Shōgun Ending Explained: This Was Never Blackthorne's Story

This article contains spoilers for both "Shōgun" the 2024 TV show and the 1975 novel.

When I first finished James Clavell's novel "Shōgun," the comparison that immediately came to mind was Homer's "Iliad." The epic Greek poem is famous for recounting the events of the Trojan War, a war that is still famous thousands of years later. I was hardly an expert at Greek mythology before reading "The Iliad," but going in I already knew two big events: that the fierce warrior Achilles (who was portrayed by Brad Pitt in Wolfgang Petersen's "Troy") died near the end of the Trojan War, and that the Greek soldiers won by hiding inside a giant wooden horse and tricking the Trojans into letting them behind their city walls.

The latter was the big moment I was looking forward to. The Trojan horse is such an iconic image; it's still referenced constantly in pop culture and is so ubiquitous that the U.S. even named its most popular condom brand in its honor. But as I read through the second half of "The Iliad," I grew increasingly confused by how little the war had progressed. It was only by the final few chapters that I accepted Achilles wasn't going to die in this book, nor would we be getting to the famous horse scheme. "The Iliad" is remarkably uninterested in the conclusion to the Trojan War; if you want to see that, you'll have to check out "The Aeneid."

Such is the case with "Shōgun." Although most readers likely aren't familiar with all the historical events the book's based on, the first 800 pages (and the first nine episodes of the 2024 show) strongly imply that this story's gonna end with a big, climactic battle. It's what all the characters are talking about, after all. Surely a story called "Shōgun" wouldn't just end before we saw the battle that made Toranaga Shōgun, right?

Wrong. "Shōgun" ends with what could easily feel like a string of anti-climaxes. Blackthorne's ship, which he was supposed to use to bring fire upon the Portuguese ships, is burned down off-screen. Yabu, who has been scheming for nine episodes straight, is simply exposed after his latest betrayal and ordered to commit Seppuku. (He does so without complaint.) Blackthorne and Buntaro, who've been at each other's throats all season, simply make amends. Most notably, Toranaga reveals that he's already negotiated the deal that will win him the war; the battle won't be for another few months, but it's basically already been won.

It's surprising because the first half of this season really hyped up this battle. We've been told repeatedly that Toranaga's an amazing military tactician, just as we've been told that Blackthorne's knowledge of cannon warfare will massively change the course of Samurai warfare in a cool, cinematic way. The show also gave us multiple episode-ending cliffhangers that really seemed to imply a war-heavy episode the following week, only for that episode to be surprisingly peaceful yet again. It turns out the whole season was a bait-and-switch, not dissimilar to what Toranaga just pulled on his enemies. Does the intentional anti-climax work? Yes, mainly due to one key character.

The highlight of every version of "Shōgun," even the 1980 mini-series, is clearly Mariko. As a Christian Samurai, she's originally presented in the book as nothing more than the bridge between Blackthorne and Toranaga, a tool for them to communicate better. We've seen plenty of fish-out-of-water narratives in historical fiction, just as we've seen plenty of cunning leader archetypes, but rarely does a book ever center around a translator. Yet, as the 1200+ page novel went on, it became increasingly clear that Mariko was the real protagonist. She was the one with the tragic, heroic character arc, whose actions decide the outcome of the entire political conflict the novel is based around.

Yet the conclusion of the novel felt a little awkward. It was partly because James Clavell wasn't quite as good at writing the Japanese characters' viewpoints, but also because he took his sweet time introducing Mariko. It takes about 200 pages before she's properly introduced to Blackthorne, and another 100 pages before it becomes clear just how central she is.

That's why it was such a great move for the FX mini-series to not only put in the work to bring more complexity and historical accuracy to Mariko and the other Samurai characters but to introduce Mariko straight from the jump. From the first two episodes, viewers knew about her suicidal ideation and her miserable marriage — knowledge that book readers were denied until 500 pages in. "Shogun" also made it clear that Mariko is not just a main character but the main character, to the point where, when Mariko dies, we should know that the story's basically over. The show is most of all about Mariko and how she changed the lives of everyone around her.

Of course, the "Shōgun" finale is not just an extended epilogue. It features the climactic culmination of Blackthorne's gradual embrace of the Samurai ways, where he nearly commits Seppuku in protest of Toranaga's mistreatment of the villagers. It's a scene many book fans assumed had been cut entirely, as book Blackthorne's suicide attempt took place around the halfway point. Both scenes serve as a clear turning point for the character, establishing that Blackthorne has now come to understand a fundamental aspect of feudal Japanese culture. But the show's placement makes way more sense; it's a natural escalation of Blackthorne offering to be Mariko's second last week and a significant final note to end his story. Blackthorne also confesses to trying to use Toranaga for his personal benefit; it's not clear how much Toranaga understood from this monologue, but it still serves as a clear condemnation of the white savior narrative that "Shōgun" is often accused of being.

As for Toranaga? The show allows him to monologue to Yabu about how he'll take down Ishido. It's another welcome adaptive flourish, one that helps to underline the weird, begrudging respect between the two. Toranaga might've never trusted Yabu, but he always seemed amused by Yabu's attempts to be a cunning schemer like himself. It's almost sweet for Toranaga to give Yabu this gift of knowledge at the end, even if he'll never get to use it. With his love of betrayal and his recurring obsession with death, there's no version of this story where Yabu doesn't die at the end, but at least he dies with dignity. A lesser story would've had Blackthorne get his revenge for Yabu boiling one of his crewmates alive, but "Shōgun" wisely doesn't give us anything so straightforward.

In the end, "Shōgun" is a success because it understands why so many other beloved historical dramas and epic fantasy series were successful: they knew that the political maneuvering is far more interesting than the battles themselves. There's a reason why everyone loved the first few seasons of "Game of Thrones," even though nearly every scene was technically just a conversation. Stabbing someone in the back with words will always be cooler than stabbing them with a literal knife, as Toranaga's poor son found out earlier in this season.

For "The Iliad," the story works because it stays focused on the horrors and pointlessness of war. If it had ended with the successful sack of Troy it could've been mistaken for a heroic story; instead, it ends with the mourning of all the dead and the promise of more death and suffering to come. The delightful wooden horse trick wouldn't have fit thematically.

"Shōgun," meanwhile, is a story about patience and endurance, about embracing The Eightfold Fence and not rushing into rash, emotional decisions. Toranaga's been telling us from the beginning that he's not the type to fight a war if he doesn't know for sure he'll win it ahead of time; a sequence like The Battle of Helm's Deep would've been cool, but Toranaga would never let himself get swindled into such a long, chaotic, uncertain conflict. It may not have been a flashy finale, but it was the most fitting ending "Shōgun" could ever ask for.