Amon Hen: The Hill of Sight Where the Fellowship Broke

Amon Hen, whose name means Hill of Sight in the tongue of the North-kingdoms, is remembered in the histories of Gondor as one of the marked high places beside the Great River, a place where the power of perception seemed sharpened and ordered toward watchfulness rather than wonder. The name itself appears in The Lord of the Rings when the Fellowship approaches the Falls of Rauros, and it signals at once that this is not just a random hill but a named and storied height known to the Dúnedain of old. In the traditions of Arnor and Gondor, such hills often received titles that spoke of their purpose, and here sight and vigilance are bound together in a single word. This meaning helps readers understand why the seat upon its summit was set there long before Frodo’s time, tying the landscape to the long work of guarding Middle-earth against gathering shadows. Through that name, Tolkien invites the reader to see Amon Hen not as a mere scenic overlook, but as a deliberate instrument of watch and ward in the days when the kings still cared for the borders of their realm.

The Hill of Sight rises alone on the western bank of the Great River Anduin at the western end of the long, still pool of Nen Hithoel, creating a striking landmark where the river’s hurried northern waters slow and gather before plunging over the Falls of Rauros. Tolkien describes the place as lonely and quiet, part of a wild region where the great kingdoms no longer held strong garrisons, yet the old geography of their vigilance still shaped the land. From the river below, Amon Hen would have appeared as a single, pronounced height in a line of lower ground, its summit just high enough to command the approaches both upstream and down. Its position at the end of Nen Hithoel makes it a natural turning point in the journey of the Fellowship, marking the last pause before the river becomes dangerous and signaling a change from shared travel to scattered paths. In the long story of the Third Age, this solitary hill stands as one of those quiet edges where the memory of past strength lingers even as the world moves on.

Upon the summit of Amon Hen stood an ancient stone seat and the remains of a watch-place, relics of a time when men of Gondor or their forebears kept a more careful eye upon the middle reaches of Anduin. The Seat of Seeing, as it is later called in the text, was set so that a watcher could turn and look out toward every quarter of the compass, and from that vantage the lands of Rohan, Emyn Muil, and even distant Mordor lay within the sweep of the eye on a clear day. Around the seat Tolkien hints at broken works of stone, traces of walls or platforms that show it was once arranged as a purposeful station rather than an accidental pile of rock. These remains preserve not only the memory of older political borders, but also the idea that important places gain shape through human labor and enduring need. When Frodo climbs there, he is moving through the traces of forgotten guards who once sat in that same place and peered out upon the world, searching for threats that in his time have returned in greater force than they could have imagined.

Amon Hen stands opposite Amon Lhaw, the Hill of Hearing, which rises on the eastern bank of the Anduin so that the two together frame the narrow pool of Nen Hithoel like paired sentinels on either side of a gate. This deliberate symmetry in the landscape gives the impression that the river itself is passing between two watchful presences, one associated with sight and the other with sound. Tolkien seldom explains the full history of these places in the main narrative, yet from their balanced names and facing positions it is clear that they were part of a system of vigilance set up in the great days of the realm. The Fellowship passes between them almost unknowingly, yet the reader understands that this is a threshold, for just beyond lie the roaring falls and the breaking of the company. By setting these paired hills opposite each other, Tolkien underscores both the former strength of the Dúnedain and the sense that the physical world of Middle-earth still remembers the watch that Men once kept upon the river.

The name Amon Hen comes from Sindarin, one of the Elvish tongues that many of the Dúnedain adopted for their place-names, with Amon meaning hill and Hen meaning sight or eye, a direct indication of the hill’s designed purpose. In The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien uses these Elvish elements consistently so that a reader who knows their meanings can often guess the character of a place before it is described in detail. Here, Hen evokes not only the physical act of looking, but also the idea of vision sharpened and directed toward distant things. The choice of Sindarin for such a practical and strategic feature shows how deeply Elvish culture and language shaped the heritage of the Men of the West, especially in Gondor where many prominent features still bore Elvish names. As a result, the name itself serves as a thread connecting the hill to the larger linguistic and historical tapestry of Middle-earth, reminding the reader that even bare stones and lonely heights belong to a long story of peoples and tongues.

Tolkien’s choice of this name also ties Amon Hen to ancient practices of watch and vision in the North-kingdoms and in Gondor, suggesting that the hill was used in systematic observation of the river and the lands beyond. The Dúnedain were seafarers and explorers, yet they also valued high places from which they could measure distances, study weather, and look for movements of friends and foes. By calling the place Hill of Sight, Tolkien signals that it is not merely scenic or poetic, but part of the work of kings and stewards who tried to understand and control the wide regions in their care. Later, when Frodo sits on the Seat of Seeing and experiences a heightened and almost painful breadth of vision, the name gains a deeper layer of meaning, for the hill becomes not simply a watchtower of stone, but a focus of insight in a world clouded by the growing will of Sauron. Thus the linguistic choice supports both the practical history of the place and the spiritual drama played out upon it.

The deliberate pairing of Amon Hen, the Hill of Sight, and Amon Lhaw, the Hill of Hearing, shows how the ancient builders and namers of Gondor or their predecessors envisioned the riverbanks as a coordinated line of observation and defense. One side of the river was marked by the power of the eye, the other by the alertness of the ear, as if those who guarded the Great River knew that danger could be detected both in what is seen and what is heard across the water. Tolkien’s gift for suggestive names lets the reader feel that these were not isolated works, but parts of a structured system, perhaps once manned by wardens who watched the traffic of boats and listened for the approach of enemies. While the details of their garrisons are left in shadow, the symmetry of the names and their matching positions beside Nen Hithoel implies an older age when Gondor still held a tighter grip on its long borders. In this way the two hills act as more than landmarks; they become symbols of a vigilant order that time and waning power have almost erased.

Geographically, Amon Hen stands firmly on the west bank of the Great River Anduin, at the western end of the still, dark pool called Nen Hithoel, just before the river plunges southward over the great Falls of Rauros. Tolkien positions it as the last notable height before the harsh maze of the Emyn Muil and the roaring waters beyond, which makes it a natural stopping point for river travelers seeking to decide their next move. By setting the seat of an ancient watcher here, he acknowledges what any mariner or scout would understand: that a calm reach of water backed by a solid hill is a perfect place to halt, look, and listen. The Fellowship’s halt near Parth Galen at the foot of Amon Hen follows this logic, although they no longer have any guides from Gondor to tell them the full story of the place. In the wider map of Middle-earth, Amon Hen therefore marks a hinge between the safer northern journeys from Lothlórien and the perilous descent toward Mordor.

The hill itself is not a towering mountain but a modest height that becomes important because it rises from an otherwise fairly low and gentle river plain, so that even its limited elevation gives a commanding prospect. Tolkien’s descriptions suggest a hill that lifts boldly above surrounding ground without competing with the great ranges far away, such as the Misty Mountains or the Ephel Dúath. This modest scale suits its function, since a seat of watch need only rise high enough to see over local obstacles and along the course of the water. Its prominence comes not from sheer altitude but from contrast: a single, solid rise where much of the land along Nen Hithoel lies lower and nearer to the water. To the travelers of the Third Age, worn with long roads and encumbered with heavy choices, such a hill would feel both accessible and significant, close enough to climb in an hour yet high enough to crown the day with a wide and searching view.

Across the water, the opposite bank is marked by Amon Lhaw so that the two hills form a quiet but insistent pair, framing the pool between them like pillars at a river gate. This arrangement gives the entire landscape a sense of deliberate structure, as if the river flows through a doorway shaped by human intention and ancient strategy. Any boat or raft passing through Nen Hithoel could be watched from both sides, and the twin hills together would make it difficult for an enemy to approach unseen in former days. Tolkien’s map and narrative both emphasize this pairing, showing the reader that the Fellowship’s stopping place is not only convenient, but ensnared in the residues of a long-ago defense line. The company’s divided choices on the western shore are thus set against an eastern mirror, silently recording the passage of a world that no longer has the strength to man both banks.

Around these facing hills spreads a countryside that Tolkien sketches as part river meadow, part scattered woodland, with rougher broken ground lying at a distance where the smooth levels give way to more difficult country. The immediate shores of Nen Hithoel are gentle enough for landing boats and for short camps, which explains why Parth Galen serves well as a landing place for the Fellowship’s elven boats. Yet beyond the soft grass and isolated trees, the land begins to twist and rise into the complicated ridges of the Emyn Muil, and to the south the land falls sharply away toward the cliffs above Rauros. This mix of open meadow, isolated trees, and far-off ruggedness gives the area its distinctive mood of quiet before danger, a feeling that aligns closely with the turning point in the story. Thus the physical arrangement of river, hill, and broken ground supports the narrative sense that the travelers have come to the end of relatively easy paths.

At the very top of Amon Hen stood a carved stone seat, sometimes called the Seat of Seeing, which Tolkien describes as broad, weathered, and simple in form, a practical chair for a watcher rather than a throne meant for display. When Frodo reaches it, he finds an object already old in the Third Age, its edges worn smooth by time and perhaps by the many sentries who once sat there in long watches. The seat faces outward rather than inward, inviting its occupant to turn and look over the lands rather than gaze toward any hall or city. This emphasizes that Amon Hen was never a royal court, but a place of duty where the value lay in outward vision. In that moment when Frodo sits down, the ancient practical seat becomes a focus for something far greater, as his sight expands beyond natural limits and he sees many parts of Middle-earth at once, trapped between the searching Eye of Sauron and his own desperate need for choice.

The Seat of Seeing rests upon a low platform of hewn stone, with evidence of steps and broken walls that hint at more complete structures in earlier days, perhaps a ring of protection or a small encircling court. Tolkien mentions these remains in passing, yet they are enough to show that the summit was once carefully shaped by builders who made a level place and marked it with ordered masonry. The ruined steps suggest a formal approach to the seat, which may once have been reached by guards and messengers who ascended with reports from the river below. As stones cracked and toppled over the centuries, the watch-place would have taken on a more deserted air, but its plan could still be traced by anyone with an eye for old works. Thus when Frodo climbs the worn stair, he walks not only on rock but on the fading outline of human intention, feeling the echo of long-forgotten vigilance beneath each step.

The masonry on Amon Hen is plain and functional rather than adorned, and Tolkien notes the signs of great age in the growth of lichen on the stones, the crumbling mortar, and the edges worn soft by countless seasons of wind and rain. These details show that the ancient realm which built the watch-place valued sturdiness and purpose over decoration in such a remote position. The neglect of later ages has left the stones stained and softened, yet they still hold their form well enough to speak of a disciplined hand that first shaped them. Lichen and moss soften the masonry and root it into the surrounding hill, blurring the line between human craft and natural rock. Readers are reminded that the men who raised these structures have passed away, leaving their silent works to be slowly taken back by the land, even as the power that once gave them meaning returns in the form of spreading darkness from Mordor.

In the time of the War of the Ring there was no high tower on Amon Hen; instead it functioned as a watch-stead, a single prepared height rather than a fortress bristling with defenses. Tolkien never describes walls, gates, or dwellings atop the hill, only the seat and its low surrounding works, which indicates that the hill had always been a place of observation and signaling rather than a stronghold capable of withstanding siege. This matches its strategic role within Gondor’s history, since the great defences of the realm were concentrated nearer to Osgiliath, Minas Tirith, and the fortresses along the Anduin further south. Amon Hen was one eye in a long chain of vigilance, and its usefulness depended more on clear sight and communication than on military strength. When the Fellowship arrives, they encounter only the ghost of that earlier system, a lonely seat that still serves its ancient function for one last crucial watch.

The slopes of Amon Hen are described as a mixture of shallow soil, exposed rock, and loose scree, which together create a hill that is easy enough to climb but rough enough to feel wild and ungoverned. Paths may once have been cut by the wardens of Gondor, yet by the end of the Third Age any such roads would have decayed into faint tracks hidden among broken stones. These thin soils cling to the harder rock beneath and provide only limited anchorage for plants, which leads to a patchwork of stony outcrops and pockets of vegetation. The feel of the ascent that Frodo and Aragorn make is therefore steep and labored, but not technically difficult, with the earth slipping under foot and stones occasionally skittering downslope. This rugged mixture suits the mood of a place where old human effort meets the patient wearing-down of time.

Near the summit, short grasses and tough little herbs hold what soil there is, while richer earth and larger trees gather closer to the river where water and silt have settled more generously, forming a natural division of plant life along the height. The top of the hill is open and largely bare, which allows for the wide views that gave Amon Hen its purpose, yet even there small, wind-bent plants cling to cracks and ledges. Further down, as the slope eases and the ground deepens, shrubs and young trees find a better hold, until at the base of the hill the land blends into the greener meadows and scattered woodland of Parth Galen. This pattern of vegetation, from sparse summit to leafy foot, emphasizes the transition from the clear, exposed realm of watchers and decision-makers to the more sheltered places where camps can safely be made. It also mirrors the journey of the Fellowship, who move from the cover of the lakeside trees to the exposed height where their fates are decided.

The river plain near Nen Hithoel includes marshy edges where slow water and silt create wet ground, fringed by reeds and water-loving plants, while slightly higher banks provide firmer earth where men can walk, camp, and draw their boats ashore. Tolkien hints at these differing textures of ground when he describes how the Fellowship lands at Parth Galen and moves between grass, trees, and the first rising slopes. The marshy edges belong to the river’s own world and mark the limit of easy footing, a boundary that both men and animals must consider when choosing routes. Above them, the firmer banks and low shelves of land invite fires, tents, and the drawing-up of boats, making Amon Hen’s base a natural staging ground. Thus the pattern of wet and dry land shapes not only the local ecology, but also the movement of armies and travelers who pass this way.

Wind and river mist work together over long ages to leave stones streaked with lichen and soil stained by repeated flood seasons, so that the whole hill bears marks of weather and water. Morning vapors rise from Nen Hithoel to wrap the lower slopes, beading on rock and grass before the sun burns them off, while stronger winds later in the day scour the summit and drive thin clouds across the sky. The result is a landscape that looks washed and faded in places, bright and newly rinsed in others, depending on the light. These subtle signs of climate and water remind the reader that Middle-earth is not a static painting but a living world where seasons and years leave their traces. When Frodo climbs Amon Hen, he is not only walking into a place of legend and decision, but also into a real environment shaped by weather, erosion, and the long memory of the Great River.

From the summit of Amon Hen, the view stretches far along the course of the Great River Anduin and out across the surrounding lands, giving any watcher a commanding sense of the region’s geography and its possible roads. Tolkien describes how Frodo, sitting in the Seat of Seeing, is able to perceive the river both above and below Nen Hithoel, as well as distant lands such as the plains of Rohan, the dark peaks of Mordor, and even the glimmer of Minas Tirith. Though much of what he sees is heightened by the power of the Ring and the struggle with the Eye of Sauron, the basic width of the viewpoint reflects the natural advantage of the hill. In practical terms, such a vantage point would allow wardens of Gondor to watch for the movement of boats, the smoke of distant fires, and any mustering of armies along the river corridor. Thus the summit of Amon Hen binds the small scale of local watch with the immense scale of the wider War of the Ring.

Across the water, the opposite hillside of Amon Lhaw rises in close answer, forming a natural pair with Amon Hen and giving the feeling that the watch from the summit is part of a dialogue between the two banks. Even if in Frodo’s time no one sits in any seat on Amon Lhaw, its presence is still felt as the other eye of a long-forgotten face that once studied the river. From Amon Hen, a watcher could easily see signaling fires or flags on the eastern hill, and the two together would have allowed fast exchange of information across the river. Tolkien uses this facing arrangement to give the reader a strong mental image of the Fellowship resting in a kind of enclosed arena, bounded not by walls but by natural forms that were once integrated into human plans. The quiet companionship of the two hills heightens the sense of loss, because one can almost imagine them alive with wardens that no longer come.

On clear days, distant low hills, the sweep of river meadows, and far lines of trees are all visible from the height, while light plays strongly on both water and stone, flickering and flashing as clouds move overhead. Tolkien often draws attention to changes of light on landscapes, and Amon Hen is no exception, for the sun’s path across the sky marks out the river in bright strokes and then throws the far country into shadow, emphasizing its depth and secrets. For a watcher with patient eyes, these shifts would reveal the passage of time and perhaps the approach of storms or dust raised by marching companies many miles away. To Frodo, the brightness and sharpness of what he sees become almost overwhelming, as if the whole world had been shown to him at once in its beauty and its peril. The strong contrasts of light and shade on that day underline how close the company stands to the division between hope and despair.

The horizon from Amon Hen feels unusually open, and anyone who stands on the summit has a sense of being suspended between river and sky, with the stone seat acting as a small fixed point in a vast moving world. The lands fall away in many directions, letting the eye travel outward to great distances without being blocked by nearby peaks, which increases the feeling of exposure and possibility. In the story, this wide horizon mirrors Frodo’s inner state as he tries to see what road he should take, caught between the wishes of his friends and the dangerous pull of the Ring. The emptiness of the sky above and the long ribbon of the river below seem to offer many paths, yet in truth only a few can lead to the destruction of the Ring. Thus the physical sensation of standing between earth and heaven becomes part of the moral and spiritual weight of the scene, binding landscape and choice tightly together.

Amon Hen forms the western side of the long, narrow pool called Nen Hithoel, while Amon Lhaw rises on the eastern bank so that together they cradle the water between their slopes in a calm reach before the river rushes south. This pool is an important landmark on the Anduin, for it marks the place where the tumult of northern waters slows and collects in a dark mirror before breaking again into foam at Rauros. Tolkien’s map places the two hills like bookends at the western end of the pool, suggesting that they form a natural end point for journeys upstream and a last place of order before the more dangerous stretch downstream. In this arrangement, Amon Hen is never just an isolated hill but one half of a gateway, and the events that take place there feel fittingly like a threshold in the story, where the Fellowship’s shared road comes to a close.

In this region the Great River Anduin broadens and slows, creating reflective stretches of water whose surface can seem still and deep even as currents continue their steady work underneath. The characters note how their boats move more easily and quietly through Nen Hithoel, with the noise of rapids replaced by a heavy hush that carries sound a long way. This broadening turns the river into a kind of quiet stage upon which the two hills look down, watching the mirrored sky and the small craft that cross its face. The sense of pause that Nen Hithoel gives reflects the story’s own pause in movement as the company must consider where next to go. The stillness also heightens the shock when violence comes to the shore, for it breaks a silence that had seemed almost sacred.

The two hills act as natural lookout points that mark a distinct place on the long southward course of the Anduin, announcing to any skilled navigator or warden that they have reached a significant station. From their slopes and summits, watchers could observe travel both up and down river, see smoke or movement on the opposite bank, and look out toward the plains and broken hills that stretch away from the water. In the stronger years of Gondor these heights might have been staffed by small companies of men who kept records of who passed, warned of approaching enemies, and perhaps even controlled certain river tolls or permissions. Never fully explained, this system is only hinted at by Tolkien, but the placement of the hills and their old seats of watchfulness tell an eloquent story. Even in ruin and abandonment, they still mark a boundary in the landscape and in the narrative, a place where purposes are decided and paths diverge.

Because the hills stand at a crossing of natural routes, the area around Nen Hithoel serves as a stepping point between river travel and inland paths that lead away from the Anduin toward Rohan, Gondor, or the wild Emyn Muil. Boats that cannot or will not attempt the plunge over Rauros must be halted or portaged here, which means that men and goods move from water to land on these shores. Aragorn understands this, and that is why he considers leaving the river at Parth Galen to strike east or west on foot, even though the choice will tear the company apart. In earlier times, roads or trails may have climbed away from the landing-places toward watch-stations and further settlements, making this a junction between many different journeys. In this way Amon Hen stands at a meeting of elements and directions, where river road, land road, and the high road of watchfulness all intersect.

The vegetation of Amon Hen is varied, with short, wind-toughened grasses and herbs clinging to the summit, while taller trees and denser undergrowth gather closer to the river where soils are deeper and more often renewed by floods. Tolkien’s references to the green sward of Parth Galen and the scattered trees near the landing place suggest a kind of park-like lower slope that contrasts with the barer, more exposed crest. The tough summit plants must withstand constant wind and thinner soil, bending low and growing close to the rocks to survive. Below, trees such as beeches, oaks, or other hardy species common in Tolkien’s northern landscapes would spread their roots in richer earth and offer shade to travelers. This vertical pattern of plant life creates a natural gradient from sheltered rest at the foot to bare decision at the top, matching the emotional climb of those who ascend.

Lichen and moss cling to exposed rock and old masonry on Amon Hen, softening the hard lines of stone and bearing quiet witness to the long years since the watch-place was last regularly used, while seasonal grasses around the hill turn gold by late summer. These humble plants give texture and color to the ruins, dressing the seat and walls in a slow-growing garment that hints at neglect but also at resilience. Each patch of moss speaks of many damp mornings and shaded hours, each stain of lichen of countless days of sun and rain. The golden grasses suggest the turning of the year, for their color marks the difference between fresh spring journeys and the weary end of summer campaigns. In the time of the Fellowship’s passage, which occurs in the late winter and early spring, many of these plants would still be waking from cold, adding a sharpness and clarity to the air that matches the urgency of their choices.

The banks and nearby trees of Nen Hithoel would attract birdlife typical of riverine country, such as ducks, herons, and smaller songbirds, while the marshy edges support reeds, rushes, and other wetland plants that shelter insects and amphibians. Tolkien does not list species in this area, but his general pattern elsewhere suggests that living creatures fill these quiet reaches even when men are rarely seen. The cries and movements of birds might have served as subtle alarms to old wardens, hinting at the approach of boats or the stirring of something out of place. Frodo and his companions travel mostly in silence, yet the land around them is far from dead, and the presence of unseen animals contributes to the sense that Middle-earth is full of life that will go on regardless of the fate of the Ring. This unseen teeming world along the riverbank emphasizes what is at stake, for if Sauron prevails, even these remote waters and their flocks would fall under shadow.

The climate around Amon Hen is temperate, shaped by the broad flow of the Anduin, with river mists in the morning that drift and thin as the sun rises, breezy afternoons that clear the view from the hill, and cool nights that slow plant growth and deepen the silence. Tolkien often marks time in this part of the story by changes in weather and light, noting the mists that soften outlines and the breezes that later sharpen them again. The mildness of the climate stands in contrast to the harsher conditions the company recently left in the snows of Caradhras and the gloom of Moria, granting them a short respite in gentler air. Yet the coolness at night and the steady movement of wind remind them that they are exposed and that spring is still young and uncertain. These climatic rhythms shape the pattern of plant and animal life and also provide the atmospheric setting for some of the most important decisions in the tale.

Amon Hen preserves in its lonely summit and ruined works the layout of an older watch-place, echoing not only the practical needs of the North-kingdoms and Gondor, but also perhaps the habits of even earlier peoples who valued high ground and clear sight. The seat, the platform, and the deliberate choice of a hill that commands Nen Hithoel all point to a tradition of strategic thinking that stretches back over centuries. Tolkien rarely spells out each stage of that history, yet he lets readers feel the weight of time in the worn stones and faint paths. As Frodo climbs, he is taking part in the same repeated act that past wardens performed: to go up above the camp and look out over the land. This continuity of use binds the Third Age to the distant past and shows how certain places remain important long after the names of their builders are forgotten.

The simple stonework and unadorned seat at the top of Amon Hen reflect a practical site for observation rather than a grand fortress or ceremonial monument, which tells much about the priorities of those who first raised it. Here there are no carvings of kings, no inscriptions in proud letters, only smooth blocks shaped for endurance and a chair fitted for a human frame. This restraint suggests a culture that understood the difference between glory and duty, reserving elaborate beauty for cities and tombs while giving outposts only what they needed to function well. The ruinous state of the masonry in Frodo’s day is therefore not a sign that the place was unimportant, but rather that its importance lay in constant use rather than in proud display. In the War of the Ring, the seat’s final great use in Frodo’s vision gives a last confirmation that utility, not monumentality, was the heart of its design.

Because of its position on the river and the events that occur there, Amon Hen carries strong symbolic weight as a place of seeing and watchfulness, where hidden truths and future paths are briefly brought into sharp focus against a background of uncertainty. When Frodo sits in the Seat of Seeing, his experience of far vision is not merely a convenient plot device but a fulfillment of the hill’s purpose, as if the land itself were helping him to understand what must be done. At the same time, the pressure of Sauron’s searching Eye makes the act of seeing dangerous, turning clear knowledge into a battlefield of wills. Thus the hill becomes a symbol of the perilous gift of insight, where knowing too much or looking too far can expose one to terrible power. In Middle-earth, places often hold such layered meanings, and Amon Hen stands among them as the spot where outward watchfulness and inner discernment collide.

The pairing of Amon Hen with Amon Lhaw shows an ancient pattern of opposing lookout sites that once guarded the river corridor together, reflecting a balanced concern for both sight and hearing in the defense of the realm. On one side, watchers scanned the horizon; on the other, they listened for distant sounds carried over water and through mist. Even though by the time of the War of the Ring these systems of guard had long fallen into decay, their physical framework still shapes the story world and the travels of its characters. The Fellowship’s passage between the two hills and the breaking of their company beside one of them echo the earlier purpose of these sites as places where decisions about danger and movement were made. In this way, the ruins of an old strategy continue to influence new struggles, and the hills remain faithful to their ancient role as guardians of a critical stretch of the Great River.