For many years now, I have been making the argument--in both my nonfiction writing and my stories--that The Silmarillion was deliberately constructed by Tolkien as a biased historical text, and historiographical considerations should therefore form part of analysis of it. In 2016, I published an article in the Journal of Tolkien Research, Attainable Vistas, that made the case for historical bias in The Silmarillion (and also as a motive for creating fanworks, although that's not relevant to my point in this essay). The crux of my argument in that article was 1) The Silmarillion is authored mostly by Pengolodh and 2) Pengolodh is an untrustworthy and biased narrator because he spent most of the First Age holed up in Gondolin, a realm that was decidedly biased against the Fëanorians. As a result, The Silmarillion shows an overly simplistic, one-sided view of what happened during the First Age. As the data in the article shows, Tolkien was remarkably consistent in shaping the story according to Pengolodh's point of view, emphasizing the people and the places that would have mattered the most to him. This leads me to believe that Pengolodh's PoV--and bias--wasn't an embellishment but a narrative element of The Silmarillion that was very deliberately constructed and maintained and, therefore, deserves consideration when interpreting the text.

I collected other data and evidence that didn't make the cut into "Attainable Vistas." One of those data sets looked at death scenes and funerary customs. In particular, I compared two death scenes: Fëanor and Fingolfin. Placed side-by-side, they are remarkably similar in plot structure, but in digging deeper into Tolkien's choice of language and details, the voice of Pengolodh once again emerges. In these scenes, we have an example of why Pengolodh is biased and untrustworthy, and why it matters.

On the surface, the death scenes of Fëanor (which happens in the chapter "Of the Return of the Noldor") and Fingolfin ("Of the Ruin of Beleriand") are remarkably similar, following the same basic plot structure. (All quotes come from those chapters unless otherwise cited.) Both are also among the longest death scenes in the book, which for Fëanor's scene is remarkable because one of the ways Pengolodh's bias manifests is by simply ignoring the existence of the Fëanorians (and their allies; Fingon in particular gets the short shrift) until they do something nefarious enough to confirm his preexisting low opinion of them. But he spends an unusual amount of time on Fëanor's death scene, even allowing heroism to creep in. The similarities between the death scenes of Fëanor and Fingolfin make them ripe territory to look at the more subtle ways Pengolodh's bias manifests.

I will use this plot formula to look at how Pengolodh manipulates language and symbolism to present two very similar acts in two very different lights. 

The Emotional Provocation: Why We Fight, or OMG the Feels

The deaths of both Fëanor and Fingolfin are preceded by rash, emotion-driven pursuits of single combat with Morgoth. In fact, the wording used to describe their provocations is remarkably similar:

Fëanor: "For Fëanor, in his wrath against the Enemy, would not halt …"
Fingolfin: "[Fingolfin was] filled with wrath and despair he mounted upon Rochallor his great horse and rode forth alone, and none might restrain him …"

Both kings are wrathful in their pursuit of Morgoth, so much so that they become unstoppable. However, the circumstances that produced this state are slightly different: Fëanor has just won against Morgoth, and Fingolfin has just lost, and grievously so. Fingolfin's pursuit is the more justified; Fëanor is simply unthinking, ensnared by hubris.

Given that both characters are described at first with the word wrath, their portrayals deviate sharply after that with no small amount of value judgment from Pengolodh. Fingolfin's wrath and rashness is presented as heroic, almost godlike:

He passed over Dor-nu-Fauglith like a wind amid the dust, and all that beheld his onset fled in amaze, thinking that Oromë himself was come: for a great madness of rage was upon him, so that his eyes shone like the eyes of the Valar. Thus he came alone to Angband's gates, and he sounded his horn, and smote once more upon the brazen doors, and challenged Morgoth to come forth to single combat. And Morgoth came.

The phrase "great madness of rage" is particularly interesting because, if you presented this phrase in isolation and asked me if it describes Fëanor or Fingolfin, I would choose Fëanor. Through language like this, Pengolodh does not shy from the irrationality--even destructiveness--of Fingolfin's decision. After all, this is the king of the Noldor, whose grief overwhelms him to the point that he essentially commits suicide-by-Dark-Lord, leaving a shattered and vulnerable realm without the experienced leadership he could have provided and throwing the sudden responsibility of rule onto Fingon. But look at what Pengolodh does next. He twists that madness into a metaphor comparing Fingolfin to the Valar. The morality and the implications of Fingolfin's decision are lost in that instant, as Pengolodh aligns him and his decision with the Valar, with the forces for good. The comparison suggests that we are to understand Fingolfin's decision as answering to a higher, almost divine cause. The actual, real results of that decision for his people become irrelevant thereafter.

Fëanor does not receive this dispensation:

For Fëanor, in his wrath against the Enemy, would not halt, but pressed on behind the remnant of the Orcs, thinking so to come at Morgoth himself; and he laughed aloud as he wielded his sword, rejoicing that he had dared the wrath of the Valar and the evils of the road, that he might see the hour of his vengeance. Nothing did he know of Angband or the great strength of defence that Morgoth had so swiftly prepared: but even had he known it would not have deterred him, for he was fey, consumed by the flame of his own wrath.

Fëanor's madness and wrath is no less than Fingolfin's, but Pengolodh does not make that essential pivot with him to align his pursuit with a higher cause. Instead, Fëanor's internal thoughts--which it's worth pointing out Pengolodh could not have known and so is inferring or simply assigning based on the impression of Fëanor he hopes to create--focus on vengeance and the petty satisfaction of having seemingly outsmarted the Valar. Remember that when Fëanor learned of Finwë's death and the theft of the Silmarils, he "ran from the Ring of Doom, and fled into the night; for his father was dearer to him than the Light of Valinor or the peerless works of his hands; and who among sons, of Elves or of Men, have held their fathers of greater worth?" ("Of the Flight of the Noldor"). Interestingly, this section of The Silmarillion would have been authored by Rúmil of Tirion, not Pengolodh. When Pengolodh takes over, the ostensible motive for going to Middle-earth and attacking Morgoth--the murder of Finwë--goes unmentioned; not even the Silmarils drive Fëanor in this scene. Instead it is silly, petty pride in having done what he was told he could not do. As Fingolfin's madness elevates him to a seat among the gods, Fëanor's reduces him to the triteness of a child.

The final point to make about the approach to combat concerns the relative ignorance of Fëanor compared to Fingolfin. Pengolodh acknowledges that "[n]othing did [Fëanor] know of Angband or the great strength of defence that Morgoth had so swiftly prepared," although he immediately negates that possible defense of Fëanor's irrationality by pointing out that it wouldn't have mattered anyway (which is, again, something he would have had no way to know. Pengolodh wasn't even born yet when Fëanor died, nor were the people of Fingolfin arrived in Middle-earth.) Fingolfin is assigned no such ignorance because, of course, he knew perfectly well what he was getting into; he'd maintained the Siege of Angband for four hundred years ("Of the Return of the Noldor") and doubtlessly had received intelligence from Elves who had actually been within Angband, not least of all Maedhros. Acknowledging and swiftly dismissing Fëanor's ignorance seems to be Pengolodh's attempt to quickly defang one of the strongest counterarguments against the characterization of Fëanor's mad dash after the Orcs of Morgoth as rash or foolish rather than the reasonable extension of a significant victory to bring an end to Morgoth early and once and for all. (One imagines what Pengolodh might have had to say if Fëanor had turned aside: "Though carried by momentum and certain of victory, Fëanor turned aside from the pursuit of the Orcs of Morgoth, and in the dark places of Angband the enemy festered; and a war that could have been ended upon Dor-Daedeloth that day stretched across the ages and well nigh the annihilation of the Eldarin people.") And Pengolodh's tactic works--Fëanor's ignorance transforms into irrationality--unless one remembers who is speaking here and that there was no possible way for him to know that Fëanor was too far gone to be persuaded by better intelligence.

Interlude: Fingolfin Is Awesome (and Fëanor Is …)

There is one significant passage in Fingolfin's death scene that does not have a parallel in Fëanor's scene. Between their headlong flights and the commencement of their final flights, Fingolfin is treated to a heroic description that both casts Morgoth as an overpowering foe and Fingolfin as his smaller but braver opponent:

That was the last time in those wars that he passed the doors of his stronghold, and it is said that he took not the challenge willingly; for though his might was greatest of all things in this world, alone of the Valar he knew fear. But he could not now deny the challenge before the face of his captains; for the rocks rang with the shrill music of Fingolfin's horn, and his voice came keen and clear down into the depths of Angband; and Fingolfin named Morgoth craven, and lord of slaves. Therefore Morgoth came, climbing slowly from his subterranean throne, and the rumour of his feet was like thunder underground. And he issued forth clad in black armour; and he stood before the King like a tower, iron-crowned, and his vast shield, sable on-blazoned, cast a shadow over him like a stormcloud. But Fingolfin gleamed beneath it as a star; for his mail was overlaid with silver, and his blue shield was set with crystals; and he drew his sword Ringil, that glittered like ice.

I quoted the entire passage here because the writing here is nothing short of luscious. First of all, Morgoth's courage is questioned by Pengolodh; he accepted Fingolfin's challenge only out of shame of appearing weak. (Pengolodh suggests that there is a source for this but doesn't tell us what it is.¹ It reminds me of the kind of propaganda deployed the boost one's estimation by suggesting an otherwise formidable opponent is somehow cowed because of you and your awesome. Like when I lived in Baltimore and our football team would annually go up against the top team in the league, and that team always wanted to play "any team but us." Sure they did.) Most of the passage concerns Morgoth, and there is an interesting contrast at work here. He is depicted as imposing beyond belief--physically huge, comparable to things like towers and stormclouds--and yet he drags his feet. He "climb[s] slowly" to meet Fingolfin; his footsteps are described as thunderous, yet the word rumour is simultaneously deployed in their description: something subtle, insidious, uncommitted. Even the term "issued forth" to describe his appearance before Fingolfin is a notably weak verb: He does not charge or storm; he issues. (One can issue a newsletter or a dog license but doesn't usually think of it as a word fitting a heroic arrival in battle.)

Fingolfin receives little attention in this passage relative to Morgoth, but his brief appearance scintillates across the page in comparison, charged with symbolically rich imagery associated with light. The words star, crystal, and ice appear in the single sentence to describe Fingolfin. All of these objects share two significant commonalities: They are objects not necessarily dangerous but potentially so, and they are beautiful despite that possible peril. On the second point, their beauty comes from their interaction with light. Particularly crystals and ice reflect and refract light, making a meager supply seem more abundant and radiant. This is how we are to understand Fingolfin: beautiful and perilous, and again, we have Pengolodh making reference, through the light symbolism (for Light is a thing divine upon Arda), to a higher, even divine cause. The small scintilla of his fight against Morgoth, we are to understand, represents something larger, something cosmic in scope.

Fëanor's foes--Orcs and multiple Balrogs, including Gothmog--are not described, nor is Fëanor granted a similarly heroic and deeply symbolic appearance in meeting them.

Fighting the Good Fight

Both Fëanor and Fingolfin are credited with putting up a good fight and, through strength of will, nearly prevailing despite facing foes much more formidable than they were. Fëanor is credited with a nearly superhuman persistence despite a crippling assault by the vanquished band of Orcs joined by at least a few Balrogs: "Fëanor was surrounded, with few friends about him. Long he fought on, and undismayed, though he was wrapped in fire and wounded with many wounds." Once again, though, Pengolodh's acknowledgement of Fëanor's bravery and persistence is undermined when he assigns blame to Fëanor for finding himself in that predicament in the first place. Fëanor had drawn "far ahead of the van of his host; and seeing this the servants of Morgoth turned to bay, and there issued from Angband Balrogs to aid them."

It's worth remembering here, however, that Fëanor is doing nothing more than what Fingolfin will do, some centuries later when he similarly rides forth alone and challenges Morgoth to single combat. Morgoth: whom the hosts of the Valar had to mount an army to defeat. In fact, goaded as he was by the routing of Morgoth's army in the Battle-under-stars, it's possible to argue that Fëanor's was the more rational decision, although you wouldn't know this from Pengolodh's depiction.

Relatively little attention is given to the battle itself between Fëanor and the Balrogs, although it is hard to imagine it unworthy of song. The attention Pengolodh does give focuses heavily on Fëanor's wounds and injuries with no mention--aside from the generality about his persistence--of any of his attacks against his foe. In comparison, Pengolodh spends two paragraphs on the lurid details of the fight between Fingolfin and Morgoth. What is worth remembering here, too, is that, unlike Fëanor's last stand, no one was present to witness this fight. One can only conclude that Pengolodh invented it himself (because he later claims of Fingolfin's death that "neither do the Elves sing of it, for their sorrow is too deep," which seems to eliminate that there was an extant tradition he was repeating or drawing from in his own writing; see Note 1 below).

So the fight scene between Fingolfin and Morgoth can be read as what Pengolodh wants us to take away from Fingolfin's death. First of all, Fingolfin is very nearly a match for Morgoth, managing to defend against his attacks while wounding him seven times, and "seven times Morgoth gave a cry of anguish, whereat the hosts of Angband fell upon their faces in dismay, and the cries echoed in the Northlands." Again, the prowess of Fingolfin is so devastating that, in addition to inspiring fear in the Dark Lord himself, he awakens despair that fills the north of Beleriand from the followers of Morgoth. But the outcome is what it is. Pengolodh must admit that Fingolfin "grew weary," although he is not willing to concede the fight yet. Fingolfin continues to persist, despite being battered beyond recognition by Morgoth's attacks, a situation very similar to Fëanor's being "wrapped in fire and wounded with many wounds." Even at Morgoth's death stroke, Fingolfin manages to have a final, lasting word, swiping his sword across Morgoth's foot and wounding him grievously and permanently.

This last detail is particularly important. We do not know what lasting impact Fëanor had in his final stand. It's hard to believe that he fought as long as he did without exacting some price from his foe, but we don't know what that might have been. (And while Fëanor may have had "few friends about him" at the time, the implication is that there were witnesses--we also know that his sons came up and dispelled the assault before Fëanor died--whereas there were no witnesses to Fingolfin's single combat against Morgoth. Therefore, it would have been possible for Pengolodh to find such information, assuming he was willing to reach out to the people, songs, and lore of the House of Fëanor. It's worth asking why he didn't want to share this information about one of the most decisive triumphs of the Noldor in the First Age.) In contrast, Fingolfin's last stand resounds into perpetuity: "Morgoth went ever halt of one foot after that day, and the pain of his wounds could not be healed." (There are additional examples of Fingolfin's lasting impact relative to Fëanor's, discussed below.)

In short, Pengolodh is assuring us that Fingolfin's rash action was worth it. No matter that he left his already vulnerable people in a politically precarious situation, his death was not for naught. Handicapped by Fingolfin's assault against him, Morgoth is a lesser enemy to all who will come before him thereafter. Symbolically, again, with the supernatural wound that won't heal, we are led to understand that Fingolfin's cause for riding forth is in service of something greater than him.

Extraordinary Deaths, and Fëanor and Fingolfin's Excellent Adventure into the Hereafter

Both Fëanor and Fingolfin experience extraordinary deaths. Fingolfin's--namely his zero-hour wounding of Morgoth's foot so deeply that the wound never fully heals and stands as a symbol of right against might to anyone thereafter who observes him hobbling through the halls of Angband--is discussed above, in the context of his performance in battle. After his death, Fingolfin's body becomes a potent symbol. Morgoth "took the body of the Elven-king and broke it, and would cast it to his wolves," but the ever-convenient Eagles come to the rescue, as Thorondor dares a volley of Orcish arrows and Morgoth himself to rescue the body of the Elven king and carry it to "a mountain-top that looked from the north upon the hidden valley of Gondolin" where "Turgon coming built a high cairn over his father." (It's worth remembering here that Pengolodh was a subject of Turgon in Gondolin. In "Attainable Vistas," I make the case that Pengolodh often devotes attention to matters of close personal relevance to him, and the attention he gives the death of Fingolfin seems no exception. No other death scene is so lavishly treated in The Silmarillion as Fingolfin's, but this is the father of Turgon, Penglodh's own king, and his cairn becomes a symbol particular to Gondolin.)

Fëanor does not die in battle; he is born away by his sons and dies a short time after. Yet Fëanor's death is, if anything, more extraordinary than Fingolfin's, as his body spontaneously combusts and the ash is "borne away like smoke." This detail is, of course, in accordance with Fëanor's depiction as the "spirit of fire" and symbolizes the impetuous ardor that Pengolodh has been so careful to convey in this scene, where Fëanor's greatness is always subsumed by his overzealousness. It also, conveniently enough, ensures that there is no physical body left behind to serve as a symbol of the triumph of Fëanor's people. I'll discuss this more below.

Pengolodh does not provide details on how Fëanor's fight against the remnants of Morgoth's Orc host and Balrogs fared, but he does know an awful lot about what Fëanor was thinking and feeling in his final moments before experiencing physical death. Once again, one has to question whether Pengolodh could have known this information, and one has to question why he chooses to provide details now when, a mere paragraph earlier, he merely glanced over one of the most decisive Noldorin victories in the First Age. As the sons of Fëanor bear their father home,

Fëanor bade them halt; for his wounds were mortal, and he knew that his hour was come. And looking out from the slopes of Ered Wethrin with his last sight he beheld far off the peaks of Thangorodrim, mightiest of the towers of Middle-earth, and knew with the foreknowledge of death that no power of the Noldor would ever overthrow them; but he cursed the name of Morgoth thrice, and laid it upon his sons to hold to their oath, and to avenge their father.

This passage is devoid of hope. At the threshold of the First Age, we are to understand that Fëanor believed the great battle against Morgoth already lost, a cutting comment from Pengolodh that seems to allude to the curse of Mandos against the Noldor, wherein all their efforts will come to naught because of the kinslaying. (In fact, the Noldor do quite a bit of good; the curse of Mandos seems as good an example of confirmation bias as one might find in a research design textbook.) In contrast, Fingolfin's rash death is rationalized as condemning Morgoth to unending pain. What is most notable about this passage, however, is that Fëanor's final words press his sons to keep their oath and, additionally, to exact vengeance on his behalf.

Again, there is a stark contrast between the Fëanor who fled Máhanaxar and pursued the journey to Middle-earth out of grief for his father, as told by Rúmil of Tirion, and the Fëanor who lies dying and mentions neither Finwë nor the Silmarils. Once again, in Pengolodh's telling of the tale, these motives are conveniently subordinated to lesser motives related to discrediting the Valar and upholding the Oath. It is easy to forget in this scene the strength of Fëanor's case against Morgoth and the full extent of what he has lost.

Now that Fëanor and Fingolfin are dead, Pengolodh turns his attentions to the consequences of their deaths. First is the reaction of those around them. Fingolfin receives a sumptuous outpouring of grief, as befits a valiant king and beloved father, grandfather, and brother: "Great was the lamentation in Hithlum when the fall of Fingolfin became known, and Fingon in sorrow took the lordship of the house of Fingolfin and the kingdom of the Noldor." As noted above, Turgon constructs a cairn for his fallen father, and the Elven people as a whole are so grieved that they cannot even bear to sing of it. Fingolfin seems to receive the full funerary honors and emotional effusion as deserving of a high king, and Pengolodh takes pains that his readers know it.

In contrast, Fëanor's death scene is utterly devoid of emotion. If his sons feel anything for their father's loss and the frightening, surprising immolation of his body after death, then we do not know of it. If Fëanor's people feel any grief for their fallen king, Pengolodh does not tell us. Instead, he sums up in a single tidy, dispassionate sentence: "Thus ended the mightiest of the Noldor, of whose deeds came both their greatest renown and their most grievous woe."

This creates an important effect in Fëanor's death scene. We see far less of Fingolfin in The Silmarillion than we do Fëanor--Fingolfin is mentioned fewer than half as many times as is Fëanor (see Figure 2 in "Attainable Vistas")--but Pengolodh leaves us with no doubt that he was a man worthy of both admiration and love. The grief of both his immediate family, particularly his two sons, as well as his people as a whole ensure that this cannot be questioned. Yet despite the fact that Fëanor has dominated The Silmarillion to the point of his death, and we know him better than any other character to that point, there is an emotional emptiness to his death scene that is hard to interpret as anything but bias on the part of Pengolodh.

By Pengolodh's account, Fëanor's sons do not mourn him. His people do not grieve him. If he is given any sort of funeral rites, suggestive of a desire to honor and remember him, we do not hear of it. If his death inspires any sort of folklore, we do not hear of that either. Much as his body is reduced to ash and borne away, we are expected to believe that the emotions surrounding his tumultuous and passionate life are likewise obliterated.

Perhaps the greatest effect of the omission of reference to grief or funeral customs involves the sons of Fëanor. No matter the complicated emotions the Noldor--even the followers of Fëanor--might have felt toward their spirited leader (although Rúmil, again, shows more generosity toward Fëanor when he names him "most beloved" of the sons of Finwë ["Of Eldamar"]), that his sons would have mourned his death seems obvious. After all, they chose, to a man, to follow him into exile. They chose, to a man, to join him in his Oath. Again, they are all at his side at his death. I have always interpreted this unanimity as clear evidence of their love for him.

But to mention that love--and the grief that must have come out of it--humanizes a group of characters whom Pengolodh is highly motivated to dehumanize and present as the enemy. I do not argue that Pengolodh was unjust in this--after the Fall of Gondolin, he lived among the survivors of the Second Kinslaying at Sirion's mouth and himself survived the Third Kinslaying at the Fëanorians' hands just short years later²--but his own emotions toward the sons of Fëanor, no matter how justified, may have led to narrative choices that do not do present the full picture. That seems to be the case here. When we are not even given the chance to glimpse the Fëanorians mourning their father--when they are seemingly unable to muster such pitiable emotion even for one so dear to them--then how can we believe that their later acts are any more complicated beyond their apparent inhumanity? Pengolodh seeks at many places in The Silmarillion to obscure the complexity of the sons of Fëanor, but forgoing any mention of their grief in this scene is surely one of the more blatant examples.

There is one final and significant difference between the extraordinary deaths of Fëanor and Fingolfin, again tied into the symbolism of these scenes. Through Thorondor's recovery of Fingolfin's body and Turgon's building of the cairn over it, the story of Fingolfin's death in single combat with Morgoth becomes attached to a tangible part of the landscape, which in turn attracts its own folklore:

No Orc dared ever after to pass over the mount of Fingolfin or draw nigh his tomb, until the doom of Gondolin was come and treachery was born among his kin. Morgoth went ever halt of one foot after that day, and the pain of his wounds could not be healed; and in his face was the scar that Thorondor made.

This detail accomplishes two things. It establishes the power of Fingolfin as so great that even death cannot fully dispel it; it lingers and continues to act upon the land, even after Fingolfin's feä has gone from that place. This elevates Fingolfin's deed beyond mere rashness, even heroics, to a sort of semi-divine act. Secondly, in establishing a protective influence upon the land, Pengolodh again rationalizes Fingolfin's recklessness as justified; after all, not only is he clearly carrying out a quest in pursuit of Capital-G-Good against Capital-E-Evil--a quest that can be easily viewed as sacred and beyond the earthly concerns of kingship with which he was entrusted--but his act persists throughout the First Age, not only protecting the land but serving as an inviolable symbol of the triumph of good over evil.

Not Fëanor. Fëanor, by virtue of being whisked away on the wind in a death equally supernatural, leaves behind no body to become a symbol and to generate folklore. Just as the fire of Fëanor's spirit overwhelmed his physical body, so the fire of his zealousness likewise immolates his legacy. Fëanor will be credited with no protective influence on the land or inspire hope in perpetuity. Pengolodh assures us that "his likeness has never again appeared in Arda." Fittingly, through his writings, Pengolodh seeks to ensure just that.

Conclusion

The death scenes of Fëanor and Fingolfin are constructed upon a plot formula and embellished by Pengolodh, the narrator of this section of The Silmarillion,with supernatural, folkloric elements. Yet Pengolodh carefully manages his use of those elements, deploying both language and symbolism to take two nearly identical acts--the rash pursuit of single combat against Morgoth--and give those acts very different meanings. In Fëanor's case, his rashness is an extension of the flawed essence of his character: one so impetuous that any potential toward good is subsumed by an essential violence in his personality. In Fingolfin's, that same rash act is rationalized as serving a higher aim as a battle in the cosmic war of good and evil. Not surprisingly, it is the second man who is missed and mourned and remembered. The first is cast away on the wind.