Of the Coming of Men

In the days of old there were three houses. The Noldor, disciples of glory and doom: it is their story we hear, for it is thanks to them there are stories. The Teleri, inheritors of longing: yearning for the sea is their greatest gift. The Vanyar, the people of unity and peace: the people history would love but could never know. And then the first men came into the west, and Finrod found them as they camped at the foot of the mountains and felt love stir in his heart. But he bade his time awhile, and watched from the shadows as they made camp.

They laid their harp by the fire, and surrendered their big, cold thoughts to its crackling. And the elf walked into the company of these men whose dreams were so much younger than his own. His dreams were wrapped in twilight thunder and the shade of silent woods, and he loved this people with their stars of ideas, whose dreams were clean as swords.

***

I am a Noldo, and I have held my sword to the stars and sworn its keenness to their light. Ours is a song of the night, a symphonic loneliness that each of us inherits and makes his own. We are disciples of glory and doom, and we have given our lives to fate and song. I have slept evenings beneath the spray of stars, and woken to the flickering emptiness of nights. While somewhere beyond the smoke-clad trees… Where is the day? We knew not the happiness of a peaceful dawn, but we have burned with a splendid fever, and kindled the waiting dreams of fate to song and flame. Could anything be too high a price to pay?

I am Telerin, and I have walked wrapped in the blue thunder of thought by anxious seas, steeped in their silent sheen, seeking to learn what it was I longed so deeply for. I have cast my eyes on distant shores, and turned from my past and my land: I have sighed for the ineffable and sought to weave the infinite music of the waters into the earthbound strings of my harp. I do not seek myself any more, for I have no self: it was lost amid the gleaming waters long ago, and I am not certain how to find it. What name, what certainty could bind you together against the sweeping waves? How do I proffer my sword to any cause or any truth when I have known how little all our truths are before the beauty of that infinite we cannot know? And so I am drawn to the littlest things, that need not flee before the greatness of the great because they do not seek to stand ahead of it: the warmth of silent rocks and the grace of white ships, the immortal dances of words and the silent pressure of a hand. I cannot drink of the oath-cup with my brothers, but I shall stand with my brothers and wish that I knew how to fall with them.

I am of the Vanyar too, and I have known the calm of silent mountains and warm dwellings untouched by the fever of exacting dreams. I have known what it is to know and be glad, to lay doubt aside and take comfort in companionship and song. But I have moved far from that land, and now I cannot know that rest. My soul was forged in pride and loneliness and doubt; they are the strings to my harp, the keenness of my sword, the flame of which I light my song. I would wish my destiny on no-one else, but it is irrevocably mine and I would wish myself no other: I cannot live within the light. But I know it is there, and my heart is glad to know it: I would swear my smoke-tinged sword to the service of that peace, though it is not mine.

***

And the first men stirred to the sight of Felagund with his song of dusk and his clear northern eyes. Felagund, who had known the grinding ice and the first light, the silence of the first stars and the despair before the coming of the sun. Felagund, who wove three songs of conflict into a harmony of difference, and drew them with every note from his harp into the song that they had not known could be theirs too.

The Hobbit and the Pale, Enchanted Gold

A middle-aged Hobbit is startled one day by a band of Dwarves who come to tea. They bring to his warm and comfortable home a breath of air from the Lonely Mountain, a whiff of adventure, and to his alarm, he finds that he is expected to join them on a quest that promises to be dangerous and uncomfortable.

He is suspicious of them, and they are rather sceptical of his ability. However, something makes him join them.

As they journey toward the mountain, they have several adventures, and the Hobbit discovers qualities he didn’t know he had. He is a brave little creature, loyal and clever, and possessed of a great deal of quiet ingenuity, with a matter-of-fact dauntlessness that keeps the spirits of the company up and gets them out of several messes. He eventually becomes the true leader of the quest, and his grumpy companions come to regard him with increasing respect and genuine fondness.

His companions are grumpy and rather calculating, but fundamentally kindly and honourable, with a great deal of stubborn courage. Their leader, Thorin Oakenshield, is a kingly figure, stately and imposing.

They reach the mountain, and accomplish their quest. But their greatest triumph proves their greatest undoing, as alliances break and friends fall apart, with everyone succumbing to the fatal lure of the gold. The Hobbit is the only person untouched by its spell, and he looks on in wonder and sorrow as his friends shed their nobility and honour. In the end, he gives up his reward to avert a war for the gold.

Finally, a greater threat reminds the armies that they must stand together. Bilbo’s companions prove as dauntless and resourceful in the final battle as they did in pursuit of the treasure, and fight heroically and honourably. Thorin Oakenshield is mortally wounded; before the end, he parts from Bilbo in friendship.

Bilbo refuses the promised fourteenth share of the treasure – he will take only two little chests of silver and gold, for treasure is merely a lot of bother to him. He will treasure the memory of the quest, but he doesn’t think the gold was worth the struggle for it.

The Hobbit has survived the battle of five armies. He has treated with the King of the Woodland Elves, and witnessed the heroic end of the King under the Mountain. He has been ‘over grass and over stone,/And under mountains in the moon.’ Now he journeys back, a Hobbit richer in gold and experience than he was, but very much the same Hobbit in his kindly domestic predilections. He values food and cheer and song above hoarded gold. He will miss the world of song and legend, but he looks forward to getting back to his own arm-chair.

And he gets back, and finds home most uncomfortable. He has been away so long that people think he’s dead, and his relations have plotted to appropriate his belongings. After the passion and heroism of the Battle of the Five Armies, he has to deal with the petty scheming and rivalries of a small town. And yet perhaps it isn’t so different. It’s still the lure of gold, though at a very different level.

Bilbo is only quite a little fellow in a wide world – but a fine fellow at that.