And so we took off, running as fast as we could across the river and through the lands. The orcs were closing in but so, too, was Beorn, whose angry growls were shaking the very trees around us.
“This way! Quickly!” Gandalf ordered.
While the others began to run, Bombur seemed transfixed, unable to move. I was about to run back and grab him when Oin did just that, grabbing onto the dwarf’s long braided beard and tugging him forward.
“Bombur, come on!”
I held my speed until the two had passed me before increasing my speed once more. It was not much longer before the house came into view and I started to realize just how much I had missed the place I called home. It was not much and not very big, but it was warm and full of memories for me. A safe place where no harm had ever come to me.
“Run!!” Gandalf’s voice boomed from the front of the pack and, to my surprise, Bombur got a burst of speed like never before, his thick body easily surpassing the other dwarves. If not for the warmth breath of the bear at my back, I would think it quite comical.
I believed in my heart that Beorn, even if bear form, would not kill me. Harm me, perhaps, and that would leave him feeling a guilt that I did not wish to present to him. While he does not completely lose himself upon shifting to his animal form, he is overtaken by the instincts of said animal and he becomes fiercely protective over his lands. In that form, he is overly cautious and will attack first while worrying about the consequences and questions later. With the orc pack now roaming his lands, I know he must be on edge more than ever.
“Come on, get inside!”
The dwarves shot through the gate and they must have believed if they rammed the front door, it would open, but they believed wrong and Bombur bounced off of it, hitting the ground with a loud thump. They scrambled to open the door, fighting and arguing as they did so.
“Open the door!” Gandalf ordered.
With a curse, I put my hand atop the head of the closest dwarf, which happened to be Thorin, but he did not argue as I leaned over him, my fingers grasping at the rusted metal lock that kept the doors shut. They swung open and the dwarves flooded into the house, scrambling to close the door before the bear could reach us, but Beorn’s speed was unparalleled.
His nose reached through the gap and he roared loudly, trying to force himself further into the home.
“Push!”
I slammed my body against the wood, but he was far too strong for us to match with. Forgive me, Beorn. I reached up as quickly as I could but he snapped at my hand, nearly pulling my fingers between his teeth.
“What are you doing, lass?!” Bofur cried, struggling to keep Fili steady as the he attempted to push the door closed.
I ignored him, reaching forward again. I chose a different angle this time and he was unable to reach my fingers before they settled on his nose. It was his only weakness in such a form and, in my opinion, it was a dirty tactic, but it had to be done. I ran the tip of my index finger from the center of his nose down to the left before back again.
His strength lessoned as he wiggled his nose and flung his head, trying to get me to stop, but I did not relent and soon he pulled back, a mighty sneeze ripping from him. First one, then another, and one more. In that time, we managed to slam the door closed, securing the wooden bar and the metal lock so that he could not get inside.
“What is that?” Ori was breathing heavily, his eyes flickering between Gandalf and I.
“And how did you know to do that?” Dwalin’s eyes narrowed at me.
“That is our host,” Gandalf shot me a look, pausing a moment before continuing. “His name is Beorn… and he’s a skin-changer,” the wizard moved farther into the home and I headed for the fireplace. “Sometimes he’s a huge black bear. Sometimes he’s a great strong man. The bear is unpredictable but the man can be reasoned with. However… he is not over fond of dwarves.”
Now that his sneezing had subsided, the bear let out a growl which slowly began to lesson in volume. Ori, who still stood by the door, turned to us. “He’s leaving.”
“Come away from there,” scolded Dori, who grabbed the younger dwarf and tugged him away from the door. “It’s not natural. None of it. It’s obvious. He’s under some dark spell!”
I scoffed as the fire roared to life within the stone.
“Don’t be a fool,” Gandalf commented as he approached me. “He’s under no enchantment but his own. All right, now, get some sleep. All of you. You’ll be safe here tonight,” he paused beside me, lowering his voice as he did so. “I hope…”
I scoffed again, pulling open the cabinet to look for any left over tea he may have had, but I only found jar upon jar of honey. He had clearly been stocking up since I left. “This was a risky idea, Gandalf. You believe that he will simply accept these dwarves because I am here?”
“Beorn trusts you more than any other,” he commented softly. “If he knows that you have placed your faith in them, perhaps he will be more… welcoming.”
“Or more angry,” I mused, giving up my search for tea and settling on a jar of cream that sat upon the counter.
“We will see. You should get some rest, my dear.”
“No. I will keep watch.”
“If you insist,” Gandalf offered me a smile before heading to the opposite side of the house where the animals are kept, the floor covered in hay that would act as a nice, but itchy, bedding for the company.
I settled down across from the door, my back resting against one of the support beams. The longer I sat here, the more homesick I felt. Beorn had been the only constant in my life since the tragedy and, to my surprise, I find myself missing the predictability of a home life. I believe I am starting to understand Bilbo to some degree.
Night soon fell and it wasn’t long before the dwarves were passed out among the hay, their snores filling up the small house. The night outside was quiet, save for the chirping of crickets, no wargs or orcs filling the night with their horrid sounds. Even Beorn’s growls had also ceased.
“You’re not going to sleep?”
I glanced over, finding Bofur leaning up on one arm, a frown on his face. “I am not tired.”
He shifted and for a moment, I thought he was going to lay back down but he stood up, slowly making his way past his kin toward me.
“Ouch!”
“Oops, sorry, Gloin.”
Gloin clutched his hand to his chest, muttering under his breath as he turned his back to the dwarf. Bofur sent me a grin as he moved closer, settling down next to me. He glanced at his kin before lowering his voice.
“You know him, don’t you?”
I shifted, bringing my knee up to rest my arm over. “Yes. Beorn is the man that I mentioned before. He is the one who raised me after my village was raided.”
“Why didn’t you tell us? Or at least me.”
“I did not know Gandalf planned to come here. Not at first,” I glanced at him with a frown. “When it came down to it, it was our only option. I did not intent to tell that he is a skin-changer because it is not mine to tell. Nor Gandalf’s.”
He nodded in understanding, shifting closer so that his shoulder bumped my own. “What was it like? Growing up with a shifter?”
“It was no different from a normal home life, I suppose. He always stayed away when he changed and made sure I knew to keep the doors locked until he had become a man once more. Aside from the times he spent out at night, things were normal here. He is a good parent.”
“But he hates dwarves,” he frowned, leaning his head back against the wood.
“He is not fond of anyone, really. Being a skin-changer makes him a cautious man. Much like my people, others would use him for their own vain glories and battles or they would torture him to ensure that he could not be used against them. His people were tortured and slain. It is no wonder he is distrusting of the world. In that respect, I can understand.”
“Do you trust us?” he questioned softly, turning his soft brown eyes to meet mine.
“At first, no. My own experiences along with being raised by Beorn had taught me to trust no one, especially with my real identity. But… I find it hard to live with the same morals. While I have no great intent to get out and befriend the world, I also do not want to hide from it. I should not have to hide who I am because the world is a cruel place. No, I have decided to embrace my bloodline and not run from those who would threaten it.”
“Like Thorin.”
I nodded. “I may not always agree with your king and he may frustrate me to no end, but I respect him. Although Azog the Defiler wishes to put an end to his bloodline, he still continues to fight. He will not let his line end without a fight, at the very least. Nor will I.”
Bofur smiled, nudging me with his shoulder. “Good! I’m really glad you joined the company.”
“Yes… as am I,” I returned the smile. “To think that I have grown attached to a group of dwarves. I wonder what Beorn will say.”
“He can say whatever he pleases, as long as he lets us live,” he chuckled, holding his hand out to me.
I hummed, slipping mine into his. “I will not let him kill you.”
“I’m holding you to that, lass.”
━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━
“Wake up.”
I felt something nudge my side and I grunted, slowly peeling my eyes open. It was Gandalf, nudging me with the end of his staff. I went to move, only to feel a weight upon my shoulder. Bofur’s head was resting there, his chest slowly rising and falling as he slept.
“What is it?” I questioned sleepily, looking up at the wizard. “Has something happened?”
“The sun is rising,” he announced. “Beorn will soon return.”
“Do you intend to leave before then?”
He hesitated. “I believe we should talk to him first.”
“That is wading through risky waters, my friend,” I mused before shaking Bofur’s shoulder.
He mumbled something under his breath, swatting at my hand before he shifted his weight, falling to the ground now that the pillar no longer supported his back. Despite the impact, he simply rolled over and fell back into a deep sleep.
Gandalf rolled his eyes. “Dwarves.”
I chuckled, pulling myself to my feet and stretching out my sore body. “They are interesting creatures, are they not?”
“Yes, quite,” he rolled his eyes again, tone filled with sarcasm before he started to wake up the rest of the company.
I stepped over to the window. “Gandalf?”
But the wizard did not reply, too busy trying to rouse the dwarves who could quite literally sleep through the end of the world without their sleep being disturbed.
“Gandalf,” I called again, louder this time.
He sighed with exasperation before nudging Bombur with his staff once more. The fat dwarf only giggled in his sleep, attempting to bite it. “What is it, Ronan?”
“Beorn is here already,” I told him, motioning toward the window. The wizard shuffled over, peering through the glass. The skin-changer was out in the yard, chopping firewood as the horses ran about, happy that their master had returned home. Even the ducks were sticking close to him.
“Help me wake them,” he ordered, rushing back over to the group. I did as he asked but in a different way than he. I took the bucket of water sitting in the kitchen, sticking my hand into it before flinging the water onto each dwarf’s face. They woke with a start, most of them muttering what I believed to be curses in their native tongue.
It wasn’t long before they noticed the large man outside and the loud thumping of the axe slicing through wood.
“I say we should leg it. Slip out the back way,” Nori suggested.
Dwalin clearly did not like this suggestion, grabbing ahold of the front of his shirt. “I’m not running from anyone. Beast or no.”
“He is no beast,” I scowled at him, feeling offended by his word choice. “And do you need to be reminded that you have not stopped running from the orcs?”
“Why you -”
“There is no point in arguing,” Gandalf snapped. “We cannot pass through the Wilderland without Beorn’s help. We’ll be hunted down before we ever get to the forest.”
It was then that Bilbo, the last to wake, stuck his head between Thorin and Kili, curious as to what was happening.
“Ah, Bilbo. There you are,” Gandalf’s voice had softened considerably. He moved closer to the door, sending me a look. “Now, this will require some delicate handling. We must tread very carefully. The last person to have startled him was torn to shreds. I will go first and, uh, Bilbo? You and Ronan come with me.”
Bilbo looked none to pleased with this, his gaze flickering between the dwarves as he reluctantly stepped forward. “I-Is this a good idea?”
“Yes,” he responded simply. “Now, the rest of you… you just wait here and don’t come out until I give the signal.”
Bofur, who was standing on a chair to get a better look out the window, nodded his head, sending me a worried look. “Right. Wait for the signal.”
“And no sudden moves or loud noises and don’t overcrowd him,” Gandalf continued. “Only come out in pairs,” he nodded, turning to step out the door only to pause and turn back around. “No, actually, Bombur… um, you count as two so you should come out alone.”
I snorted, quickly faking a cough to try and hide my amusement. I caught Fili’s eye who smirked at me, but I could see the worry lingering within his eyes. I offered him a reassuring smile, hoping to put his mind at ease, even if just a bit.
“Remember. Wait for the signal,” Gandalf swept his eyes over the dwarves before turning and stepping out into the morning sun, Bilbo and I close behind.
“This is going to hurt, lass,” Oin spoke softly, looking into my eyes as he settled down in front of me.
I gave him a short nod, taking a deep breath as he reached forward. Bofur, who sat on my other side, slid his hand into mine, giving me a toothy grin. “Will you tell me about where you live?”
My brow furrowed. “Why would you want to know that?”
Fili snickered from nearby. “I believe he’s trying to distract you, lass.”
“Oh – shit,” I hissed through my teeth when the cold green paste Oin had made was pressed against my wound. I did not think it possible for a wound to burn, throb, and be numb all at the same time. “I live with a man near the Anduin river. He has raised me since I was six.”
Bofur nodded, gently rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. “Is he a nice man?”
“You would not think so upon meeting him, but yes, he is very kind. Never has he raised his voice to me despite how much trouble I caused him as a child.”
Fili laughed. “You seem the type to be a troublesome kid.”
“Yes, well,” I smiled softly. “Things were not easy for me and I tended to cope in ways that were unhealthy, not only for myself but for those around me.”
Oin brought more of the green paste onto his fingers, slathering it across the wound. I winced, squeezing the dwarf’s hand tightly, prompting him to pat my hand with his free one.
“What kind of trouble did you get into?”
I glanced at Bofur before to Fili and Kili, who had scooted closer to hear the answer. “Well, the thing I did the most was mess with the Mirkwood elves. I would often see them patrolling their borders when I would take walks down the river. Most of them ignored me, some were kind enough to speak with me, while there were a few that did not enjoy my presence. There was one elf in particular that never missed an opportunity to insult me, not that I did not fire back at him, as well. He threatened to hurt me on multiple occasions.”
“Did he?” Kili wondered softly.
“He never acted on his threats. Maybe they were just words meant to instill fear in me or perhaps he never acted on them because I never crossed the border into his lands. Either way, they remained idle threats. Not that I did not make my own threats, though I doubt an elf felt any fear being threatened by a small child that could not see past her anger,” I chuckled at the memory, closing my eyes and leaning my head back against the stone. “He would always make the strangest faces when he got annoyed and he was quite expressive. In a way, he fueled me to keep coming back and arguing with him.”
“Maybe he enjoyed it,” suggested Kili, glancing at his brother who shrugged in response.
“Why would someone enjoy arguing with a child?” Fili countered with a quirked brow.
“Well, he is an elf,” Gloin glanced at us over his shoulder before returning to the pot of stew that he was stirring. “Hurry up and finish chopping the onions, Bombur.”
“I’m almost done, hold your horses!”
“How was that harmful, though?” Kili wondered, tilting his head to the side. “You said you did stuff that caused harm, but that seems pretty harmless.”
“Normally, perhaps, but the man that raised me is…” I paused, biting on my lip thoughtfully. I did not want to let them know that Beorn is a skin-changer, not because I did not trust them, but because it is simply not my tale to tell. He is the last known skin-changer in our world and the more people that know that, the more danger he is put in. Not that he needs protection from me, but we tend to protect those that we love, even if they do not need it.
“He’s what?” Kili pushed, leaning forward.
“He is not fond of others and prefers a solitary life,” I glanced at Gandalf who was watching me intently, most likely wondering what I would say. “He avoids the eyes of others and by antagonizing the elves of Mirkwood, I put his way of life at risk. Even then… he never got angry at me. He would simply tell me not to mess with them and forget about it.”
“And did you?” asked Fili. “Leave them alone, I mean.”
“Hm, not for a while. I believe I had just turned sixteen the last time I crossed paths with them. I had been walking down the river as always when I came across two elves pacing the border of their lands. They seemed agitated so, of course, I had to bother them. These elves, however, were not so nice. Even though I had not crossed their borders, they attacked me. I ran like the fires of Mordor were upon my heels and dodged most of their arrows, but one lodged into the back of my knee. I still have the scar it left behind.”
“Can I see it?” Kili’s eyes had widened and appeared to have a childish glint of curiosity within them.
I chuckled. “It is nothing special. Once you have seen one scar, you have seen them all.”
He pouted. “I guess so.”
“There, all done, lass,” Oin lightly patted my arm and I blinked in surprise, looking down at the bandages that had been wrapped around the wound.
“You work quick, master dwarf. I did not even notice that you were done applying the paste.”
Kili laughed. “You can thank us later!”
Bofur rolled his eyes, an amused smile on his lips. “Hey, I’m the one that started it.”
“Thank you, Bofur,” I offered him a smile, which he returned with one of his own.
Kili and Fili exchanged a knowing look before grinning, but they said nothing.
“Thank you, Oin,” I smiled at the older dwarf before pulling my hand from Bofur’s and standing up, approaching Gandalf who sat upon a rock at the edge of our camp, smoking thoughtfully from his pipe.
“Can we talk?” I questioned softly, leaning against the tree in front of him.
“But of course, my dear Ronan,” he smiled kindly. “What’s on your mind?”
“Back in Rivendell, that she-elf, Galadriel, she spoke to me within my mind.”
“Yes, she does that quite often. What did she say?”
I shifted from one foot to the other. “She told me that I need to find something.”
“Oh?” he raised a brow, eyes shining curiously.
“The dragonstone. The problem is that I have never heard of such a thing. I do not know how or where to begin.”
“The dragonstone,” he repeated, furrowing his brow in thought. “It has been a long time since anyone has mentioned that.”
“So you do know of it, then?” I wondered, stepping closer and glancing toward the dwarves. They were preoccupied fighting about the stew’s ingredients.
“Oh yes. No one knows for sure where the ring came from or even how to use its power. If my memory serves me, lord Elrond once had possession of it before it passing it on to your clan.”
“If my clan was possession of the ring, then,” I frowned at the ground. “It was most likely lost during one of the orc raids.”
“Or taken,” he offered.
I sighed, falling back against the tree. “How am I to find it, then? The way she spoke made it appear as if it were quite important that I do so.”
Gandalf hummed thoughtfully, taking a puff of his pipe before exhaling a ring of smoke. “Perhaps the solution is as simple as sitting back and waiting.”
“You really think that will work? That the ring will just… come to me?”
“Well, it’s certainly not likely but it is possible.”
“Maybe I should have asked Elrond, after all.”
“That would have been wise.”
“Ronan!” Bofur called, waving his hand in the air. “The stew is done!”
“Be right there!” I called back.
“For now,” Gandalf smiled. “I wouldn’t worry too much. Focus on what’s in front of you.”
“I will do my best.”
“I know you will, my dear Ronan.”
━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━
I peered over the rocks, eyes narrowed at the pack of wargs and the orcs that rode them. Beside me, Bilbo did the same and when Azog paused to scan the landscape, I tugged the hobbit down by the back of his shirt. The last thing we needed was to be spotted by the defiler and his band of idiots. After a moment of pause, he kicked his warg and continued on, none the wiser to our location.
“R-Ronan,” Bilbo whispered harshly, tugging on my shirt. I raised a brow at the fear within his voice and then I heard it, the faint growling of a creature neither orc nor warg. Bilbo pointed to the left and I leaned backward, eyes growing wide.
A large bear sat not but a few feet away, watching the orcs as they fled. I knew the moment I laid eyes upon it that it was no mere bear, it was the man that had taken me in and raised me. It was Beorn. I realized now what Gandalf intended to do, but surely that would not work out in our favor. Beorn is about as fond of dwarves as dwarves are fond of elves.
Grabbing my hand, the hobbit quickly began to climb down from our perch, tugging me along behind him. I followed without a word, glancing over my shoulder, but the large bear was gone, its roar filling the night air and prompting the hobbit to run as fast as his little legs would carry him, back to where the dwarves and Gandalf were waiting.
“How close is the pack?” demanded Thorin when we got close to them.
“Too close,” Bilbo whispered, his grip tightening upon my hand. “A couple of leagues, no more. But that’s not the worst of it.”
“Have the wargs picked up our scent?” Dwalin questioned.
“Not yet, but they will do. We have another problem.”
“Did they see you?” Gandalf glanced between us and I shook my head, prompting him to raise a brow in question. “They saw you.”
“No, that’s not it.”
Gandalf nodded with pride. “What did I tell you? Quiet as a mouse. Excellent burglar material.”
The dwarves began to agree, talking loudly amongst themselves. This only further agitated Bilbo. “Will you listen? Will you just… listen?” They finally quieted down, turning their attention to him. “I’m trying to tell you there is something else out there.”
“What form did it take?” inquired Gandalf, his eyes moving to meet my own. “Like a bear?”
My lips twitched up only slightly as I nodded. His eyes widened a fraction in recognition. I suppose it was not his plan after all, but something told me it was now.
“Yes… yes, but bigger. Much bigger.”
Bofur looked between Gandalf and I, his eyes flickering down to Bilbo’s hand still clutching my own and a frown found its way onto his face. “You two knew about this beast?”
“He is no beast,” I scowled at him.
“No beast?” Bilbo sputtered in disbelief. “Did you not see the same thing I did?”
I offered no reply, ignoring the hurt look that Bofur was sending my way.
“I say we double back,” Bofur commented.
“And be run down by a pack of orcs?” Thorin questioned.
“There is a house…” began the wizard. “It’s not far from me, where we might take refuge.”
“Whose house?” questioned Thorin, suspicion clear as day within his dark eyes. “Are they friend or foe?”
I sent Gandalf a look, crossing my arms over my chest, silently communicating that this was a bad idea. Beorn would not be pleased to see such a large company of dwarves within his home. Even if Gandalf and I were there, I cannot guarantee how the man will react.
Gandalf seemed to mull over the options within his mind for a moment. “Neither. He will help us or… he will kill us.”
I sighed heavily, running a hand through my short hair. As badly as I wanted to see Beorn again, I was not sure these circumstances would be the ideal way to meet up with him once more. If I am put into a position where I must choose the man that had become my family or those that I had sworn to protect… I cannot even think of such a thing, but I know who I will choose.
“What choice do we have?” Thorin finally stated, his gaze sliding across his men.
An ungodly howl rang throughout the night, quite close and very angry.
When I first found about Turner Mohan (my previous posts about him are here), I was just over one of those periods of binge-reading the Silmarillion and imagining the extraordinary world created by J. R. R. Tolkien. And I couldn’t believe what I found.
In his huge Deviantart gallery, Turner Mohan gives extensive descriptions about each of his sketches. He puts a lot of effort in analyzing in a very logical and historical way why the peoples and races of Arda look like that, produce those clothings, live in those architectures. Not only he is a talented artist, not only he has an impressively deep knowledge of Tolkenian lore, but even more he is a kind of fantasy anthropologist. Some examples (taken from the link) are below:
(Maybe I love his art so much because we imagined things in a similar way, so it’s like he draws almost exactly as I thought, for example with the first elves being similar to native americans, and eaarly orcs similar to primitive men.)
his description:
In the Lord of the Rings, the elves are presented almost across the board as these saintly, somewhat removed beings. They are ‘the Wise,“ stewards of the World and advisors to the younger races, their words giving hope to our mortal heroes in their darkest hours. They are getting ready to depart forever for the West, and hand over the world they have loved and fought for for countless millennia to mankind, and one senses that this last battle against the evil of Sauron is for them a tying up of theological loose ends, before they leave men to inherit the Earth. To those previously familiar only with LOTR and 'the Hobbit,’ it is perhaps the greatest surprise of 'the Silmarillion’ and the rest of Tolkien’s posthumously released work to see the elves presented as "young;” proud, impetuous, dynamic beings who act on impulse, who can be jealous, manipulative, abusive, evil. With none is this more apparent than with Feanor and his sons, and I don’t think it’s any mistake that they are particular favorites of fans and fan-artitsts. In them we get to see the (what would have to be) tremendous, really super-human, pride and contempt of these immortal beings, aware of their role as “princes” in a world ordained for them by their Creator and possessive of their status as the “firstborn” in the face of emerging humanity. With Celegorm and Curufin, antagonists to the first-ever human/elven coupling of Beren and Luthien, we really get to see this up close; Celegorm’s self absorbed, un-feeling “love” for Luthien, and Curufin’s stewing, murderous indignation after his humiliation at Beren’s hands. Their driving emotions follow patterns of romantic jealousy and prejudice that are all too familiar and, really, all too “human.” Coming from the bottomless wisdom and kindness of figures like Elrond or Galadriel, well, its a surprise, and something of a shot in the arm for the creatures in whom Tolkien invested the greatest part of his love and creative energy, but who often come off in his best known works as just little anemic.
A note on design: the garments for these two have a little bit of everything in them, Greek, Egyptian, Indian, Germanic, Japanese, Elizabethan, Native American, even a bit of 1700’s “georgian” styles. I’m increasingly attracted to the idea of the elves, in their material culture, as pan-cultural, or more like proto-(human)-cultural; they were, in themselves and in the things they made, these beings of beauty and natural artistry “beyond the measure of men” that mankind remembers from our mythic prehistory, and who all human cultures through our long history have sought, unconsciously, to recall through our arts and mythos.
And a note on Celegorm’s hair: as a son of Feanor and Nerdanel, yes it was almost certainly Tolkien’s intent for Celegorm to be dark-haired. I expect his descriptor 'the fair’ (“fair” being used in antiquated English and often by Tolkien to mean both beautiful and/or light-colored) has been the major cause of the popular imagining of the character as a blond but, well, the image works, it sets him so perfectly as the classic, gleaming prince opposite gritty, human Beren. I’ve entertained the idea (and may get to one day show it in a colored image) of celegorm as nearly sheet white (and white, rather than golden, haired) perhaps the product of a kind of elven Albinism, regarded by them (as it likely was by much of ancient humanity) as not a defect but this rare and kind of awe-striking anomaly.
his description:
“But of those unhappy ones who were ensnared by Melkor little is known of a certainty. For who of the living has descended into the pits of Utumno, or has explored the darkness of the counsels of Melkor? Yet this is held true by the wise of Eressëa, that all those of the Quendi who came into the hands of Melkor, ere Utumno was broken, were put there in prison, and by slow arts of cruelty were corrupted and enslaved; and thus did Melkor breed the hideous race of the Orcs in envy and mockery of the Elves, of whom they were afterwards the bitterest foes. For the Orcs had life and multiplied after the manner of the Children of Ilúvatar; and naught that had life of its own, nor the semblance of life, could ever Melkor make since his rebellion in the Ainulindalë before the Beginning: so say the wise. And deep in their dark hearts the Orcs loathed the Master whom they served in fear, the maker only of their misery. This it may be was the vilest deed of Melkor, and the most hateful to Ilúvatar.”
The Silmarillion, chapter 3 “of the coming of the elves and the captivity of melkor”
Orcs fascinate me; the perpetual foot soldiers of Evil, inherently cruel, nasty creatures that are ultimately the end result of horrendous, deforming torture, both in origin as a species, and, I would imagine, on an individual level by the cruel, brutal nature of their societies. Do orcs love their children? Their parents? Are they capable of having friends even amongst their own kind? All questions that Tolkien leaves largely, frustratingly, unanswered; nowhere in either his books or in the jackson films do we ever get to see orcs as anything other than these horrible all-purpose antagonists, fighting, growling, and just being generally unpleasant, but I would think, just like humans or any other type of creature, that the vast majority of their actual day-to-day existence is spent just kind of getting through life; breathing, eating, sleeping, shitting, having sex where they can get it, sitting still, walking around, letting their minds wander. who knows where those minds go? if they sometimes, in a quiet moment, rise out of the squalid meanness that seems to be their psychological fallback position?
Physically i wanted these to have the feel of debased, devolved creatures; their bones and muscles bent and warped away from the greek perfection of their elvish progenitors. tolkien’s world doesn’t seem to operate by evolution - both humanity and all other living things in middle-earth simply springing to life, garden-of-eden style, more or less fully formed - but the orcs (and other evil humanoid creatures like trolls/giants) seem a good opportunity to draw from a lot of the physical traits of pre-humans, or of our cousins in the ape and monkey families, to give them the feel of having basically evolved backwards. There is strong and, to me, very convincing theory that a lot of the mythology of trolls and goblins and such are a leftover from early-modern man’s interactions with the then-dwindling race of neaderthals, and certainly this seems to have influenced the physical portrayal of fairy tale monsters throughout history, right up to the classic illustrations of John Bauer and Arthur Rackham, and i wanted to keep these in that fairy tale goblin tradition, while taking them through perhaps a more serious, conscious biological lense; weather-beaten faces and bodies, long arms and torsos, short bow legs, bunched, narrow shoulders, crooked necks, big hands and feet, prehensile toes, rough, feral body hair distribution.
I don’t think any movie will make me feel the same ethereal sense of otherworldly sorrow and disembodied awe as that scene in Lord of the Rings where the loyal son is sent off into a doomed battle to please his vindictive father while Pippin sings a mourning song of his people
I was like 12 and high off this shit
These movies CHANGED ME
This is one of my favourite parts of the whole trilogy. It’s haunting.
And that Pippin takes actually a happy walking song of his people, because Hobbit songs are generally happy and about food and drink and gifts and things, and *transforms* it into a mourning song.
The song is from Fellowship, before all the heavy plot hits and they’re still in the Shire. It’s about walking, and how eventually all the bad things that scare or sadden you will fade away and you’ll be home warm by the fire.
And Pippin takes it, changes the lines, the key, and sings a song that is truly fit for Denethor’s great hall.
Knowing Billy Boyd gave his own melody to it and everyone had chills after hearing him sing it. This is how you get actors involved with the story and character, this is how amazingly well these films were cast. Fans have been singing that haunting tune in echoing halls and caves and towers for 20 years now and it never loses its beauty.
POP CULTURE - Funny and twisted illustrations by Ben Chen Funny and twisted illustrations of Ben Chen, filled with references to famous pop culture characters! Note that many of his illustrations were published as t-shirts at Threadless. l Via Ufunk.
