Welcome to Close Reads! Leah Schnelbach and guest authors will dig into the tiny, weird moments of pop culture—from books to theme songs to viral internet hits—that have burrowed into our minds, found rent-stabilized apartments, started community gardens, and refused to be forced out by corporate interests.
There is a scene in the beginning of the second episode of the second season of Rings of Power, in which the Stranger, Nori, and Poppy are making their way through the lands of Rhûn. As they walk, Nori is trying to come up with a name for the Stranger.
“What about Doderik?” she suggests, much to the Stranger’s disgust. “Andwise” he declares a fine name, but not his. “Fredagard!” Nori finally suggests, at which point the Stranger turns to face her, his expression both grave and sincere.
“But don’t you see?” he says. “No one can give you a name. It is yours already. It is who you are. And when you hear it spoken, you feel your heart glow.”
“You’ll hear it one day,” Nori answers. “I’m sure of it. We’ll find out who you are.”
We’ll find out who you are.
In this moment, Nori immediately knows what the Stranger meant—both of them intrinsically seem to understand that the name he’s searching for is more than just a noun used to identify him when someone is speaking of him, or to shout when someone needs to get his attention. The Stranger doesn’t remember where he came from, or who he is, or why he arrived so violently into the world. His search for purpose, for identity, and for a name, are not three different errands but the same quest, and one which can’t be rushed or cheated. And so his name can’t be given to him, any more than his staff can be located for him, or his choices made for him.
This is the Stranger’s journey in season two—to find the name, the staff, the purpose, and to discover, or perhaps decide, who he is. Who he will be the rest of his time in Middle-earth.
Of course, some names are given—we are all gifted with a name the day we are born. Growing up, I always loved the name I was given—it was a family name, belonging to my grandfather, and my great grandfather before him, and my parents were a little ahead of the curve when it came to giving this traditionally male name to a baby girl.
And my name felt like me. It was a little unusual, and I was an unusual child, plus it had a meaning that resonated with me. Even after I realized that I wasn’t a girl and began my transition, I didn’t think I’d ever want to change it.
But then one day, unexpectedly and almost inexplicably, my name just… stopped feeling right. Perhaps this was in part because I was starting to encounter more women with the name, but overall the reason it no longer fit felt more ephemeral than a simple matter of what gender it was most associated with. After all, transition is about a lot more than what pronouns you use, or how you may choose to change your body, or how you present it to the world. And I realized that, when I’d embraced the truth about transness, I had also set part of myself free that I hadn’t even realized was imprisoned. Because of this, I’d actually changed a lot from the person I’d been before. I still loved the name, just as I loved the person I’d been when it belonged to me. But now I was someone else, and I needed a name for that person.
I tried on a lot of different names. I looked for names that fit my heritage, other family names, names that had meanings I liked. As a fandom person and a nerd, I also tried out names of characters from books and movies I loved. But nothing fit. And I couldn’t really understand why. Like the Stranger searching for his staff, I followed my dreams, looking in all the places that seemed to make sense, looking where others had looked before me. And like the Stranger, when the answer did not come, I got frustrated.
And then one day I was sitting in a mezcal bar with my spouse, who’d been helping with the search since the beginning. We were two drinks in when suddenly, as if out of nowhere, they suggested; “What about Sylas?”
I’d heard the name before, but I didn’t know anything about it or have any associations with it other than a vague awareness of the George Eliot book. Similarly, my partner hadn’t encountered it anywhere recently—they said the name just came to them out of nowhere. And yet, despite the seeming randomness of the moment, the name felt right. It felt like a blanket settling over my shoulders, like a wizard’s staff fitting perfectly into my hand.
Later, I looked up the name, and discovered that it comes from Sylvanus, the Roman god of trees. I love trees and the forest, so it felt fitting, and I realized that the associated Latin word silva, meaning forest or wood, is also the root from which the name for the Silvan elves comes. It was a nice little nod to a story I’ve loved since I was old enough to read, but it wasn’t one I sought out. It was just there, waiting for me.
The conversation between Nori and the Stranger resonated deeply with me, as I imagine it must have for many trans people watching the episode. And although Rings of Power is pretty shaky as a show, and although the payoff of the Stranger eventually finding the name of Gandalf was beyond silly and quite unsatisfying, I also noticed that this theme around names was carried on throughout the season. In episode four, Tom Bombadil tells the Stranger that a wizard’s staff is like a name; “Yours to wield already, if you prove yourself worthy of it.” Still later, in the season finale, Adar tells Galadriel that his elvish name is the one he is given, but Adar—meaning father—is the one he earned. Even Sauron, who disguises himself under many names and many guises, earns a name in the title of “Lord of the Rings,” a name which Celebrimbor knows means something very different in reality than what Sauron wishes it to mean.
The payoff of Gandalf finding his name left much to be desired, but the idea behind it— that he discovered his true identity by proving that he is a person who will always choose friendship over power—is a very good one. His wizard’s staff was found in the home of the Stoors he protected from the Dark Wizard. The name Gandalf sprang directly from his connection to Nori and Poppy, and to the halflings at large, in the thanks that Gundabel and Merimac gave to him. He found his name when he found himself, and he just knew who he was.
I’m not surprised my spouse found my name first—they know who I am, better than anyone, better even, I think, than I do. But I don’t think they gave it to me, exactly—they were just the first one to recognize it. To recognize me.
And when I heard them call me Sylas for the first time, I can confirm that, yes, I could feel my heart glow.
