Why Should You Read The Lord of the Rings? Contrary to popular belief, this book is not a simple story of good defeating evil and everyone living happily ever after. There is so much nuance and layering that even after sixteen years of reading it, I find something fresh and relevant with each read.
Welcome to the reading challenge for The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, hosted September to December 2024. You will find all information on this page.
Contrary to popular belief, this book is not a simple story of good defeating evil and everyone living happily ever after. There is so much nuance and layering that even after sixteen years of reading it, I find something fresh and relevant with each read. There’s a reason so many of us revisit this book year after year. I aim to open your eyes to why that is.
There is always darkness in our world—plenty of it, both in our own lives and outside. The story of Lord of the Rings is one of hope in the face of impossibly bleak circumstances—not because of one person, but because many people of different races and beliefs choose to do what they can—to fight against the darkness.
None of them know if their efforts will succeed. They don’t know if anyone else in other places is fighting, not even their own friends. They continue anyway. Through each individual doing their small part, the Shadow is defeated.
This victory comes at great cost, as we will see. Tolkien does not shy away from themes of grief and loss, lingering trauma and brokenness. One direct result of the Ring’s destruction is the fading of magic and the last departure of the Elves.
The nuances in The Lord of the Rings of hope in hopelessness, of grief mingled with love, of loss with victory, all point to an enduring universality. This is a story that will challenge you, strengthen you, and give you hope.
Let’s say you gave it a try once, maybe twice. You saw all those landscape descriptions, the names of places and people that never show up again in this particular story, the too-many languages, and oh, the songs! Why must Tolkien write so many songs??
And let’s face it: The Fellowship of the Ring is slow. In contrast, The Two Towers and The Return of the King both move at a quicker pace and have shorter chapters.
It takes seventeen years for Frodo to finally leave home after he inherits the Ring. Then, he and his companions trudge along for a few more chapters and get stuck in the Old Forest. They encounter this strange character named Tom Bombadil and stay at his house. By now, you’re scratching your head, wondering what any of this has to do with the overall plot. Contemporary editors would probably have a field day with Tolkien, and Tom Bombadil would be a prime example of “kill your darlings.”
Here’s a highly unpopular opinion (purists, please don’t kill/maim/cancel me): if you’re a first-time reader, I suggest skipping the chapters, “The Old Forest,” “In the House of Tom Bombadil,” and “Fog on the Barrow-downs,” and going straight from “A Conspiracy Unmasked” to “At the Sign of the Prancing Pony.”
I know, I know. There is a lot to be gained from those chapters, but I’ve heard from so many readers who’ve told me they get stuck precisely in those sections, never continuing on to the rest of the book. I’d rather you be able to read the whole trilogy, sacrificing those three chapters, than never experience the full richness of this book.
Another unpopular suggestion, but possibly less incendiary than the previous one? Most of the songs aren’t essential to the plot, so if you find yourself getting bogged down by them, it’s okay to skip them. Some of them are also in Tolkien’s invented languages and not even translated, so unless you’re planning on becoming a Tolkien scholar, I honestly don’t think you’ll miss out on much.
You can always come back to read these parts later, and they will enhance your understanding of the book. I personally love the songs and poems; they’re beautiful to me.
I APOLOGISE FOR OFFENDING “TRUE” TOLKIEN FANS.
Anyways, moving on..
Fair point.
As your guide, I will explore Tolkien’s universal themes from a macro perspective, then narrow them down to consider how they can inform and enrich your own life. My style is personal. I focus on helping you understand the book, yes, but mainly, I am interested in how literature changes you.
I have read this trilogy every single year since 2008 (excluding 2021). While I have no degree in English Literature, I do have an undying passion for this book, and I believe it’s one that will speak to everyone, whether or not you call yourself a fantasy or classics fan.
J.R.R. Tolkien intended The Lord of the Rings as a single book. Dividing it was thought necessary for publication, due to length and cost at the time, but Tolkien wrote it as a whole. He published The Fellowship of the Ring at the age of 62 (yay there’s still hope for me) and it took him 12 years to write the entire trilogy.
Important to note is that Lord of the Rings is part of an extensive history, set in an incredibly detailed world. Tolkien’s devout Catholic beliefs, his background as a philologist, study of mythology and Old English literature, and personal experiences, all influence his writing.
22 September | A Long Expected Party - The Old Forest
29 September | In the House of Tom Bombadil - Flight to the Ford
6 October | Many Meetings - A Journey in the Dark
13 October | The Bridge of Khazad-dûm - The Breaking of the Fellowship
28 October | The Departure of Boromir - The White Rider
4 November | The King of the Golden Hall - The Palantír
11 November | The Taming of Sméagol - The Window on the West
18 November | The Forbidden Pool - The Choices of Master Samwise
2 December | Minas Tirith - The Siege of Gondor
9 December | The Ride of the Rohirrim - The Black Gate Opens
16 December | The Tower of Cirith Ungol - The Steward and the King
23 December | Many Partings - The Grey Havens
If you haven’t already, remember to subscribe to this newsletter. I’ll send an email with my thoughts and discussion questions of the week’s reading. You don’t need an app to read these. If you’re subscribed, they’ll go straight to your email.
My essays for this challenge will always be free to read, but the journaling exercises and discussions are for paid Inklings in the comments section. I also share more of my personal experiences in that section. We will be going deep and I want the space to be an intimate one. I hope you will choose to participate in our Fellowship! Either way, there will be plenty for everyone to read and enjoy.
I want to emphasize that quiet participation is welcome. Some of you joined my last read-throughs of Never Let Me Go and Franny and Zooey, and never participated but told me you were reading along. I loved that! Whatever your comfort level with interactions, I’m just glad you’re here to read together.
As before, you are free to read at your own pace. Life happens and this isn’t school. My posts are here for whenever you’re ready to jump in.
I hope you will join us!
Neither of these Hobbits is chosen based on their skill, knowledge, or power, but rather on their fierce loyalty to Frodo. Arguably the most loved Hobbit of all, Samwise Gamgee, is the least impressive.
“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—closer 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.”
—Merry Brandybuck (emphasis mine)
And here, we have the crux of the whole trilogy. That’s it; we can all go home now.
Kidding aside, let us delve into one of the major themes of Tolkien’s work, influenced by the deep friendships he experienced throughout his own life. In The Fellowship of the Ring, Tolkien presents friendship as a force powerful enough to shape fate and transcend wisdom.
I read this book every year. What struck me during this year’s reading was the interplay of fate, wisdom, and friendship.
Jenn Zuko also has an excellent essay on this topic. Fate is mentioned several times just in the first few chapters of the first book: both the force of evil and “another force” at play.
When Elrond is choosing members of the Fellowship, Frodo’s friends, Merry and Pippin, insist on being part of it. Elrond is hesitant, as he would rather select those who are more powerful or wise. Gandalf counters him, saying, “I think, Elrond, that in this matter it would be well to trust rather to their friendship than to great wisdom.”
This is powerful.
Gandalf, in his own wisdom, recognises the power of the Hobbits’ bonds and encourages Elrond to allow Merry and Pippin to join the Fellowship. This has a direct impact on the outcomes of the quest, as both Merry and Pippin play significant roles in the story.
Without Merry, a major villain would not have been vanquished. Without Pippin, a beloved character would be dead.
Neither of these Hobbits is chosen based on their skill, knowledge, or power, but rather on their fierce loyalty to Frodo. Arguably the most loved Hobbit of all, Samwise Gamgee, is the least impressive. He is a mere gardener, lower on the social ladder than the other Hobbits, which is reflective in his speech and deference to “Master Frodo.”
Yet it is this loyalty that turns the tide. We will see this unfold throughout the entirety of the trilogy.
Let’s go back to when Gandalf is recounting Bilbo’s finding of the Ring to Frodo:
“It was the strangest event in the whole history of the Ring so far: Bilbo’s arrival just at that time, and putting his hand on it, blindly, in the dark.
[…]
“Behind that there was something else at work, beyond any design of the Ring-maker. I can put it no plainer than by saying that Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, and not by its maker. In which case you also were meant to have it. And that may be an encouraging thought.”
It’s clear throughout the series that opposing forces of fate are at work, influencing events, yet though destiny may have led the Ring into Bilbo’s hand, it is the friendships formed—namely, the bond between Frodo and Sam— that ultimately allow the quest to succeed.
In other words, while fate plays a role in setting the stage, individual choices are what carry the power of goodness and hope to victory.
Which brings me to one of my all-time favourite quotes:
“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.
“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
We live in tumultuous times. I lament often over how much I feel I don’t belong to this era and long for a simpler time.
But I had no choice over when, where, to whom I was born to, or the things that happened to me as I grew up. I did not choose my environment, experiences, or the values imposed on me.
In my life, I have seen much of the cruelty of the world and tasted from the cup of bitterness. I drenched myself in its dregs; doing so only left me distrustful and closed off, protected but alone.
Grace or serendipity placed people in my path. They had been there all along, but I chose not to open my heart to them until my life completely crumbled around me and I either had to stretch my hand out for help, or drown:
There are truths I once knew, but had forgotten. Well, not forgotten, but drowned perhaps, by louder voices clamoring in my head. Yet still they came, other voices, speaking of what is certain, what is sure. They break through the haze sometimes, and I remember I am not abandoned - have never been and never will be.
They are a cloud of love that envelops me, cloaks me in a warmth that does not burn and will not fade. And they, to me, are each a tendril of deep roots that anchor me to reality and will not let the tempests sweep me from the earth. They say that to have one true friend is to be truly blessed. Yet I have one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and words fail me for the miracle of such a thing.
To those whom I speak, if they don't yet know what they are to me, then here is my chance to tell them, because there is a saying that family is not always blood, and for us that has ever been true. So now I thank them for walking with me through every peak and every valley, for the laughter they share with me, for the strength they lend me, for the truth they speak into my heart, no matter how many times I may need to hear it, for the prayers that sustain me.
Because of them, the world is not so very hopeless, and because of them, I can know a little of the love of God.
Because I forget often that it's okay to not always be strong, and I don't know how to ask, but they create for me safe spaces to be known and not afraid.
Because they see me, in parts but true parts, and they have stayed, and I know they will stay for the days to come.
This day I chased the rising of the sun and for once did not resent it, but felt it as a dawning that promised, not smoother seas, but at least seas that I need not navigate alone, and that perhaps is enough. For in the past years when I entered a Dark Night of the Soul, the likes of which I have not known for an age, they are the constellation of stars that reminds me again and yet again of days I have forgotten, of days to come in which darkness will not endure, and who are with me, and who love me always, always, always.
When Frodo, Sam, and Pippin run into the Elves traveling to the Grey Havens, one of the Elves, Gildor, says this:
“Our paths cross theirs seldom, by chance or purpose. In this meeting there may be more than chance […]”
By chance or purpose, you are here, reading these words. We have gathered from all corners of the world, connecting somehow despite our differences, and finding a shared love of this book and this universe, and hopefully something more.
Like the unlikely heroes of Middle-earth, we are here, together, bound by friendship and common purpose. We exist in this same space and in this time, fighting for a better world.
Gildor says, “Courage is found in unlikely places.” As we continue reading, I hope we find ours alongside these characters.
For next week, read the rest of Book 1, up to “Many Meetings.”
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While The Lord of the Rings is an epic fantasy, depicting a life-threatening, world-altering quest, the story within Tolkien’s three books is but one small piece of a much larger history.
While The Lord of the Rings is an epic fantasy, depicting a life-threatening, world-altering quest, the story within Tolkien’s three books is but one small piece of a much larger history. It bridges the old world and the new, giving us a modern myth of the decline of magic—marked by the departure of the Elves, destruction of the Ring (and with it, that of other ruling Rings)—and a believable tale of how our current world may have come to be.
In our reading this week, we see evidence of this history etched into the very landscape itself. It’s no accident that our characters voice songs and stories of a distant past, even as they are making a desperate escape to Rivendell. In the coldness of the wild, “[Aragorn] began to tell them tales to keep their minds from fear. He knew many histories and legends of long ago, of Elves and Men and the good and evil deeds of the Elder Days.” They meet Tom Bombadil and also learn about the Barrow-wights, Gil-galad and the Last Alliance that fought against Mordor, the love story of Beren and Lúthien—all while they travel across a land shaped by ancient history.
John Halbrooks wrote an illuminating and detailed article on this theme.
As they journey on, our characters’ remembrance of the past becomes a well of comfort for them. This has been true during storms in my own life also. I wrote once,
“I think I love history so much because it helps me feel less alone. I can look at all those people who came before me, who have experienced lives just as real to them as mine is to me. Tragedy and loss used to be so accepted and normal it was woven into the fabric of being. It comforts me to know I am not the only mother who has lost children, that my life is hardly the worst to have been lived.” —Fractured Perspectives on Loss
Barrow-wights capture the hobbits in the Old Forest and there seems no hope of escape, “But though [Frodo’s] fear was so great that it seemed to be a part of the very darkness that was round him, he found himself as he lay thinking about Bilbo Baggins and his stories, of their jogging along together in the lanes of the Shire and talking about roads and adventures.”
Later, when Aragorn and the hobbits are fleeing the Black Riders to Rivendell, they come across the very same trolls Bilbo did in The Hobbit. Trembling with fear at first, they remember from just a recent past, that trolls turn to stone in the daylight.
“Well!” [Frodo] said. “We are forgetting our family history!” […] They all laughed. Frodo felt his spirits reviving: the reminder of Bilbo’s first successful adventure was heartening (emphasis mine).
The hobbits know little of the broader history of Middle-earth; none of them have even stepped outside their small world of the Shire, yet just their own family lore is enough to give them courage.
Not only do personal family stories provide the hobbits with encouragement, in an indirect way, the larger history does also.
A phrase stood out to me as I read the part when Aragorn tells the hobbits about Beren and Lúthien. He says, “In those days the Great Enemy, of whom Sauron of Mordor was but a servant, dwelt in Angband in the North, and the Elves of the West coming back to Middle-earth made war upon him […] (emphasis mine).”
This Great Enemy is Melkor, later known as Morgoth. He was one of the Valar, who are (in a grossly simplified explanation) celestial beings who had helped shape the making of the world during its creation. He rebelled against the Creator, Eru, and became the first Dark Lord. Eru later created lesser beings called Maiar, as subordinates to the Valar.
Sauron is a Maiar, which is to say, he is less powerful than Morgoth.
And yet, we know from The Silmarillion that Morgoth was eventually defeated. None of the characters know how their story will end yet, but they can draw strength from this. When Aragorn tells the hobbits this story and makes what seems to be a passing statement, Tolkien draws our attention back to the fact that this piece in his legend is merely: one small piece.
The events of The Lord of the Rings are, indeed, dire. When Pippin is with Gandalf later, in The Return of the King, Gandalf says, “There never was much hope. Just a fool's hope, as I have been told.”
Many of us feel like we are alone with our experiences. Through books and history, we often and quickly find we are not. I think again of Gandalf teaching Frodo the history of Ring in chapter 2, “The Shadow of the Past,” when he lays out the threads that have led the Ring to Frodo. He tells Frodo that “that may be an encouraging thought.”
It reminds me of what we often forget in the midst of troubling times: that previous generations have each had their troubles—some worse than ours—they may look different through the ages, yet our human struggles have continued for eons, and so has the human spirit.
We may or may not have a modern-day Sauron trying to destroy and subdue the world to their will, but we do face evil. None can deny we live in a time of great upheaval, fear, and doubt. Many times, it seems as though the Shadow has never been deeper.
However, like Frodo, his companions, and Aragorn, may we look to those who have fought against Shadows even greater than our own. Each of their battles has paved a way to make ours a little easier.
Our time in the world is a dot on the tapestry. It doesn’t make our sorrows and joys lesser than those that came before; rather, it gives us hope.
For next week, read Book 2, chapters 1-4, up to “The Bridge of Khazad-Dûm.”
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From the (seemingly) lowly to the wise and powerful, for years—generations, even—people have been fighting with all the means they have—unseen, unthanked. Everyone believes themselves to have been alone in their struggles. Only in this moment do they realise they never have been.
“It would comfort us to know that others fought also with all the means that they have.”
“Then be comforted,” said Elrond, “For there are other powers and realms that you know not, and they are hidden from you. […]”
“Still it might be well for all,” said Glóin the Dwarf, “if all these strengths were joined, and the powers of each were used in league.”
This passage is just one of many that expresses similar principles of every person doing what they can to push back against evil forces. It is a recurring theme in The Lord of the Rings—one of the most significant.
Frodo and his companions have made it to Rivendell, where they meet Elrond, a powerful elf lord. They also meet others who have gathered from all parts of Middle-earth, seeking Elrond’s advice. It turns out Bilbo has been having a lovely, relaxing time there after leaving Frodo behind to inherit his dangers, and the hobbits are reunited.
Elrond calls a meeting, where all the disparate pieces finally come together, and the elves, men, dwarves, and hobbits discuss what to do about Sauron and the Ring:
“What shall we do with the Ring, the least of rings, the trifle that Sauron fancies? That is the doom that we must deem.
“That is the purpose for which you are called hither. Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are met here, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world” (emphasis mine).
We come again to the theme of fate; somehow all these different people of different races arrive at Rivendell at the same time. They each come with a few pieces of the puzzle. They are all part of a long history—one Elrond recounts in detail for the first time.
The dwarf, Glóin, had been part of Bilbo’s previous adventures detailed in The Hobbit; he comes with his son, Gimli. Legolas the elf is the son of Thranduil, the elven king who had imprisoned Glóin and the other dwarves in The Hobbit. Once again, we see the continuation of a story.
Glóin is not the only one to wonder if they are alone in their fight against the Shadow. But as we read on, we learn more about Aragorn and Rangers, who silently guard and protect lands without any expectation of thanks. We learn about Boromir and Gondor’s constant vigil against Mordor.
The significance of this mustn’t be overlooked. Boromir is the elder son of Denethor, the steward of Gondor. He has been brought up to rule as the next steward, and he has been a strong military leader, protecting his people. Meanwhile, Aragorn is the long lost heir of Isildur, the last legitimate king of Gondor. He has lived his life in the shadow of insignificance, scorned even by the silly townspeople he silently protects.
From the (seemingly) lowly to the wise and powerful, for years—generations, even—people have been fighting with all the means they have—unseen, unthanked.
Everyone believes themselves to have been alone in their struggles. Only in this moment do they realise they never have been.
The Council of Elrond ends with Frodo volunteering to take the Ring into Mordor. The Fellowship of the Ring is formed to accompany him on his journey. Sam, of course, is the first to sign up, joined later by Gandalf, Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas the Elf, Gimli the Dwarf, and finally, Merry and Pippin, whose addition I referenced in my first post.
It’s no accident that the fellowship is made up of all different races of Middle-earth, nor that two pairs are characters with long-standing enmity (Boromir and Aragorn’s rivalry, and Legolas and Gimli). It reminds me of the famous social psychology study, the Robbers Cave Experiment. This study found that when two groups were forced to work together toward a common goal diminished inter-group conflicts and prejudices.
The differences between members of the fellowship fade away in light of their common purpose: to bring an end to Sauron, who threatens them all.
One of the reasons I love Lord of the Rings so much, and why I return to it time and time again, is because of it offers a buoy against seemingly inevitable hopelessness. As the free people of Middle-earth discuss how to solve the problem of the Ring in the Council of Elrond, their suggestions come to nothing. In the end, the only solution is to take the Ring into the very heart of their enemy’s land, and throw it into the mountain of fire. And yet, it is a desperate quest, one with only a “fool’s hope” of success.
Even so, Gandalf says, “Despair, or folly? It is not despair, for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not.”
I want to linger here for a moment, because it is an essential point.
This is not the first time Gandalf has expressed similar sentiments. Earlier in the book, he said of Bilbo’s mercy toward Gollum, “Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.”
Wisdom is knowing its own limits; no one can see all threads or how they will affect the future.
From these words, we can draw some hope. We live in troubled times, yes. The Shadow is all too pressing, too powerful, too large—not just the darkness in the world, but also our own personal Shadows.
I want to believe there is more than the darkness that threatens to consume us. That even though at times, it can feel like you are the only one who cares, the only who is fighting for the good in this world, you can believe there are others in their own corners, invisible and unacknowledged, who are fighting, too.
Finally, let’s talk a bit about Frodo’s decision to take on the responsibility of the Ring. Because yes, the crisis is a collective one, but the choices are also very individual.
Frodo has no obligation to take the Ring all the way to Mordor. He, and others who care for him, wishes he could rest with Bilbo in the shelter of Rivendell. And yet, he has also been pierced by the darkness himself, and seen through the veil, so to speak. So, though he waits in vain for someone else to speak up, though he does not even know the way to Mordor, he takes the Ring of his own free will.
Like Frodo, the responsibility to fight for a better world rests on each of us. Like him, we don’t go it alone, but we also cannot linger behind and wait for others to act.
However small our voices, however powerless we may feel, this is our world. If we do not find a way, no one will.
For next week, read to the end of The Fellowship of the Ring.
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So much fear and anger exists between people, and how easily we can see each other as enemies or “others.” I’m not so naive as to think that just listening and talking will solve all problems, but it is a starting point—one more powerful than we might think.
The fellowship has entered Lothlórien after losing Gandalf in the mines of Moria, where they gain some reprieve from their anguish. It is a heavy loss—the first of many to come. The intertwining of grief and love will continue to form the heartbeat of the series. In our reading this week, we see it unfold in several aspects:
During Frodo’s conversation with Galadriel, she tells him whether he succeeds or fails, the result bodes ill for the elves. If he fails, Sauron will be able to see the hidden elven rings; if he succeeds, all the rings’ power is broken, include that of the elves’, which is bound to Sauron’s One Ring. Though the three elven rings have been used to preserve beauty and goodness, the defeat of evil will also diminish all such magic. The world as they know it will fade away.
Gimli the dwarf also undergoes a significant change. As has been hinted at throughout the narrative, dwarves and elves have a longstanding enmity with each other. Yet when he meets Galadriel, she does not shun him; she speaks of his ancestral homes with reverence and in his own language. She validates his desire to see Moria in spite of the dangers.
And the dwarf, hearing the names given in his own ancient tongue, looked up and met her eyes; and it seemed to him that he looked suddenly into the heart of an enemy and saw there love and understanding. Wonder came into his face, and then he smiled in answer.
How incredible is this?
So much fear and anger exists between people, and how easily we can see each other as enemies or “others.” I’m not so naive as to think that just listening and talking will solve all problems, but it is a starting point—one more powerful than we might think. I think of Daryl Davis, a black man who convinced 200 KKK members to forsake their hateful ideologies by befriending them.
Galadriel’s effect on Gimli lasted his entire life. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Gimli and Legolas were able to form such an intimate bond just after this encounter.
But after being touched so deeply, Gimli leaves behind his newfound love and continues on the quest with his companions. He laments, “Torment in the dark was the danger that I feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would not have come, had I known the danger of light and joy. […]”
Legolas responds, “[…] For such is the way of it: to find and lose, as it seems to those whose boat is on the running stream. But I count you blessed, Gimli son of Glóin: for your loss you suffer of your own free will, and you might have chosen otherwise.”
This theme calls to mind the well-known quote by C.S. Lewis from The Four Loves: “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”
When I first connected with the boy who would become my son, Renley, I knew he would have the potential to break my heart. Ren had severe physical and mental health issues, long left untreated.
From the beginning, I was informed that perhaps he’d have ten years—if he took meticulous care of his health.
Of course, as those who have been reading for a while know, Ren’s health plummeted, and he died much earlier than anyone expected.
However, ten years or one year—my husband and I always knew we would likely outlive our son. We chose to adopt him anyway.
“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.”
Haldir’s words here resonate with me, as do Legolas’s to Gimli later. Grief is tightly intertwined with love. The longer we live, the more we will experience it.
As I shared in the first essay, I was once the person whose heart was locked in a casket, as C.S. Lewis described. It did not serve me well. Nowadays, I am much “squishier,” as one of my close friends would say. But I am also fuller, happier.
The Fellowship of the Ring ends with the corrupting influence of the Ring overtaking Boromir at last, and the splintering of the fellowship. This group, held together by such a noble purpose, falls apart even after all they undergo together. The next two books follow separate storylines as a result.
Most strikingly, Frodo and Sam become separated from Merry and Pippin. Our core group of hobbits is split, and until the very end, neither has any idea if the other is alive or dead. Frodo and Sam continue on with dwindling hope.
In spite of separation, the remaining members of the fellowship think of each other constantly. They continue to hold each other in their hearts, even as they play their individual parts in pushing back against darkness.
How beautiful is the unity of souls across distance and time?
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Through these chapters, Tolkien illustrates that one of the highest goods—a light by which to choose in dark times—is caring for those who seem weakest among us, carrying them along in their journey.
“How shall a man judge what to do in such times?”
“As he has ever judged,” said Aragorn. “Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear.”
I like looking for opposites in Tolkien.
When we begin this section, the story is fractured because the fellowship has fallen apart. Hitherto, we have walked with Frodo together with his growing group of companions, but now the narrative moves from thread to thread, more like a modern YA novel that changes point of view by the chapter. The second member of the nine has been lost to death, the ringbearer and his servant have silently struck out on their own, the two faithful hobbit friends have been captured by orcs, and the remaining triad of elf, man, and dwarf are left to choose which path they will follow. Their choice means everything: they follow the friends who, in all the story, seem to bear the least value.
When Eomer, nephew to the king of Rohan and leader of an awe-inspiring cavalry (There’s no shortage of new characters in these five chapters) questions Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli’s purpose in crossing his land, Aragorn frames his response surprisingly: “I am in great need.” Why? Not because the quest to destroy the one ring has moved beyond his grasp. Not because he must arrive at Gondor soon to assert his power. “We are pursuing an orc-host,” he explains, “that carried off our friends.” Gimli is more to the point about the two captured hobbits: “...these were very dear to us.”
The characters we follow in the first two chapters of Book Two are, arguably, the strongest members of the fellowship left alive. They fit the mold of Beowulf and other medieval heroes who perform great deeds in the eyes of others, covering leagues in pursuit of Merry and Pippin with the stamina of legend. In contrast, the second two chapters shift to the plight of the seemingly weakest members. We are cast deep into Pippin’s point of view as he is tossed on the ground, crushed against hairy orc necks, and hovered over by fanged goblin faces. At one point, he acknowledges his smallness in the big scheme of the story, lamenting,
“What good have I been? Just a nuisance: a passenger, a piece of luggage….I hope Strider or someone will come and claim us! But ought I to hope for it? Won’t that throw out all the plans?”
Surprisingly, Aragorn says the same of himself around the same time, admitting that “with [Frodo] lies the true Quest. Ours is but a small matter in the great deeds of this time.” What is that small matter? The rescue of friends. Because it is friendship that makes Merry and Pippin treasures to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, even though they are not the ringbearers. And friends go after friends, and they carry them along.
The idea of carrying one another isn’t mine. Sociologist Robert Coles borrows the phrase “handing one another along” from a Walker Percy novel, saying that “amidst life's potential for loneliness or despair, we are ultimately, and ideally, deeply connected to one another, always handing one another along in our journeys.”
In our story—more opposites—there is the literal carrying to which Merry and Pippin are subjected–the bruising, tossing, clutching, whipping manner in which the orcs carry the hobbits across the hills and plains. At one point, just before escape, Grishnak “tuck[s] them one under each armpit, and crush[es] them fiercely to his sides.” But less than a day later, the hobbits find themselves held “gently but firmly” by the ent Treebeard, “one in the crook of each arm,” as he carries them through the forest. This time, “they felt, oddly enough, safe and comfortable.”
Then there is figurative carrying: the second choice of Boromir. Yes, he sought to take the ring from Frodo in the last section we read, setting terrible events in motion. And yet, when Merry and Pippin are in danger, he is full-hearted in his decision to defend them. I look at Boromir in his final moments and see not just the ways we can fail each other, but also the way, afterward, we can turn and choose love and friendship again.
“How shall a man judge what to do in such times?” Eomer asks Aragorn.
Aragorn answers, “As he has ever judged... Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear.” Through these chapters, Tolkien illustrates that one of the highest goods—a light by which to choose in dark times—is caring for those who seem weakest among us, carrying them along in their journey. From Aragorn’s pursuit across the plains to Boromir’s sacrificial defense, we see that true heroism often lies in valuing and supporting those who might appear least significant. While we may not always succeed in this, as Boromir’s earlier failure shows, the choice to act with compassion and loyalty is always before us. In this way, Tolkien’s tale continues to offer profound guidance on how to navigate our own complex world, reminding us of the power of friendship and the unexpected strength found in caring for others.
Thank you for sharing your thought-provoking insights, Rebecca. If you enjoyed this, make sure to read more of Rebecca’s writing at Out for Stars.
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Whether through magical devices or human speech, the challenge of conveying and receiving truth remains central to these chapters. This illustrates the difficulties of communication, not between different languages, but between what comes out and what is received.
Wow, a lot happens in these chapters. We meet Théoden, the king of Rohan, and his adviser, Wormtongue. There’s a huge battle at Helm’s Deep. Saruman is defeated by Treebeard and the Orcs. Wormtongue also happens to be a spy for Saruman, and he has been whispering little lies into Théoden’s ears for some time.
I want to draw your attention to the theme of communication and misunderstandings. We see this theme emerge through Wormtongue, Saruman, and Pippin’s brush with the palantír.
As both Théoden’s adviser and Saruman’s spy, Wormtongue mirrors his true master in using sweet words to weaken Théoden’s resolve. When we meet the king, he is powerless and perceives himself as such. Wormtongue has convinced him that there is nothing to be done in the face of impending doom—that he is too old, too infirm to lift a hand to save his own country. By rendering Théoden useless, Wormtongue steals power to wear away Rohan’s defenses.
A few weeks ago, I touched on the concept of drawing comfort from history. However, an extreme reaction would be to grow complacent in the face of turmoil. We might think, “It will all work out in the end, like it always has.” Or, even worse: “Nothing I do matters anyway.”
Éomer’s actions provide a stark contrast when he rebels against Wormtongue’s orders and leads an orc raid, resulting in the rescue of Merry and Pippin.
When Théoden comes back to himself with the help of Gandalf, he observes, “Faithful heart may have froward tongue.”
“Say also,” said Gandalf, “that to crooked eyes truth may wear a wry face.”
This line is especially applicable to Saruman, whom our heroes finally confront after the battle. Of Saruman’s voice, Tolkien writes:
Suddenly another voice spoke, low and melodious, its very sound an enchantment. Those who listened unwarily to that voice could seldom report the words that they heard; and if they did, they wondered, for little power remained in them. Mostly they remembered only that it was a delight to hear the voice speaking, all that it said seemed wise and reasonable. When others spoke they seemed harsh and uncouth by contrast; and if they gainsaid the voice, anger was kindled in the hearts of those under the spell.
Let’s draw these two passages together and consider this: on the one side, truth sounds offensive to ears unwilling to receive it, regardless of good intentions. Éomer has his uncle and his kingdom’s good in mind, but under the influence of Wormtongue telling him of Éomer’s treachery and rebellion (ironic), Théoden views Éomer as a traitor and locks him up.
Meanwhile, Saruman was able to get away with his duplicity for so long, even under Gandalf’s nose, because he played upon existing fears and used his status of “expert” to keep others from examining his words too closely.
In both cases, Saruman and Wormtongue cocooned their listeners in an illusion of safety, when in reality, the world was already crumbling around them. This kept those under their control complacent and quiet, allowing evil to continue while they did nothing.
For now, let’s consider how the palantír shows viewers only what its wielder wishes them to see—incomplete truths.
Sauron has been using this tool to manipulate others for years by the time the palantír is introduced in the story: Saruman, and as we will later learn, Denethor. While the seeing stone shows the truth, Sauron is powerful enough to reveal only partial truths. And as Galadriel told Frodo regarding her magic mirror in the previous book, such tools are poor advisers of action.
Whether through magical devices or human speech, the challenge of conveying and receiving truth remains central to these chapters. This illustrates the difficulties of communication, not between different languages, but between what comes out and what is received.
It’s also worth noting the parallels between the palantír and social media, and media in general. All too often, we are tempted to accept things at face value and think we are given full stories. In reality, we are given only snapshots; at best, a single perspective. Almost nothing is as it seems.
Then, what are we to do? I want to bring back the quote Rebecca used in last week’s essay:
“How shall a man judge what to do in such times?
“As he has ever judged,” said Aragorn. “Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear.”
Discernment and wisdom come into play once again. Théoden failed when he chose to listen to Wormtongue instead of Éomer. Wormtongue kept him safe and cozy in his chair. He could pretend he was powerless and that circumstances were hopeless. Perhaps this is what he wanted to hear because it was easier to think this way.
Éomer, however, spoke harsh words Théoden did not want, so his mind twisted them.
Tolkien brings this all home when Gandalf and Aragorn discuss the next course of action.
“When have I been hasty or unwary, who have waited and prepared for so many long years?” said Aragorn.
“Never yet. Do not then stumble at the end of the road,” answered Gandalf.
In his hastiness, Sauron makes a grave error based on what he sees in the palantír. We will watch the consequences of this error unfold in The Return of the King. This reinforces what we’ve seen throughout these chapters: that wisdom comes from stepping back to examine thoughts, words, and actions closely.
This week is a tense one for those of us watching the U.S. election. While I don't want to comment on specific politics, these chapters offer valuable insights about misinformation and discernment that feel especially pertinent to our modern information landscape.
We live in an age where information spreads like wildfire. Anyone with access to the Internet can share a thought and disguise it as fact without anything else supporting it. Like the palantír showing partial truths, or Saruman's voice weaving enchantment with words, modern communication technologies can both reveal and distort reality.
It’s more important than ever to check sources, apply critical thinking, and most especially: not get swept up in emotional mob mentality. While we cannot know everything about everything, we can know enough to make informed decisions. This does, however, require more effort than skimming headlines and passively absorbing soundbites.
In other words, we would do well to follow Treebeard’s advice: “Do not let us be hasty.”
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And yet, in The Lord of the Rings, Sam and Faramir end up having tremendous influence over the outcome of the story. Not because they are powerful, but because of those very attributes the world deemed unworthy.
“War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”
Ah Faramir, best loved character of the whole book, rivaled only by Sam. Butchered by Peter Jackson in one of the worst character assassinations I’ve ever seen on screen.
But we won’t talk about that now.
Instead, let’s draw some parallels between Sam and Faramir while we’re looking at these two characters—beloved for good reason.
Like Faramir, Sam has not set out on this quest for love of war or glory; rather, for the love of his master, Frodo. In these same chapters, Sam reflects on war when he and Frodo come face to face with it for the first time.
It was Sam’s first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much. He was glad that he could not see the dead face. He wondered what the man’s name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace …
I can’t help but suspect that Sam may be projecting onto this dead man who had fallen before him. It also reveals something of Sam’s heart—his ability to empathise, even with enemies. He does not see a faceless evil here; he sees a human being. This seems especially important to point out, as division continues to grow. It’s more essential than ever to find our common humanity, even amidst seemingly insurmountable differences.
In the film, Faramir is the one who voices these thoughts, but I think them both equally likely to share the sentiments.
There’s a common theme that shows up in Tolkien’s work: the lowly are raised high, while the great are brought low. As this also runs throughout the Bible in the way God treats those overlooked by the powerful, I’m sure Tolkien’s faith informed the way he wrote.
Sam is a gardener, as we’ve established previously. He is the least impressive of even the hobbits—a race that is already small and overlooked by the wise and powerful.
Faramir is a second son, despised by his father, Denethor. Boromir was the loved one, the one who regularly brought glory to his kingdom.
And yet, in The Lord of the Rings, Sam and Faramir end up having tremendous influence over the outcome of the story. Not because they are powerful, but because of those very attributes the world deemed unworthy.
Most telling is the fact that the Ring doesn’t hold the same temptation over either of them as it does others. Think of this: Sam has been traveling with Frodo from the very beginning of his journey, yet has not expressed even the slightest desire to possess it.
By contrast, Gollum has not ceased lusting after the Ring since even before he became the hobbits’ guide. Boromir also saw the Ring for only a moment during the Council of Elrond, and it haunted him until the bitter end.
Meanwhile Faramir, his brother, keeps his word that he would not take the Ring, “Even if I were such a man as to desire this thing … But I am not such a man.”
Why are Sam and Faramir so easily able to resist the Ring’s lure?
While I’m sure there are many layers to this, I keep going back to Faramir’s famous quote: “I love only that which (swords) defend.” To him and Sam, their chief aim is not to empower themselves, but to protect those whom they love. This act of protection is worth more than their own power or glory. They love individual people, yes, but also their homes, and even the future generations.
Remember that Bilbo began his possession of the Ring with an act of mercy by sparing Gollum’s life in The Hobbit. This strength of character also gave him a protection against its corrupting influence. It allowed him the fortitude to relinquish the Ring of his own will (with help from Gandalf).
In previous essays, I’ve written about the importance of knowing our own history. These chapters illustrate something of equal significance: taking the future into account.
Faramir tells the hobbits of the decline of Gondor, when “Kings made tombs more splendid than houses of the living, and counted old names in the rolls of their descent dearer than the names of sons.”
It calls to mind the conversation during the Council of Elrond, when Gandalf entreated them to think of a solution that would take into account the generations to come, not just their own.
In Tolkien’s world, it is considered good and wise to care for the future, even beyond their own lifetimes. This is not seen as optional; it is a responsibility.
The theme of generational responsibility appears to me a strong factor bolstering characters against the Ring’s power. It is like delayed gratification taken to an extreme. Boromir, on the other hand, wanted to use the Ring to save Gondor—a noble cause, but he was unable to take the long-term consequences into account—unlike his brother, Faramir.
Gollum, of course, is an even more extreme example. He simply wants the Ring for himself, to possess and hide it in the most selfish way—the complete antithesis of what our heroes strive for. Gollum has no thought beyond his own self-preservation.
Within these themes is the grander theme we’ve been exploring: that of existing in a much larger story.
Just as the past influences our present, so our actions of today influence the future generations. This is not something we should take lightly. It is also not just something for people who have children. Acknowledging our smallness in the great tapestry of our world is counter-cultural in this time of puffing ourselves up. It requires us to think a lot more of people other than ourselves.
We are seeing a huge decline in society as individualism is raised up as the holy grail. We want our boundaries. We want to live happily at any cost, even that of others.
To do so is to be short-sighted.
All of us will have times when we are like Frodo and need to be carried by a Sam. Other times, we will be able to be a Sam for someone else. This is how community survives. This is how society survives.
While Sam’s profound speech is not in our reading this week, I still want to conclude with it:
“…and the Silmaril went on and came to Eärendil. And why, sir, I never thought of that before! We’ve got—you’ve got some of the light of it in the starglass that the Lady gave you! Why, to think of it, we’re in the same tale still! It’s going on. Don’t the great tales never end?”
“No, they never end as tales,” said Frodo. “But the people in them come, and go when their part’s ended. Our part will end later—or sooner.”
Our choices and actions do not exist in a vacuum. While this truth should not paralyse us from doing anything, it should remind us to be more mindful.
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Sam’s decisions in these five chapters cement both his character and his strength, both of which draw on his strongest attribute (and why I—and I suspect so many of us—adore him so much). His heart.
The great doors slammed to. Boom. The bars of iron fell into place inside. Clang. The gate was shut. Sam hurled himself against the bolted brazen plates and fell senseless to the ground. He was out in the darkness. Frodo was alive but taken by the enemy.
So ends The Two Towers, and the hardest choices Master Samwise must face in his adventure. Sam’s decisions in these five chapters cement both his character and his strength, both of which draw on his strongest attribute (and why I—and I suspect so many of us—adore him so much).
His heart.
Sam’s very first choice is leaving the Shire. Perhaps Gandalf assigned him to it, but Sam doesn’t agree to things his heart isn’t in to begin with. Agreeing to accompany Frodo is easy. Sam himself tells you he grew up on Mr. Bilbo’s tales, tales of far-off lands and Elves and adventures—any adventure will sound grand to one who’s never ventured beyond their home, and even an unnamed enemy and a fiery mountain don’t sound so scary in theory. Our humble Samwise had little idea what he was getting himself into; he likely thought he’d see Elves, dispose of the Ring, and get himself back home before Afteryule, or perhaps Solmath if he was feeling pessimistic (which would be quite unlike him). He even reflects on it, in his words to Frodo while sitting outside Shelob’s lair (the words that became his famous speech in the films):
‘And we shouldn’t be here at all, if we’d known more about it before we started.’
After leaving the Shire, the choice to then sneak into the Council of Elrond, and therefore (unwittingly) offer himself as Frodo’s companion on the journey to Mordor, comes as no surprise. Though the journey to Rivendell is far from a stroll in the Shire, there’s little chance Sam will abandon Frodo after what he’s witnessed. Sam has seen his beloved friend hurt by Black Riders, has almost lost him to their poison—knowing Sam, and knowing what Frodo means to him, there’s no way he’ll leave. It bears remembering that Tolkien’s own friendships were battle-tested; standing beside someone through a stabbing and near-death changes one’s understanding of loyalty.
At the end of The Fellowship of the Ring, Sam faces another important decision: to follow Frodo or stay with the relative safety provided by the Fellowship (and four proficient fighters, at the time he leaves). But we know Sam. Tolkien has shown us his character—we already know his decision. Sam sticks with Frodo, no matter what. Again, we could say Gandalf charged him with such a task, but Sam doesn’t take orders he doesn’t care for. And I suspect Gandalf would not have charged Sam with such if he didn’t already know he’d carry through with all his heart. Say what you will about Gandalf’s magic (and that’s an argument for another time), but he’s a good judge of character.
By the time our hobbits meet Faramir and company at the Forbidden Pool, Sam has seen his share of evil. Barrow-wights, Black Riders, Morgul blades, orcs—and the seductive power of the Ring. He’s seen its influence on Boromir, on Gollum, and on his beloved Frodo. Sam understands, as well as he can at this point in the journey, that the seemingly innocuous object Frodo carries is capable of creating more trouble than thieves in Farmer Maggot’s crops. Sam distrusts the Ring and everything to do with it, but he’ll stand beside Frodo because that’s what he does. It doesn’t mean he has to like it. When Faramir shares Sam’s suspicion of Gollum, it must come as such a relief to Sam, who distrusts Sméagol from the get-go (and rightfully so). Just imagine, for a moment, hearing Faramir’s misgivings about Cirith Ungol after enduring what Sam has. He already distrusts Gollum, and now Frodo insists—even after Faramir’s warning—that it’s the only way to pursue their task.
But Sam stays with Frodo. And so he goes on. Could Faramir have delivered him to safety had he asked? Likely. But we know Sam would never have asked.
On the stairs of Cirith Ungol, Sam once again warns Frodo of his suspicions.
‘I don’t make no mistake: I don’t doubt he’d hand me over to Orcs as gladly as kiss his hand. But I was forgetting—his Precious. No, I suppose the whole time it’s been The Precious for poor Sméagol. That’s the one idea in all his little schemes, if he has any. But how bringing us up here will help him in that is more than I can guess.’
Sam, though perhaps lacking Gandalf and Frodo’s nuanced understanding of Gollum, nevertheless sees to the heart of the situation: Gollum is not to be trusted. Frodo has his reasons for keeping him around, and we do pity the poor creature, but Sam’s honest way of thinking sees only the danger toward Mr. Frodo. Would the fight in the tunnels have turned out differently if Sam trusted Gollum as Frodo does? It’s Sam’s suspicions that keep him on his toes. It’s Sam who immediately names a trap when Gollum vanishes, and Sam who recalls the star-glass.
In the deep, dark tunnels of Cirith Ungol, Gollum’s plan creeps from the shadows. Sam has seen barrow-wights, Black Riders, and orcs, but even those resemble men (or Elves) in some form, though twisted versions. Imagine his terror, this humble little hobbit who had never ventured from the Shire, at seeing Shelob. Trapped in her dark tunnels with naught but the light of the star-glass to guide them, Frodo and Sam must face down a foe with only one thought in her wicked head: her next meal. There’s no reasoning with Shelob, she’s no orc or Uruk-hai bound to orders from a higher-up. Sam fights bravely, as we’ve come to expect of this gentle gardener of the Shire, but even Sam’s best can’t defeat Shelob.
Not, at least, until she’s taken his dear Frodo while Sam is distracted. The injustice of finally fighting off the sneak only to find Frodo bound by the great beast.
Sam did not wait to wonder what was to be done, or whether he was brave, or loyal, or filled with rage. He sprang forward with a yell, and seized his master’s sword in his left hand. Then he charged. No onslaught more fierce was ever seen in the savage world of beasts, where some desperate small creature armed with little teeth, alone, will spring upon a tower of horn and hide that stands above its fallen mate.
Sam does not wait to reason. He reacts. His heart tells him to protect his friend, and he does.
And what a fight.
Deep, deep [Sting] pricked, as Sam was crushed slowly to the ground.
No such anguish had Shelob ever known, or dreamed of knowing, in all her long world of wickedness. Not the doughtiest soldier of old Gondor, nor the most savage Orc entrapped, had ever thus endured her, or set blade to her beloved flesh.
Sam, in his love for Frodo, achieves what no one else has in all Shelob’s long years. For no one has been driven by such love. The great spider has met her match, and Sam and the star-glass force her back to the shadows—only to find Frodo dead, or so Sam thinks.
And here, we see the Choices of Master Samwise. We see the weight of every decision up to this point, the weight of the Quest, we see Sam’s love for Frodo, for the Shire, his loyalty and his courage. Poor Sam, to think Frodo dead, but determined to see it through. The moments between Sam’s black despair and his decision to take the Ring are some of the most heart-wrenching and inspiring in the trilogy. Sam doubts himself, his ability to bear the burden, he’s sure he’ll go wrong, and yet, he knows he must go on.
He drew a deep breath. ‘Then take It, it is!’
Sam doesn’t bear the Ring long, and it’s the same orcs who steal Frodo as reveal quite the plot twist.
Sam reeled, clutching at the stone. He felt as if the whole dark world was turning upside down. So great was the shock that he almost swooned, but even as he fought to keep a hold on his senses, deep inside him he was aware of the comment: ‘You fool, he isn’t dead, and your heart knew it. Don’t trust your head, Samwise, it is not the best part of you. The trouble with you is that you never really had any hope. Now what is to be done?’
But I’d argue he had hope all along.
‘And that’s the end of all of us, of Lórien, and Rivendell, and the Shire and all. And there’s no time to lose, or it’ll be the end anyway.’
His heart wants to stay with Frodo, but it also knows there’s nothing for it. Sam first sets out because of his love for his friend (and to see Elves)—it’s his love for his friend that sees him take the Ring and carry on. Because to sit by Frodo’s side would be the doom of the Quest, and Sam won’t see that happen, not when Frodo has given so much to see it through.
Even breaking, Sam’s heart knows that sometimes, standing with Frodo means leaving him behind.
‘But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t.’
Sam’s heart won’t let him turn back. And in doing so, he saves the Quest.
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I’m also struck by the fact that once again, heroism in Tolkien’s story does not present the way it conventionally would in such stories, or in the way Éowyn understood heroism at the start of her journey. She learns that it does not have to take her skill with a sword to make her a strong woman.
[. . .] and behold! the Shadow has departed! I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer and love all things that grow and are not barren.
So says Éowyn after accomplishing one of the greatest feats in the War of the Ring: vanquishing the Lord of the Nazgûl. Just chapters before, she had made this epic speech to this foe that cowed even Gandalf and laughed in his face.
But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.
Cue the cheering. What a win for feminism and woman’s superiority!
But then, what happens?
She goes and gets married to a man (never mind that it’s to Faramir, arguably the best of them) and swears off battles, Taming of the Shrew-style.
It’s here that some feminist critics throw their hands up in disgust and relegate Tolkien back to the dark box of yet another elitist male author who failed to write a good character arc for a woman.
To have come to such a conclusion, however, would have meant missing who Éowyn is altogether. She is one of the most complex and misunderstood characters in the trilogy.
Let us set aside preconceived notions of womanhood for a moment and examine Éowyn’s character arc.
Éowyn dreams of glory but knows nothing of what it entails. She only knows she has lived trapped within the confines of duty to a king and uncle who will not rule, scrutinized and lusted after by a slimy and treacherous man, living under the shadow of her brother and men she sees riding off to renown and fame, while she is forever left behind to tend the house.
[. . .] but she, born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait upon an old man, whom she loved as a father, and watch him falling into a mean dishonored dotage; and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff he leaned on.
In Gandalf’s words describing her, we gain insight into what it must have been like to live trapped and helpless in a kingdom falling to ruin.
There is much to be pitied in Éowyn, and much to empathise with. She is a spirited woman who longs for more than what her sex can afford her. There is no honour in looking after her uncle, regardless of affection.
At the same time, Éowyn’s perspective is limited by her own predetermined ideas of what life should be like for a person of her bearing and lineage. She is repeatedly described as a girl not yet come to womanhood, which is to say, she is still immature. She sees her life as a cage; when Aragorn arrives like a conquering hero out of a legendary history book, she sees a ticket out of her chains, and falls in love, not with Aragorn himself, but with what he can offer her as an escape.
The turning point comes at Dunharrow, when Aragorn, on the way to the Paths of the Dead, reminds Éowyn of her charge, even as she entreats him to let her accompany him.
Here, the contrast in their perspectives only highlights where Éowyn’s focus is. She argues against him and quite tellingly, she cannot understand his decision to seek the Paths of the Dead, where he cannot hope to gain glory in the battle at Minas Tirith:
“Yet I do not bid you flee from peril, but to ride to battle where your sword may win renown and victory. I would not see a thing that is high and excellent cast away needlessly.”
He, on the other hand, reminds her of her responsibilities to her people and the trust Théoden placed in her to lead them to safety. The following is a long excerpt, but bear with me here; this is important.
“Your duty is with your people,” he answered.
“Too often have I heard of duty,” she cried. “But am I not of the House of Eorl, a shieldmaiden and not a dry-nurse? I have waited on faltering feet long enough. Since they falter no longer, it seems, may I not now spend my life as I will?”
“Few may do that with honour,” he answered. “But as for you, lady: did you not accept the charge to govern the people until their lord’s return? If you had not been chosen, then some marshal or captain would have been set in the same place, and he could not ride away from his charge, were he weary of it or no.”
Contrast Aragorn’s rebuke with how he too longs to go elsewhere than where his duty bids: to Rivendell where his heart dwells.
Leadership requires sacrifice.
Éowyn has yet to understand this. When she cannot win Aragorn’s love, she decides she would rather die in a glorious blaze and win a name for herself while she’s at it. She disguises herself and goes to battle.
She abandons her people.
We’ve now come full circle. The Witchking is defeated at Éowyn’s hand; she has won the renown she sought, and yet it is not enough because she didn’t get to die in battle and she still doesn’t have the love of Aragorn.
In the Houses of Healing, she convalesces along with Faramir, and to him she confides the pain of her heart in a way that is both tender and endearing. It’s one of the rare instances we witness Éowyn’s vulnerability as she tells him how her window doesn’t face eastward.
Éowyn sees in Faramir a man who is no less valiant than anyone in Rohan, yet doesn’t love war. As they heal in body and spirit, they grow to understand one another. Like Aragorn, Faramir is also moved to pity toward Éowyn, but he comes to love her for who she is. He recognises her courage and also her innocence in a way even her brother did not, and echoes back to her the words she has kept hidden in her own heart.
Faramir doesn’t talk down at her the way Aragorn and others did, however correct they may have been. He acknowledges her; he sees her.
Then the heart of Éowyn changed, or else at last she understood it.
In being seen, Éowyn is transformed.
I want to linger here for a moment.
Because I don’t think it’s an accident that Éowyn’s transformation comes immediately after Faramir’s mini-analysis of her character. When she realises that he understands and recognises her for who she is, she is no longer compelled to prove herself and her worth through fighting; she now possesses the freedom to be who she is, completely.
It’s too easy to see Éowyn as a fierce woman who settles down to domesticity for a man, but much more is at play here. Faramir’s famous line goes, “I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” He exudes this in his bearing, and Éowyn senses it.
Until this point, the sword is a mere means to an end for Éowyn; her deepening bond with Faramir shows her there is meaning to be found in life rather than death. We see a vital shift from literal death to life, both in Éowyn’s will to live and her motivation for living.
This, then, brings us back to my opening quote: “[. . .] and behold! the Shadow has departed! I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer and love all things that grow and are not barren.”
Rather than seeking war and death, Éowyn now chooses to cultivate life instead. Her journey of self-discovery led her through dark paths, a loss of meaning, and ultimately to a new sense of purpose.
A few things stand out to me as I bring this to a close:
Éowyn’s decision to nurture life with her hands ties well with Tolkien’s larger themes. We see this in the Hobbits, but most of all in the character of Sam, who, when imagining what he would do with the Ring, dreams of a giant garden.
I’m also struck by the fact that once again, heroism in Tolkien’s story does not present the way it conventionally would in such stories, or in the way Éowyn understood heroism at the start of her journey.
She learns that it does not have to take her skill with a sword to make her a strong woman.
Rather, true strength is found in sacrifice, understanding, and a deep respect for living things. After the devastation of war and a brush with death, Éowyn returns to life and devotes her efforts to restoring a fractured land. She learns what true heroism means: not in the pursuit of acclaim but in the less glamorous yet no less worthy pursuit of healing what is broken.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE: Back in 2004, I taught a graduate-level literature course called ‘Hobbits and Heroes’ over at DU, in their Professional Writing Masters program. It being 2004, the Peter Jackson movies had just come out, the Hobbit movies weren’t even a glimmer in anyone’s eye, and I had a whole 10 weeks to go through this rich material with my students. We read a bunch of fairy tales and some epic tales, read the Hobbit and the whole LOTR trilogy, then discussed (but didn’t read) the Silmarillion’s lore and the intensive worldbuliding, centered on languages, that made up Tolkien’s Middle-Earth.
I first re-shared the lecturettes for the old course on my blog about ten years later (the class was a very early example of online learning–I think we must’ve used an old form of Blackboard? Ew. anyway…) and then a couple years ago when I started my Substack, I published them in a series here for Zuko’s Musings. Those re-publishings were largely unchanged since their first appearance in that class. For Tiffany Chu’s LOTR reread, though, I wanted to expand this one into something a little longer, ask you all a few more questions, and do just a little more exploring of these concepts, to join in all the spectacular dialogue that’s surrounding it. Thanks, Tiffany, for having me on as a guest, and I hope to get a bunch of comments so we can continue this discussion I began 20 years ago in class.
Now. Let’s get crackin’!
Melkor (“he who arises in might”) was jealous of Eru [the One] already before Arda [the world] was created, and wanted to be king of other wills himself. When Eru revealed the results of their song to the Ainur [Vala and Maia], Melkor was one of the first to descend into it, mainly from this desire. …when the Valar finally rested, he and his followers [downfallen Ainur, like Sauron and the later Balrogs] attacked their dwellings and destroyed their Two Lamps [precursors to the Two Trees and the sun and moon].
…the Noldor first named him Morgoth, “dark destroyer of the world”. With the aid of Ungoliant [mother of the giant spiders, including Shelob] he also managed to destroy the Two Trees and bring darkness to Valinor, before he fled. Because Morgoth dispersed his essence all over Arda, it is said that all of Arda outside of the Blessed Realm has some evil in it, this being the Morgoth-element.
The essence of evil in Middle-earth centers around selfishness, the desire to be ‘king of other wills,’ the intense protection of ego to subordination of all else, and ‘lacking imaginative sympathy’ is usually the fatal flaw by which this evil is ultimately vanquished. Sauron is not the biggest baddie of Middle-earth: Morgoth really is the Root of all Evil, though he is not dead, but chained and diminished during the time of the trilogy. Remember that Sauron, the Balrogs, and Ungoliant were Morgoth’s loyal subordinate servants back in the day. Even though Sauron is an extremely powerful, if non-corporeal, presence by the time the events of LOTR occur, we must remember that he is but a Maia (like Gandalf and Saruman), whereas Morgoth is a Vala, a higher level being and much more powerful. Thank goodness Morgoth is out of commission in Middle-earth at the time of our story—if Sauron, his lieutenant, can wreak this much havoc and fear on the world, imagine what Morgoth himself must have done, way back when he ruled from Utumno.
‘Nothing is evil in the beginning. Even Sauron was not so.’
—Gandalf, in the Council of Elrond
Well, Gandalf should know, he being of the same type of being as Sauron, and most likely knew Sauron before Morgoth convinced him to turn to evil. The worst kind of evil, the kind which flatters and seduces, is examined over and over again in LOTR; each time a baddie is defeated, he is given a chance for redemption, and true colors will out when one looks at the choices each character makes. Back before Sauron died and came back, he was handsome and well-spoken, enough so to fool the Elves into forging Rings for him. His deception is much akin to Saruman’s voice: betrayal masked behind a fair façade.
But Sauron’s return to life isn’t into a more powerful and radiant form, like Gandalf the Grey’s resurrection into The White. Sauron is a terrifying Eye, a void with a dominating presence (oxymoron? maybe), and though he may not be corporeal, his entire twisted existence during the trilogy is centered on dominance. He is the ’king of other wills’ and the only thing that hinders his utter domination and thereby destruction of Middle-Earth is the fact that the One Ring is not in his possession. Even so, his influence is enormous, and between hordes of orcs and powerful individuals like Saruman and Denethor, his world domination is almost complete.
And this is Sauron’s one little ventilation tunnel into his Death Star: he expects everyone else to want to dominate, too. That some don’t want this and might choose a truly peaceful path doesn’t even occur to him, which is why Frodo and Sam are able to get that far into Mordor in the first place, and why they’re ultimately able to get right inside Mount Doom.
‘With the logic of ambition [Sauron] expects some one of the Western leaders to turn the power of the Ring against him. But with the lack of imagination that characterizes the self-involved he cannot conceive that they may refuse power and decide to destroy the Ring instead.’
Saruman and Denethor are more men of intelligence than men of action, in contrast to our redeemed fallen figures, which I’ll talk about in a minute. They both, in their peak of good work, prized knowledge greatly, and in particular the knowledge of the darker arts. Both have one of the palantìr and both use it, but, foolishly (as with the seductive trap of the Ring) they both think they can wrest its power from Sauron and rule as a great power in his stead. It’s the same trap as with the Ring: anyone who wields it for use, even if they begin with good intentions, will quickly fall to evil as long as they use it. This rotting descent is how both these wise men come to their doom: they begin to think like Sauron: only of domination, and so they play right into his hands, and both for similar reasons.
Saruman does not take the chances for redemption given him, not when Orthanc is first taken, nor later when he meets the leftover party on the road as a beggar. His corruption is not easily erased, however, as the hobbits find out when they return to the Shire. He has ruined the Shire on his own ruinous way down, and even in death there is no redemption for him. He falls at the hands of his miserable minion Wormtongue, made more miserable by Saruman’s treatment of him, until Wormtongue (now only Worm) breaks, pulling his weakened master down with him into death, into the dirt. As high as Saruman’s lofty wise ways held him before his corruption, even so low is his undignified downfall, stabbed in the back by a simpering lackey.
In Saruman mainly (but in Denethor as well), we see the imminent danger of incautious knowledge gain. Kocher discusses this in his essay on the Nature of Evil in Middle-Earth: ‘Knowledge is not a good in itself,’ he notes. ‘It is not allowed to remain neutral on Middle-Earth, but is good or ill depending on the use to which it is put.’ The moment both this wizard and this man decide to choose their own glory over the greater good, that’s when their fall begins. And the more they use their palantìr, the more they play into Sauron’s deceptive clutches. Saruman still thinks he’s in control of his palantir peerings, while it can be argued that Denethor caves to Sauron’s control, thinking all is lost because of the disinformation he’s been fed.
Denethor, being a proud man of the blood of Númenor, is easily tricked into believing he has control of his palantìr at first, because Sauron is quite familiar with such pride as Denethor displays, and so can easily feed him the information he chooses until his collapse into despair and suicide (and attempted filicide). The path Denethor follows is no doubt just like the fall of the Nine Kings of Men who are now the Ringwraiths: if Denethor had had the One Ring (or any of the Rings of Power), he’d have become a Ringwraith as well. As it is, his life is over even before Gandalf and Pippin arrive, and once they get there and especially after he makes the dire mistake of gazing into his palantìr at that point, his mind gets twisted far into the depths of despair. And a man in despair feels that there’s nothing to be done, no hope, no good action that can be taken, that all is already lost.
‘Denethor is sunken in a dark nightmare whereinto the light of reason and fact cannot penetrate.’
Denethor achieves no redemption in his death, as suicide is not considered an honorable way to go in Middle-earth. Here, Gandalf admonishes Denethor, already in madness, against the sin of suicide (emphasis my own):
“Authority is not given to you, Steward of Gondor, to order the hour of your death…and only the heathen kings, under the dominion of the Dark Power, did thus, slaying themselves in pride and despair, murdering their kin to ease their own death.”
Both these corrupted men are partially (at least) ruined by their high knowledge. Or, maybe it’s that they’re extra corruptible because of their immense knowledge? Certainly they both got carried away in their intensive study of the dark arts in particular, which is something that Elrond warns us about at the Council in Fellowship: ‘It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the enemy, for good or ill.’ The more both Saruman and Denethor delve into study of Sauron, the further they both fall under his spell–the temptation of becoming the ‘king of other wills’ that will depose Sauron, yes, but not usher in a new era of peace, but sit on his throne themselves. This is Denethor’s lament, when he hears of Boromir’s death and then hears the news from Faramir, as to where Frodo has gone with the powerful weapon that is the Ring. There is no winning, no survival even, to Denethor without that dominating power, and that’s what makes him not only annihilate himself, but attempt to dispatch his gentle son Faramir along with him, mistaking Faramir’s quiet wisdom for weakness. Just like Sauron has done.
Gimli’s high level courtesy in Lothlorien is the epitome of redemption when it comes to the racial tensions between elves and dwarves. Gimli hangs on to his dignity when confronted with the blindfolding on the way in to Lorien–Legolas calls it ‘the stiff necks of Dwarves’ but it isn’t stubbornness or pride; it’s just Gimli demanding he be treated like an equal. Aragorn recognizes this, and calls Legolas out on his hypocrisy when he in turn recoils against the shame of sharing Gimli’s blindfolded fate.
‘Hear, ye Elves! Let none say again that dwarves are grasping and ungracious!’ declares Galadriel, announcing Gimli’s refusal to ask for a gift, even when pressed. When she insists, he hesitantly asks for an incredibly beautiful and humble token of a strand of her hair. In his answer (‘what would you do with such a gift?’) he redeems the old-standing conflict between these two peoples, which lasts through war and all the way into the Gray Havens. He promises he will encase her hair in imperishable crystal, to symbolize the union of Elves and Dwarves ever after.
After this pivotal moment, Legolas and Gimli comfort each other in times of deep discomfort through the rest of their adventure, and they fight by each other’s side (adorably competing in number of orc heads hewed) during war and wariness alike. They become such fast friends that Gimli is also invited to the West after all is done and mended. Gimli’s single-handed humility and admiration is what mends these ancient wounds, and redeems much of the hatred of Middle-earth past.
But there are two characters in this story whose redemption is only achievable with their deaths:
Both these characters are irrevocably seduced by the domination of the Ring: both fall into the trap of wanting to possess it and/or use it (Sméagol actually does possess it, to his ruin), and both are ultimately redeemed in death. One of their deaths is a chosen sacrifice and the other is accidental, but both represent an ultimate payback for the damage the coveting of such a powerful object of evil power has done. As much as Boromir wants to save the world, it’s Smeagol who ends up doing so, albeit not exactly by choice.
When Boromir tries to seize the Ring from Frodo, he subsequently falls on his face, then weeps, realizing what he has done. He understands, finally and too late, why Elrond and the wise ones in charge of his quest did not want to use the Ring, but destroy it. He dies defending the hobbits Merry and Pippin, and confesses his sin to Aragorn before he dies, thus redeeming his honor.
Poor Boromir. Of course the first thing he’d think of is saving Gondor (and, to be fair, the rest of the world from there). His domineering father holds him in far too high a selfish esteem, and we can’t know how guilty he must feel about how Faramir is treated. He wants to bring the shiny new all-powerful weapon home to save the day (and to please his father). That destroying it is the wiser and more powerful choice doesn’t occur to him until Frodo flees him in terror. We can imagine that Galadriel’s words and Aragorn’s Lorien warning come back to him as he shakes off the glamor of the Ring’s temptation. His heroic sacrifice is a fitting warrior’s end, to make up for the damage he has done.
This is one of the reasons why I don’t forgive the Jackson movie’s change in Faramir’s first reaction to learning of Frodo’s burden. The polar contrast of how Faramir reacts and how his brother Boromir acts when tempted by the Ring shows so clearly the difference in the two men, and making Faramir just a Temu Boromir that happens to survive is a huge disservice to his character. But we’ll talk about him in a minute. Let’s move on to Smeagol.
Smeagol and the Ring are inseparable: he is addicted to it without hope of healing—the Ring cannot be destroyed while Smeagol is alive. When Frodo, at the Crack of Doom, gives in to the Ring’s power and claims it for his own, only Smeagol’s self-sacrifice (in the guise of mad desire for the Ring) makes it possible for it to finally be destroyed. Smeagol’s long life of horrible wretchedness is redeemed in that last act, and though he does not consciously realize it as such, it is self-sacrifice. He is the Ring, and for it to be destroyed means he too must be destroyed.
I find it interesting when I hear commentary about Gollum/Smeagol and they’ll call the Ring Semagol’s birthday present, saying it belonged to him, or found its way to him, and that’s what turned him evil. But if you read that part again, look at how slimy and sneaking and dark and kinda sus Semagol is in his full bright pre-Gollum life. He doesn’t find the Ring, it’s his cousin Deagol who dives and finds it. Smeagol calls it his ‘birthday present’ in order to justify his demanding of it, though Deagol says hey back off and I already got you an expensive present. Smeagol murders his cousin, with his bare hands, in cold blood, and continues to call his Precious his ‘birthday present’ as he falls further and further into wretchedness over the course of many decades. This is a matter of the Ring not only choosing its way in the world, but attaching itself to a person’s inner desires and innate characteristics. That Bilbo didn’t become a Gollum shows how much of Gollum was already in Smeagol to begin with.
But Gollum’s redemption is not a conscious one, the way Boromir’s was. It’s not a choice: Smeagol is still Gollum, and the Ring cannot be destroyed while he lives–he’s too far gone. But Frodo’s failure at the Crack of Doom gives Gollum the opportunity to make everyone’s pity-centered sparing of his life worthwhile, though he, again, doesn’t choose to make it so. It’s his too-eager dance of celebration and too-violent snatching back of the Ring that causes him, once again attached to his Precious, to fall over the edge of the precipice, paying the ultimate price and saving the world, something Frodo couldn’t do.
Faramir’s careful behavior around Frodo and valiant acts back in Gondor redeems both his elder relatives (he doesn’t need redeeming himself, as much as his father trash-talks him). What he does about the Ring (or doesn’t do. In this case), as compared to Boromir, sets Faramir apart as that extraordinary balance of the learned man and the warrior. He sacrifices himself for his unappreciative father, almost to the point of death, and honors his brother even as he sees clearly why it must have been only a matter of time before he fell. ‘Alas! poor Boromir,’ he mourns, even as he treads carefully around the obviously dangerous artifact that is the Ring. Because he, like his father, has spent time in Gondor’s archives, he understands what the Ring is, much more deeply than his brawn-not-brains brother. But, unlike his father and more like his brother, he doesn’t overestimate his own intelligence, falling into despair and losing the will to fight.
Faramir never stops fighting, not even when his father turns him away and loses himself in the deadly despair of the palantir. It’s Faramir’s love of learning and ‘wizard lore’ that keeps him safe from that type of corruption. He’s both the balanced warrior and wise man that neither his brother nor father were wholly. And so neither of the traps of pride or despair appeal to Faramir.
Pride and despair: the center of the self-fear that is evil manifest in Middle-earth. How does one defeat such evil? With humility, of course: humility, empathy, and hope. And with the help of true friends.
There is something to be said for the extent to which we in contemporary culture are seeing a big revival of LOTR fandom, including lots of critical content along with rereads. Even since I taught this class back in 2004, there’s been an upsurge in appreciation of Hobbits and Heroes. I don’t think it’s just because of all the cinematic adaptations, either–as a lit prof, I’d say that those come to be because people are reading the books again, not the other way around (for the most part, though the original Jackson trilogy are considered modern classics these days). I think we love Middle-Earth and this Epic Quest today for a few different reasons:
It’s an exciting, harrowing tale in the vein of an old adventure epic, like the Eddas, Arthuriana, Greek myths and tales like the Odyssey, and the like. But to that ancient epic feel is added a modern touch: the addition of a ‘regular guy’ in the form of the hobbits. Pipe-smoking alone is way more contemporary than a medieval setting, and the small-town-bickering, love of middle class comforts, and the like, is all way more of a modern time than an ancient epic. It’s that juxtaposition of the ancient with the new, the contrast (and even conflict) between the ancient powers of beings like the Ents and Shelob versus Saruman’s machinery and Mordor’s industrial ruins surrounding its borders. And while there may be a dearth of strong women characters (I talk about this in my lecturette Eowyn Heroine), and a bit of a nationalist or colonialist dismissal of ‘other’ peoples like the Southrons or Easterlings, or even the orcs, it’s obvious that Tolkien doesn’t pin the concept of Evil to any group or ‘race.’ Evil is in the individual, who makes conscious choices to dominate, to be ‘king of other wills.’
Orcs, widely described as corrupt, nasty, warlike, bloodthirsty, and brutish, aren’t the evil ones. They’re a bunch of grunts who serve the individuals that are the evil ones, like Saruman and Sauron. Are they nice guys? No, and they don’t seem to be portrayed as redeemable either, double-crossing each other for selfish gain all the time (like the slimy character who separates out Merry and Pippin from the rest of the Rohan raiding party, or the bickering orc guards in Mordor’s outer reaches, arguing over Frodo’s body), but they aren’t Evil as a people. They’re bad guys, but they’re not evil. One wonders what happens to the orcs that survive the huge battles at the conclusion of Return of the King. Does Aragorn slaughter them all? Do they slink away and live on their grody own, separate from the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth? Tolkien doesn’t say. What do you think?
All in all, I can see that it’s this complexity, this mix of the ancient and the contemporary, that makes this tale so potent for us in a post-pandemic 2024. It makes me think of another enormous upsurge in LOTR fandom, in the early 1970s. What was happening then in the wider world and culture, that made this epic tale so resonant to so many people? What’s happening today, that so many of us are coming back to it, reimagining it, re-adapting it and rereading it? I can think of a couple parallels, can’t you?
Thank you so much for joining me on this adventure to Middle-Earth. I look forward to seeing you around next time!
(These are only starting points. Feel free to discuss anything that came to mind for you.)