The Language of the Gods

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The Language of the Gods

As the Fellowship camps on the slopes of Caradhras in the middle of a blizzard, Gandalf passes around a flask of miruvor:

‘Give them this,’ said Gandalf, searching in his pack and drawing out a leathern flask. ‘Just a mouthful each – for all of us. It is very precious. It is miruvor, the cordial of Imladris. Elrond gave it to me at our parting. Pass it round!’

As soon as Frodo had swallowed a little of the warm and fragrant liquor he felt a new strength of heart, and the heavy drowsiness left his limbs. The others also revived and found fresh hope and vigour.

The etymology of miruvor actually goes back to the language of the Valar, as something like mirubhōzē, referring to their honey-wine which they drank at festivals. The drink’s “making and the meaning of its name were not known for certain, but the Eldar believed it to be made from the honey of the undying flowers in the gardens of Yavanna, though it was clear and transluscent.”1

There are very few other words that we know from the language of the Valar, such as the name for themselves, the Ainur, ayanūz. While in Valinor, the Elves created their own language, Quenya, that had few borrowings from the Valar’s language.

This idea of gods having their own language is not a unique concept, but perhaps due to its secretive nature, it is not commonly discussed in ancient sources. In Ancient Greece, for instance, there are several words that seem to have divine origins, such as ambrosia. One cannot help but make a connection between miruvor and the ambrosia (ἀμβροσίη) and nectar (νέκταρ) of the Ancient Greeks, which were the food and drink (among other uses, such as ointment or perfume) of the gods.

While these Greek words were never explicitly described as words taken from the language of the gods, their strong, divine associations, as well as the fact that their uses far surpass what mortals understand, suggests a divide in knowledge concealed in these entities, if not their very names. Other words like ichor (ἰχώρ), thought to be the blood of the gods, can also be considered similarly potent.

However, there is one word that seems explicitly understood as coming from the language of the gods. That is moly (μῶλυ), a magical herb with white petals and a black stem, harboring special powers. Hermes instructs Odysseus to consume the herb in order to ward off the spells of Circe. Odysseus describes the moment thus:

“So saying, Argeiphontes gave me the herb, drawing it from the ground, and showed me its nature. At the root it was black, but its flower was like milk. [305] Moly the gods call it, and it is hard for mortal men to dig; but with the gods all things are possible.”2

Not only is the name god-given, but it is also impossible for mortals to dig up, and its knowledge is kept secret from them too. This special herb-lore might have its mirror in Tolkien’s athelas, known commonly as kingsfoil, and in Quenya as asëa aranion. Though it might seem like a weed to the common folk, athelas can have powerful healing properties if used by the right person with the right knowledge. This is clearly shown in an interaction between Aragorn and an herb-master of Gondor after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, when he must heal Éowyn:

Thereupon the herb-master entered. ‘Your lordship asked for kingsfoil, as the rustics name it,’ he said; ‘or athelas in the noble tongue, or to those who know somewhat of the Valinorean...’

‘I do so,’ said Aragorn, ‘and I care not whether you say now asëa aranion or kingsfoil, so long as you have some.’

‘Your pardon lord!’ said the man. ‘I see you are a lore-master, not merely a captain of war. But alas! sir, we do not keep this thing in the Houses of Healing, where only the gravely hurt or sick are tended. For it has no virtue that we know of, save perhaps to sweeten a fouled air, or to drive away some passing heaviness. Unless, of course, you give heed to rhymes of old days which women such as our good Ioreth still repeat without understanding.

When the black breath blows
and death’s shadow grows
and all lights pass,
come athelas! come athelas!
Life to the dying
In the king’s hand lying!

It is but a doggrel, I fear, garbled in the memory of old wives. Its meaning I leave to your judgement, if indeed it has any. But old folk still use an infusion of the herb for headaches.’

‘Then in the name of the king, go and find some old man of less lore and more wisdom who keeps some in his house!’ cried Gandalf.

This rather humorous exchange shows how the very name of the herb points to the level of knowledge one may have of it. Kingsfoil is considered a weed, athelas (the Sindarin form) is merely for scent or anti-inflammatory properties, whereas asëa aranion reveals a true lore-master, and as we see with Aragorn, someone who can use the full powers of the herb to heal someone of the Black Breath. Even though the word is not said to be a Valar-given word, the separation between the mortal and Elvish names still points to an immortal language—and therefore immortal knowledge—that lurks within these names and is usually inaccessible to common mortals (or rustics, as the herb-master calls them).

Tolkien often stresses this distinction between words and their powerful effects, especially in scenes when the hobbits encounter incredible things that they do not fully comprehend. For example, when Bilbo comes upon the gleaming, towering, treasure hoard of Smaug, Tolkien writes:

To say that Bilbo’s breath was taken away is no description at all. There are no words left to express his staggerment, since Men changed the language that they learned of elves in the days when all the world was wonderful.

Just as the name for kingsfoil has changed over time, weakening and dimming the knowledge of its power, so does the very landscape change as well, though one might say they are simultaneous changes in both language and in environment. A glimpse into this old, wonderful world is seen by Frodo and his companions when they come upon Cerin Amroth in the heart of Lothlórien:

It seemed to him that he had stepped through a high window that looked on a vanished world. A light was upon it for which his language had no name. All that he saw was shapely, but the shapes seemed at once clear cut, as if they had been first conceived and drawn at the uncovering of his eyes, and ancient as if they had endured for ever. He saw no colour but those he knew, gold and white and blue and green, but they were fresh and poignant, as if he had at that moment first perceived them and made for them names new and wonderful.

Reading Frodo’s reaction to the very colors of Lothlórien, I cannot help but be reminded of the vision of Arda that the Ainur witness in the beginning of the Silmarillion:

But the other Ainur looked upon this habitation set within the vast spaces of the World, which the Elves call Arda, the Earth; and their hearts rejoiced in light, and their eyes beholding many colours were filled with gladness…”

So there is a clear relationship established between language and environment, which lies at the heart of “creation,” and the meaning inherent in it. Much like the hobbits, when the Ainur first see the vision of Illúvatar, they can only comprehend a little of its wisdom, which is not fully revealed to them.

That Frodo feels as though he is first perceiving these colors and giving them names might actually suggest how the language of the Ainur came about, as a reaction to the beauty of the Earth’s creation, which was importantly done through Song, the Great Music. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that Sam says looking upon Cerin Amroth: