9. The Great River; 10. The Breaking of the Fellowship
As the concluding quote of the previous comment suggests, the river carries Frodo toward Mordor. Black swans lift from the water. Instead of one white swan, as Galadriel came sailing on, many black swans now leave the water. Galadriel represented the enlightenment and unity of consciousness, which is replaced by darkness and multiplicity, that is, ambiguity and unconsciousness (which in itself need not be a bad thing).
The days pass; it is a gloomy journey down the Great River, while Boromir keeps an eye on Frodo, muttering to himself and biting his nails. Pippin, unfortunate enough to share a boat with the warrior, grows uneasy.
One evening, Sam suddenly “catches sight of something.” He later tells Frodo, as if it were a dream, about a log with two eyes floating on the water. Frodo says he has seen something similar, both in Moria and at the borders of Lothlórien. “Could it be Gollum?” Sam asks. That is what Frodo fears. Sam insists they must stay vigilant to avoid being strangled (!) one night. Frodo still does not tell the others that Gollum is following them, which, from a rational perspective, is puzzling. But if Gollum is Frodo’s shadow, it becomes clear why he prefers not to draw attention to it. The shadow is, to no small degree, associated with shame. The despised Gollum is what Frodo could just as easily become, and he understands this. Because of his wisdom, he later in the story chooses not to harm – let alone kill – the creature, but rather to build a relationship with it.
Gollum creeps closer when Frodo is keeping watch, so we see once again that the loathsome figure is tied to him specifically. When Frodo draws his sword, Aragorn wakes, and Gollum vanishes. Aragorn, of course, noticed Gollum long ago – how could a ranger be followed without realizing it? But this is a rationalization required by the story’s internal logic; symbolically, it is only now that Aragorn becomes aware, through the conversation about Gollum with Frodo. “Gollum is at home in water,” Aragorn says. This is natural, as Gollum belongs to the Mother. “He is very dangerous,” he adds, and we might add: “as a representative of the Terrible Mother.”
The journey continues without immediate dangers. The environment grows more masculine as they approach Gondor. They see the mountainous landscape of Emyn Muil, they notice for the first time many birds (spirituality, the Father), and then even an eagle.
In the evening the next day, they are surprised to find the river already rushing forcefully toward the waterfall ahead. They try to paddle toward the eastern shore, but orcs appear there, shooting arrows at them. They paddle to the western shore instead and manage to escape. Legolas is the first to step ashore. Then they see “a great winged creature, blacker than the blackest night.” It is a Ringwraith, now mounted on a new, dreadful steed. “An icy feeling shot through Frodo and gripped his heart.” Legolas shoots an arrow at the monster, forcing it down on the other side of the river. We will have reason to return to these creatures.
We have noted that the environment becomes more masculine the farther they travel from Lothlórien and the closer they come to Gondor. Further down the river, the Fellowship of the Ring reaches Argonath, two colossal stone statues of ancient kings standing on either side of the river. Frodo cowers, and Sam mutters: “What a place! What a horrible place!” The stone, the cliff, the statues of the kings towering into the sky with warding gestures are the most decisively masculine expression we have seen in the story thus far. The hobbits, coming from the world of the Mother, experience this masculine display of power, this hubris, as deeply unsettling – the height gives them vertigo.
10. The Breaking of the Fellowship
They moor the boats to hold council. Now they must decide – Mordor or Gondor? Aragorn once again expresses hesitation. He turns to Frodo and addresses him as “the Bearer.” This is the second time Frodo is called “the Bearer.” Gandalf addressed him the same way when they faced another fateful choice: Moria or the Pass of Rohan? Thus far, these are the only instances where Frodo is called the Bearer (as opposed to “Ring-bearer”): by Gandalf and Aragorn at two distinct moments of destiny.
What does this mean? Tolkien’s intention with Bilbo’s and Frodo’s surname was to evoke the idea of a bag or sack.[1] That is, they are carriers of something. One way to view this, tying back to our earlier discussion, is that Frodo carries the light of consciousness – something immensely valuable, utterly crucial. But there is something agonizing about this fate, for with consciousness comes conflict; this is what the entire saga is about, endless conflicts and an endlessly tormented bearer.
The Bearer, in this sense, can be understood as Frodo harboring the conflict. This is central to Jungian psychology: with consciousness comes conflict that a person must simply endure until the opposites can be united in a third.[2] One cannot resolve the conflict through intellect alone, nor can one rid oneself of it (in a healthy way) or pass it on. All that remains is to carry it, to endure, until the unexpected third is given, in which the opposites can be reconciled. But this endurance requires the moral strength we have previously touched upon.
Frodo is, in other words, the very vessel in which the transformation process takes place. Emma Jung writes about the opposites and the vessel:
“For this task [the reconciliation of opposites] the individual human being serves as a vessel, for only when the opposites are reconciled in the single individual can they be united. The individual therefore becomes a receptacle for the transformation of the problem of the opposites ...”[3]
In our saga, we continually return to one-sidedness, the conflict between opposites, and attempts to unite them. For the transformation process to succeed, consciousness must participate; without consciousness, everything remains as it was, in its extreme “nothingness.” This is the great burden Frodo carries.
Aragorn says: “I fear that the burden is laid upon you. You are the Bearer appointed by the Council. Your own way you alone can choose. In this matter I cannot advise you.” We catch a glimpse of the feminine wisdom that Galadriel embodied, and Aragorn’s ability to endure his own conflict. He wants to do everything in his power to protect Frodo, yet it is his fate to go to Minas Tirith and manifest “the Return of the King.” There is no right or wrong in Aragorn’s choice, only necessity and sacrifice.
Frodo asks for time to think and withdraws. He knows what he must do; it is his fate to go to Mordor and cast the Ring into the fire. But he does not want to lead his friends into the darkness. While he ponders, he is surprised by Boromir, who, unlike Aragorn, seeks to give advice. Frodo says he has no need for discussion, for he knows what he must do. “But I am afraid,” he adds. The wise figures in the saga can admit to hesitation, fear, and uncertainty. These emotions and conflicts, which the proud suppress, they are able to bear. In this way, they have access to feminine qualities (openness, receptivity, yin) that one-sidedly masculine figures have closed the door to.
Boromir demands the Ring because it grants him power – power to save Minas Tirith and all the good the city stands for. He wants to use it to drive back Mordor’s hordes and rally all warriors around him. He speaks of weapons and men and how he himself would become a mighty king. His mind is overwhelmed by a lust for power, and it ends with him attacking Frodo to steal the Ring. But the hobbit puts the Ring on his finger and flees.
As Boromir comes to his senses and realizes he was driven mad by his desire (possessed by a complex), Frodo runs up to the lookout point of Amon Hen. He ascends the stairs and sits in the high seat, “like a lost child who has climbed onto the throne of the mountain king.” Wherever he looks from this magical place, while wearing the Ring, he sees signs of war, which is, of course, a symbol of the great destructive conflict that is taking hold. Finally, Frodo sees Barad-dûr – and then the Eye. It comes toward him. The author makes an unexpected simile: the Eye approaches Frodo, searching, “almost like a finger.” When fingers have been threatening in the saga, they have figuratively or literally been associated with strangling, grasping, and ensnaring. The finger, in this context, becomes yet another serpent symbol seeking to coil around Frodo; that is, another image of the Terrible Mother. Indeed, he realizes that Sauron’s finger will pin him down, that is, paralyze or immobilize him. (If we recall an earlier discussion at Galadriel’s mirror, there is reason to believe that Sauron’s Eye, though Tolkien curiously likens it to a cat’s, could also be described as a serpent’s.)
An inner voice prompts him to take off the Ring, and he realizes he must leave now, alone. While the others have left the camp in a panic to search for Frodo as orcs attack, he slips away invisibly to the boats and pushes one out. But Sam comes running – he understood what was going on – and is allowed to join Frodo in the boat after all. Frodo says he is glad Sam is with him as they paddle across the river to the other side, and wistfully notes that they may never see their companions again. “‘Yet we may, Mr. Frodo. We may.’” Sam is comforting and grounded, an invaluable support with a small box containing salt and another containing Galadriel’s earth; as a gardener, he represents yin while Frodo is on his yang mission, which is absolutely crucial.
The Power of the Ring
This phenomenal chapter, which describes the breaking of the Fellowship of the Ring, is perhaps the literary high point of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. It is therefore with some reluctance that we use this space to seemingly trivialize the Ring as a symbol in the saga. However, since we have little more to say about the chapter from a symbolic-psychological perspective, and as the drama reaches its climax with Boromir’s desire for the Ring’s power, we seize the opportunity to reflect on what kind of power the Ring actually represents – or does not represent. This should not be understood as an “interpretation” of the Ring but rather as a discussion of an open question.
If we stick strictly to what actually happens in the saga, we see no evidence that the Ring grants the kind of power Boromir imagines, or for that matter, fulfills Galadriel’s terrifying vision of what would happen if she accepted the Ring when Frodo offered it to her. The only effects the Ring has, as far as we can see, are invisibility, immortality, and a gradual corruption of the heart. We could, of course, impose our own interpretations of the Ring’s power, such as the idea that a mighty being becomes even mightier with the Ring, while an unassuming hobbit does not become a king or even a great warrior because of it. But this is not supported by the saga’s actual content. In fact, no one who uses the Ring in The Lord of the Rings trilogy becomes powerful. Perhaps the Ring’s power lies in the imagination itself?
Wearing the Ring means that the concrete limitations of human life cease to apply. One becomes, as it were, omnipotent in one’s own personal world, like a child dissolved in the Great Mother, without influence over the lives of others. This can seem superficially positive, as when Bilbo hides from the dragon, slips away to avoid meeting Lobelia on the road, or jests with the guests at his birthday party. But since the Mother archetype includes the Terrible Mother, this dissolution can also, depending on the situation, be decidedly terrifying, as seen in Frodo’s experiences at Weathertop.
What happens with the Ring of Invisibility is, on the “positive” side, that one escapes something – from the most trivial encounter to death itself. One avoids being seen, or, let us say, concretized, and thereby avoids taking responsibility for one’s actions. Such freedom from the concrete concerns of everyday life, from the guilt that exposure entails, and from conflicts, can only be compared to being a spirit or a child – certainly not an grown, real human being. The Ring makes one inhuman in a pleasant way, but in the long run, in an unpleasant way, as Gollum illustrates, due to corruption. When one uses the Ring to avoid being seen, one abandons one’s humanity and thus one’s ability to grow as a person. We saw that Bilbo, despite his advanced age, behaved like a defiant child at Bag End when Gandalf urged him to leave the Ring behind.
Since the Ring fundamentally makes one invisible, the bearer fears the Eye. Like a child who has done something naughty, runs to hide, and hopes no one saw, fearing the mother’s gaze, the Eye always threatens the Ring-bearer. As a symbol, the Eye becomes our conscience, which the thief seeks to avoid. (Both Sméagol and Bilbo, after all, stole the Ring.) We have had many occasions to note opposites, and here we have another: the Ring of Invisibility versus the Eye that sees the Bearer. Wearing the Ring means no one can see you – except the Eye. This is a natural consequence – if one exists, so does the other. This duality is central to Jung’s psychology, as has surely become clear. In its extension, it is horrific.
But then, wherein lies the Ring’s power? We believe the key word is “omnipotent,” as mentioned earlier, or rather, the fantasy of being omnipotent. Even the great Isildur did not become powerful through the Ring.[4] With the Ring on one’s finger, the bearer vanishes into a sheltered world where no one sees, no responsibility is demanded, and neither guilt nor death exists. (Guilt, according to Jung, is a prerequisite for consciousness.[5]) This naturally gives a sense of power that fuels one’s desires; the Ring entails an egocentric and characterless state that inevitably corrupts the bearer. But it does not grant real power, as far as we can see, only imagined or, at best, trivial power – the kind of power that only infantile people strive for, akin to that gained through avoidance, lies, and manipulation.
When Boromir feels this desire, he is carried away by fantasy, seized by a power complex, and excitedly imagines rallying men, triumphing on the battlefield, and being hailed as a king. But if he actually put the Ring on his finger before Mordor’s armies – what would really happen? Is it not the fantasy that sparks the desire rather than the Ring’s actual properties? We might recall that the legendary Isildur, as a Ring-bearer, was killed by mere orcs when he tried to escape their ambush by jumping into the water – yes, fleeing, via water. The Ring does not seem to grant any real power whatsoever. It seems, rather, to offer an illusion. Isildur had defeated Sauron himself (without the Ring), but as a Ring-bearer, he is killed by orcs – insignificant monsters that Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli, for example, slay in droves. What kind of power does the Ring offer? Why does Boromir believe that with the Ring he could defeat Sauron’s armies when even Isildur could not escape an orc ambush while wearing it?
We have discussed the Ring in relation to Bilbo/Frodo as a tie to the Great Mother, which the bearer must break, and this discussion aligns with that understanding. With the Ring, one not only ceases to be human but also ceases to grow. One becomes, once again, an unconscious hobbit-child in the bosom of the Good Mother (or a victim of the Terrible Mother); the “power” lies in the inflation that identification with the Mother archetype provides – she makes the child omnipotent while it remains unconscious. This regression has a strong allure, but only for some.
Note that while everyone talks about the Ring’s power, most characters are not actually filled with desire for it. On the contrary, it is the exception. Neither Gandalf, Aragorn, Elrond, Galadriel, nor, for that matter, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Legolas, Gimli, or later Faramir, among others, seem particularly drawn to the Ring. Rather, the desire strikes only a few individuals in the saga, if we stick to the text: Saruman, Sméagol, and Boromir[6] – individuals who were already somewhat unbalanced before they discovered there was a Ring to project their desires onto. The Ring is the unconscious’s tie to the Great Mother, flooding the ego with fantasies that lead to inflation[7] – one becomes the greatest and strongest, getting everything one desires. But in reality (the saga), this is demonstrably not the case. In reality, one becomes a dependent, weak, and pitiful figure who, while feeling a certain superiority over one’s surroundings due to unconscious identification with an archetype, is anything but. The Ring is an illusion desired by some.
So, to reiterate, what would actually happen if Boromir got what he desired and stepped onto the Pelennor Fields with the Ring on his finger? As far as we can tell, nothing dramatic. The orcs shot Isildur, so why not him? It is evidently the case that the Ring creates an illusion of power in those who desire it, rather than granting real power.
Since the Ring does not grant real power, it follows logically that the enemy is not after it but after Frodo – the vessel of the transformation process, the light of consciousness. We recall that the first words the Ringwraiths uttered in the saga were: “Come back! Come back! To Mordor we will take you!”
Footnotes
[1] Tolkien, ”Guide to the Names in The Lord of the Rings.”
[2] Jung discusses this extensively in “The Conjunction,” the final chapter of Mysterium Coniunctionis. Otherwise, see the more accessible articles “Tertium non datur” and “The Transcendent Function” in Daryl Sharp, Jung Lexicon: A Primer of Terms & Concepts, 2nd ed. (Toronto: Inner City Books, 1991).
[3] von Franz and Jung, The Grail Legend, p. 112.
[4] This is not directly evident from the saga, but it is clear in other texts by Tolkien. ("Tolkien Gateway", 2025.)
[5] See, for example, C. G. Jung, Psychology and Alchemy, trans. R. F. C. Hull, The Collected Works of C. G. Jung, vol. 12 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), par. 309. Edward F. Edinger elaborates on the issue to some extent in Edward F. Edinger, The Mysterium Lectures: A Journey through C. G. Jung’s Mysterium Coniunctionis (Toronto: Inner City Books, 1995) (see index). Some ancient initiation rites began with the initiate confessing his worst sin. (David G. Rice and John E. Stambaugh, Sources for the Study of Greek Religion (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press for the Society of Biblical Literature, 1979), p. 161.) This is only natural: if one is not aware of one's own guilt/shame (the shadow, in Jungian psychology), it is inherent in the matter that one cannot reach a higher level of consciousness (which initiation aims for). Note the abundance of myths illustrating the relationship between crime, guilt, and consciousness; the most immediate example is perhaps Adam and Eve, who are expelled from the Garden of Eden due to a transgression and subsequent guilt, which leads to their eyes being opened, thus becoming conscious, tormented individuals.
[6] And the orc Grishnákh, though his desire was likely for something valuable, anything that would make him noteworthy.
[7] The fantasy of immortality “is a typical symptom of inflation.” (Jung, “The Philosophical Tree”, CW 13, par. 434, fn.)