The following event(s) took place in Middle-earth on October 6: Thorin requests supplies (1341) Gandalf heads for Rivendell…
Continue Reading
The following event(s) took place in Middle-earth on October 6:
The following event(s) took place in Middle-earth on September 29:
[join the conversation on the Message Boards here]
On September 22nd, the very date of Bilbo’s and Frodo’s birthdays, a large group of Hobbits, Elves, Dwarves, Men, Wizards, and well-behaved Wargs, gathered for a day of merriment, feasting, and activities.
The Party took place under the sheltering trees of Griffith Park, in the Mineral Wells picnic area, close by a meandering river. The day was warm, but not too warm. The sun high and bright. The leaves sparkled green and gold in a fair breeze which ruffled the Baggins’ Birthday banner and the feathers adorning Hobbit hats. Tents dotted the landscape: an Elven enclave here, a Dwarven fortress there, a Hobbit hole beneath a tree.
The banqueting table was laden with dishes–pulled pork, barbecue chicken salad, spicy sausages, cheese samplings, Lembas, watermelon, pasta salad (I could go on and on, but it’s making my mouth water all over again.) There were even two big jugs of delicious homemade apple brew crafted from a long list of enticing ingredients.
Continue reading “The 2024 Baggins Birthday Bash was a Bull-Roaring Success”
The following event(s) took place in Middle-earth on September 22:
[Join the conversation on the Message Boards here]
Oaths hold an astonishing power in Tolkien’s Middle-earth. Here, TORn Discord member Narrative Epicure explores how Sauron and Elrond’s understanding of this fact drives each to behave very differently toward others.
~ Staffer Demosthenes
by TORn Discord member Narrative Epicure
In December 3018 of the Third Age, everybody’s lucky number was nine. After an involuntary white-water rafting trip down the Bruinen, Sauron’s Nazgûl returned to Mordor. These servants, so long bound to him by works he wrought in ages past, gathered once more in the dark shadow of Barad-dûr. In the Elven realm of Rivendell, Lord Elrond prepared a Fellowship whose journey would determine the fate of Middle-earth.
“The Company of the Ring shall be Nine;”1 he declared, “and the Nine Walkers shall be set against the Nine Riders that are evil.”2
Contrasts between the Ringwraiths and the Fellowship are legion, but in their preparations, one particular distinction reveals the nature of the hands that send them: while Sauron insists on sending servants bound to him by rings of power, Elrond demands nothing of anyone but Frodo (to not cast away the ring or deliver it to an Enemy). To the fellowship, he says, “no oath or bond is laid upon you.”3
As they depart on their journey south, he demands no promise from the nine he sent.
This difference between Elrond and Sauron is illustrative of each lord’s perspective on oaths and—to a larger degree—of the way each lord interacts with and treats the people of Middle-earth.
Oaths and promises are fascinating subjects that could fill volumes on their own. On a surface level, an oath is a set of words promising some conduct or restraint. Yet, the way we treat an oath transforms it from a set of words to a power. In our own world, this power is usually subtle, intangible, and typically confined to the effects on psyche, trust, or the occasional legal ramification. In large part, oaths have over us what power we give them. In Middle-earth, this intangible power becomes tangible. Tolkien writes of oaths not only as if they have power, but as if they behave.
Oaths are living things that bless those who honor them, and occasionally impose consequences on oathbreakers. Tolkien describes the Oath of Fëanor (an oath that drives much of the action and conflict of the First Age) as “ever at work,”4 and on other occasions he says it has “slept now for a time.”5
In The Lord of the Rings, we see the terrible result of going back on your word when the Men of Dunharrow break oaths to fight Sauron and Isildur curses them to “rest never until [their] oath is fulfilled.”6
Tolkien’s writing ascribes another unique trait to oaths: they bind people to each other. Tolkien’s Legendarium offers many examples of this: the Oath of Eorl bound Rohan and Gondor together, the Oath of Finrod bound him to aid the kin of Barahir (at the cost of his life), and the sons of Fëanor were “bound by the oath”7 they swore.
But the people of Middle-earth can be bound even without oaths. When Melkor darkened the two Trees of Valinor, the Valar determined that the light of the Silmarils could restore the trees if Fëanor allowed their use. Fëanor refused. The Silmarillion describes him as “fast bound” to the Silmarils. Long before his oath, the love of his crafts bound him.
It was this binding power that Sauron would seek to replicate. In the Second Age, he bent the power of oaths back on itself, twisting it into the shape of rings, “for his desire was to set a bond upon the Elves.”8
In Season 1 of the Rings of Power, young Elrond describes his outlook on oaths. “To some, [oaths] may now hold little weight, but in my esteem, it is by such things our very souls are bound.”9
He sees oaths as Tolkien wrote of them, and he uses them to build a web of collective strength. Elrond gives oaths. He enters them freely as a show of loyalty to those he cares about. Some may argue he enters them too freely.
Yet, despite the impetuous manner in which he binds himself to others, he’s hesitant to let others make oaths to him. When the Fellowship departs, and he asks no oath or bond, he explains some of his reasoning (paraphrased to just dialogue):
Gimli: “Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.”
Elrond: “Maybe, but let him not vow to walk in the dark who has not seen the nightfall.”
Gimli: “Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart.”
Elrond: “Or break it.”10
He’s cautious to hold others to promises made without all facts. We see this again in the mines when he stops Durin from sharing his true name—an act that, while not an overt oath, would have bound the two together. And while he freely binds himself, he’s cautious with whom he makes such promises. Note that in Season 2, when Galadriel asks, he immediately refuses to swear any promise “whose asking is born of that ring.”11
But seconds later, he swears exactly what she wishes, only this time to her. He will not suffer himself to be bound to or by her ring, but holds no qualms for his friend. And despite his fears that she is bound to Sauron through that ring, he demands no similar oath from her lips.
At his core, Elrond believes oaths are about people. He cares much more about binding himself to others than binding them to him. He cares deeply about them. When he stumbled into Durin’s Mithril mine in Season 1, he wasn’t looking for mithril itself like Durin suspected. He was looking for his friend. He worried about Durin’s secrets and went there to maintain trust between them.
After swearing an oath to Durin, he’s given a nugget of mithril, which he immediately offers to return. His king sought that ore, but to Elrond, this was always about his friend. Incidentally, this outlook works to his favor. Durin never would have given him the mithril if it were why he came lurking.
If Elrond is the give, Sauron is the take. Elrond builds strength, Sauron builds power. To the dark lord, the purpose of oaths is to ensure those beneath him remain subservient. We see this in the very terminology he uses. He almost always eschews the word “oaths” in favor of “binding.” He doesn’t want to forge webs like Elrond; he wants to forge chains.
Sauron is cautious about oaths he swears. When faced with no alternative, he tries to manipulate them in his favor. “I swear to serve the lord of Mordor”12 is the juicy example that springs to mind. He’s there to bind others to him, not the other way around. Oaths don’t show loyalty or closeness, they keep others in line.
In the finale of Season 1, he asks Galadriel to bind herself to him. What he wants from Galadriel is a promise—an oath—so he can make her a queen, fair as the sea and the sun, stronger than the foundations of the earth. But notice again his subtlety. He offers her effectively nothing. “You bind me to light, and I bind you to power.”13
In exchange for her legitimizing his “healing” of Middle-earth, he binds her to power. But in Sauron’s estimation, he is that power. He binds her to him, and in exchange, she validates his rule. But as Gandalf famously warned Saruman, “he does not share power.”14
He’s promised her only chains.
Since he cannot elicit true loyalty, Sauron must demand it. He can deceive and win hearts, but he cannot keep them. It is this inability to earn true loyalty that—in part—drives Sauron’s need for the rings. Elrond cares for people while Sauron seeks only what he can use from them.
Each ring of power is a literal manifestation of that search for utility. If the people of Middle-earth will not swear to him, he will find some other way to bind them to him.
Frodo observed that “the Shadow . . . can only mock, it cannot make: not real new things of its own.”15
Unable to make bonds and elicit oaths, Sauron mocks, imitating the power of an oath’s bond with his rings. That involuntary bond shreds trust, but he doesn’t need trust when he has control. Dominate some creatures, bind others, make empty promises, and—when your army is threatening enough—maybe some people will swear with less coercion and deception.
And so, nine walkers set out from Rivendell, each a hero, while nine riders set out from Mordor, each a thrall. Sauron told us his plan from a prison cell in Númenor: “identify what it is that [a person] most fears . . . [and] give them a means of mastering it so you can master them.”16
Elrond’s line of thinking would likely be more along the lines of “identify what it is that a person most fears, and swear to protect them from it.”
With that contrast laid out, it’s clear in which fellowship you’d find better company.
About the author: Narrative Epicure is an aspiring loremaster and practicing attorney longing to read or write things that aren’t legal. When he’s not buried in Tolkien’s Legendarium, he enjoys books, board games, and other activities with his Fellowship, which includes his wife and three daughters.
Footnotes
If you have read The Lord of the Rings, there is a good chance that you skipped over one or more of the 75 songs and poems in J.R.R. Tolkien’s fantasy epic. Yet long before he was the “father of modern fantasy”, Tolkien’s great ambition was to be a poet.
He wrote hundreds of poems throughout his life, running the gamut from playful limericks to lengthy verse epics in Old English alliterative meter (verse that focuses on alliteration, the repetition of consonant sounds in two or more words or syllables). But despite his prolific poetic output, Tolkien remains best-known for his prose. Published by Harper Collins, The Collected Poems of J.R.R. Tolkien – the first tome to bring together all of his poetry – will not alter its author’s reputation as a storyteller first and foremost, but it will offer readers illuminating new insights into this oft-neglected side of his personality.
This new book has been in the works since 2016, when Christopher Tolkien sent editors Wayne G. Hammond and Christina Scull several folders of his father’s unpublished poetry. Hammond and Scull are two of the world’s most respected Tolkien scholars, having written painstaking reference works such as the J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide (2017) and The Lord of the Rings: A Reader’s Companion (2008). They have also edited previous works by Tolkien, including the short poetry collection The Adventures of Tom Bombadil (2014).
Between them, Hammond and Scull have precisely the obsessive eye for detail and encyclopaedic knowledge of Tolkien’s corpus required to pull off such an undertaking. And once you hold this deluxe, three-volume, 1,500-page tome in your hands, you will grasp just how monumental an undertaking it is.
The Collected Poems of J.R.R. Tolkien contains nearly 250 individual works spanning more than five decades, 70 of them previously unpublished.
Hammond and Scull do not present the poems as standalone texts. They meticulously document the manuscript history of each poem from initial fragments to final drafts, tracing their evolution over the course of years or even decades.
This is because Tolkien would frequently return to the same poem throughout his life, revising and reworking it over and over – much as he did with his literary mythology.
The Sea-Bell is a perfect example. In 1934, Tolkien published a poem in The Oxford Magazine entitled Looney. It describes a man’s voyage to an enchanted other-world and his desolation upon returning to ordinary life afterwards.
Almost 30 years later, Looney underwent major redrafting to become The Sea-Bell, which was published in The Adventures of Tom Bombadil in 1962. The poem’s basic narrative arc remained the same, but the imagery was darker, more evocative, more devastating. The protagonist is utterly cut off from his contemporaries, with no words to communicate an experience they cannot understand.
Both versions of the poem incorporate other recurring motifs in Tolkien’s poetry: the “perilous realm” of Faërie, grief for the passing of an ancient world, the sublime mystery of the sea.
But The Sea-Bell is not merely a revision of its predecessor. Looney was conceived and published as an independent work. In The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, on the other hand, The Sea-Bell is framed as a text written by an unnamed hobbit within Middle-earth, which Tolkien had discovered and translated for modern readers. This conceit invites readers to put the poem in direct conversation with the themes of melancholy and sea-longing which run throughout The Lord of the Rings.
By charting how the poem and its context changed over time, Hammond and Scull show how its meaning changed too.
In Cosmic Connections: Poetry in the Age of Disenchantment (2024), the philosopher Charles Taylor argues that much of western art for the past two centuries has been deeply concerned with the problem of disenchantment.
Many of us live with a nagging sense that industrialised modernity has cut us off from the cosmos, from nature and from our authentic selves. The Romantics and their inheritors believed that art could reconnect us to what is deepest and truest in ourselves and in the world around us – could re-enchant the world.
This is one way to read Tolkien’s entire literary project. He suggests as much in his famous essay On Fairy-Stories (1947).
Eminent Tolkien researcher Verlyn Flieger reads The Sea-Bell as a profound expression of disenchantment, a reflection perhaps of Tolkien’s service in the first world war. But the powers of re-enchantment are at work elsewhere in his work, in the elven-realm of Lothlórien for instance. This dialectic of disconnection and reconnection lies at the heart of Tolkien’s enduring appeal.
As The Collected Poems of J.R.R. Tolkien attests, that same dynamic is at play in his poetry as much as his prose. But be forewarned: this book is not for the faint of heart. Its massive scope, and the academic presentation of the material, are better suited to the Tolkien scholar than the casual reader – certainly not the one who leapfrogs the songs in The Lord of the Rings.
But if you, like me, feel a compulsion to own everything released under the professor’s name, that is hardly going to stop you.
Tom Emanuel is a PhD Candidate in English Literature at the University of Glasgow. This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.