Part IV (and my apologies for the delay)
Back to the encounter between Adar and the villagers who followed Waldreg (of which we already saw a part during Halbrands reverie of his past.)
Waldreg’s plea to be admitted into Adar’s following has some curious parts.
“Long have I awaited this day. The day your kind would return at last, lift us up from the muck and filth, to take our rightful place at your side. I pledge my undying service to you. (This seems to shock Rowan) I pledge my loyalty to Sauron.” And he kneels deep. Nobody follows his example.
(How come he seems to know so much? Knows Sauron's name? How had he come in the possession of the key in the first place? Makes you wonder if Waldreg is perhaps (far) more than he claims to be.)
Adar, who has been listening to all this with his back turned to Waldreg, now turns and slowly walks towards him. Looks down on him.
Waldreg looks up and asks, “You are Sauron, are you not?”
Adar, for whatever reason, doesn’t like the question. Or any question about Sauron. He doesn’t answer at all, just hits Waldreg hard. And walks off.
Waldreg, lying on the ground, calls after him, “I’ll serve you, then. Whoever you are.”
But Adar wasn’t going away. He grabs one of the villagers, Rowan (watching from the first line, where else), and forces him on his knees in front of himself. One of the Orcs drops a knife on Waldreg’s chest. Had they planned this or is what follows just standard procedure for would-be followers?
“Only blood can bind,” Adar explains.
The villagers gasp and whimper. Rowan keeps repeating “Waldreg, Waldreg, no“ in a disbelieving voice. Waldreg looks uncertain at the knife, at first, but then his eyes narrow and his look gets somewhat calculating.
We are spared watching the spilling of blood. But it doesn’t leave much doubt about Waldreg’s ultimate decision.
Theo is testing his skills as an archer. He could use some advice from Arondir. But as it is being offered, unasked, he resist it.
“Why bother trying to teach me?”
“Because it took me over 200 years to develop the bravery that’s keeping me standing here tonight. You found it in only 14. And we’re going to need it in the fight to come.”
“All my life your kind has watched us, counting every whisper. Every kitchen knife too sharp. We’re all about to be buried in this tower. So why be buried with us?”
“Because in counting the whispers and the knives, I’ve come to know the voices and the hands of those behind them.”
“Half of us just left.”
“But half stayed. Including you.”
Theo seems to surrender his resistance after this. And confesses something else. He shows Arondir the key. The design triggers a memory, “I have seem this before.”
He turns around and looks at the wall behind him, covered with branches. Something has been carved in the wall.
Once the greenery is removed the whole design becomes visible. It is elaborate, difficult to make out what it depicts, except for the design that is seen also in the key.
It is a key, according to Arondir, “Conjured by some forgotten craft of the enemy, to enslave your ancestors.”
“A key to what?” Bronwyn wonders.
Arondir sighs. “I do not know. The enemy commander spoke of becoming a god. Of giving the Orcs a home in these lands. But whatever his design, this much is certain. Our enemy knows that your son has what he needs to enact it.”
They stand on the rampart, looking down into the valley. Lights, probably Orcs carrying torches, seem to gather from every direction at the foot of the hills. Hundreds, if not thousands.
“How long?”
“Days,” Arondir guesses, “Maybe hours.”
Bronwyn despairs. Arondir grabs her by the shoulder. “We can survive this. There is a way. There must be.”
“There is one, “ Bronwyn agrees. If you can’t beat them, join them.
She storms down to the center of the keep, probably to tell everyone to give up hope.
“No!” Arondir cries, “Bow to the enemy and you take away everything. From your son, and his sons after him. Your people have worked an entire age to earn back their virtue.” No one around them seems to pay much attention to their discussion. Let alone join in. “Would you undo it all in just one moment of despair? Their must be another way.”
“Name it. I beg you.”
Arondir has no answer.
“See? You were right to watch us. Because we are destined for the darkness.” Bronwyn looks again at the sculpted design on the wall. “It is how we survive. Perhaps it is who we are. Who we will always be.”
But Arondir won’t allow it. “There is far more at stake here than just our lives. When Morgoth was at war, whole continents sank.” He holds up the key and looks at it. “Who is to say what horrors this might unleash, should our enemy obtain it?”
“What power do we have to stop him? Look around. It’s over.“
“Not yet!”
“Soon enough. And when they march upon us, this tower will fall.”
Arondir gasps and then Bronwyn herself. They both look up at the tower behind them. An idea has begun to stir.
Below, in the valley, Adar looks up at the very same tower. Around him the Orcs, excited by the coming battle, are getting in line and on their way up along the access road, chanting “Nampat, nampat!”
In Lindon, Durin is preparing to leave for home. The stone table is being carried by 6 elves. It might not be enough manpower. They struggle and barely prevent it from falling, and no doubt breaking if it did.
Prince Durin starts to chuckle. Then clears his throat. Elrond, standing next to him as they watch the bearers leave, looks at him and looks exasperated as it dawns on him.
“You made it up, didn’t you?”
“Disa’s been wanting a new table for years, so…” he glances up at Elrond. And they both begin chuckling. But Elrond returns to a more serious expression a bit to soon.
“Ah, come on, it’s not that heavy.”
“It is not the weight of the table that burdens me.”
“So why don’t you come out with it?”
“Because a burden shared may either be halved or doubled.”
Durin sighs and is irritated with this cryptic answer. He groans, “Aulë’s beard. Enough with the quail sauce!” He is not angry, though.
He steps on a stone, to get more eye to eye with Elrond. “Give me the meat, and give it to me raw.”
Elrond takes the time to find the right words, to confess duplicity.
“I have not been truthful with you, Durin.” Durin looks back with a face that says, ‘Tell me something new.’
“I did not come to Khazad-Dûm for friendship, but ambition. I did not know it. But I came for mithril.”
Now Durin really sighs, for once lost for words. “
Why?”
“Without it,” Elrond says, “my kind must either abandon these shores by spring, or perish.”
“Perish,” Durin looks a lot less skeptical now. “Perish, how…?”
“Our immortal souls will... dwindle into nothing. Slowly diminishing until we are but shadows, swept away by the tides of time. Forever.”
Durin sighs again and steps down from his stone. He sits himself heavily on another stone next to is. “So, the fate of the entire Elven race is in my hands?” He sounds as if he has trouble keeping from mirth breaking through about this stupendous joke fate seems to have contrived.
Elrond can’t laugh, “So it would appears.” He sits next to Durin, face downcast.
Durin bounces on his seat. “Say that again.”
And Elrond, still dead serious, looks at him and repeats, “The fate of the entire Elven race is in your hands.”
Struggling to keep his face straight, Durin turns to Elrond. “Whose hands?”
Elrond obliges him again. “Yours.”
Durin sighs deeply. Then returns to seriousness. “Fetch your feathery shirts. Lets start walking.”
“Durin…”
Durin stops him. “Don’t thank me yet. Thank me after we find a way to convince my father. Now can we please get moving? It’s a long journey back.”
Durin keeps babbling while he walks off, preventing Elrond from saying needless things, between friends. “All this sunlight is startin’ to give me a sour stomach.”
“Under one condition,“ Elrond manages to interject, “Tell Disa the table’s from me.”
“Don’t push your luck, Elf.”
The both laugh as they walk off along a tree lined path carpeted in autumnal colors. Spring is not far off.
From high up High King Gil-Galad sees them going, stoical. He might have shown some relief. Why doesn't he?
In Numûnor, Halbrand, still at the forgery, is looking at his mark, contemplating. It is dawn. Has he been up all night?
A soldier appears. As expected, Queen Regent Míriel has summoned him.
Sighing heavily Halbrand rises. He throws the mark on a worktable and follows the soldier. Seconds later he is back to grab his mark again.
The next scene shows Habrand clad in leather armour and riding a horse. Trumpets blare and drums thump; the Numûnorean force marches off to their ships, cheered by the people. Isuldur is among the soldiers, beaming proud. Eärien is less happy with all this.
They board the ships.
“Look whose father secured him a post. Again.” Valendil remarks.
“I earned mine. Same as you.” Isuldur replies, to be interrupted by his father.
“Report to the horsemaster.”
“Thought I was in cavalry.”
“You are. As stable sweep.”
Behind him his friends laugh and, after a second, so does Isuldur. They embrace.
The soldiers are called to attention. The commander boards. Galadriel wears a metal amour. She walks aft, to where Halbrand – no, Lord Halbrand – is waiting. They clasp hands. (In this moment Halbrand, having bathed and given decent clothing, looks more than ever like Aragon.)
And thus the expeditionary force sails off to Middle-Earth.
Conclusion. The balance after 5 episodes.
A mixed bag. The lack of quality in the writing begins to chafe.
The false flags, unlikely or impossible events, the artifice and deception are methods of story-telling I have never much appreciated, but seem even more out of place, or character, if you will, in Middle-Earth. Evil, corruption by the Ring, yes, false expectation, fine, but wrong-footing viewers, no.
Though the happenings in Nûmenor are probably step-stones to events later (likely in season two), right now they seem artificial and leading nowhere. Annoying, even.
On the other hand, the relation between Durin and Elrond is done well and a relieve to watch. The High King, however, and his dubious machinations are a let down.
The Harfoot may seem annoying too at first, but as a folk with their own quirks and short-comings, it is something I have come to appreciate more, especially the Brandyfoot, Nori and the Stranger, and Poppy, who seem to have been adopted by the family.
Who or what the Stranger exactly is remains unclear, but that’s fine. It’s an honest mystery.
The same goes for Adar. Clearly an Elf, but the answer to what exactly his connection with Sauron is has been dodged constantly. Adar refuses to give any clues.
That makes what Waldreg seem to know, all the more suspect. Also given the fact that it was his barn where the key was originally kept.
There is little personal development for most of the characters. What do we know about Bronwyn? She looks so different from the other villagers, as does Theo. Her ‘leadership’ seems off. Her relation with Arondir has mainly remained superficial, unexplored. And as a result, uninteresting to the viewer.
There remains much to be desired and to improve.
