The Futility of Eagles

This is a silly little story I wrote as the response to a question on Quora some time back. It was the tired old question: "Why didn't Frodo just ride a giant eagle to Mordor?" Here is my thoughts on why that would have been a very bad idea.

---

Ahead, the mountain smoked, a blighted pimple rising above a blasted land. Beyond it rose the Dark Tower itself, its uppermost windows shrouded in smoke and fog yet still somehow still blazing brilliantly from within with a red light that made Frodo wince to see it. The tower was miles and miles away, but he felt that he was close enough to touch it, or perhaps rather to be touched by it. That red light reminded him of nothing so much more than some red and lidless eye, endlessly seeking and searching. He knew that he was the object of that Eye’s ceaseless attention.

The fell beasts had cut their numbers in half. Thirteen eagles had set out, with Gwaihir in the lead, Frodo clinging with numb fingers to the Wind Lord’s warm feathers. They had rested before crossing the Misty Mountains, and at Lothlórien on the other side. The Lady there had given them a warm welcome, but when she heard their plan refused to sanction it. She had spoken harshly towards Gandalf. “Mithrandir, you lead these children into utter peril. The quest stands upon a knife’s edge, and I fear that all shall soon be lost. You have announced your intentions to all who have eyes to see, to the very Dark Lord himself! Do you think his birds and beasts would not notice so bold and open a move? He who could never have dreamed that any might seek to destroy his ring now guards against it! You have been overbold. You would have done better to lead this quest into Moria itself than to undertake this fool’s errand.”

A dejected company had left the next morning, mounting their Eagles and preparing for the final leg of their journey. Expected by the Dark Lord or not, they could not turn back now. Boromir had argued the evening before that they turn south to Gondor, where the ring might be kept hidden and safe, or perhaps used against its master. The argument this sparked led to Boromir storming off. He left Lothlórien that morning alone, taking an elven boat southwards along the river Anduin, returning south to the city of his father.

Gandalf told them all that this last leg would be the hardest, and that only he and Frodo were essential to it. Extra bodies might hinder the Eagles, who would almost certainly have to fight whatever defenses Sauron could muster. And so Legolas remained behind in Lothlórien, along with Gimli. “I would like to speak more with these Elves about mining” the dwarf had muttered, blushing.

Aragorn, true heir to the throne of Gondor, would not be dissuaded. He knelt before Frodo. “I have made a promise to you, and I intend to keep it.” He was the first to fall when the Fell Beasts swooped up from the Ephel Dúath, their Nazgûl riders brandishing their blades and shrieking challenge. He fought valiantly against three foes, but his Eagle was cut from beneath him, and he tumbled, still clutching Andúri, towards his doom upon the peaks below.

Of the dozen Eagles remaining, four carried Hobbits (Merry and Pippin likewise had refused to abandon the quest) and one a Wizard, so seven Eagles turned to fight and buy time for the rest to escape. The passengers clung tightly as their mounts dove forward towards Mordor. Two of the Fell Beasts gave chase, but Gandalf turned and brandished his staff, and a burst of light came forth and the pursuing Nazgûl were turned away.

Now they had passed beyond the Ephel Dúath, and Orodruin loomed before them. There, on the side of the mountain’s northern face, was a path leading up to a doorway into the mountain itself. Red light flickered within, and the Eagles dove for it. Reach that chamber, and quest would be complete!

Orc archers waited, lined before the door, and Gwaihir almost didn’t pull up in time. The arrows flew past Frodo’s head as his Eagle turned in a sickening loop that almost unseated him. Gwaihir executed a sharp turn, and as they came back around, Frodo could see Gandalf and Sam flying behind him on their own eagles, but the twisted bodies of the other two Eagles lay upon the mountainside riddled with arrows, Merry and Pippin’s twisted bodies having fallen just a little way beyond. Merry was still moving, but the orcs leapt upon him and he was hidden from view. A sharp and quickly cut-off scream was all that Frodo could hear.

Two more Eagles came up from the north, bleeding and worn from their battle with the Nazgûl, but apparently victorious. They dove down upon the orc positions and scattered them, tearing and rending with their claws and beaks. Gwaihir wasted no time and dove for the entrance. He alighted just outside the doorway, turning so that Frodo might slide off into the chamber itself. Gwaihir took to the air again as Gandalf and then Sam’s mounts did the same. The three companions turned to watch as their Eagles took to the air again, wheeling to dive for the orcs. There was no time to see how they fared. The ring was all that mattered, and Frodo turned and ran into the heart of the mountain, glad after all that Gandalf had argued for messengers to be sent to the Eagles to beg for their help.

Elrond had argued against it, doubting that the Eagles would even be willing to assist in a quest that had little or nothing to do with them. “They are a proud people, Mithrandir! They will attack evil when they see it, but they care nothing for the fates of elves or men. They have their own concerns.” Yet the response had come swiftly, as swiftly as thirteen Great Eagles might fly from the Misty Mountains to Imladris, and Gwaihir had himself proclaimed his allegiance to the messengers of Manwë. He had said this while staring pointedly at Gandalf, and while Frodo did not understand, he knew that this meant that their original plan of walking for months might instead be accomplished in mere days.

Frodo felt invigorated, three days of flight having barely touched his strength, and he strode forward boldly into the Sammath Naur. The air here was scalding, with waves of heat distorting the vision. A pungent sulfur stench choked each breath, and the low thunderous rumble of the heart of the Earth itself pounded into Frodo’s skull. The sooner he could be out of here and into the fresh air, the better, so he stepped forward to the very edge of the platform, and looked down into the lava far below.

There was the molten rock that might destroy this accursed ring that had caused so much misery, so much fear and doubt. This little thing that he held out by its chain now, over the edge, this thing that had come to him through right of blood and struggle, that must be kept from the Dark Lord at all costs, but really, was this the best way? And while he knew that destroying it was what he had been sent to do, he really didn’t understand why it was so important. With this ring, he might do so much to protect the world from Dark Lords like Sauron. Why, with this ring, he could do anything. He could protect the Shire, defend Legolas’ forests, Boromir’s city, Gimli’s mines. Why should he destroy it, after all? What a foolish idea! How dare they throw away such a treasure, such a precious prize? What sort of short-sighted ignorant cowardly fool would destroy the Ring?

Sam saw his master wavering at the edge, and he knew in his heart that Frodo was being sorely tempted, and he also knew that his master would fail the test. Here, in this mountain, was the one place that the ring could be destroyed, but it was also the one place that no one could willingly part with it. And so he knew in his heart what he had to do. He knew the only way this quest could succeed.

He would have to take the ring from Frodo, by force. Not to use. Not to keep. But to hurl, along with himself, into the fire. He would have to sacrifice himself to save Frodo’s soul.

Beside him, Gandalf, about to rush forward to confront Frodo before he could do some damned foolish Hobbity thing, seemed to sense Sam’s thoughts, and stepped back in shock, and then sudden realization and sadness. “No victory without sacrifice” he muttered, resolving to do himself what Sam had just decided to do. He placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder, gently pulling him back. “This is my great task, and I shall see it through.”

But it was too late. Frodo turned towards them. “Thank you, both of you. There is no need for that. I know what I came here to do, but I do not choose to do it. The ring is mine.” And suddenly he vanished before their eyes.

And laughter filled the chamber.

It was ancient laughter, dark and terrible and triumphant. As Sam cast about, blindly trying to find his invisible master, Gandalf turned, trembling, so see the figure standing in the doorway to the Sammath Naur. A man stood there, tall but not abnormally so. He wore dark armor, but no helmet, and his eyes burned with a red light, but perhaps that was simply the glow from the mountain reflecting in his eyes. He was not handsome, for his face was somehow wrong, somehow ruined, as if he had suffered some great and ancient injury. He was unarmed, and his right hand was missing its first finger.

Sauron stood, blocking the doorway, his laughter bellowing throughout the chamber. He made no movement, made no threat, took no action, but simply stood and laughed. And then he reached out into the open air before him and grabbed something.

Frodo’s cries of terror sounded in the air as the Dark Lord lifted him up and stepped away, out of the chamber and out of sight. Sam and Gandalf rushed forward, out into the open air.

Five Nazgûl stood there, their fell beasts feasting on the carcasses of Eagles, and they advanced upon the Wizard and the Hobbit, blocking their way as the Dark Lord stood some distance away farther down the mountain, struggling with an invisible foe. Sauron seemed to grab hold of something small and thin, perhaps the width of an arm, and squeezed tightly. Frodo’s invisible shriek sounded from air in front of him and drowned out the sound of crunching bone. The Dark Lord adjusted his grip, and then pulled hard…

Frodo screamed and appeared, falling to the ground and grabbing with his left hand at the bleeding stump of his right arm. The Dark Lord carefully held up the severed limb he had ripped from the Hobbit’s body, and gingerly removed the ring from one of its fingers. Then he turned and tossed the limb back behind him towards the Hobbit, almost as an afterthought, as he slipped the ring onto his own finger with a smile.

He did not disappear. In fact, nothing particularly noteworthy happened at all apart from the mountain suddenly shuddering as if in pain, which just as quickly passed. But Gandalf stumbled and fell as if struck by a mortal blow. Before he could rise again, the Nazgûl were upon him, cutting and hacking at his body with their blades.

The Dark Lord was striding away, distancing himself from any further threat to his ring and to his power. He had already mounted one of the Fell Beasts and was airborne before his thunderous voice echoed down to the waiting Nazgûl.

“Bring the halflings. We shall see what information they may have before we march to battle.”

His beast wheeled away, sailing back towards the Dark Tower. One of the Nazgûl moved towards Frodo, who could offer no resistance but terrified cries as it picked him up. The other four Nazgûl turned from the ruined corpse of Gandalf towards Sam, and encircled him.

Galadriel was correct. This plan had been madness, the Dark Lord had been waiting for them, and now all was lost. As clutching hands grabbed at him, Sam sank to his knees, unable to take his gaze off of Gandalf’s still open eyes as he sank into an utter, final despair.

Epilogue:

Many, many miles away, deep underground, a ruined creature stopped in the middle of eating the fish he had caught. He had only just entered this underground complex, hoping to find a way through the mountains. He looked up as a sudden feeling came over him, a feeling he could not describe. But somewhere, somehow, he was being pulled. And he realized that somewhere, the precious was calling to him again. Somewhere, in a place of great power, it had been claimed.

And then he suddenly dropped the fish as a wave of despair and hopelessness came over him. “No!” he cried out aloud. “He has it!”

“He has taken it back, gollum!”

“Nasty dark lord has it and he won’t give it back to us, precious!”

“So the precious is lost then, is it? Lost forever, gollum gollum.”

The creature sat in darkness for a good long while, sobbing to himself.

“But precious, what if we takes it? What if we takes it back? Then it would be ours!”

“Takes it? Takes it from the dark lord?”

There was a fit of what sounded like coughing, or perhaps sputtering.

And then silence for another good long while.

“That won’t be easy, gollum.”

“No precious, not easy at all. But what else will we do but sit here in the dark?”

Some more silence.

“Then we takes it back, precious. Somehow.”

And the creature turned back towards the entrance of the mines, where nothing, not the yellow face nor orcses, nor nasty elves, would keep him from finding his precious again.

---

And much deeper underground, an ancient being of flame and shadow snorted in its sleep for just a moment before turning over again and beginning to snore.