17

The War With Two Sides

Drawing from Tolkien’s major stories—The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion—there are more than twenty types of sentient beings to be found within the borders of Middle-earth.

Some recently have become commonplace, such as elves, dwarves, trolls, dragons. Others are more exotic—ents, river-maids, barrow-wights, wargs. And it’s a testament to Tolkien’s imagination that a few of his creations are so fantastical that even yet they stand alone within a crowded genre. Who but Tolkien could conceive of the Nazgúl? Who else could write about Balrogs?

In spite of this incredible diversity, all of Tolkien’s creations can be compartmentalized into two main categories: good and evil.

A number of whole species fit into those camps. There are no good goblins, for instance, nor are there any evil elves. Most people groups are divided, with individuals choosing to take a place within the forces of good (e.g., Aragorn) or of evil (e.g., the Ringwraiths).

In chapter 17 of The Hobbit, ten different groups participate in the Battle of Five Armies. Only three—goblins, wolves, and wargs—represent the forces of evil. The rest make up an impressively diverse coalition of good: elves, men, dwarves, eagles, a wizard, a skin-changer (Beorn), and a hobbit.

Sadly, their unity during the Battle of Five Armies only serves to highlight the tragedy of what almost happened before the battle even started.

Division and Discord

Up to now, The Hobbit has been a relatively whimsical tale. The characters have experienced hard times and even life-threatening danger. Still, through it all, the adventure’s tone and tenor has remained positive, even humorous.

There’s nothing humorous about the beginning of chapter 17. It’s the low point of the story on a variety of levels.

For starters, when Thorin learns about the Arkenstone, his behavior toward Bilbo is contemptible. He shakes the hobbit like a rabbit, curses him, and calls him a descendant of rats. Then he picks up his onetime friend and companion—who has twice saved his life and the lives of his people—and would have dashed him on the rocks below if not for Gandalf’s intervention.

In the end, Thorin sends Bilbo away with no payment for his services but vindictive and abusive words. It’s the lowest moment in his brief career as King under the Mountain, and even the other dwarves are ashamed of him.

It’s not the lowest moment of the chapter, however. That comes when the forces of good turn against each other out of desire for gold and jewels.

The dwarves are on one side, led by Thorin and Dain. We don’t learn much about Dain throughout the story, but we’re told that he and his people “burned”[1] with the knowledge that the Arkenstone was in Bard’s hands. So it’s reasonable to assume that they were affected by the same lust for gold that had consumed Thorin and the other dwarves inside the mountain.

On the conflict’s other side, the armies of men and elves are led by Bard and Thranduil. Those two thus far have demonstrated wisdom through their actions, but now they take a step back. Bard seems almost eager for a fight when Dain and his five hundred companions come within view, noting that his forces would gain easy victory because of their high position on the spurs.

Thranduil’s counsel seems wiser—at first glance. He says he’s willing to wait a while longer before he begins a war for gold. But he also makes it clear that the dwarves cannot pass into the mountain without their leave and that the combined forces of Bard’s men and the elves are enough to win a battle if they must.

In reality, Bard and Thranduil are of the same mind. Both leaders believe they possess a military advantage; both are willing to destroy the dwarves in order to maintain their siege of the mountain—and to keep their claim on the treasure.

By taking such a stance, both turn their backs on Bilbo’s gift the night before. For peace, the hobbit relinquished his claim; both Bard and Thranduil praised him for it. But when they have opportunity to do the same—to let go of the gold to preserve peace and avoid bloodshed—both refuse. When Dain’s dwarves charge forward to attack, the armies of elves and men (and their leaders) are ready to respond violently to claim what they’ve been promised.

These events bring to mind several biblical passages, most notably Jesus’ admonition that “Any kingdom divided against itself will be ruined, and a house divided against itself will fall” (Luke 11:17), and Hebrews 13:5: “Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, ‘Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.’”

The main underlying theme is that evil benefits when the forces of good become divided. That’s what the apostle Paul was so desperate for the young church in Corinth to understand:

I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree with one another in what you say and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be perfectly united in mind and thought. My brothers and sisters, some from Chloe’s household have informed me that there are quarrels among you. What I mean is this: One of you says, “I follow Paul”; another, “I follow Apollos”; another, “I follow Cephas”; still another, “I follow Christ.”

1 Corinthians 1:10–12

The X-factor in the conflict over the treasure is that the dwarves are clearly in the wrong. Thorin has made dreadful choices since Smaug was destroyed; Dain’s arrival spurs him even to break his promise to relinquish Bilbo’s share of the treasure in exchange for the Arkenstone. More, Dain and his dwarves are the aggressors—they attack the armies of elves and men.

Even so, the decision to match their aggression is inexcusable. Choosing to fight, Bard and Thranduil risk a serious rift within the forces of good. More, they risk their own moral character by prioritizing treasure over peace.

Again, these are exactly Paul’s concerns for his friends in Corinth. Paul knew that divisions among them would only cause damage—corporately and individually—and would limit the church’s effectiveness as a force for good:

The very fact that you have lawsuits among you means you have been completely defeated already. Why not rather be wronged? Why not rather be cheated? Instead, you yourselves cheat and do wrong, and you do this to your brothers and sisters.

1 Corinthians 6:7–8

He also knew, and tried to help them understand, that their squabbles were foolish because of everything they’d already been given through Jesus:

So then, no more boasting about human leaders! All things are yours, whether Paul or Apollos or Cephas or the world or life or death or the present or the future—all are yours, and you are of Christ, and Christ is of God.

1 Corinthians 3:21–23

For dwarves and elves and men, to squabble over gold is as foolish. Both the winners and losers of a battle would have been destroyed by the hordes of goblins swarming toward the mountain—and all the treasure taken far away.

Divine Authority

Fortunately for the dwarves and elves and men—and a certain hobbit—their bickering and posturing didn’t result in violence. But that has little to do with their wisdom or self-control and everything to do with divine intervention.

As a devout Catholic, Tolkien had a high view of God’s sovereignty. He believed that everything and everyone ultimately served God’s divine will. That included people who intentionally obey His will, people who are in rebellion against Him, even the forces of evil at work within the world.

These convictions are reflected strongly in the progression and outcome of the Battle of Five Armies.

THE FORCES OF EVIL

Isn’t it interesting that the forces of evil arrived at the Lonely Mountain just in time to prevent the forces of good from killing each other? If the goblins had delayed their assault even a few hours—certainly if they’d waited for nightfall and the cover of darkness—they would have found an enemy already half-defeated and the treasure theirs for the taking.

But the goblins don’t delay. In their greed and lust for blood, they hasten on for several nights and come into the open at the perfect moment to save the day for the armies of dwarves and elves and men—and for a certain hobbit.

Tolkien makes a fascinating statement through these events: Even the forces of evil serve the will of Providence. Even these can become Agents of Providence in order to accomplish the Creator’s good purposes.

And this is a thoroughly biblical concept.

Look at the life of Joseph, for example. At age seventeen, his brothers beat him and sold him as a slave due to raging jealousy that their father loved him best. Their actions were wholly evil. They intended harm, and only harm.

And yet God achieved an abundance of good through those actions. After thirteen years of suffering, Joseph became the second-most powerful man in all of Egypt. During a seven-year famine, his wise counsel saved the lives of thousands—including those of his brothers.

When they eventually confessed and begged forgiveness, Joseph made it clear: God was at work throughout the entire situation to accomplish His will.

You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.

Genesis 50:20

As we’ve seen, Paul affirmed this view of divine sovereignty:

We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

Romans 8:28

In the same way that all things—intentionally or unintentionally—submit to God’s will in this world, Tolkien built Middle-earth so that even the vilest of creatures ultimately become the Creator’s servants.

THE REBELLIOUS KING

Not only do the evil creatures serve the will of Ilúvatar, but so also do those who rebel against their call to be the Creator’s servants.

We’ve seen that Thorin Oakenshield is tragically flawed. As a king, he’s to represent the Creator among his people; he’s to rule with wisdom and compassion, courage and grace. But in the end, Thorin does not fulfill his calling. He succumbs to the corruptions of greed and leads his people astray.

Yet in the hands of his Creator, he is not wholly lost. Even one such as Thorin can be used by Providence to accomplish good.

We see it when Thorin and the other dwarves burst from the mountain in the middle of the battle. As the dwarves charge into battle, they’re clothed in shining armor, and a red light leaps from their eyes. Thorin himself gleams “like gold in a dying fire.”[2]

This, Thorin’s last act as leader of his people, is his finest hour. He runs fearlessly into the fray, wielding his axe with deadly force. When he calls for elves, men, and dwarves to join the attack, his voice booms like a horn in the valley. Those who hear, obey—for finally he is King under the Mountain.

Pressed into the service of the Creator, we finally see Thorin as he was meant to be. We see his potential realized. In that moment, the power and nobility of what he could have been—should have been—only heightens the sad reality of his rebellion, his corruption, and his coming death.

In this way, Thorin’s story reflects that of Samson.

Made to be both ruler and warrior, Samson was blessed with supernatural strength and the opportunity to rescue Israel from Philistine oppression. But he squandered his gifts and eventually fell into disobedience and corruption.

Yet like Thorin, he was not wholly lost. In his last moments, Samson was given the chance to once again serve his Creator—to become, even briefly, the man he was created to be. And, like Thorin, he took advantage:

Now the rulers of the Philistines assembled to offer a great sacrifice to Dagon their god and to celebrate, saying, “Our god has delivered Samson, our enemy, into our hands. . . .”

When they stood him among the pillars, Samson said to the servant who held his hand, “Put me where I can feel the pillars that support the temple, so that I may lean against them.” Now the temple was crowded with men and women; all the rulers of the Philistines were there, and on the roof were about three thousand men and women watching Samson perform. Then Samson prayed to the Lord, “Sovereign Lord, remember me. Please, God, strengthen me just once more, and let me with one blow get revenge on the Philistines for my two eyes.” Then Samson reached toward the two central pillars on which the temple stood. Bracing himself against them, his right hand on the one and his left hand on the other, Samson said, “Let me die with the Philistines!” Then he pushed with all his might, and down came the temple on the rulers and all the people in it. Thus he killed many more when he died than while he lived.

Judges 16:23, 25–30

THE AGENTS OF PROVIDENCE

Of course, it’s not only the rebellious and the forces of evil who are used to accomplish the Creator’s will. Those who have been serving Providence throughout the story continue to do so during the Battle of Five Armies.

It’s Gandalf, for example, who steps between the charging dwarves and the besieging army in order to announce the arrival of the goblins. And it’s Gandalf who gathers the leaders from dwarves, elves, and men in order to draw up plans for attack and defense.

But it’s the eagles—the heralds of Manwë sent to watch over the northern mountains—who do the heavy lifting in terms of actually turning the tide. When all hope seems lost and even Bilbo despairs, the eagles arrive as sharp-eyed, sharp-taloned manifestations of deus ex machina. Serving as Agents of Divine Rescue and Wrath, they toss the shrieking goblins from the mountainside and save the day for the forces of good.

Beorn plays a similar role. He charges through the mass to rescue Thorin, then back in again to rout the bodyguard of Bolg and crush the goblin-king once and for all. Even little Bilbo gets in on the act—it’s he who first spots the eagles and sends news of their rescue echoing down the valley.

Necessary Violence

If The Hobbit’s seventeenth chapter differs from the rest of the book in overall tone, it also represents a change in depiction of violence and violent detail.

The earlier portions do contain violent moments, but these are diffused by lighthearted narration. For example, when trolls capture the dwarves, they speak of roasting or boiling them or squashing them all down to jelly. But the incident is played off as a joke, and amid the humor we’re never convinced anything truly bad will happen.

When they emerge from their barrels after escaping the Elvenking in Mirkwood, Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, and Gloin are described as “waterlogged” and “only half alive.”[3] But those statements are offset by Fili complaining that his barrel smelled so strongly of apples, he hopes never again to see one.

Not so now. The Battle of Five Armies is thoroughly solemn and serious—even reminiscent of the battle scenes from The Lord of the Rings.

A charge of elves leaves the rocks “stained black with goblin blood,”[4] and wolves go about “rending the dead and wounded,”[5] and then goblins were stacked in heaps “till Dale was dark and hideous with their corpses.”[6] There are slain members of the forces of good—men, dwarves, and “many a fair elf.”[7] And in chapter 18, Bilbo converses with the mortally wounded Thorin, who is dying after being “pierced with spears.”[8]

The contrast with the rest of the book is so sharp that we really are forced to ask why. Why would Tolkien include such violence in what many have considered a children’s book?

The first of multiple answers is that Tolkien’s descriptions once again reflect Scripture. Many wars and many battle scenes detailed in the Old Testament are visceral to the point of gruesome.

This account is one example:

Amaziah then marshaled his strength and led his army to the Valley of Salt, where he killed ten thousand men of Seir. The army of Judah also captured ten thousand men alive, took them to the top of a cliff and threw them down so that all were dashed to pieces.

Meanwhile the troops that Amaziah had sent back and had not allowed to take part in the war raided towns belonging to Judah from Samaria to Beth Horon. They killed three thousand people and carried off great quantities of plunder.

2 Chronicles 25:11–13

Second, Tolkien thought of himself as a sub-creator when writing even these scenes. He was engaged in creating a Secondary World sufficiently believable to help his readers become fully immersed in the story. And given what he went through, likely he could find nothing believable about a blithe or lighthearted conflict between multiple armies. He could find the humor in a confrontation with bumbling trolls, but nothing was humorous about war.

In Tolkien and the Great War, John Garth explains how battlefield experiences influenced “The Fall of Gondolin,” Tolkien’s first step on the narrative journey leading to The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings:

The vivid extremes of the Somme, its terrors and sorrows, its heroism and high hopes, its abomination and ruin, seem to have thrown his vision of things into mountainous relief. A bright light illuminated the world and raised awful shadows. In this tale, Tolkien’s mythology becomes, for the first time, what it would remain: a mythology of the conflict between good and evil.[9]

Third, he wrote seriously about the Battle of Five Armies because he had a serious view of spiritual warfare. In his mind, the supernatural clash between good and evil was as real as anything he endured during physical battle in the Great War. Thus, this metaphysical conflict had a similar impact on his work.

Tolkien understood that the devil “prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8); therefore, the evil characters within his stories are fearsome and able to cause massive harm. He knew also that “our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms” (Ephesians 6:12)—and so he was ruthless in destroying the forces of evil within his Secondary World.