanishes, and I like to imagine Sauron built that feature in for funsies: Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul. Vrawp!

Bilbo reunites with Gandalf and the Dwarves, and then the company is rescued from wolf-riding goblins by the Eagles. The only major omission from the novel occurs here, as Beorn is nowhere to be found. Which is a shame, because Beorn is a grumpy literal bear of a man who loves ponies, and he should feature in every Tolkien adaptation. Beorn appears only briefly in The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, and my only specific hope for the Amazon series is that Beorn plays a substantial role, because Beorn is awesome.

But alas, Bilbo and Co. don’t meet a single were-bear, and immediately trek into Mirkwood, sans Gandalf, where they are attacked by giant spiders. The spiders are wonderfully horrible, with mouths of sharp teeth and lips (I can’t stop thinking about spider lips) and big fluffy antenna like moths have. Also, whenever one dies the camera becomes a spinning spider-POV of multiple eyes. It’s odd, but the film goes to great lengths to avoid showing anyone actually being slashed or stabbed with a sword—even spiders.

Screenshot: Rankin/Bass / Warner Bros.

Bilbo rescues the Dwarves but they’re soon captured by the Wood-elves, and here comes the movie’s greatest departure from the text—not in story, but in design. The Wood-elves look nothing like the elves in every other adaptation of Tolkien. Hell, they don’t even look remotely like Elrond from earlier in the same movie (presumably, Elrond took after his human grandfather). They look like Troll dolls that have been left out in the rain too long, and a little like Yzma fromThe Emperor’s New Groove. They have gray skin, pug faces, and blond hair. It’s frankly bizarre, but it did make me want a version of Jackson’s movies where Orlando Bloom plays Legolas in heavy makeup to look like a live-action version of Rankin/Bass’s Wood-elves.

The Elves may look weird, but the plot is the same. After escaping the Wood-elves’ hall by barrel, Bilbo and the Dwarves arrive at the Mannish settlement of Lake-town. There they meet the warrior Bard, who sports an extremely 1970s mustache and a killer pair of legs. I will refer to him as Bard Reynolds (RIP, Bandit) from now on.

There’s a beautiful shot of the Lonely Mountain looming in the background over Lake-town, a reminder of how close—for good and for ill—it is. In fact, the background paintings throughout the movie are gorgeous and seem to consciously adapt the look of Tolkien’s own drawings and paintings of Middle-earth, underscoring the storybook feel of the movie.

Against the advice of Bard Reynolds, Bilbo and the Dwarves head to the Lonely Mountain, where they open the secret door and Bilbo finally gets around to that burgling he was hired for. Except, of course, there’s one little problem: the dragon.

Screenshot: Rankin/Bass / Warner Bros.

Smaug is probably the most famous, or infamous, instance of character-design in this movie. He has a distinctly feline look, with whiskers, cat-eyes, and a lush mane. He reminded me, again, of Ghibli animation, especially the canine-esque dragon form of Haku in Spirited Away. It’s nothing like our usual idea of what Western dragons look like, but it also works really well. After all, Smaug is an intelligent, deadly, greedy predator who likes laying around all day. He’s a very cat-like dragon, is what I’m saying.

What’s more, Tolkien clearly didn’t care for cats, as they are always associated with evil in his legendarium. There are the spy-cats of the Black Númenorean Queen Berúthiel, and the fact that the earliest incarnation/prototype of Sauron was a giant cat (a depiction that survives in the Eye of Sauron explicitly being described as looking like a cat’s eye). Making Smaug into a cat-dragon is brilliant. Not only does it fit the character’s personality and Tolkien’s world, but it immediately conveys the particular menace of Smaug: Bilbo (who has a slightly hamster-like look himself) is a mouse walking into a tiger’s cave.

Bilbo barely escapes, even with his magic ring, though he’s luckily accompanied by a thrush who spies Smaug’s weakness—a missing belly scale. When Smaug swoops down to burn Lake-town, the thrush informs Bard Reynolds, who sticks in arrow in Smaug’s belly. Smaug dies, but his death throes lay waste to most of Lake-town.

Screenshot: Rankin/Bass / Warner Bros.

Back at the Lonely Mountain, Thorin has finally come into his kingdom, but like most new governments, he soon finds he has a lot of debt. Bard Reynolds and the men of Lake-town want money to rebuild their town, and they’re backed by the weird gray Elves of Mirkwood. Thorin wants to fight back, and gets mad at Bilbo not for stealing the Arkenstone (which, like Beorn, doesn’t make it into the movie) but because Bilbo doesn’t want to fight.

Thankfully, Gandalf manages to pop up out of thin air again, just in time to point out to this potential Battle of Three Armies that a fourth army is on its way: the goblins are coming. The Dwarves, Elves, and Men join together, though Bilbo takes off his armor and decides to sit this one out. Perhaps he knew that the production didn’t have the budget to animate a big battle and that the whole thing would just look like a bunch of dots bouncing around, anyway.

All is nearly lost until the Eagles show up. The book never quite describes how the Eagles fight—Bilbo gets knocked out right after they arrive—but the animated movie depicts it: the Eagles just pick up goblins and wolves and drop them out of the sky. It’s actually disturbing, as you see dozens of Eagles just casually picking up goblins and wargs and throwing them to their deaths. It reminded me of the helicopter bombardment in Apocalypse Now, and I wonder how much the disillusionment with the Vietnam War (and Tolkien’s own experience in World War I) played a role in how this battle was depicted.

Screenshot: Rankin/Bass / Warner Bros.

We also get a view of the battlefield in the aftermath, and it’s littered with the dead bodies of men, Elves, Dwarves, goblins, and wolves. There’s no glory here, no proud triumph. It couldn’t be further from the action-spectacular of Peter Jackson’s Battle of the Five Armies, or the climax of Return of the King when Aragorn bids the “Men of the West” to fight against the armies of the East. Here, there’s just relief and grim reckoning for the survivors.

Bilbo is reconciled with a dying Thorin, then heads home with a small portion of his treasure. Given that his Hobbit-hole at Bag-End seems to exist in pure isolation, it’s not surprising that it hasn’t been seized and auctioned off by the Sackville-Bagginses as in the novel.

Instead, we end with Bilbo reading a book—a Red Book—that turns out to be his own book, There and Back Again. The narrator promises that this is just “the beginning” and the camera closes on a shot of the One Ring in a glass case on Bilbo’s mantle.

And indeed, the next year would see the release of an animated The Lord of the Rings, but by Ralph Bakshi, not Rankin/Bass. It wouldn’t be until 1980 that Rankin/Bass would return to TV with a Tolkien cartoon, Return of the King, which is perhaps the oddest duck in the whole Tolkien film catalogue, being a sort-of sequel to both their own The Hobbit and Bakshi’s Rings.

Screenshot: Rankin/Bass / Warner Bros.

Despite being a TV movie, Rankin/Bass’s The Hobbit has held its own in pop culture. It’s a staple of elementary school Literature Arts movie days, and it’s likely been producing Gollum-themed nightmares in children for four solid decades (and still going strong!). And given the muddle that is the 2012-2014 Hobbit trilogy, Rankin/Bass’s take looks better and better every day. Its idiosyncratic character designs are truly unique, even if the Wood-elves look like Orcs. Also, the songs are pretty catchy…

Oh, tra-la-la-lally

Here down in the valley, ha! ha!

Originally published September 2018. Follow Austin’s tour of other animated Tolkien films here.

Austin Gilkeson formerly served as The Toast‘s Tolkien Correspondent, and his writing has also appeared at Catapult and Cast of Wonders. He lives outside Chicago with his wife and son.

We’re one step closer to finding out what Amazon’s Middle-earth spectacular is about: As Deadline reports, filming of the epic series has resumed in New Zealand.

Alas, there are no new hints to the mysterious content of the series, which is set during the Second Age (all 3,441 years of it). As previously reported, J.A. Bayona (Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom) directed the first two episodes, which were just about done when the pandemic shut down production back in March. The shutdown led into a planned hiatus during New Zealand’s winter. As expected, the writing team used the hiatus to plan and work on scripts for season two; it was announced last fall that Amazon had already renewed the show for a second season.

Back in January, Amazon revealed the cast for the series, which includes Morfydd Clark (His Dark Materials), Robert Aramayo (Mindhunter), Joseph Mawle (Game of Thrones), Owain Arthur (The One and Only Ivan), Nazanin Boniadi (Passengers), and others. “We still have a few key roles to cast,” the studio said at the time, while opting not to confirm who any of these actors will be playing.

There is (still) no official title or release date for the series, which is expected to run for at least five seasons.

Sauron is one of Tolkien’s best-known and most terrifying villains. Fire and demons, darkness inescapable, and the pull of the Ring of Power surround him; he is often visualized (if incorrectly) as a great flaming Eye and, as a Lord of Middle-earth, stretches his power across the lands seeking again the One Ring. Many names are his, and yet he is the Nameless One. He is called Annatar, Zigūr, Thû, Gorthû, the Necromancer, Wizard, Magician, lieutenant of Morgoth, Lord of Wolves, King of Kings, Lord of the World. He is one of only a small handful of characters to play a significant part in tales of Arda from the creation of the universe through to the last of the tales of Middle-earth. At first he plays lackey, but with the ages his power increases and he rightly earns the title of Dark Lord from Morgoth, his master.

Sauron is unique for a number of reasons. Unlike many other of Tolkien’s creations, his conception remains relatively stable throughout the legendarium, and because of this he is also one of the few to experience complex and radical development across that same period. His journey from uncorrupted spirit to last of the great mythological evils to threaten Arda is therefore fascinating and worth a closer look.

We know from The Silmarillion that Sauron was a Maia and servant to Aulë the smith (20). Melkor and Aulë were ever in competition, and the fact that the former won over the greatest craftsman of the latter is significant. First of all, it seems to be a common theme for Tolkien. Consider, for example, Fëanor’s vacillation between the opposing influences of the two Vala and his wife Nerdanel’s specific commitment to Aulë. While Melkor is the personification of incorrect or immoral artistry and lurid possessiveness, Aulë is generous, open-hearted, and willing to submit his creations to the will of Ilúvatar. Melkor, and later Sauron, desire dominance; hence the One Ring, meant to bind in servitude the other Rings of Power. We know from the beginning, therefore, that Sauron is to be an artist who will ultimately choose to use his gifts for corrupt purposes.

Sauron’s fall is, however, of an altogether different kind than that of Melkor. Unlike his master, Sauron did not desire the annihilation of the world, but rather the sole possession of it (note how similarly Melkor corrupted Fëanor and Sauron). In fact, it was original Sauron’s virtue that drew him to Melkor: Tolkien writes that “he loved order and coordination, and disliked all confusion and wasteful friction. (It was the apparent will and power of Melkor to effect his designs quickly and masterfully that had first attracted Sauron to him)” (Morgoth’s Ring, hereafter MR, 396). Thus we can assume that in the beginning, Sauron was content with his participation in Ilúvatar’s Music: it was and remains the greatest example of creative participation in existence. Impatience and a tendency to be drawn in admiration by spirits more powerful and compelling than himself were his downfall. And indeed, as Tolkien notes, that tendency was but another perverted shadow of what was originally good: “the ability once in Sauron at least to admire or admit the superiority of a being other than himself” (MR 398)—a characteristic Melkor did not possess. It’s easy to see Sauron as the destructive Dark Lord of The Lord of the Rings, but Tolkien makes sure to emphasize that Sauron fell into the shadow of Melkor through the uncareful use of his virtues, not because he possessed some inherent flaw. Sauron was too quick to act, too fierce in his admiration of those greater than himself, and finally too devoted to order to notice that Melkor’s intentions were entirely egoistic and nihilistic (MR 396).

Buy it Now

It’s only later, apparently, that Sauron truly falls into deception and wickedness. Offered a chance to repent and return to the circles of the Valar, Sauron refuses and escapes into hiding (MR 404). Before this, however, he works tirelessly as the chief captain of Melkor, now called Morgoth, and seems content in this position. It is Sauron who was, apparently, in charge of breeding and collecting Orcs for the armies of Morgoth, and for this reason he exerted greater control over them in his future endeavors than Morgoth himself (MR 419). At some point difficult to date, Sauron takes up residence at Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves, where he is later met and defeated by Lúthien and Huan.

But before Sauron, the isle belonged to Tevildo, a demon in the physical form of a great cat, and it is this villain Lúthien meets when she comes flying from Doriath seeking her lover, Beren. Even at this point, and despite the cats, the germ of the later story is still apparent (The Book of Lost Tales 2, hereafter BLT2, 54). While the Nargothrond episode has not yet emerged, the contest between Huan and Tevildo foreshadows the struggles between Huan and Draugluin and wolf-Sauron. As Christopher Tolkien points out, though, it’s important not to assume that Tevildo became Sauron, or, in other words, that Sauron was once a cat (BLT2 53). Rather, Tevildo is merely a forerunner, and Sauron occupies the place in the narrative that Tevildo once held. But, as Christopher also notes, it’s not a simple replacement either, because many elements remain across the versions. After Tevildo is abandoned, Tolkien establishes the Lord of the Wolves, an “evil fay in beastlike shape,” on the isle. Finally, perhaps inevitably, Sauron takes the place of that apparition, and we’re given the tale of Lúthien’s assault on Tol-in-Gaurhoth in a relatively stable form.

Sauron’s first true defeat comes at the hands of Lúthien and Huan. The final story is slow to emerge, but eventually, we get the tale with which we’re so familiar. Lúthien, nearly despairing of finding Beren, comes with the help of Huan to Tol-in-Gaurhoth, and there sings a song of power that makes the isle tremble. Sauron sends out his beasts, but the hound of Valinor defeats each champion, even Draugluin the great wolf, until Sauron himself takes beast form and sallies out to meet his foe. But Huan seizes his throat without mercy, and though Sauron shifts shape many times he cannot escape. Lúthien then comes and commands Sauron to yield to her mastery of the isle; he does so, and when Huan releases him he takes the form of a great vampire and comes to Taur-nu-Fuin, the place where the warring powers of Melian and Sauron met and mingled in living horror (Sil 172-173).

“Tol-In-Gaurhoth” by Elena Kukanova

Sauron continues to serve Morgoth up to the end: he’s put in command of Angband, and when the final battle is waged and Morgoth at last defeated, judged, and thrust through the Door of Night, it is to Angband that Sauron escapes, lurking in the shadows. His power only grows during this respite and he is looked upon as a god among the rough, untutored Men of Middle-earth.

At that time he took a fair form, seeming both wise and kind, and dwelt among the Elves. But this conception of Sauron only emerged for Tolkien when he wrote about Galadriel in The Lord of the Rings. In the early stages of drafting The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien wasn’t sure how the Rings fit into the legendarium’s great scope. He toyed with various ideas. At one point it is Fëanor who forges the Rings (again suggesting a sort of artistic kinship of Fëanor and Sauron in Tolkien’s thought), and Sauron later steals them from the Elves (The Treason of Isengard, hereafter TI, 255). But despite some quibbling over their creation, Tolkien was clear early on that the Rings were possessed by Sauron—even in the very early drafts, when the Ring is but a trinket that can do minor harm, it is still the Ring of the Necromancer, and Sauron is repeatedly called the Lord of the Ring(s) (The Return of the Shadow, hereafter RS, 80, 81). In later drafts, and perhaps because of Sauron’s newly acquired title, Tolkien suggests that all the Rings of Power were originally created by Sauron (RS 404), and that they were many. In this case Sauron gains early fame as a generous lord, a ring-giver, whose realm is prosperous and whose people are content and wealthy (RS 258).

Only later does the conviction that only the One Ring was made by Sauron appear, and by the same token Tolkien becomes convinced that the elvish rings were unsullied and thus could be used in their own merit and for good by those who wielded them (TI 254, 259). (He also suggests that Galadriel mistrusted “Annatar,” or Lord of Gifts, as he called himself, from the beginning, but Christopher finds this somewhat problematic.)

Gradually the story of Sauron’s treachery as told in The Lord of the Rings develops. The Elves do not suspect him until, in his forge, he puts on the One Ring, and suddenly they become aware of him and his true purpose. They take the three elven rings and escape, but Sauron takes and corrupts the others, giving them to his servants as he sees fit.

His power only continues to increase, until at last the great kings of Númenor of the West hear of him. Ar-Pharazôn, a foolish ruler rejecting the idea that any king in Arda could be more powerful than himself, summons Sauron to Númenor in a move calculated to humiliate him. But he is deceived. Early drafts depicting Sauron’s coming are intense and leave no room for confusion. As the ship approaches the island a great wave, high as a mountain, lifts it up and casts it upon a high hill. Sauron disembarks and from there preaches, an image that recalls Christ’s sermon on the mount and establishes Sauron’s dominance. He offers a message of “deliverance from death,” and he “beguile[s] them with signs and wonders. And little by little they turned their hearts toward Morgoth, his master; and he prophesied that ere long he would come again into the world” (The Lost Road and Other Writings, hereafter LR, 29). He also preaches imperialism, telling the Númenoreans that the earth is theirs for the taking, goading them to conquer the leaderless rabble of Middle-earth (LR 74). He attempts to teach them a new language, which he claims is the true tongue they spoke before it was corrupted by the Elves (LR 75). His teaching ushers in an age of modern warfare in Númenor, leading “to the invention of ships of metal that traverse the seas without sails […]; to the building of grim fortresses and unlovely towers; and to missiles that pass with a noise like thunder to strike their targets many miles away” (LR 84). Sauron’s conquest of Númenor is bombastic, showy, and nearly instantaneous. He comes on them like a messiah from the depths of the Sea.

The tale as it is told in The Silmarillion is far subtler. In that account, Sauron “humble[s] himself before Ar-Pharazôn and smooth[s] his tongue; and men [wonder], for all that he [says] seem[s] fair and wise” (Sil 279). Gradually he seduces the king and the people by playing on their fears and their malcontent, feeding them lies wrapped in truth until he has gained such a hold that he builds a temple to Morgoth and offers human sacrifices upon its altars. In The Silmarillion he is much more a cunning, silver-tongued flatterer who ensnares Ar-Pharazôn by pretending to impart a secret spiritual knowledge. The significance here is that even at this point in his journey to world-threatening power, Sauron still looks on Morgoth as his master or even as a god—or God. He still, as pointed out much earlier, is willing to acknowledge and even celebrate a power greater than himself.

When the climax comes and Númenor is overturned in the Sea, Sauron is stripped of his physical body and condemned to never again take on a fair form. He slinks back to Middle-earth and his Ring, takes up residence in Mordor, and continues to grow in power and influence. Eventually, as is now well known, he comes to such ascendancy that the great kings of Middle-earth, Elves and Men, band together in the Last Alliance and make war upon him. He is defeated when Isildur (first an elf and only later the son of Elendil), cuts the Ring from his finger. Elendil, before he dies, prophesies Sauron’s return with dark words (TI 129).

Sauron, stripped once again of his physical form, retreats to Dol Guldur in Mirkwood (which was originally in Mordor and also equated with Taur-nu-Fuin; see LR 317, RS 218), where he simmers malevolently while regaining his strength. The Ring, famously, passes out of knowledge when Isildur is killed while escaping Orcs.

The rest of the story is familiar, and interestingly, Sauron’s part in it undergoes little revision even while the rest of the narrative is in constant upheaval. A few details are different. At one point, Gandalf looks in the Stone of Orthanc and upon (presumably) encountering Sauron, tells the Dark Lord he’s too busy to talk—and “hangs up” (The War of the Ring, hereafter WR, 71-72). At another point, Tolkien planned to have Gandalf and Sauron parley together, suggesting that the Dark Lord would have to leave Mordor and appear in person and with dialogue—none of which he gets in the finished Lord of the Rings (indeed, the Dark Lord of the published narrative is glaringly absent, which makes his power all the more terrifying). In the original conception of Frodo’s temptation at the Cracks of Doom, Tolkien even toyed with the idea of having Sauron bargain with the hobbit, promising him (falsely, no doubt) a joint share in his rule if he turned over the Ring (RS 380). Other than these minor (and sometimes humorous) potential alternatives, however, the Sauron of The Lord of the Rings’s early drafts is the Sauron at the end of all things.

In all, Sauron’s character is remarkably consistent and coherent throughout the drafts, if we believe, as Christopher Tolkien assures us that we must, that Tevildo Prince of Cats is in no way Sauron himself (as Sauron existed as a distinct figure before Tevildo, this is undoubtedly correct). Sauron’s journey from an overeager, artistic Maia to Dark Lord and Nameless One illustrates several significant themes in Tolkien’s legendarium. First of all it insists, like Fëanor’s history, that improper uses of creativity and artistry, especially when combined with a possessive, domineering spirit, are irreparably corruptive. It also urges us to consider what Tolkien believed were the destructive effects of machines and, perhaps more specifically, mechanized thinking. “The world is not a machine that makes other machines after the fashion of Sauron,” Tolkien wrote in an abandoned draft of The Lost Road (LR 53). Sauron, who passionately desired order and perfect, rote production, had a mind of metal and gears, as was once said of Saruman. Sauron saw the beauty of a cooperation that naturally produces order (the Music), but instead of allowing an organic or creative participation to develop naturally, he became enamored of the kind of order that could be produced—enforced—by domination and tyranny. Sauron’s story is a warning. “‘Nothing is evil in the beginning,’” Elrond says, perhaps a trifle sadly. “‘Even Sauron was not so’” (LotR 267).

Originally published in May 2019 as part of an on-going series profiling the characters of Middle-earth.

Megan N. Fontenot is a hopelessly infatuated Tolkien fan and scholar, but she also studies Catholicism, eco-paganism, and ethno-nationalism in the long nineteenth century. And did she mention Tolkien? Give her a shoutout on Twitter @MeganNFontenot1!

In this biweekly series, we’re exploring the evolution of both major and minor figures in Tolkien’s legendarium, tracing the transformations of these characters through drafts and early manuscripts through to the finished work. This week’s installment takes a look at the tragic tale of Boromir of Gondor, the bold son of Denethor who meets his end protecting Merry and Pippin from the Orcs of Saruman.

When faced with critics who accused The Lord of the Rings of being morally “simple-minded,” lacking in ethical complexity, Tolkien would point to Boromir as proof against such claims (Letters 197). Boromir, he argued, illustrates that even fundamentally good people have faults, make mistakes, and sometimes, are capable of great moral failings. But if this is true, then Boromir is also proof that those failings can be overcome, forgiven, and (in the heroic code of Middle-earth) paid for by self-sacrificial courage. The temptation of Boromir, his fall, and his redemption through his heroics and a sort of sacramental confession to Aragorn make for a powerful story, one that readers find hard to forget.

It is hardly surprising that Tolkien did not arrive at such a powerful narrative arc right away. The story of Boromir, like that of many other characters, was one that grew in the telling.

Boromir first arrives on the scene in a draft of the Council of Elrond. At this point he bears his own name (not always, as we have seen in this series, a guarantee), but he is said to be from the land of “Ond,” a precursor of Gondor. Here, Tolkien describes him as “a Man of noble face, but dark and sad” (The Return of the Shadow, hereafter RS, 395). This is, as we will see, not the only time Boromir is referred to as dark. That adjective ultimately is removed from the comparatively lengthy description we get in the published version of the Council of Elrond, but it shows up in most of Tolkien’s early conceptions of Boromir. (For example, one messenger is described as “ a dark Gondorian like Boromir” [The Treason of Isengard, hereafter TI, 437].)

In this first draft, Elrond introduces Boromir to the Council, saying that he has arrived as a messenger on an errand, but what this errand is, and what message he bears, are not revealed in any of the first several drafts. As he does in the published version, Boromir pushes against Elrond’s insistence that the Ring cannot be used safely (RS 403-404), but he makes no great speeches, nor does he speak of any dream-vision. Naturally, too, Faramir does not appear in his conversation—at this point, the brother of Boromir does not exist. His father Denethor does not, either, at least in any certain terms. This is also true of the second major stage of drafting (TI 114). What does appear early on, however, is Boromir’s suspicion of Aragorn and Bilbo’s frustrated poetic response (TI 146).

Fascinatingly, Boromir was slated to be a member of the Fellowship from the beginning—in fact, in one early draft, the company was to be made solely of Boromir and five hobbits, before Gandalf announces that he will also be joining them. (I can just picture the impatient Man attempting to wrangle five complaining hobbits across the wide expanses, like something from one of those thought experiments where you replace everyone in a film with Muppets except for one character.) In this instance, Boromir’s strength is his most valuable – and perhaps only – asset. When he learns that the Man will be joining the Fellowship, Frodo’s response is to ask “What is to be the brains of the party? […] Boromir is only one of the Big Folk, and they are not as wise as hobbits.” Gandalf responds sharply that Boromir is strong and courageous, but that he also comes of an ancient and wise race, and Frodo would do better to show him more respect (RS 408). All the same, Gandalf seems to prove the hobbit’s point when he then announces that he will be accompanying them as the brains of the operation.

Buy it Now

Despite all this, Boromir was once nearly dropped from the narrative. In a provisionary outline of what might come next in the tale, Tolkien proposed that Frodo might get kidnapped by a terrifying tree-giant named Treebeard, who (only perhaps) turns out to be not so bad, and who takes Frodo to Ond (Gondor), saving the hobbit quite a number of steps along the way. In this case, Tolkien wrote, “it will be better to have no Boromir in [the] party” (411). He doesn’t explain his reasoning, leaving it open to our speculation.

So: The original party that sets forth from Rivendell consists of Gandalf, Boromir, and five hobbits. By this point, Tolkien had decided that Boromir wasn’t just any messenger from the South: he was the son of the King of Ond (RS 411). Here we can see the first vestiges of the role of the Steward of Gondor developing alongside Aragorn’s growing importance in the story (at this point, however, Aragorn is still Trotter the mystery hobbit, and certainly not heir to the throne).

On the journey Boromir acts as rearguard, and says little. He carries no horn and no great shield. He plays only a small role, too, apart from the fact that he is obliged to clear the pass on Caradhras by himself (RS 425). Even in one later version, after Aragorn has become a Man, Boromir still takes up the duty of snow plow alone, leaving the rest of the Company standing around for a full hour before he returns (TI 170). In yet another version, in a heroically tough-guy fashion, Boromir is the only member of the Fellowship on foot: the hobbits all have ponies, and Gandalf his horse. The men of Ond, it is said, “did not ride horses” (RS 423).

In this same draft, it is Boromir who suggests that Gandalf melt a pathway through the snow (Legolas at this point was still “Galdor,” and was not a member of the party). “I can kindle fire not feed it,” snaps Gandalf. “What you want is a dragon not a wizard.” Boromir responds lightly that “a tame dragon would actually be more useful at the moment than a wild wizard,” and laughs. Predictably, Gandalf is quite annoyed, but by the time Boromir has orchestrated their harrowing escape from the snowfalls of Caradhras, he has cooled his head and treats the Man with more courtesy (RS 427). Here we learn that Boromir’s skills are innate: he “was ‘born a mountaineer’ in the Black Mountains” (RS 440; italics original).

The various manuscripts give us other small pictures of Boromir’s character. In Moria we learn he snores quite loudly (RS 457). He also tends to be more lighthearted and open to humor than he is in the published version; apart from the above dragon comment, he also smiles and laughs at Gandalf’s unsuccessful attempts to find the opening words to the door of Moria (RS 463). In these early tellings, too, Boromir is far less aloof and proud than he tends to be in the published The Lord of the Rings (see TI 122 for another example).

It’s not until after the second major draft of “The Council of Elrond” that Boromir’s story begins to be fleshed out. In an outline of the story going forward, Tolkien introduces the dream-vision that prompts Boromir’s journey. Here, it is only vaguely mentioned as a prophecy about a “Broken Sword”; the “wise men” of Ond “said that the Broken Sword was in Rivendell” (TI 116).

A few more false starts on Tolkien’s part brings us now to the fourth version of the Council. For the first time, Boromir is “from the city of Minas Tirith in the South” (TI 126), although that city is still in “the land of Ond” (TI 127). The long description of Boromir and his gear hasn’t materialized yet: he doesn’t even have his iconic horn and so of course says nothing about blowing one every time the Fellowship sets forth (TI 165). (The horn, for those who are interested, appears first in the third version of the flight across the Bridge in Moria; Tolkien inserts it in pencil, though there isn’t yet any indication that it’s anything special [TI 203].)

The idea of the dream as a poem also enters in the fourth major draft of “The Council of Elrond,” although, unfortunately, the very first version of this verse is lost (TI 127). Until this addition, Boromir offers no news to the Council, nor does he ever explain why he has come (TI 136). In that regard, then, this is a step forward in detailing the Man’s motivations and goals. His great speech about Gondor (here still Ond) also makes its first appearance in this draft. In substance it is very like the published version, though of course, he still doesn’t mention Faramir (that would have been a very late addition) (TI 128).

Essentially, what we see is the slow but certain development of a character’s complexity over time. Boromir isn’t—and never will be—one of the more fleshed-out characters in the tale. He simply doesn’t get enough time in the narrative. Compared to most of the other members of the Fellowship, Boromir spends very little time with the reader; we don’t get to know him as well as we’d like. In fact, it may be that we get to know him best by understanding Denethor and Faramir. But what we can see is Tolkien’s creative process at work, and I think that tells us quite a bit about Boromir that we wouldn’t otherwise know.

“Ukiyo-e The Departure Of Boromir,” by Ergo_art

For instance, it is fascinating to watch his antagonism towards Aragorn heighten to a fever pitch and then be tempered by more complex emotions. At one point, he and Aragorn have a heated argument over how far they should follow the River, and which bank they should march on when they disembark (TI 358-359). It’s also said that “Boromir spoke strongly, urging ever the wisdom of strong wills, and weapons, and great plans he drew for alliances and victories to be, and the overthrow of Mordor” (TI 371). Aragorn is more cautious, and the men clash over their differences in strategy.

This opposition shows itself in more than just these minor details. In the “Sketch of Plot” that Tolkien wrote after drafting the Moria sequence, he indicates that “Boromir is secretly planning to use the Ring, since Gandalf is gone (TI 207; italics original). Thereafter we get the first indication in the outline that Boromir will attempt to take the Ring from Frodo, and Tolkien’s italicized phrase suggests that Gandalf’s presence did more to stall Boromir’s lust than Aragorn’s will. Boromir also chooses to lie blatantly to Aragorn about his dealings with Frodo. What those lies were, Tolkien wasn’t quite sure; at one point he suggested that “Boromir says [Frodo] has climbed a tree and will be coming back soon?” (TI 208). Naturally, this suggestion makes little sense given the nature of hobbits, and it does not reappear. Tolkien’s next explanation was that Boromir turned suspicions away from himself by suggesting that the Enemy lured Frodo away and sent a madness on him so that the Ring could be recovered by the Orc company (TI 328).

At this point, too, Boromir is shown to be dismissive of the Ring’s power of corruption. He argues, temptingly, that it would not be dangerous for him to use the Ring. It would not corrupt a “true Man” because only “those who deal in magic will use it for hidden power,” he insists. He or Aragorn, even, would simply use it as a warrior and a commander, for strength in battle and the charisma needed to lead men towards death (TI 326).

In this same “Sketch,” Boromir does not die in an attempt to save Merry and Pippin. Instead, he and Aragorn plan to go on to Minas Tirith after the four hobbits disappear. “Evil,” however, “has now hold of Boromir who is jealous of Aragorn.” After the Men return to their city, “Boromir deserts and sneaks off to Saruman, to get his help in becoming Lord of Minas Tirith” (TI 210). Surprisingly, this plot point stays in place for a while. Later, Boromir is said to be “enraged” when “the Lord of Minas Tirith is slain” and Aragorn is chosen to rule in his stead (TI 211). In this version, too, he defects to Saruman. Christopher Tolkien suggests that in this, Boromir may be “a faint adumbration of Wormtongue” (TI 214). This suggestion is fascinating, as it brings to our attention possible affinities between the heir to the stewardship of Minas Tirith and the power-hungry wizard. According to the outline, Boromir does not repent, but is “slain by Aragorn” (TI 212)!

There is no room for redemption and forgiveness in this version of Boromir. Rather, he serves only as Aragorn’s foil—a failed instance of what Aragorn strives to be. Boromir’s suspicion of Aragorn, his resistance to Aragorn’s leadership, and his inability to overcome his lust for the Ring are all reduced. We do not see a man in his own right, one who is dealing with bitter personal struggles of morality: we see a cheap and easy mirror of Aragorn’s righteousness and self-restraint.

None of that changes until Tolkien conceives of Boromir’s death. The idea appears first as little more than a brief note in an outline, but it quickly took root and grew into the tale we know form the published The Lord of the Rings (TI 375). A few pages later, Boromir’s boat funeral on the bank of the river also appears (TI 378). A few of the important markers of the scene aren’t yet present. For example, the companions do not sing a lament for their fallen hero (TI 384). Instead, Boromir is borne “out in the Great Sea; and the voices of a thousand seabirds lamented him upon the beaches of Belfalas” (TI 382). The sung lament is inserted later and on its own separate page—and originally, it was titled “The Lament of Denethor,” as if the companions were imagining the mourning of the father for his child. This is, I think, an element of pathos that softens Denethor’s character somewhat. The “Lament” was, after all, written during WWII, and it is not difficult to image Tolkien’s own feelings of sorrow and anxiety—with his own sons away on the field of battle, and every new day bringing with it the fear that he would continue to look for them but never see their return.

As I suggested above, we must understand Faramir and Denethor before we can truly understand Boromir. Faramir’s story provides Boromir’s with the context it needs, in the smaller details as well as the larger. The horn of Boromir takes on new significance in the drafts of the “Faramir” chapter, where it becomes an identifying feature of the missing warrior, “bound in silver, and written with his name” (The War of the Ring, hereafter WR, 146; I understand this to mean that the horn was most likely a handsome and expensive gift, possibly even one given by Denethor).

And the developing family dynamic does a lot to explain Boromir’s specific struggles and actions. Tolkien often wrote that Denethor preferred Boromir over Faramir—that much is no secret. But in a few early drafts, we are told that Denethor doubted whether his eldest “was as strong in heart as [Faramir,” or “as trustworthy” (WR 328). Of course, as I wrote in my earlier explorations of Denethor and Faramir, Denethor’s willingness to acknowledge Boromir’s faults and his gentleness towards Faramir are slowly erased through a number of drafts, until finally he declares that Boromir would have brought the Ring to him, and would have remained loyal to Minas Tirith despite the lure of power (WR 333). I think this goes a long way towards explaining both Boromir’s pride and his clear anxiety over and feelings of personal responsibility for the fate of Minas Tirith.

Denethor’s unrealistic expectations broke his son. All throughout the published text, we see Boromir compensating and making excuses for anything that might be perceived of as a failure on his part. One example of this is his behavior in Lothlórien, where he insists that Galadriel is no more than a temptress who offers options that aren’t available in reality. His blustery denials and his pressuring of Frodo seem, to me, to be obvious signals that he might have failed the “test.” He is less hostile and suspicious in earlier versions, before his relationship with his father was clearly established (TI 248).

Boromir’s story is deeply sad. Anxious to prove to his overbearing father that he is in fact worthy of his pride, he sidelines his younger brother and leaves Minas Tirith without its captain to undertake a harrowing journey across Middle-earth. In a letter, Tolkien wrote that “When Boromir made his great journey from Gondor to Rivendell—the courage and hardihood required is not fully recognized in the narrative—the North-South Road no longer existed except for the crumbling remains of the causeways, by which a hazardous approach to Tharbad might be achieved, only to find ruins on dwindling mounds, and a dangerous ford formed by the ruins of the bridge, impassable if the river had not been there slow and shallow—but wide” (277). (In The Lord of the Rings, we’re told that Boromir loses his horse at Tharbad, evidence for the difficulty of the road he traveled.)

Following this exhausting journey, he has to participate in a council in which a great number of far-away people refuse him the use of the one thing (the one Ring) that would put his home beyond danger. His father’s expectations must have been weighty, pressing upon him at this moment, but he is shouted down at every turn, and made to look a fool. Then, he’s expected to turn right around and make the journey again, this time on foot, and thus slowly, all while the growing fear of Minas Tirith’s downfall looms over him like a shadow. The whole time, too, he must travel and sleep and fight and eat in the proximity of an object of immeasurable, lust-inspiring power, which also happens to be the thing that could save Gondor. And not only that! Beside him all the way is Aragorn, a ragged no-name out of nowhere, whose appearance in Minas Tirith will likely mean the loss of everything he and his father and brother have fought and worked for all their lives.

And then, he is mortally wounded, believing that he has not only failed in saving Merry and Pippin, but that he has also doomed the quest and Minas Tirith. Denethor’s pride and trust was for naught. Aragorn assures him that “few have gained such a victory” (LotR 414), but Boromir’s response—a smile —seems completely ambiguous to me. I cannot say with any surety whether I think he believed Aragorn or was merely ironically grateful for the other man’s attempt at comfort. But if there is one light in the shadows of Boromir’s story, it is that the river and his boat take him out to the Great Sea, where we may hope that his body drifted into the West.

Megan N. Fontenot is a dedicated Tolkien scholar and fan who has been abundantly encouraged and inspired by the examples and influence of Tolkien’s characters. Catch her on Twitter @MeganNFontenot1 and feel free to request a favorite character while you’re there!