Does true courage require a crisis of meaning? Or can one show the greatest levels of courage even when their purpose never wavers?
I was rewatching the Lord of the Rings trilogy for an upcoming wedding (what can I say, some people love Lord of the Rings) and I came to the part when Frodo calls Sam, "Samwise the Brave." It is, of course, a moment of great culmination, concluding The Two Towers, and a feel-good note to the brotherhood that these two share.
But as I thought about different examples of courage, as I thought about how I've interpreted courage in my own writing, I found myself asking--is Samwise the best example of courage? Or just the best one in the most famous fantasy franchise of all time?
I don't say this to mean Samwise is not a great character. Samwise's unwavering devotion, friendship, and, really, love for Frodo makes him one of the greatest sidekick characters of all time. Sean Astin's performance of him in the Peter Jackson trilogy is absolutely remarkable, and suffice to say, his scenes on Mount Doom in "The Return of the King" are something I still get chills thinking about.
in that regard, my problem has nothing to do with Samwise or how Tolkien set out to write him. In fact, Tolkien said when he was alive that Samwise is the "chief hero" of the saga. I may have strong opinions, but I am never going to argue with an author, much less the founder of modern fantasy, of their intent for a particular character.
My issue, rather, lies with how we, as readers, critics, and authors, define "courageous." Or perhaps, better said, how we think about the spectrum of courage.
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At the surface level of courage are small nuisances that we want to overcome while in service of a greater good. These could be anything from doing public speaking on behalf of someone you care deeply about to donating blood to help a sick relative. Such acts of service, it should be noted, would never be something I would call useless or even minor in real life; the reality is, for the vast majority of us, our lives are nothing compared to the stories we read, and so we ought to find those small moments of courage when we can get them.
But in the world of fiction and especially fantasy, when we get to toy with spectacular stakes, I find that this level of courage often doesn't leave the deepest impact. The childhood friend who joins the protagonist on a journey across the mountains is leaving the comfort of home, yes, but he already enjoys the company of his friend (and yes, I know said company isn't always pleasant--but it's never truly broken). The elderly mentor who takes on "one last student" who happens to be the protagonist is taking on a burden that may exhaust him to death, but it's not like he's refused to be a mentor for life. If given a choice of how he would die, he might very well pick mentoring one last exhausting pupil.
Samwise's courage, to me, is deeper than this--the risk Samwise takes warding off Gollum, briefly holding the ring, and carrying his friend up Mount Doom go beyond "small nuisances"--but it's not the strongest form of courage. Samwise's loyalty to Frodo is never really in question, and so his overarching motivation to protect Frodo is never internally threatened, never questioned, and never given up on.
In that regard, is Samwise Gamgee the best form of courage?
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Courage, to me, is best shown in the same way that you show any type of character growth.
The more you put it under stress, the more opportunity it has to shine.
Luke Skywalker needed courage to defeat Darth Vader--then he really needed courage to defeat Darth Vader, his father--then he needed an even more special type of courage to cast his lightsaber down in a futile attempt to save his father before Emperor Palpatine.
King T'Challa, perhaps better known as Black Panther, shows courage to fight against Zemo for killing his father--then he needed more courage to face down his cousin, Killmonger, in a battle for the throne of Wakanda--and then he needed an even greater type of courage to learn from those who would fight him, to recognize the faults of those whom he loved, and to change Wakanda for the better.
I picked these two examples not because they culminate with action, but actually the exact opposite. Luke puts down his lightsaber, Black Panther implements the lessons of his foes. The strongest form of courage, to me, is being willing to recognize the fault in your past, the fault in your guiding motivation--not the annoyances that obstruct your guiding motivation--and the ability to overcome or adapt to your initial motivation. Luke had to learn that to defeat Darth Vader was not to kill him, but to show mercy. Black Panther had to learn that to preserve Wakanda did not mean to isolate it, but to open it.
In both cases, it's not just a small part of a larger goal that must be overcome--it's the large goal itself that must be faced, adjusted, or perhaps outright changed. That, to me, is the strongest general form of courage. And the strongest specific form of courage is when one's motivations change not for the world at large, but for one's self.
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This is a concept I attempted to integrate into "The Sword of Fire" and the new, free-to-read novella, "The Pendant of Fire." The courage the protagonists of these stories, Noel Chryss and Martinus Arvor, are not necessarily ones of action (though don't worry, there are plenty of action scenes in both stories). Courage, instead, is required for confronting multiple failures. Including:
- Facing responsibility for the deaths of friends from long before
- Assuming responsibility that is beyond not just their capabilities, not just their wants, but what even those who ask of their help think is necessary
- Themselves and how they view their choices
If I wrote out exactly what these manifestations of courage appear, I'd just be providing a Sparknotes version of the book, which isn't exactly my goal as an author. I won't claim to have some divine insight into how courage works and how it is best shown. For all of my content above, there's a 99.99% chance that the courage my characters show will fall flat in comparison to what Tolkien pulled off with Samwise, and I'll have to live with the egg on my face for this blog post (which may require me to develop my own form of courage!).
In fact, in the same way that Brandon Sanderson has expressed regret about his "Kill the Elves" essay, as I'm literally sitting in my office writing this sentence, I wonder if I've stretched too far for a "weak" example in Samwise Gamgee. There are certain realities with modern media promotion and marketing that require eye-catching claims or headlines, but they should still have a basis of truth.
But I don't think there's anything wrong with critically examining the "top of mind" examples of a particular trait. There's nothing wrong with asking yourself--as I have--how courage can be more strongly shown than what Tolkien did with Samwise Gamgee. And there's nothing wrong with anyone trying to create their own example of what they believe--for that is its own form of courage.
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If this essay made you at least think about my points, even if you ultimately disagree with them, I'd love for you to read a copy of "The Pendant of Fire." There's no cost--all I will ask for is your email address so I can update you when future releases come out. (Why? I'll tell you in the next paragraph, but skip it if you want to avoid boring author business stuff.)
Authors depend on loyal readers, and the best way to inform loyal readers is through email newsletters. Social media sites change their algorithms all the time in terms of what content they push to you, even if you like/follow/subscribe to someone, and that's not getting into the worst-case scenarios of accounts accidentally getting banned or suspended. Joining my newsletter ensures I can reach you no matter what happens tomorrow to Amazon, TikTok, Meta, etc. and can even provide exclusive rewards/bonuses to you from time to time.
(OK, boring author business stuff over.)
"The Pendant of Fire" will also include a preview of "The Sword of Fire" which I hope to have out this summer. It's been a way longer time coming than expected--I'd hoped to release this book last November--but I really want to take to heart the idea of slow and steady wins the race over rapid release. I have gone that rushed route before, it's produced work that gets forgotten a month later, and I refuse to play that game any longer.
Until then, I hope you enjoy "The Pendant of Fire," think about what it means to be courageous, and don't come at me too hard for my Samwise take!
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