"Why are most of Tolkien's characters described as beautiful?” — post in the Tolkien subreddit

Beauty, in Tolkien’s legendarium, isn’t just a pretty face—“fair” is the word used to describe attractiveness. Beauty runs deeper like an underground river.

What is beauty? Why is there such a thing as beauty? What purpose does it serve? In fact, why is there anything at all? Why is there something instead of nothing? Beauty itself points us to the answer.

Beauty is hard to pin down because it’s not a thing — it’s an invitation, a glimpse of something whole that makes you want to be whole, too.

When we observe beauty, it elicits a mysterious joy. We experience beautiful internally and externally. A spark that catches your breath, something that pulls you out of yourself or the mundane like a baby’s gaze, a sunset bleeding gold, or glittering starry night sky.

But beauty’s not always pleasurable — it can be sorrowful, profane, or solemn like the Rohirrim charging into battle, their hooves a drum rhythm toward the gift of death. Or a tornado sweeping across a valley, wind and fury desolating all in its path. In essence, what belies all expressions of beauty is recognition of a deep pattern of “rightness”.

The True, the Good, and the Beautiful

To Aristotle, these attributes are a trinity of clarity, wholeness, and radiance, each well-suited to its situation. The result is balance or resolution. Although beauty is more like a derivative of truth and goodness — that which is fervently pursued. Seek beauty, and you’ll stumble upon goodness, trip over truth. These are not separate paths but one road, winding toward the same light.

Day 1: Divine Mercy in Tolkien and the Manger

For Catholics like Tolkien, the Christmas season begins December 25 through to the Feast of Epiphany on Jan 6th. This series explores the profound links between Tolkien’s mythic world and the deep mysticism of Christmas (yes, it's the 2nd day but I just thought of doing this. I'll double post tomorrow.)

We all know this scene: Gandalf's "true nature" as a Maia, now exalted in status through resurrection, is revealed with commanding presence and blinding light. But in the book, the moment is less spectacle, more subtle, more nuanced.

Upon Shadowfax's swift approach, perceiving his companions’ fear, Gandalf said: “Do not be afraid! I have been with him on many a journey, if never on one so swift as this.”

Beneath this brief exchange, Tolkien quietly offers us something profoundly deeper than the reunion of our heroes—a partial unveiling of the mystery of the Nativity: why did God veil His infinite glory in the frailty of a helpless infant on a cold night in Bethlehem?

Because unveiling terrifies us. Every time heaven draws near, we tremble. We unprepared for the intensity of divine glory. Mary knew it first, a young girl in forgotten village, going about her chores, when the angel Gabriel stood before her. Perceiving Mary to be troubled by his presence, he said: "Be not afraid."

This biblical motif—divine intervention evoking fear—runs through Tolkien's stories like a thread. God Himself is described as a consuming flame whose infinite glory would overwhelm and destroy finite creatures. Tolkien's Illuvatar mirrors that Secret Fire. It is not a mere symbol of His creativity, not the lower, ruinous fire of Balrogs. It is His own uncreated, imperishable divine spark—the undying heart of being itself, aflame since before the world began.

The Creator sends messengers, the angelic powers, partially unveiled, not to unsettle or for spectacle, but to convey divine authority—to allow a glimpse of true fire so the message would not be ignored.

But even a glimpse of His splendor terrifies.

Picture Tolkien, and you might see a tweed-clad Oxford don, puffing on a pipe, lost in the serious business of ancient lore. But that’s only half the story. The man was something of a prankster.

Choosing St Philip Nero as his saint name wasn’t just a whim. Tolkien’s life had its share of sorrows—war, loss, separation, grief, plus a nature that leaned toward melancholy. So he picked a saint who embodied joy, a reminder to keep the light burning, to laugh and not take life too seriously, even when the darkness drew close. Phillip Neri means “laugher” and “horse-play” in Greek — perhaps this is the inspiration behind the naming of the Prancing Pony.

Some of Tolkien’s humor:

He once dressed up as an Anglo-Saxon warrior and chased an astonished neighbor down the road wielding an axe.

He was fond of pretending to fall down the stairs and breaking his legs.

An invitation to a party at his house specified there would be carriages at midnight, ambulances at 2am, wheelbarrows at 5am, and hearses at daybreak.

Later in life, he enjoyed paying cashiers with a handful of coins that included his dentures.

Civilization vs. Wilderness

Aredhel is undoubtedly inspired by the Greco-Roman goddess Diana/Artemis reborn, a wildfire spirit of the wilderness, chasing twilight and thrill with a devil-may-cry gleam in her eyes.

I was listening to documentary on the history of poetry that emphasized how civilizations were based, to an extraordinary degree, on verse. Poetry isn’t just pretty words—it’s the heartbeat of a people, the thread that weaves the collective memory through genealogy, laws, sacred music, historical events, lore etc.

Ancient Greeks had the Odyssey, Euripides, and Sophocles. Chinese civilization is largely based on the Confucian anthology. Ancient Hebrews had the Psalms and prophetic writings of the Old Testament. Hindus had the Vedic texts. Similarly, exiled Noldor civilization is founded on events of the Quenta Silmarillion.

I realized Tolkien had modeled Turgon partly on Apollo, the Greco-Roman deity of art, music, and poetry. Art being the bedrock of civilization. The connection is not readily intuitive — Turgon isn’t characterized as a poet or shown strumming a lyre like a bard. Rather he embodies the Apollonian archetype as the founder of exiled Noldor civilization, expressed through the fine arts, directly and indirectly via architecture.

Turgon constructs the first stone building in Middle Earth, laying the foundation for enduring Noldor influence. Within the protective walls of his hidden kingdom of Gondolin, Pengolodh, the Sindar loremaster, chronicled history and personalities that form the Quenta Silmarillion. This includes tales of the Silmarils, the War of Wrath, the Rings of Power, the fall of Gondolin, Turgon and Aredhel, etc.

Turgon and Aredhel mirror Apollo and Artemis—two sides of a single coin

By Catholic standards, if Orcs are animals, they lack a soul to even be corrupted. Hence Sauron had to house evil dead souls within his werewolves. Since Tolkien never formally settled on Orc origins, I’m basing my post on the commonly held interpretation of Orcs-as-corrupted Elves.

My argument: Orcs cannot be redeemed through social engineering even in infancy. Hence why Tolkien described the Orcs as evil yet not irredeemable; and struggled with how to fit them into his legendarium moral cosmology.

It’s not about whether Orcs can be redeemed or not — it is a matter of how

In the secular world, evil is reserved for only misdeeds deemed heinous like ripping out the fingernails of a Girl Scout troop. Yet, in legendarium cosmology, evil is simply what is not good. Murder is but so is lying on your taxes or bad mouthing your boss.

In short, Illuvatar is perfect good. Good deeds/misdeeds will bring you closer/further away from from his divine perfection. Misdeeds are moral evils. Unrepentant evil is a state of being. Evil is not opposite of good but degrees absent of goodness. An evil person can have some good, but a good person cannot have some evil.

To believe Orcs can be “redeemed” through social engineering fundamentally misunderstands legendarium’s moral cosmology, reducing corruption to a cultural and psychological phenomenon. In reality, corruption is spiritual decay and possibly death. Redemption is a spiritual journey which only animals achievable with Illuvatar’s mercy and grace (although Morgoth and Sauron’s lies to the Orcs, and Orc culture, certainly don’t help).

So, a rescued Orc baby won’t be good — perhaps less evil, if their “creaturely” needs are met. That is, if one appeals to their more base fears and self-interests.

When Morgoth corrupted Elves with his evil, he damaged their fea — that is, their very capacity to choose good

Because Orcs possess far weaker wills than those of Elves and Men, it’s much harder to resist evil temptations. Here lies the issue: redemption is about the will. So, Orcs must rely on Illuvatar’s intervention:

Morgoth and Sauron must repent

Orcs needs an Orc Jesus. Illuvatar reincarnating as an Orc Jesus — The Redeemer

Here’s a little tale.

A scorpion wants to cross a pond but can’t swim. He sees a frog and asks for a ride. Naturally the frog is reluctant to let a poisonous scorpion ride his back.

The scorpion says, “But if I sting you, we will both drown.” Reassured, the frog agrees. Yet halfway across the pond, the scorpion stings the frog.

“Why did you do this?” the frog asked, to which the scorpion replied, “I can’t help it. It’s in my nature.”

See, this is your future if you bring an Orc — a being whose nature is imbued with Morogth’s malice, and described as “naturally bad” — into your house like some Kitty Meow Meow. Somehow, someway you’ll regret this.

GIFs courtesy of bluetiefling

That’s a good postmodern argument for separating the artist from the art. However, Elrond reasonably believes Sauron’s involvement tainted the three rings.

Conversely, Galadriel says, in her heart, she knows that the rings aren’t tainted. But girl, your heart is where Sauron is living rent-free.

Theologically speaking, beauty is deeper than mere surface aesthetic — it is union with divine perfection.

If the Ainur and Elves sub-create anything without goodwill, it’s tainted with the sub-creator’s will at the time. Morgoth’s Orcs were corrupted with malice. Fëanor’s Silmarils inspired envy and lust. Anglachel, the Dark Elf Eol’s sword, was treacherous.

Agreed, and none of this contradicts my prediction.

If you enslave and starve someone, why would you ever let them stand over you with a spiky crown unless you trusted them immensely?

Crowning a king wouldn’t be tasked to just anybody— but an honor bestowed to someone a king respects and trusts

It’s unclear how much RoP writers get this, but a coronation is a religious rite imbued with deep symbolism beyond mere investiture of power. The Who, What, and Where sends a message about the ruler. Permitting a scullery maid or valet to crown a king just because they have hands render the ritual meaningless.

As this scene is written, Sauron at least trusted and respected Adar (to a point) as his most faithful servant. It suggests that Sauron might have seen their relationship as “friendly” even, rather than a typical master-servant dynamic. Otherwise Sauron would simply have crowned himself à la Napoleon. Narrative logic offers no other explanation.

Perhaps it was all for show, but Halbrand didn’t just seem pissed at Adar for killing him — but also hurt.

Additional thoughts on RoP!Sauron’s missing repentance phase:

I think it was subverted for two reasons: possibly pandering to Simon Tolkien’s desires and bolstering Adar’s storyline which would appeal most to the targeted audience marketed for S1.

Now I like Adar; and exploring the unresolved question of orcs and redeemability is interesting — just not at the expense of Sauron’s pivotal failed redemption. He is, after all, the driver behind the rings of power.

“Et tu, Brutus?”

“You also, Brutus?” Julius Caesar allegedly said to his friend who literally stabbed him in the back during his assassination.

Prediction: RoP will later reveal Sauron and Adar reached some type of “understanding” prior to the coronation about the postwar future. Adar drank red wine offered by Sauron. Red = “false ally/friend” motif is well-established. Sauron misled Adar, just as Annatar does with Celebrimbor, and Pharazon with Miriel.

Is Adar Sauron’s Brutus? Did he initially use Adar as chess piece but eventually came to see him as a “friend” of sorts or trusted servant? Even dark lords need an inner circle of confidants.

For what he has to work with, Charlie Vickers is killing it as Sauron. Yet what’s interesting is an interview (Time or Empire?), where showrunners said the audience will feel sympathy for Sauron in S2.

It’s arguably inappropriate for an adaption to portray Sauron as sympathetic given how legendarium is Catholic work. Neither Sauron nor the Devil was an antihero turned villain like Walter White, Tony Soprano, or Milton’s Lucifer in Paradise Lost. And while it’s on point for Amazon to promote sympathy for the Devil, rumor has it that this angle is actually Simon Tolkien’s idea. Interesting.

In any event, if one did feel pity, or even sympathy, for Sauron, it would be during his brief repentance

Sauron’s relapse back into darkness is a pivotal plot point

Then Sauron was ashamed, and he was unwilling to return in humiliation…

Shame is a heavy emotion — it is perceiving oneself to be somehow fundamentally flawed, unlovable, or unworthy in the eyes of others. Many of us know of someone who, like Sauron, failed to overcome shame despite its harmful impact on others or themselves.

While shame can be constructive if not accompanied by blaming others, this is not true for humiliation. It is a common feature of humiliation to feel wronged, unfairness, or injustice. Refusing to take full responsibility is what dooms Sauron’s redemption.

Want my sympathy? Show Sauron genuinely do good and struggle but ultimately fail to free himself from the “heavy bonds Morgoth laid upon him”. That is at least understandable and pitiful, and would give his character arc satisfying complexity.

However, as RoP tells it, Sauron never fell back into darkness — he never left

At Helm’s Deep, Legolas warns Aragorn that everyone there will die to which he responds, “Then I shall die as one of them!”

But why exactly was Legolas wrong? If you said because panicking about how everyone will die is an unhelpful sentiment before battle, you aren’t wrong.

However, in the Catholic moral cosmology that underpins legendarium, despair also doubles as a theological term.

Despair is not mere sadness or gloom but hopelessness. Despair also breeds resentment and pessimism, à la Legolas’s outburst. Because the Elves and Rohirrim know The One exists, despair denies His good, just, and merciful nature; and that death is not the end, but another path. Despair is therefore not merely unhelpful — it is irrational and prideful.

Despair is also linked to presumption — that we rely only on our own capacities, and have no need for support. Tolkien believed, being so fallible, we need divine mercy and grace. And so Legolas’s despair presumes that the Children have full control over who lives and dies — or any desired outcome including the defeat of Sauron.

The sole task for our heroes is not martial skill but achieving spiritual victory which Providence rewards with worldly victory

Eowyn further manifests the pitfalls of despair. Having lost hope that Men could defeat Sauron; worn down by long-term caregiving and death, she yields to hopelessness and seeks what she believes will give her short life meaning: a glorious warrior’s death.

But when the Witch-King of Angmar threatens Theoden, Eowyn abandons despair and pursuit of glory to lay down her life for her uncle. It is the ultimate act of Christian love which is self-sacrificial.

Backward she sprang as the huge shape crashed to ruin, vast wings outspread, crumpled on the earth; and with its fall the shadow passed away. A light fell about her, and her hair shone in the sunrise.

The way light is described, it’s as if she bears a halo. It is evident Providence aids Eowyn and Merry to defeat of the Witch-King because “sunrise” symbolizes divine intervention (almost certainly Varda, Queen of the Skies and keeper of the pure light of Illuvatar).