Sympathy for the Balrog

Beowulf

Lets not forget that Middle Earth started with a minor warlord of the 6th Century, or thereabouts...

Grendel’s Story

The night smelt good. There had been some rain but it was clear now and the moon was up, illuminating everything; a hunter’s moon!

Out in the forest and the plain were the sounds of the night animals announcing themselves. But under this was a more distant, ugly sound – the murmuring of men together – laughing, drinking, bragging. Occasionally in this low murmuring, the wind would bring the high pitched shriek of one of their instruments – this vile unnatural sound which was an affront to nature itself. These vile creatures would pay for their temerity tonight.

[...] The timber hall now lay much closer, foul vapours still billowing from a hole in the roof. It was as if every aspect of these creatures was specially designed to be disgusting and unnatural. The guffaws and shouts had lessened now, as the brutes were completely intoxicated. But the time was not yet right. I remained crouched behind a bush – waiting a little longer for all of them to get to sleep – a sleep some would not awaken from.

Though I am massive compared to them, I can move with perfect silence when I need. I chose to approach the hall on all fours, like my brothers of the forest, though I can walk on two if I wish. The hall was now as silent as it ever got, silent but for the guttural snores and murmurings of those creatures in slumber.

Closer still, my heart leapt! The door was unguarded. Though my quarry was smaller and weaker than I, all hunts have their perils. Thus I proceed in total silence, watchful of any movement.

The door gave easily – too easily – and the usual smells of dense cohabitation wafted out. My heart raced exultantly, I was in their home again, I must work fast. Unlike these creatures, the darkness hides nothing from my eyes and I took in my surroundings with a glance – long tables, broken cups, spilt mead – and there – the slumbering bodies huddled under animal skins.

I grabbed one with both hands. It only had time to blink and yelp once before I crushed it in my jaws, and forced the rest of the limbs into my mouth with my hands.

Quick – another! By now I heard their quaking voices as they realised I had come again.

I grabbed a third sleeping form, but immediately it felt different. It convulsed like a snake that had been waiting to strike, and as the sheepskin fell away something clamped onto my wrist with unearthly strength. I found myself looking into a face, the like of which I had never seen before. Its eyes remained hidden under a thick brow, and for all I knew there were no eyes there at all. Its face contained no expression, no emotion, only purpose, as if it were born to do this one task only. All these thoughts passed through my mind as I became entangled with this unique beast, and the crushing pressure on my wrist steadily became unendurable…

The vile creature gripped harder. Pain shot up my arm as my shoulder twisted, bending grinding...

The pain...

The pain...

I could feel the world closing in. Was I fainting?

Darkness...

Ancient Demon

Beast Dwelling in The Pit

Insomnia Diaries

a' night I have many battles my mattress - and these hours I cannot sleep I have one course of action open to me; I take to my sketchbooks (along with a can of cold beer and a glass of white rum). This is a selection of what comes out in the small hours...

Armoured Insectoid 5:23 am, night 2

Slug Being 5:36 am, night 2

 Unidentified Creature 5:33 am

Insectoid 6:20 am

Unnamed Beast 6:06 am

An Alternative Tolkien

Now that Peter Jackson has finally rounded off his adaptation of what is arguably, the greatest epic fantasy cycle of its kind, I want to share some thoughts on the subject. Along with many others I have greatly enjoyed the Lord of the Rings films, and also have enjoyed his somewhat free adaptation of “The Hobbit”, perhaps more because it is so different from the book it doesn't conflict with my vision. 
Although I love the Peter Jackson adaptations, I cannot help feeling a minute twinge of sadness. Before these mega budget and heartfelt adaptations the unillustrated books were the unique preserve of our imaginations. Many people would illustrate the stories, (everyone who could pick up a pencil by my reckonings) but it was your own take on it. There was the Ralph Bakshi film version, referred to as “oh yeah, the film” with descending intonation. The main complaint I heard about this film adaptation was; “it wasn't like I imagined it, so I hated it”. This early attempt probably was not as bad as people said (I liked the orcs, because they were quite varied, and the scenes in Moria were very exciting), but Ralph Bakshi’s twee take on good wizards perhaps reminded people of the hijacking of Tolkien by hippydom in the 1970’s, that put a lot of people off.  In fact, I remember when it became quite fashionable to deride Tolkien, the inevitable reaction to someone who had become “too popular”. I read a stinking review by Jonathan Keates, of one of the many re-issues of the Hobbit in either the Sunday Times or the Observer, in which he rather unfairly tried to link it to Fascism (which Tolkien despised) because an Italian Fascist had filched some of Tolkien’s ideas for his own ends, and that Tolkien, Bilbo and Hitler were “little men”.

Thankfully Peter Jackson gave the films the power, emotion and gravitas, and was recognised by many, including the Oscars. But in a tiny way, I feel that something was lost. I still look back to the days when we had our own vision of the scenes and characters of Middle Earth. For me, the Hobbit took place in the British countryside where I grew up. I know Mirkwood and Fangorn, because me, my brother and my mates would spend our weekends crawling in the rhododendrons, in the woods near our home, with the Hobbits our unseen companions.

I can remember when we finally persuaded our primary school teacher to read The Hobbit to us at storytime, and I heard about the trolls being “turned back to stone” from which they were made. I gasped and a few of the other kids looked at me; “It’s not real you know!” but I was just fascinated by the concept; this sentient but brutish species were made of stone, and perhaps not even born at all. The power over my 10 year old brain was uncontrollable, and I don’t think I ever came back.

I’ve always had my own vision of Middle Earth and here are a few pictures of the way I saw the stories. In a funny way, I don’t mind if you disagree...

Balrog in Moria

Balrogs and Orcs in the Wars of the Second Age

The Last Battle of Gandalf the Grey

Balrog Captain