Thinking about the Fellowship and….. languages
The hobbits speak Westron, of course, and none of them are fluent in anything else. But Frodo knows some Sindarin, even if it’s stilting and book-learned, and Sam might even know a smattering of vocabulary, too, having learned his letters – and gotten his literary education – from Bilbo. And they all come home with more of it, learned more naturally, from friends, Merry likely with a smattering of Rohirric on his lips along with the Elvish.
Boromir, too, knows only Westron, with the sort of knowledge of Sindarin that people who took a language class in high school and then forgot most of it have. He was taught some, sure, as a nod to Gondor’s past, but he never expected to use it, and when he tries his halting greetings on the elves now (Siulad, mae g’ovann– uh, mae l’ovannan? Goheno… uh…. goheno nin….) he thinks of his younger brother, who was always more attentive in their lessons.
Aragorn is wholly bilingual, with all the speaking quirks that affords, drifting from Sindarin to Westron mid-sentence sometimes as a result of growing up around both. He probably knows some Rohirric, too, and maybe even some other languages of Men thanks to his travels and time as Thorongil. But he speaks Sindarin like an elf, not a Gondorian noble, with a Noldorin accent, courtesy of Elrond’s people.
Legolas has passable Westron, really. He can get by, and you might not notice it at first – though the fact that he speaks it with so heavy an accent is obvious immediately. But he grew up quite sheltered, with a King and father incredibly suspicious of outsiders, and while his grammar is as strong as would be expected of a prince, his vocabulary outside of that which is needed for diplomacy has some notable gaps. The hobbits take it upon themselves to amend this after the first time he falters – turning to Aragorn on one of their first nights on the road and asking “Ai! Manen carfon ‘pesseg’?,” “How do you say ‘pillow’?” – and he trades words with them like gifts, as interested in their own tongue as they are in his.
(“That was very good!” he encourages, each time they try a new pronunciation, and Aragorn teases them not to listen to him, saying they’ll only pick up his strong Silvan accent. He and Legolas playfully bicker about the right way to pronounce everything. Only once do they ask Gandalf to weigh in. The wizard replies with the word in old Quenya, and there is a small riot.)
Gimli is bilingual too, of course, though you wouldn’t know it if his dwarvishness were not so plain in every other part of his being. His Westron is perfect and polished, like one who has spoken it from the cradle – and he has, because the dwarves teach their children other tongues alongside their own, so that the day they enter the outside world (and Gimli, Gimli grew up with his people in exile), they have the tools necessary to keep their Khuzdul buried deep and safe. Secret. He keeps it hidden, but sometimes when he speaks, there are other words that dance in his mind – ones that feel more of home.
(His stronger fluency in another’s tongue is something that gives him some satisfaction of his superiority over The Elf at first, but as they grow closer, he teaches Legolas new words himself, with sharper words of his own towards any on their travels who would criticize him for his imperfect speech.)
Gandalf knows many tongues, even some that are no longer spoken in Middle Earth. And he watches, as this fragile Fellowship trades words, laughing together over their learning, their gently correcting, their earnest curiosity. It is in joining together that the people of this world will prevail, and in their little band’s patchwork of languages, slowly being woven together, he hears hope.
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