Blogging The Silmarillion: Of northern-ness, the death of Fëanor and the creep of doom

Part four of Blogging the Silmarillion continues with chapters 10-15 of the Quenta Silmarillion.
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“If we insist on asking for the moral of the story, that is its moral: a recall from facile optimism and wailing pessimism alike, to that hard, yet not quite desperate, insight into Man’s unchanging predicament by which heroic ages have lived. It is here that the Norse affinity is strongest: hammerstrokes but with compassion.”

—C.S. Lewis, “The Dethronement of Power,” from Tolkien and the Critics

J.R.R. Tolkien said in a letter that “The Lord of the Rings is of course a fundamentally religious and Catholic work; unconsciously so at first, but consciously in the revision.” While true, this oft-quoted statement has led some critics and observers to pigeonhole it and his works as simple analogues of Christianity. This leads to conclusions that The Silmarillion is a parable of the Fall of Man, for instance, when in fact Tolkien’s legendarium is perhaps more akin to a hauberk of hard scale armor, its iron plates hammered together from a mosaic of influences, both Christian and other.

The deeper you get into The Silmarillion the more you feel a coldness grip your spine. It’s a bitter wind whose source is the wild North. As the late Steve Tompkins once said, “Norse and Celtic elements are as integral to The Silmarillion as are hydrogen and oxygen to water; the book is so northern that compasses point quiveringly in its direction.” While it may have been only hinted at in past chapters, this northern-ness resounds like the great hammer of Thor in the section of The Silmarillion that I plan to cover here.

Chapter 10 of The Silmarillion moves the action from Valinor over to Middle-earth, specifically the lands of Beleriand which lie west of the mountains of Ered Luin. These next six chapters, though they contain three major battles, are largely a time of uneasy peace: Morgoth is forced inside his fortress of Angband where he remains under the watchful eyes of the Noldor, which begins a siege that lasts some 400 years.

The Noldor win all three of the first major Battles of Beleriand, the third of which (the Dagor Aglareb) results in utter ruin for a large force of orcs, which is completely destroyed before the gates of Angband. Yet the Elves suffer great casualties themselves. Wary of further attacks, they build great city-fortresses to protect themselves against further sorties. These include Menegroth, Nargothrond, and the hidden mountain fortress of Gondolin (above).

Indeed, while the Elves have the upper hand, it’s a momentary victory: Despair and impending tragedy weigh heavily on this section of The Silmarillion. More than once I felt the cold hand of a northern Doom laid upon my shoulder as I read.

In chapter 13 (“Of the Return of the Noldor”) we learn the fate of Fëanor. He and the Noldor land on the wasteland of Lammoth and disembark with shouts and great cries. Aroused by the tumult and by the burning of the Teleri ships, a great force of orcs arrive and attack. But with Fëanor at their head the Noldor drive them back in ruin.

Yet Fëanor in his pride crosses a bridge too far. He wildly presses the attack, an unquenchable firebrand bringing destruction to his enemies all the way to the gates of Angband. With his fortress in danger of being overrun Melkor calls in the heavy artillery: a force of Balrogs. Surrounded by these great spirits of the Maiar, Feanor incredibly fights on, but is eventually mortally wounded. His sons bear him from the field. Blood streaming from his wounds, Fëanor beholds the great volcanic peaks of the Thangorodrim which serve as a ring around Angband, and knows that the Noldor will never be able to take the fortress alone. At a glance, he knows his mission has been in vain. But rather than tell his sons to abandon their suicidal mission, Fëanor curses Morgoth thrice with his dying breath. He urges his sons to avenge him and hold to their oath. When he dies, Fëanor’s body is consumed by its own fiery energies.

So what are we to make of this mightiest of the Noldorin race? Does Fëanor serve as a simple instructive example to not become too attached to the works of our own hands, nor to swear oaths that place earthly objectives above the divine? The Valar Ulmo issues a warning which it seems folly to ignore: “Love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy heart.” Fëanor is guilty of both trangressions, and dies because of it.

Yet this greatest of the Noldorin is something more than a mere allegorical example. I don’t believe that Tolkien was unsympathetic of Fëanor —that’s not the way he’s portrayed in The Silmarillion. He may be a casualty of his own limitless pride, and/or a victim of the lies of Morgoth, but Fëanor’s warrior spirit is a thing of beauty. He is a larger than life hero, and not a law-abiding, humble citizen “hero” with which we associate the term today, but a Greek or Norse hero, strong in arms and sure of purpose. He is a blazing flame among dimmer lights, and one that I cannot help but admire.

In Tom Shippey’s The Road to Middle-earth (and if you like Tolkien but haven’t read Shippey, get that fixed), Shippey states that one of Tolkien’s primary objectives in writing The Lord of the Rings was to dramatise and elevate the “theory of courage” from old Northern literature. The central tenet of this theory is that man and gods are doomed to suffer ultimate defeat at Ragnarök, the great last battle, but that defeat is no refutation. “The right side remains right even if it has no ultimate hope at all,” explains Shippey.

Now, I don’t believe that what Fëanor did was right. His actions brought ruin and death to countless Elves who otherwise would have lived merry lives in the sun of an earthly paradise. But if we can put ourselves in Fëanor’s position, his reckless oath of bringing war to Morgoth is perfectly understandable: Morgoth stole his jewels, killed his father, and extinguished the light of the two trees of Valinor. Having committed himself to his mission of revenge—one that he knew was hopeless— Fëanor fulfills his vow. He makes Morgoth tremble, so close does his reckless attack come to smashing Angband. Like Achilles, Fëanor carves out a name that lives forever in the great roll of heroes in the northern tradition.

The Northmen would have greatly respected that. I think Tolkien did too.

Speaking of Northern-ness, we also learn that the Mandos-pronounced Doom of the Noldor isn’t going away any time soon, not even after Feanor’s death. It comes crashing back into the story after Thingol and Melian begin asking some uncomfortable questions about the Noldor, and why a dark cloud seems to hang about them. When Thingol learns of the Kinslaying at Alqualonde, he severs ties with the Noldor, banishing them from his realm. This creates a rift between the Sindar and Noldor that Morgoth exploits. United the strength of the Elves may have kept him penned up in Angband indefinitely, but as two tribes they will ultimately fall. And it all goes back to the Doom of the Noldor.

The Doom of the Noldor is another way in which Tolkien’s legendarium diverges from Christianity, and it’s why I refuse to classify The Silmarillion solely as a Christian parable. There is always hope for redemption in Christianity, but there is no escape or appeal from Doom; when pronounced by Mandos its fulfillment is as sure as nightfall. After they choose to follow Fëanor the Noldor are pulled along implacably with Fëanor to certain destruction. The Doom of the Noldor is in this respect much akin to the sacred oaths of the old Norse culture: Anathema to break, and often ruinous to follow.

There’s another angle to consider here: The Doom of the Noldor could be Tolkien’s statement that the old heroic way of life—the exaltation of power, might equals right—is ultimately ruinous and must come to an end if our species is to survive. Looking ahead to The Lord of the Rings, the forces of good reach the conclusion that evil power cannot be bested by power; the only way to defeat Sauron is to destroy his ring (in essence, abandoning force). Boromir is arguably the closest character in northern martial spirit to Fëanor that we have in The Lord of the Rings, and perhaps not coincidentally he shares a similar grim end.

This section of The Silmarillion (chapter 15) ends with yet another bleak foreshadowing of doom: Galadriel asks King Finrod Felagund (the eldest son of Finarfin, who is Feanor’s half-brother) why he has taken no wife. His answer is chilling:

Foresight came upon Felagund as she spoke, and he said, ‘An oath I too shall swear, and must be free to fulfill it, and go into darkness. Nor shall anything of my realm endure that a son should inherit.’

But despite the growing despair there are glimmers of hope. When Turgon leaves his ancestral home in Nevrast to retreat to the (temporary) security of hidden Gondolin, the sea-god Ulmo warns him that the curse of the Noldor will reach him even there, and “treason will awake within thy walls.” Turgon appears doomed, but Ulmo tells the Elf-king to leave behind weapons and armor for the coming of some future hope: “Leave therefore in this house arms and sword, that in years to come he may find them.”

At this point in the book we don’t know who this hero shall be, but we at least have a slim ray of light to illuminate a coming dark age in Middle-earth.

While Fëanor’s arrival in Middle-earth and death were a personal highlight of chapters 10-15, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention some of the other important details:

• Costly battles. In addition to the death of Fëanor, Denethor (not the Steward of Gondor, but a Sindar Elf) and a large force of his brethren are killed to the last man on a hill during the first Battle of Beleriand.

• The forging of a pseudo-friendship between Dwarves and Elves. Though these two races never see eye-to-eye, they are far from hostile in the first Age of Middle-earth. They share arts and knowledge, and the Elves employ the Dwarves to build their fortresses in exchange for precious gems.

• The creation of the sun and moon. I had forgotten until this re-read that Middle-earth was a lightless place for most of its early days (I can only imagine the terror Melkor must have wrought with his forces unhindered by the light of day). Two of the Valar try to restore life to the blackened, poisoned trees of Valinor: Nienna cries upon them, and Yavanna sings to them. While they cannot restore life, the two goddesses cause Telperion to bear one flower of silver which becomes the moon, and Laurelin a single fruit of gold which becomes the sun. These provide Middle-earth with its first reckoning of the passage of time, and light to hinder the deeds of Morgoth.

• The walling off of Valinor. The Valar render Valinor unreachable behind a string of enchanted isles and a wall of sleep, such that only one in after days will ever reach Valinor via ship.

• The first coming of Men into Middle-earth. The Elves’ description of Men sums up how I feel about our race in one of my darker moods: “They called them also Hildor, the Followers, and many other names: Apanonar, the After-born, Engwar, the Sickly, and Firimar, the Mortals; and they named them the Usurpers, the Strangers, and the Inscrutable, the Self-cursed, the Heavy-handed, and the Night-fearers, the Children of the Sun.”

• The first glimpse of Glaurung, a great wingless dragon. In his first appearance he emerges from the gates of Angband as a young, immature wyrm in an attempt to break the siege, and is driven back inside by Elven archers. Later, full-grown and at the height of his powers, he returns to wreak great havoc.

Terrific Tolkien: Fingon’s “helping hand” frees Maedhros

This is going to hurt, but it's for the best.

At one point in the long war Morgoth sends an embassy to treat with the Noldor. It’s pure trickery. Maedhros, son of Fëanor, is taken captive, and his companions are slain. Morgoth tortures Maedhros by chaining him by one hand to a sheer cliff in the great mountains of Thangorodrim. The Noldor are helpless to save him.

Fingon, the eldest son of Fingolfin,embarks on a rescue mission. In the barren mountains he plays on his harp an ancient song of Valinor, and the song is taken up by Maedhros, who responds with a clear Elven voice. With the help of an Eagle sent by Manwë, Fingon reaches Maedhros, but the malice-forged manacle is too strong. In order to free him Fingon cuts off his hand at the wrist. Maedhros will go on to fight better with his left hand, writes Tolkien.

Not only does this passage reveal Maedhros as a bad-ass who loses his sword hand and emerges stronger from the maiming, but it also contains an act of incalculable altruism by Fingon. With the memory of betrayal still in his heart—remember that Fingon was abandoned by Fëanor and his sons (including Maedhros) after the burning of the Teleri ships—he alone dares a deed which earns him renown, even among the feats of the brave princes of the Noldor. Afterwards, the hatred between the houses of Fingolfin and Fëanor is assuaged.