In fact, I asked the question as a note recently:

I’ll share some snippets from the comments in this article, because the perspectives were fascinating and really wide-ranging. Finally, we’ll reference a letter J.R.R. Tolkien wrote to a Mrs. Eileen Elgar in 1963 where he did theorize on this debate.

Before we go any further, a few things that must remain consistent for our debate:

• Sam and Frodo still make it across Mordor.

• They still reach Orodruin (Mount Doom).

• They still climb the mountain.

• They still enter the Sammath Naur (Chamber of Fire).

• Frodo still carries the Ring to the very edge of the Cracks of Doom.

• Frodo still refuses to destroy the Ring, and claims it as his own.

But in this case, Gollum isn’t there. So, we’re not simply asking, “Could Sam have destroyed the Ring?” We’re specifically asking, “Would Sam have fought—and potentially killed—Frodo to destroy the Ring after Frodo refused?”

For sake of conciseness, I’m going to assume you, the reader, have a good understanding of Frodo and Sam’s backstory and bond. Given that facet, let’s look at a few theories as to what would happen.

Also, and VERY IMPORTANTLY: This is an entirely speculative article. We’re solely asking what we believe Sam would’ve done based on our understanding of the written text. Most importantly, we’ll lean on Tolkien’s thoughts via the appendices and letters, some of which do (partially) answer this hypothetical question.

Theories

Theory 1: Sam Kills Frodo, Sam Destroys the Ring

One of the comments on my question note by Lythgoe indicated:

“Was his own resolve strong enough to complete the quest, and kill Frodo to destroy the Ring if need be? I believe so, because part of me believes that when he said “I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you!” it was him determined to not allow his friend to succumb to the burden of the Ring, but more so to ensure the Ring was destroyed.”

Another comment by explained:

“As for killing Frodo to do it, I think it's most likely his loyalty to Frodo himself that would have caused hesitation in the final moment (Sam has such a mercy heart!), and lead to his own demise. If, by some chance, he did kill his friend… it would have destroyed him emotionally and spiritually. He would not be the same Sam, after.”

And that’s a good distinction. We’re in now way stating Sam walks away from the event at all mentally stable. Who knows what the rest of his life would’ve looked like? But that’s not the question necessarily.

There are some legitimate reasons why this theory holds weight. Primarily, Sam’s love for the Shire was one of his (not saying the utmost, but certainly up there)—and Frodo’s—motivations for destroying the Ring. Collectively, the destruction of Sauron’s weapon wasn’t their end goal, it was simply to return home. The only way to return home, and more specifically: returning to the same home they left behind (unbeknownst to them, already corrupted) was to destroy the Ring. It was a means to an end, and this isn’t cheapening their intentions, it’s illuminating the fact that they held something near and dear as a motivation to press on. But to get back to the main question, would Sam have killed Frodo in order to take the Ring and destroy it? We can certainly look at their affinities for the Shire, and by extension, Middle-earth, believing that the only way to preserve their way of life was to destroy the Ring (and anyone or anything standing in their way)—in which case, Sam would have potentially made the split-second decision to kill Frodo to destroy the Ring.

And we’re skipping past the HUGE hole in this theory, that Sam would’ve been immune to the temptation of the Ring and still cast it into the fire. But, given the opportunity very briefly, Sam had already exerted a certain degree of resistance to the Ring, in the chapter “The Choices of Master Samwise” from The Two Towers, after believing Frodo Baggins had been killed by Shelob. He does catch a glimpse of his power-hungry desire, but quickly shuns it. Is it enough to say he would’ve been immune to it again at the fires of Orodruin? Maybe…

Here’s where the theory doesn’t work…

We never actually read of Sam’s motivation for saving the Shire being above his commitment to protect Frodo. (More to come on that). We never see Sam harming Frodo in any of their many disagreements on their journey. If Sam’s true motivation were to ensure the destruction of the Ring, he would’ve acted on his loathing of Gollum as soon as he had an idea they could get to their final destination, and then turn on Frodo, knowing the Ring wouldn’t give Frodo autonomy. But he doesn’t—not even close. I like the thoughts of Sam’s allegiance to the Shire, and we can’t minimize that, so the potential is probably valid. I just don’t think it’s true to the text.

And back to the part where Sam did briefly resist the Ring’s temptation: two things stick out. 1. His allegiance to Frodo, still alive and under torment took priority to dispel the Ring’s lust in that moment. If Sam had killed Frodo in this case, now claiming the Ring as his own, I have to imagine his hierarchy of priorities would be different and without his master’s safety on the line anymore, the Ring would’ve been much more enticing. 2. As Tolkien stated many times, the burden and lust of the Ring only grew as they got closer to Mount Doom. So, in the case of Sam holding the Ring, Frodo slain, at its pinnacle strength, and no one to stop him from being the ultimate Ringbearer, I don’t think we can confidently say he would’ve destroyed it.

Theory 2: Sam Kills Frodo and Himself to Destroy the Ring

Referring to everything in the first theory, we have to make an important distinction: likely, if this were the decision, it would need to have been a push—both throwing Frodo, bearing the Ring, into the fire—and himself! I like what wrote in her reply:

“One thing I could imagine: He wouldn't have taken the Ring or destroyed it himself. He would have gone over the edge with Frodo holding/ wearing the Ring. “Carrying” Frodo the rest of the way.”

Similarly to what stated:

“Sam would have tackled Frodo, both of them falling into the pits of Doom, embracing in death.”

This theory, where both hobbits die, prevents a scenario where Frodo is dead and Sam is left to determine the outcome of the Ring. Imagine, in some strange outcome, where Sam fought Frodo, took the Ring from him, Frodo perished in the battle, and Sam was left as the Ringbearer with the decision to toss it into the fire. This is already where the theories are dismantled, so to eliminate that possibility, there’s the case where Sam tackles Frodo, Ring in hand, and they both tumble to their deaths, effectively destroying the Ring. They’d be with each other until the literal end.

I like what thought:

“Sam has a very deontological worldview toward the Shire, so my bet would be that he would maybe have maimed rather than kill Frodo, but if necessary for sure would have [killed], in order to destroy the Ring.”

Oddly enough, Tolkien did once say in one of his letters that Gollum with “'possession' satisfied…would then have sacrificed himself for Frodo's sake and have voluntarily cast himself into the fiery abyss.” So, I have to wonder if Sam could’ve done the same thing. It would’ve checked both boxes of claiming the Ring and destroying it. But, of course, not for Frodo’s sake, in this case being a murderer. We’ll dissect more in the next section why this theory really doesn’t hold up.

Theory 3: Sam Cannot Kill Frodo, but Pleas for Frodo to Reconsider

This, in my estimation, is the most likely outcome for a Gollum-less ending. The hobbits make it to Mount Doom, Frodo reaches the fiery chamber—yet the lust of the Ring is too powerful for him. And so, he backs off, leaving Sam a decision: does he fight Frodo to take the Ring and attempt to destroy it for the sake of Middle-earth? Does he try negotiating? Does he just submit and walk out with Frodo?

And remember, at this point, given that the Ringwraiths and Sauron now understand the hobbits are at Orodruin, they are on their way to seize them and reclaim the Ring. So, they have a limited amount of time to make a decision. This is where Sam would plea to Frodo, repeatedly, that they MUST complete their mission. It would likely turn into a verbal dispute, but Sam wouldn’t use any force on Frodo. And both intuitively and experientially at his point, given he sensed the brief power of the Ring at Cirith Ungol, Sam knows that no one can resist the Ring. He knows that Frodo’s inability to destroy the Ring would be his own inability as well—so killing his friend and master would’ve only passed the same burden onto himself, and therefore, he would’ve walked away from the task just as well, yet now a murder. So, he wouldn’t have killed Frodo. Throwing Frodo into a volcano isn’t within the realm of Sam possibilities.

Significantly, and this is where we’ll find the closest to an “answer”, Tolkien provided meaningful context in a letter to a Mrs. Eileen Elgar, penned in 1963:

“…for one thing, it became at last quite clear that Frodo after all that had happened would be incapable of voluntarily destroying the Ring.

At the last moment the pressure of the Ring would reach its maximum – impossible, I should have said, for any one to resist, certainly after long possession, months of increasing torment, and when starved and exhausted.”1

Notice, Tolkien explicitly states “impossible…for any one to resist”, adding the qualifier too that Frodo’s tenuous burden only solidified the baseline truth—that even the arduous journey aside, no one could’ve surrendered the Ring over. No one, including Sam. We can agree, I hope, that Sam knew he wouldn’t have been able to give up the Ring much like Frodo, so he certainly didn’t want to be placed in that situation, even worse with blood on his hands.

And so, the answer I believe we can confidently reach, both using logic of the text and Tolkien’s letters is that Sam wouldn’t have laid a finger on Frodo in retribution for keeping the Ring. He would’ve attempted to talk his way into changing his mind, but no use. That’s not to say Frodo wouldn’t have assaulted Sam to get out of the way—and that’s a debate for another day—but they would’ve quarreled until the enemy captured them, claimed the Ring for their own, and either killed or tortured the hobbits for the rest of their lives. And thankfully—providentially, even—this doesn’t happen. Tolkien addressed that truth as well in the same letter:

“Frodo had done what he could and spent himself completely (as an instrument of Providence) and had produced a situation in which the object of his quest could be achieved. His humility (with which he began) and his sufferings were justly rewarded by the highest honour; and his exercise of patience and mercy towards Gollum gained him Mercy: his failure was redressed.”2

And this exposition of “mercy” is just as much to do with Sam as it did with Frodo. After all, Sam stayed his hand at Mount Doom, releasing Gollum one final time, which ultimately led to Gollum attacking Frodo at the fiery pit, which of course led to the “accidental” (looking at providence again) slipping into the flames, killing Gollum and destroying the Ring. Sam’s mercy toward Gollum and Frodo’s refusal to throw it in, is eventually how the Ring was destroyed. Tolkien added of Sam in Letter 246:

“Sam was cocksure, and deep down a little conceited; but his conceit had been transformed by his devotion to Frodo. He did not think of himself as heroic or even brave, or in any way admirable – except in his service and loyalty to his master. That had an ingredient (probably inevitable) of pride and possessiveness: it is difficult to exclude it from the devotion of those who perform such service.”3

And that might be the smoking gun, the final piece to our puzzle. Sam’s motives were never steeped in having his name etched in the annals of Shire lore—although he wouldn’t pass it up. He wasn’t primarily focused on saving his homeland—yet it was a hugely motivating factor. He was fixed on his “service and loyalty to his master”. This is why when push came to shove (no pun intended) Sam would’ve been a pacifist to Frodo’s “failure” to the power of the Ring.

Finally, Tolkien takes the commanding role of “author” instead of “lore curator” and breaks down the third wall for us:

“This is due of course to the 'logic of the story'. Sam could hardly have acted differently. (He did reach the point of pity at last (III 221-222) but for the good of Gollum too late.) If he had, what could then have happened? The course of the entry into Mordor and the struggle to reach Mount Doom would have been different, and so would the ending.”4

In other words: It wouldn’t have been as good of a story! This isn’t a cop-out answer—it’s entirely accurate, for the same reasons the Fellowship didn’t take the Eagles (aside from it being an impossibility) or the fact Isildur didn’t destroy the Ring when he first possessed it, or why—and I love this theory—the fellowship didn’t put the ring on the mouse with a leash and just let it carry it to Mount Doom so they could avoid the temptation. Simply put: It just wouldn’t have been as good of a story.

I love debates like this. Truly, I hope nothing in here comes across as arrogant or presumptive. Tolkien essentially gave us the answer to our debate in Letter 246, and a bit of logical thought processes help us fill in the gaps. If there are other “debate” topics you’d like to approach, feel free to get the conversation going!

Cheers.

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• Aragorn, of course, who not only served as chief protector and guide of the Fellowship, bu…

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Reca…

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Chapter 9: The G…

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Chapter 3: Mount Doom

The chapter opens with Sam and Frodo making their final desperate push across the wasteland of Gorgoroth toward Orodruin. Their food and water are nearly gone, and Frodo is visib…

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Chapter 1: The Tower of Cirith Ungol

The chapter opens immediately after the apparent death of Frodo. Sam, having b…

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In Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus spends ten long years trying to return home after the Trojan War, driven largely by longing for Ithaca and the people waiting for him there. That longing—what we would now call nostalgia—keeps him moving forward through shipwrecks, loss, and near-death encounters. Even when offered comfort, love, and immortality by the nymph Calypso, Odysseus ultimately chooses the difficult journey home instead. His desire to return was justly rooted in loyalty: a deep love for his family and his homeland and the life that shaped him.1

Psychologists have increasingly argued that nostalgia isn’t merely escapism, but an important emotional regulation tool. Research from psychologists like Constantine Sedikides and Tim Wildschut has shown nostalgia can increase feelings of meaning, belonging, and continuity in life. In other words, nostalgia helps people remember who they are.2 For many men—especially those raised in cultures that discouraged emotional openness—memory becomes one of the safest available languages for emotion. It feels easier to say, “Remember that old album?” than, “I miss who I was back then.” That runs deep for me. I have an ability to throw a song on (I’d bet it’s hundreds if not close to a thousand songs) and can tell you exactly who I was with, what year (and sometimes month) it was, what other big things were going on in my life, how it made me feel—the first time I heard it. Some favorites:

• “London Thunder” by Foals: 2015, first week of classes my senior year at Virginia Tech, I was sitting in my roommate’s desk chair while he was picking out a hat—his laptop speakers playing the recently-released What Went Down album. I can recall the details of what I was wearing down to the side comments we were making about dinner plans that night (tacos) as we enjoyed the song.

• “Stillness of Heart” by Lenny Kravitz: October 2013, sitting alone in my dorm room eating Cheetos Cheddar Jalapeño with Arizona sweet tea. All I saw in my mind’s eye when I heard it was the sights and sounds of Times Square in the early 2000’s (or what I imagined it might be in those days) so on a complete whim and total misuse of my summer job savings, I bought a plane ticket to NYC—and yes, I went there the next week, standing in Times Square with my headphones in, Kravitz on repeat, for an hour. And then I caught a plane back to school.

• “Satellite” by Guster. Junior year of high school, chemistry class—my friend Ryan shared his earbuds with me to show me what he’d been listening to. Midway through Guster’s hit I was downloading it on my laptop.

You get the point.

I’m fascinated by how physical nostalgia can be for men. Women are often culturally permitted to process emotion verbally and relationally. Men, however, are frequently socialized toward attachment through activity and shared experience. Researchers studying male friendship patterns have found that many men connect shoulder-to-shoulder rather than face-to-face. They bond while doing something together: fishing, gaming, driving, watching sports, building things. In ministry, we see this often. Men’s conferences must include your stereotypical male activity—axe throwing is all the rage—whereas women’s conferences function great around tables where dialogue is the activity. And for us, years later, the memory of the activity becomes emotionally charged because it secretly carries the weight of the relationship itself.

That may explain why certain places hit men with almost spiritual force. Empty basketball courts at dusk. Old diners. Gas stations in small towns—there’s a parking lot in Galax, Virginia that just crushes me. The aisle of a video rental store that no longer exists: I reminisce far more than I should about the second aisle to the left in my hometown Hollywood Video where I would go religiously in fourth grade to rent Kingdom Hearts for my PS2 with my allowance money.

Those places can become emotional containers. Psychologists refer to this partly through the concept of autobiographical memory—the way physical environments become tied to identity formation and emotional milestones. A parking lot is never just a parking lot once a meaningful season of life happened there. I know I’m not the only man who’s driven to parking lots, neighborhoods, side streets—as an attempt to reclaim something—anything—from “the good old days”.

I think this is also why so many men revisit the same media repeatedly. The same albums. The same fantasy novels. The same war films. The same childhood games. I watch the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy (extended edition; I don’t make the rules) every single year, in the fall because that’s the best time to watch them (again, I don’t make the rules). My brothers and I watch Elf the week before Christmas every single year, even now when marriage and vocation have pulled our availabilities shockingly slim: we still make every effort to watch Will Ferrell in tights. Every year as summer winds down I read “Anthem” by Ayn Rand. Much of it bores me now, admittedly, but it’s not about the content anymore.

Studies on nostalgic media consumption suggest people often return to familiar stories during periods of stress, transition, or instability because familiarity creates emotional grounding. Revisiting old stories becomes less about entertainment and more about orientation. It reminds people of earlier versions of themselves that still feel alive somewhere underneath adulthood.

And adulthood does have a way of covering people up. Especially men. Performance slowly replaces wonder. Utility replaces imagination. Many men spend years becoming providers, managers, employees, husbands, fathers, leaders—important things, beautiful things even—but somewhere underneath those responsibilities remains the boy who stayed outside until the streetlights came on. I always joke that we’ve tragically replaced hunting sabretooth cats for Excel spreadsheets; men weren’t built for this. Nostalgia can feel painful because it reconnects men not only to memories, but to unguarded versions of themselves they no longer know how to access consistently. Or, if we do, it’s not something we like to broadcast.

There’s an interesting psychological tension here: nostalgia is often strongest during periods of uncertainty. Studies published in journals like Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin have found that people become more nostalgic when experiencing loneliness, life transitions, or existential anxiety3. That means the modern world may actually be intensifying nostalgia in men. And that makes sense, because we live in an era where communities are weaker and male friendships grow thinner quicker; institutions are distrusted and identity is increasingly unstable. Many men instinctively reach backward searching for emotional solidity. No blame in that.

Sometimes this gets misunderstood as immaturity. A grown man cares too much about old baseball cards, old bands, old movies, old stories. But I suspect what appears childish is often protective. It is for me at least. Nostalgia gives coherence to life. It tells a person their story mattered, and it still might. Researchers have even found that nostalgia can counter feelings of meaninglessness and depression by reinforcing a sense of personal continuity across time. The old song is never just an old song. It’s proof your life has been real and connected and human.

What many men may secretly need is permission to acknowledge sentimentality without embarrassment. Not every emotional life needs to emerge through dramatic vulnerability or public confession—I’m not advocating for that. Sometimes emotion emerges through restoration projects, playlists, old photographs, road trips back home, or telling the same stories again and again and again every time the old friend comes back to town. One of my all-time best friends moved away a decade ago—and without fail, every time we see each other over the holidays, we recount the time we skipped our calculus class and scheduled doctors’ appointments solely to get absent notes to give ourselves more time to take the test we dreaded (we still failed).

Sentimentality isn’t a weakness. In many ways, it’s evidence that a person has loved their life, at least portions of it, deeply enough to miss parts of it.

And maybe that’s the quiet truth beneath all this: men are often far more sentimental than they portray. Beneath the humor, sarcasm, hobbies, and rituals are memories they carry with astonishing tenderness:

They (I) remember the friend who moved away in seventh grade and the sketch of the hermit crab they (I) sent in the mail to them. I remember the first drive alone at night, uneventful as far as traffic went but spent driving through various neighborhoods as I rehearsed my presentation for Spanish II that I needed to ace the next day. I remember the smell of my grandparents’ house—not because it was necessarily pleasant (although it was)—but because to be in that house meant summer break had arrived, my grandparents (at least one) were alive, fresh-picked berries were on the dessert menu, the afternoons were spent traipsing the nearby forest and the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in awaited me each evening. We return to the album not only because it’s a constant hit from beginning to end, but because it got us through the heartbreak. I keep my Virginia Tech football game tickets, regardless of the outcome, because it’s evidence of time spent with my father, a tradition I now plan to share with my son, as soon as he’s ready.

Men may not always speak the language of emotion fluently, but nostalgia has a way of translating for us.

Thanks for letting me muse.

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Maybe you rehearsed the exit in your head long before you actually left. Maybe you checked the time too often, wandered toward the snacks to look occupied, or lingered in a bathroom stall for sixty seconds of silence just to reset your brain. Maybe you drove home feeling equal parts relieved and guilty—as though wanting solitude was somehow a failure of character. And, naturally, that drive home was solo, while the gathering continued behind.

Have a hand raised? You’re like me, then. I suppose this is my love letter to quiet people, those of quiet nights and early exits.

I once was told by a fellow introvert that they felt like they existed forever at the edge of the room. Conversations overheard, a few glances of eye contact here and there, a wave from an acquaintance, but generally disconnected from the main event. The excitement seemingly shared by everyone but us rages on in the center of the room—marked laughs and stories—and we stand at the edge, waiting to be engaged but completely comfortable when we’re not. Life from the edge of the room.

I take a small offramp from my passion project, , to reflect on a different type of journey: existing as an introvert in a LOUD world.

As a quick aside: Finding Substack when I did was a godsend. Truly. I’m not all that opposed to social media—I think there’s an element of empowerment we introverts gain from it where the screen and degrees of anonymity make the pressure of “social” a bit less palpable. But Substack, which I still hesitate to label as “social media” has been a remarkable vehicle to bring together people who traditionally were wanting something more purposeful, thoughtful, true to themselves—a place where the thoughts they’ve had spinning in their heads but never felt comfortable releasing could finally peel back the self-imposed layers. Maybe I’m over-emphasizing this platform but, hey, you’re likely here for some similar reasons as me.

The Ideal

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking is one of my favorite books…ever. I’m not a “self-help” guy and admittedly am a little too skeptical—and quite honestly: jaded—with social sciences. Still, this book was a breath of much needed fresh air. I won’t belabor the points Susan Cain presents within, but I was deeply moved when I read the following:

“Introversion—along with its cousins sensitivity, seriousness, and shyness—is now a second-class personality trait, somewhere between a disappointment and a pathology. Introverts living in the Extrovert Ideal are like women in a man's world, discounted because of a trait that goes to the core of who they are. Extroversion is an enormously appealing personality style, but we've turned it into an oppressive standard to which most of us feel we must conform.”1

It’s exhausting feeling like we have to compete with the extrovert ideal. And we could all share our experiences as such. But that’s not Cain’s point to the book; neither is that my reason for writing this piece.

I’m not sure where I fall on the introvert-extrovert spectrum. I’m a pastor. I often find myself the mouthpiece in large groups of people. I married into a family of extroverts. I’ve missed two home Virginia Tech football games in 20 years. Practically, I find myself in overtly-social situations more often than not and for that reason I constantly feel like I’m running on fumes. Maybe you can relate. After all introversion doesn’t mean we’re anti-social. By definition, humans are social beings. And also by definition, introverts simply recharge in isolation from the drain most social settings provided, whereas extroverts are complete opposite: isolation is draining and they need to fill their social battery.

The Right Lighting

Hear me now: introversion can be great. Not good. Great.

Easy? Absolutely not. And it probably took all of us far too long trying on different masks before we came to grips with our idealistic self. It wasn’t until after the pressures of high school—and especially college (for five years!)—that I realized the social facade I played wasn't really fooling people and certainly wasn’t helping myself.

I’ve always wanted a bonsai tree. I want to care for it, trim the branches with those little specialty scissors like any good bonsai caretaker would do. I want multiple. A whole bonsai forest. But as I did some research I learned I can’t keep it in my work office given the fact I have no windows, no natural light, a place where the trees couldn’t thrive. To really care for a bonsai tree would mean changing my environment; I’d need to get the lighting right.

So it is with the introvert.

The truth we all know is the first one we should accept: You don’t “break” introversion. The second truth is one we have a harder time accepting: you can still thrive as an introvert. I do. I struggle with more than half of the social situations I’m in. However, there are ways to change the “lighting” that play to our strengths and keep our weaknesses at bay.

Some Souls Need Stillness

The difficult thing about being an introvert is that most of us learned to interpret our wiring as weakness long before we understood it as design. Somewhere along the way, we absorbed the idea that the loudest person in the room must also be the healthiest, happiest, most confident version of a human being. Must be nice! The outgoing kid got called “a natural leader.” The quieter kid got asked if something was wrong. And if you heard that enough times growing up, eventually you started asking yourself the same question. Maybe something is wrong. Maybe I am wrong.

So we adapted. We became performers. Maybe not dramatically so, but subtly. We laughed a little louder than we naturally would. We said yes to things we desperately needed rest from. We stretched ourselves thin trying to meet the social expectations of people who seemed to move through crowds as effortlessly as fish through water. You and me, more like anchors. Meanwhile, every interaction felt like it cost us something invisible. Not because we disliked people—but because being “on” for too long felt like holding our breath underwater. It works for a time. And sometimes the water feels great. Eventually you have to retreat.

And the truly confusing part? Many introverts are actually good with people. Some of the kindest people I know are introverts. Some of the funniest. Some of the best conversationalists. Some of the best leaders. Introversion isn’t incompetence. It isn’t awkwardness (although we sure can have some awkward moments). It’s not emotional immaturity; quite the opposite, I’ve found. Sometimes it simply means you experience the world deeply enough that constant interaction becomes overwhelming instead of energizing. Depth, thoughtfulness, introspection—we camp there long enough, and are recharged effortlessly there—that anything less than “depth” feels off.

For years, I thought confidence meant becoming less introverted. I thought maturity meant metamorphosizing to the crowd. I assumed the ideal version of myself was the one who could walk into every room without hesitation, make conversation effortlessly, and leave feeling more energized than drained, like my friends could. But eventually I realized something liberating. I needed to grow. And growth didn’t mean abandoning myself. It meant understanding myself well enough to stop apologizing for how I was made.

There’s a difference between isolation and solitude, and introverts usually know that difference intuitively. Isolation starves the soul. Solitude feeds it. Isolation feels like abandonment. Solitude feels like oxygen. Some of my clearest thoughts, deepest prayers, best ideas, and most meaningful moments with God have happened in silence—in drives alone, long walks, empty rooms, books opened late at night while the rest of the world slept. Quiet isn’t the absence of life. For some of us, it’s where life finally becomes audible. Where the muffled white noise of the social event hours before can now in solitude bloom to a clearly defined tune.

And I make no apologies in saying the world desperately needs people who know how to be quiet. We live in an age addicted to performance. Everyone’s broadcasting. Everyone is reacting instantly. Everyone feels pressure to turn every experience into content, every thought into commentary, every silence into something to fill. Introverts often resist that instinct naturally. We tend to think before speaking. We observe before reacting. We listen carefully. Those aren’t shortcomings. Those are disappearing virtues.

I think that’s why so many introverts feel exhausted in modern culture specifically. It isn’t merely that social interaction drains us—it’s that we’re surrounded by endless noise pretending to be connection. And introverts, whether consciously or not, are often searching for something more sincere than that. We want conversations that matter and friendships that breathe and moments that aren’t performative, that don’t mind being stretched with contemplation instead of efficiently packed nothingness. We don’t necessarily want more people. We want more depth.

That realization changed the way I viewed my own relationships. For as far back as I can remember, I compared my smaller circle to people who seemed endlessly surrounded by others. But depth and quantity are not the same thing. Introverts often love fewer people, but they love them deeply. We remember details; I drive my wife crazy every time I take longer to set up a story—where I must include the year and month and setting and attendees and weather and feelings—for a rather anticlimactic conclusion. We sit with people carefully. We carry conversations long after they end. We tend friendships like gardens instead of collecting them like trophies. There’s beauty in that kind of presence. I know you know that.

And maybe the greatest freedom comes when you stop moralizing your personality. Needing rest isn’t laziness. Wanting quiet isn’t selfishness. Leaving early isn’t failure. Declining plans isn’t evidence that you’re a curmudgeon. A teacher once told me that some people are fireworks; others are lanterns. Fireworks command attention for a moment. Lanterns quietly help people find their way home. I like lanterns.

So if you’re the person rehearsing your exit strategy at parties, or secretly relieved when plans fall through, or needing a full evening alone after a crowded weekend—you aren’t defective. I can guarantee you at their core, extroverts find you refreshing. You view the world differently. Good. Maybe your quietness isn’t something to overcome at all. Maybe it’s something to steward. Maybe, in a world that never stops shouting, your ability to embrace silence is a gift.

Thanks for pulling up a chair at the edge of the room. Now let’s make our exit strategy.

This recap was composed by of . He’s a brilliant friend, fellow Tolkien-scholar, co-laborer in Christ, and as proficient of a writer as they come. Thanks for taking lead this week, Noah! Onward.

Week 2 Summary

Welcome to Week 2 of our glorious read-through of the third volume in Tolkien’s masterpiece. We are in Book V (RoTK, like the other volumes, is broken into two ‘books’, V and VI in this case), and will be for the next few weeks. As I’ve written in my article “The Monsters and Tolkien”, Book V is a book of death and stone. Gondor, which becomes the main theater of action for this portion of the story, literally means “Stone-land” in Sindarin; the mysterious Pukel-Men, the stone city of Minas Tirith, the sea-borne Stone of Erech that became the trysting place for Aragorn and the Dead Army, and the journey into the Dwimorberg mountain itself, are just a few of the stony features of Book V. As for death, it abounds in almost every chapter. The deaths of countless unnamed Men and Orcs, Denethor’s self-immolation, the deaths of Theoden and Grimbold (and many other Riders), and the battle-cry of “Death” from the Rohirrim after their king’s passing will suffice.

Chapter III: The Muster of Rohan

The pace is quickening now. Tolkien accomplishes this with a more tight interleaving of perspectives, alternating with each chapter. In Book IV from The Two Towers, we do get perspective shifts between the Three Hunters (Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli) and the two Hobbits they are pursuing, but these come in two-chapter chunks, and we only cut over to the Hobbits once (for “The Uruk-Hai” and “Treebeard”). Here in Book V, every chapter is a cut away to a different perspective (except for Chapters V and VI, which together depict Rohan’s ride to Gondor, mighty charge, and battle on the Pelennor Fields). So, Chapter I was Gandalf and Pippin, Chapter II goes back to Merry and Aragorn and the others in Rohan, then follows Aragorn, the Grey Company, and his other companions as they brave the Paths of the Dead. Chapter III, which we turn to now, goes back to Merry as he rides with Theoden and sees the gathering of Rohan’s remaining might at Harrowdale, a flat vale between the White Mountains. The alternation continues really until Chapter IX, when Merry and Pippin (and the other heroes) reunite in Minas Tirith after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.

To set the scene, Tolkien gives us two moments side by side: “And even as Pippin stood at the Great Gate of the City and watched the Prince of Dol Amroth ride in with his banners, the King of Rohan came down out of the hills.”1 We find Merry looking about in wonder at the wild country around him as he approaches Harrowdale with the King’s party: Mountains, dark fir trees, mist, and a deep silence, except for the faint sounds of the land itself.

He, Theoden, Eomer, and the rest of the King’s guard and retinue, continue through the camp at Harrowdale and ride up the face of a cliff, on a switchback road that has been cut into it, until they are hundreds of feet above the flats, in a sort of grassy bay in the mountainside, called Dunharrow. Leading back into the Dwimorberg mountain itself, lined by great standing stones, is the path that Aragorn and his company traveled to summon the King of the Dead. It casts an eerie air over them; the men’s tents are huddled towards the cliff’s edge away from the dark entrance.

Eowyn welcomes them, and Merry soon joins the King in his tent to wait on him during supper. They are interrupted by an errand-rider of Gondor named Hirgon, who enters the tent and kneels, presenting the King with the Red Arrow, the longstanding sign of request for aid in urgent need. Theoden receives it with a trembling hand. “‘The Red Arrow has not been seen in the Mark in all my years!’”2 he says. When Hirgon learns it might be a week before the Rohirrim arrive at Minas Tirith, he is alarmed. “‘If it must be so, it must’, he says. ‘But you are like to find only ruined walls in seven days from now, unless other help unlooked-for comes.’”3

Theoden promises to come as soon as he may, and Hirgon leaves the tent. Merry goes to sleep promising himself he won’t be left behind from the ride to war. Nevertheless, when the next morning comes without a dawn, as Sauron sends his evil fumes to block the Sun, and Theoden changes his mind and prepares to depart immediately, Merry is told he will not be allowed to come. “‘But, but, lord,’ Merry stammered, ‘I offered you my sword.’” Theoden explains that it is not practical, since the Hobbit’s small pony would not be able to keep up with the war-horses, nor could any riders afford to carry him as a burden. Eowyn leads Merry to an armory tent, saying that Aragorn had requested him to be armed for battle no matter what.

Over the next two hours, the roughly six thousand and more warriors (belonging to Rohan as well as some surrounding lesser lands) are armed and saddled, made ready to ride to war. Merry is armed and mounted on his pony Stybba, allowed to ride with the King as far as Edoras. But among the ranks as he rides past, he notices one, younger perhaps and smaller of build than most, “looking up keenly at the hobbit.” Merry “caught the glint of clear grey eyes; and then he shivered, for it came suddenly to him that it was the face of one without hope who goes in search of death.”4

This young rider soon introduces himself in a whisper to Merry as Dernhelm, and offers to take him on his own horse, hidden under a cloak. Merry eagerly agrees. Into the shadow of the darkening day the Rohirrim ride, “and hope waned in every heart.”

Chapter IV: The Siege of Gondor

We return to Gondor with Pippin as he is roused from sleep by Gandalf. It is time for the Hobbit to go into the Tower Hall before Denethor to learn his duties as a servant of the Steward.

Just as in the film, Denethor asks him if he can sing, and Pippin responds almost identically to how he does in the film. It’s fun to note how similar a lot of the dialogue is between characters in the book and film in this and the previous chapter. I think the screenwriters realized that much of Tolkien’s dialogue could not really be improved upon.

Pippin is soon dismissed to go get his uniform and armor from the armory. Arrayed as a prince of the Halflings, he wanders into the messes to get some food to “cheer his heavy heart” and while away the time, having nothing to do but wait for Mordor to attack. This is the first day of the Shadow crawling across the sky from the east to block out the Sun. While there he runs into his friend Beregond, and the two of them stroll out to the wall again and look east.

They are suddenly paralyzed with fear from the screech of the Nazgûl somewhere overhead in the murk. “Pippin knew the shuddering cry that he had heard: it was the same that he had heard long ago in the Marish of the Shire, but now it was grown in power and hatred, piercing the heart with a poisonous despair.”5 In the air below the high walls they spot five of the Fell Beasts circling, then swooping down to attack some horsemen riding toward the city. Faramir is returning. Only by Gandalf’s intervention are the men spared and the Nazgûl driven away. Faramir arrives safely and is greeted with cheers by his countrymen at the city gates. Pippin is among them and soon cheering the name of this great captain of Men whom he has never met. Faramir spots him in the crowd and is amazed to see the third Hobbit of his life, and dressed as a guard of the Citadel of his own city.

Gandalf urges them to hasten into the Lord’s private chamber for council and not to speak there. Soon they are gathered in the Steward’s chamber to talk. We get a tragic glimpse of the broken relationship between father and son, as Faramir relates his maneuvers in Ithilien, and tells of his encounter with Frodo and Sam and Gollum. When he gets to the part of their resolve to go to Cirith Ungol, Gandalf is shocked. But Denethor is angry, having discerned that these small figures in the wild were bearing the One Ring.

Gandalf interjects, arguing that the Ring would be of no help to Gondor, only hurt. Lord Denethor replies:

“‘If you do not trust me to endure the test, you do not know me yet.’” “‘Nonetheless I do not trust you,’ said Gandalf. ‘Had I done so, I could have sent this thing hither to your keeping and spared myself and others much anguish. And now hearing you speak I trust you less, no more than Boromir.”6

The next morning dawns “like a brown dusk” (the very morning the Rohirrim set out from Harrowdale), and everyone’s hearts are low.7 Faramir is sent back to Osgiliath by his father on a hopeless mission. Three days after, the invasion begins: Lines of enemies carrying torches are seen streaming into the Pelennor below the city in the darkness. The armies of Mordor are blasting gaps in the Rammas Echor, the wall that runs around the length of the Pelennor, and are pouring in toward the city, burning the little homes and farms that dot the plain. Gandalf returns, escorting a troop of men, mostly wounded, returning from the fighting at Osgiliath, where the Witch-king of Angmar has appeared to lead the forces of evil.

The final retreat from Osgiliath, led by Faramir, soon follows, harried by Orcs and Southron men with red banners. Then the Nazgûl dive from the sky to kill and dismay as many as possible. As before, it seems that Faramir makes sure he guards the rear of the party, looking out for his men. He is the last to enter the gates, brought in on the horse of his kinsman, the Prince of Dol Amroth. He is unconscious, having been found on the field.

The siege has begun. It seems Rohan will not come, and, if they do, will not be able to break such a mighty ring of foes. The armies of Mordor dig trenches and fill them with fire, leaving routes for great siege engines to pass through up to the city walls. Faramir lies unconscious. Denethor is now pale and gray, having been seen the previous night up in his tower with a strange light flickering. He has given up all care for the defense of his city, sitting silently by his son.

Gandalf now takes charge of the forces guarding Minas Tirith. While he is moving swiftly from one level of the seven-terraced city to another, strengthening the men, Pippin follows Denethor and some other servants as they take Faramir down to the Silent Street, to the tombs of the dead Stewards. Denethor has given up on life and determines to be the master of his own and his son’s death: Death by burning. Pippin runs away in horror, but requests the servants to be slow about bringing the wood and oil, saying, “‘Your master is not himself… Bring no fire to the place while Faramir lives!”8 He then dashes off to find Gandalf, but first runs into Beregond, telling him of what is passing. Beregond runs back to do what he can for his beloved leader Faramir, while Pippin goes down to the outer city gate to find Gandalf--and find Gandalf he does, at a crucial moment: The gate has been destroyed by Grond, the great battering ram, and by the Lord of the Nazgûl, the Witch-king himself, who “rose in his stirrups and cried aloud in a dreadful voice, speaking in some forgotten tongue words of power and terror to rend both heart and stone.”9 In he rides on his black horse, and is faced by a single opponent: the White Wizard upon Shadowfax.

Before I go on to describe what happens, I want to reflect briefly on Gandalf’s use of power. Tolkien makes it clear in his letters that Gandalf the White is more powerful than Gandalf the Grey.10 In the book, this could perhaps be gleaned by the reader based on what the Wizard accomplishes, but it’s not necessarily very obvious. In the films, it’s even less obvious, to the point of leaving us to wonder if Gandalf the White is any stronger than he was before his death and return to Arda. In the films of The Two Towers and Return of The King, I can only think of four instances where Gandalf the White uses his power in any overt way (maybe you all can think of more?):

1. When he stops the weapons of his friends in Fangorn as he first appears to them

2. When he exorcises Saruman out of Theoden

3. When he breaks the staff of Saruman

4. When he drives away the Nazgûl to rescue Faramir by beaming a white light at them from his staff

Now, what happens here in the book is that Gandalf stands his ground, just as he did with the Balrog in Moria. He says to the Witch-king, “‘You cannot enter here,’ said Gandalf, and the huge shadow halted.”11 But his enemy laughs and lifts up his sword, which bursts into flame. Gandalf still stands his ground.

The film, on the other hand, makes a terrible choice (in the extended edition): To have the Witch-king break Gandalf’s staff. This is not only totally contrary to how the encounter goes in the book, but also makes us scratch our heads when we think of how Gandalf the Grey defeated the Balrog. The Balrog seems to be a mightier foe in many ways than the Witch-king, since it is a Maia, a powerful spirit of the same order as Gandalf and Sauron. The Nazgûl, on the other hand, are merely human wraiths, although the leader of the Nine has been imbued with “an added demonic force” by Sauron and given much of his master’s strength.12 It seems highly unlikely that he would have been able to defeat Gandalf, or, if so, not easily. Moreover, neither the Balrog nor the Witch-king nor any other being on Middle-Earth had the authority (and it is authority that’s needed) to break Gandalf’s staff. He was delegated and sent (twice) by the Valar themselves, who directly administer the will of Ilúvatar, another name for God. Killed or wounded he could be, but not de-staffed. I should note that this is one of the very few big blunders the films make, in my opinion. They are otherwise quite good.

Finally, the encounter is broken off by the sound of “Great horns of the North wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last.”13 The Witch-king turns his steed and rides off to confront this unforeseen challenge.

That’s it for this week’s recap! Again, if you’re joining late, we welcome you; catching up—at least at this early point—won’t be hard at all. Week 3 will cover chapters V and VI, so grab your copy and let’s keep the journey moving forward. Cheers.

Or, to put it plainly: two chapters per week, each block starting Mondays; Sundays will have the chapter recaps. And, if you’re arriving late, WELCOME! We are going at a slow pace, partly to allow late arrivals catch up. If that’s you, work through chapters 1-2 soon, and make sure to read 3-4 by the end of this coming week. Onward.

Chapter 1: Minas Tirith

Gandalf and Pippin ride with urgency toward the White City, their journey marked by the growing shadow of Mordor. As they approach Gondor, Pippin begins to grasp the scale of the war unfolding—not merely a distant conflict, but a looming catastrophe pressing in on all sides. It’s a really insightful dichotomy—the reader identifies with Pippin in that like he, we don’t know the terror which Gandalf does know is on the precipice. Like so much of The Lord of the Rings, the reader shares with the hobbits a very limited perspective. As they discover, so do we. With all this, and Gandalf’s resolute mission to reach the city and provide his guidance, we get the sense that the scale of things are much bigger than initially thought.

They’re met by the guarded gates of Minas Tirith, the great city of stone layered in ascending circles. You know the scene from Jackson’s film—the epic Shore score blasts as they top the hill and see the magnificently impressive structure protruding from the mountain. And to really drive it home, Tolkien lingers here, unfolding the architecture and history of the city, presenting it as both beautiful and worn. It’s a stronghold of men in decline, yet still possessing dignity. The city feels ancient, like a memory of greater days now pressed into its final defense. It’s on its heels.

Inside the city, Gandalf brings Pippin before Denethor, Steward of Gondor. Denethor is sharp and proud and perceptive—and grieving over the death of his son, Boromir, whose cloven horn rests on Denethor’s lap. Pippin, recalling Boromir’s sacrifice, offers his service to Denethor in repayment of a debt he feels deeply. Denethor is coldly intense, marred by the grief of Boromir’s passing. He questions Pippin about Boromir’s death, searching for truth but maybe something deeper, to confirm his own judgments. He’s clearly tormented, to the apprehension of Gandalf.

Pippin’s formally clothed in the garb of the Citadel Guard, which is astonishing that a little halfling from the Shire is now a sworn servant of Gondor! Of course, this is a role far larger than himself. Here, like so many others, is a moment of one of Tolkien’s recurring themes: that the small and overlooked are unexpectedly courageous. The weight of what’s to come, now with his new role, weighs heavy:

He looked at the great walls, and the towers and brave banners, and the sun in the high sky, and then at the gathering gloom in the East; and he thought of the long fingers of that Shadow: of the orcs in the woods and the mountains, the treason of Isengard, the birds of evil eye, and the Black Riders even in the lanes of the Shire – and of the winged terror, the Nazgûl. He shuddered, and hope seemed to wither.1

With his new friend, Beregond, a Citadel guard, Pippin begins to understand life in the city. Beregond is kind to him; steady and honorable, offering Pippin friendship and guidance. Through him, Minas Tirith becomes a little more human. Pippin also checks on Gandalf’s legendary horse, Shadowfax, making sure he’s being cared for appropriately. If you more on Shadowfax, here’s a recent article I wrote on him:

Beregond’s young son, Bergil, another new friend to Pippin, brings a different perspective altogether. Bergil speaks with openness and curiosity and through his eyes Pippin sees the city not only as a place under threat, but as a home worth saving. It’s a distant reminder of what Pippin is fighting for too, his Shirefolk.

Meanwhile, the city itself is preparing for war. Soldiers gather and supplies are moved, and a sense of dread underlies every action. Minas Tirith is bracing itself against an inevitable storm. The people go about their duties, but hope feels thin. Yet Gandalf remains active behind the scenes, working to counter Denethor’s growing despair. He understands that the Steward’s mindset will shape Gondor’s fate as much as any army, which is shaping up to be weaker than expected. The light of Minas Tirith flickers dimly.

‘I thought you had forgotten all about me. I am glad to see you back. It has been a long day.’ ‘But the night will be too short,’ said Gandalf. ‘I have come back here, for I must have a little peace, alone. You should sleep, in a bed while you still may. At the sunrise I shall take you to the Lord Denethor again. No, when the summons comes, not at sunrise. The Darkness has begun. There will be no dawn.’2

Chapter 2: The Passing of the Grey Company

The narrative turns from Minas Tirith to the lands of Rohan, where Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli continue their journey post-Helm’s Deep. Their path soon intersects with the Grey Company, a band of Rangers from the North led by Halbarad, who bring their alliance as well as a message of urgency. Among them are Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond, who deliver counsel that will shape Aragorn’s path, advising him to take the Paths of the Dead. This summons isn’t merely strategic—it’s deeply tied to Aragorn’s identity as Isildur’s heir and his calling to reclaim the throne of Gondor. For now, Aragorn stands between two identities—ranger and ruler. We now understand why the book is called the Return of the King!

***Fun fact: the events of this chapter were initially composed as a flashback by Aragorn. However, when the Paths of the Dead were included and decided were vitally important, it was reworked to be chapter 2.3

The company rides through Rohan to Dunharrow, where the weight of war grows. The land feels quieter, more watchful, as if anticipating the storm soon to break. Like Minas Tirith, everything seems to hold its breath as doom approaches. But Aragorn’s path is set apart from the great armies; his role with the Path of the Dead is calling.

At Dunharrow, Aragorn speaks with Éowyn, Merry nearby, who recognizes Aragorn’s appearance has changed since he last saw him: “Grim was his face, grey-hued and weary”.

Nonetheless, he is honorable indeed. Éowyn’s affection for him adds a note of quiet sorrow. She longs for purpose, yet feels confined, while Aragorn’s heart and duty lead him elsewhere. Here, we get one of the most poignant quotes in the narrative:

‘All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house,’ she answered. ‘But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.’ ‘What do you fear, lady?’ he asked. ‘A cage,’ she said. ‘To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.’4

The party departs. The Paths of the Dead lie ahead.

Legolas and Gimli follow Aragorn without hesitation, their loyalty unshaken even in the face of such dread. The Grey Company, though less certain, commits as well, bound by their allegiance to Aragorn. They are lead into the darkness of the mountain. It’s a decisive step, marking his movement from wandering ranger to a leader who dares to walk through death itself for the sake of others. And after a steep trek, they reach a resting stone where the spirits of the dead weigh heavy. They’ve been summoned.

Oathbreakers, why have ye come?’ And a voice was heard out of the night that answered him, as if from far away: ‘To fulfil our oath and have peace.’ Then Aragorn said: ‘The hour is come at last. Now I go to Pelargir upon Anduin, and ye shall come after me. And when all this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, I will hold the oath fulfilled, and ye shall have peace and depart for ever. For I am Elessar, Isildur’s heir of Gondor.’5

The Army of the Dead has joined them.

That’s it for this week’s recap! Again, if you’re not caught up, we’re going at a leisurely pace. Get ready to tackle chapters 3 & 4 this week. And remember, we’re working through the book together! So, let me encourage you to engage by answering at least one of these thoughts!

• - Which character to you most identify with as war approaches?

• - Is Denethor’s unchecked fear/discouragement poor leadership, or unashamedly human?

• - What does Aragorn’s decision to take the Paths of the Dead say about him as a leader?

Thanks for engaging, everyone!

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