“Bilbo and the Eagles” by Ted Nasmith
There’s a common question posed by readers of The Lord of the Rings trilogy: Is Tom Bombadil robotripping?
Also: Why didn’t the eagles help Frodo?
No, I’m not talking about the NFL’s Philadelphia Eagles (thank god). Nor am I talking about the band (though now that you mention it, I’m down for a little “Hotel California.”) I’m talking about the Great Eagles of Middle-Earth, also known as the Eagles of Manwë, also known as something else, I’m sure, because everybody has like 10 names in Middle-Earth (i.e. Gandalf).
According to this Screen Rant article, cartographer Karen Wynn Fonstad calculated Frodo and Sam’s journey was 1,779 miles long, all on foot (hobbit feet, as it were). They rowed down rivers, stumbled through bogs, and wandered into giant spider lairs, all while they could’ve hopped on giant eagles and dropped the ring into Mt. Doom.
There are many explanations, the most likely of which being that J.R.R. Tolkien wanted some actual conflict. In this post, I’d like to give you my explanation. It all started at RIA, better known as Rivendell International Airport…
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“Sam,” said Frodo. “We’re late.”
If Gandalf (their travel agent) had been present, he’d have some quick rejoinder prepared. A frequent flyer is never late, Frodo Baggins… But Gandalf wasn’t present. If he was, they wouldn’t be late.
Frodo and Sam found themselves in the lobby of Rivendell International Airport. The drop-off zone outside had been a madhouse, packed with horses and ponies and passengers. It was no less chaotic inside: men, elves, and dwarves jostled and bustled like soldiers preparing for battle. All of them stood between the hobbits and their flight.
“Come on, Sam. Hurry!” Frodo, unencumbered by any bags, plunged into the fray. Sam, weighed down by all their luggage, chugged along behind.
“Do you think we can fit this all in carry-on, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked as they ran. “Should we check a bag or two?”
“No,” Frodo answered gravely. “We’d never see them again.” He swept his gaze over the crowd, noting a dwarf slurping a pint at the airport bar, an elf enjoying a kingsfoil salad, and a hooded man reading a mystery novel. “We must hasten, Sam. The Dark Lord has eyes everywhere.”
“Even in the bathrooms?”
“Especially in the bathrooms.”
“Aye, he’s evil enough for it. Hey, did you pack the…you know?”
Frodo touched his chest, feeling the solid metal between skin and shirt. It was such a small thing, such a little thing, yet it heaved on the chain about his neck like a lead weight. It was the One Ring, the ultimate weapon of the Dark Lord Sauron, the bane of Isildur, forged in the fires of Mt. Doom, retailing for $999.99 at Jared, the Galleria of Jewelry.
“I have it,” Frodo confirmed. “But let us not speak of it. Too many ears in this airport.”
“Unfriendly eyes, unfriendly ears.” Sam shook his head. “What’ll be next? Unfriendly toes?”
As if on cue, an elf sped past and crushed Sam’s toes with a roller bag. He yelped, but Frodo didn’t notice—he was pointing ahead. “Look. The security checkpoint.” He hurried onward, leaving Sam to hobble behind.
Though Rivendell was a haven of beauty and enlightenment, its airport security was staffed by the TSA. They were a brusque people, a grouchy people, and it was said that folk who displeased them were plucked from line and cavity searched, just for the hell of it.
One such TSA agent awaited behind a kiosk, an old crone with faded blonde highlights and fingernails the size of pairing knives. Each nail was painted a vivid purple, and they clacked like the bones of a skeleton as she rapped them upon her kiosk.
“Have your passport and boarding parchment out and visible,” she growled at them.
Sam gulped. “I’m scared, Mr. Frodo.”
“Be brave, Sam. Our flight is due to board any minute.” Frodo approached the woman at the kiosk, bowed his head, and presented his documents.
The woman’s hand descended like a bird’s talon. “Name?”
“Underhill,” said Frodo, keeping his eyes down. “Mr. Underhill.” Gandalf, their travel agent, had insisted on secret names.
The woman clacked her purple fingernails, then shifted her gaze to Sam. “And you?”
Sam offered his documents. “I’m Mr., umm…Gardner?”
The woman narrowed her eyes. “That a name or a question?”
“N-neither,” Sam sputtered. “I mean, both?”
Her gaze drifted to the luggage. The woman still had yet to blink, and Frodo was beginning to wonder if she had eyelids at all. “You don’t have any razors in those bags, do you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“What about aerosol cans? Firearms? Fireworks? Lithium batteries?”
They’d never heard of such things in the Shire (except the fireworks), so it was easy to shake their heads no.
“Good enough,” she said, stamping their boarding parchments. “Now get outta my sight.”
Ahead awaited more security. “Arms and armament in separate bins,” barked one of the surlier TSA agents. “Empty your pockets, and remove all metal.”
All metal. That meant…
Frodo stopped short. “Sam. The Ring. They’ll make me take it off.”
Sam frowned. “They’ll give it back, though, won’t they?”
“They might. But what if they’re servants of the Dark Lord?”
“Oh.” Sam scratched his head. “Hadn’t considered that.”
“You two!” the surly TSA agent screamed. “You’re holding up the line. Move move move!”
They moved. Sam hauled the luggage into bins, then stacked them onto the conveyer belt. They hustled ahead.
The Ring still hung around Frodo’s neck. He tried to look as innocent as possible as he stepped through the metal detector.
Beep.
“Honestly, squirt, are your ears clogged by the fur of the Cats of Queen Berúthiel?” The TSA agent beyond the metal detector jabbed a finger at him. “Back through. And make sure your pockets are empty.”
Frodo turned around, wiping sweat from his brow. He knew it would beep again, but if he removed the Ring, they’d claim it for their own. He stepped through again, and—
Beep.
“That’s it. Time for a cavity search.” With a little too much satisfaction, the TSA agent snapped on a rubber glove.
Frodo’s eyes went wide. “They’re going to take it. Then the quest will be for naught, the Dark Lord will win, and the Shire will be ruined. And we’ll have to apply for flight vouchers.”
“No, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, striking a determined expression. “Let us be rid of the TSA, once and for all.” Suddenly, the musical score swelled, and Sam stepped forward heroically. “He has…a pacemaker!”
The TSA agent blinked. “A what?”
“A pacemaker.”
“Oh.” The agent shrugged. “Why should I care?”
“Because that’s what’s setting off the metal detector. Just a pacemaker. No need to harass us further.”
“Hah. Good one. Now bend over, little man. Let’s make sure nobody’s smuggling any Longbottom Leaf…”
Sam looked stricken—but Frodo had an idea.
“Fine,” said Frodo, unbuckling his belt. “We’ll just be late to our trial.”
“Trial?”
“Yes, trial. My associate and I are lawyers.”
The TSA agent’s eyes went wide. “Lawyers?”
“Aye,” said Sam, nodding and smiling. It seemed he’d caught on to the charade. “We love suing people. We sue them all the time.”
“In fact,” added Frodo, warming to the role, “we’ve got a class-action suit pending against the Witch King of Angmar for stabbing people with his Morgul Blade. We’re suing him for all he’s worth—which isn’t much these days, but still. Care to join him?”
The TSA agent glowered at the hobbits. His eyes flicked from one to the other, as if sizing them up. “A pacemaker. Aye.” He snarled at them, like a rabid dog, then waved them through.
Sam gathered their belongings and hoisted them onto his back. He was still hobbling from the damage to his toes, but he did his best to keep up with Frodo. They raced through the terminal.
“We’re at Gate whatever-that-is,” Frodo huffed, pointing at the swirly Elvish runes. “Hurry, Sam!”
They hurried. They hurried through dwarvish families, elvish business professionals, human tourists, and finally, they arrived at their gate…
Just in time to see their flight take off.
They were meant to fly on the back of a great eagle, a hulking golden bird with a wing span wide enough to blot out the sun. It sped down the runway, cawed, and with three beats of its massive wings (both stamped with the words “Southwest Airlines”), it lifted off and soared into the distance.
Frodo slumped against the glass. Sam collapsed beside him.
“Cheer up, Mr. Frodo. We can always book a new flight to Mordor.”
“But Sam. We’d have to go through customer service.”
They glanced at the customer service desk. Thousands of people stood before it. Most were dead on their feet, their corpses rotting and stinking, while the living were blanketed by cobwebs and dust.
Frodo shook his head. “No, that way lies doom and despair. We have no choice but to walk, or take an Uber. And I left my phone at home.”
“Dropped mine in the toilet,” sighed Sam. “Suppose we’re walking, then. Think anyone will join us?”
“I’m sure Gandalf can book us some companions.” Frodo slapped his friend on the shoulder, then stood. “Fuck it, Sam. Let’s form a fellowship.”
Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories that make readers laugh.
