So began the battle that none had expected; and it was called the Battle of Five Armies, and it was very terrible.
—The Hobbit
For some readers of this book—particularly those whose view of Tolkien’s writings have been more influenced by Peter Jackson’s film adaptations than by Tolkien’s literary works themselves—there might seem to be a certain irony in the previous chapter. I have presented at least a starting point for a case that Tolkien’s heroes model the virtue of gentleness (among many other virtues). This is especially true of his great hobbit hero Frodo, but it applies also to his human heroes Aragorn and Faramir, and to other wise figures such as Galadriel and the wizard Gandalf. Even in the midst of war, the virtue of gentleness—a virtue that seems inherently antithetical to war itself—should still be practiced, and indeed is practiced by Tolkien’s heroes.
In particular, war does not justify the torture of prisoners. Not even the most desperate of circumstances and needs brought on by war are sufficient to justify the torture of a prisoner. Tolkien not only modeled this principle in his heroic characters but was explicit about it in at least one posthumously published passage on the nature of orcs. There are virtues and ethical principles that should be practiced even at great personal cost, even at the cost of military defeat.
The reason this might seem ironic is that Tolkien is known, to many fans of The Lord of the Rings, for his epic battle scenes. If he really wanted to model the virtues of gentleness and peace, why would he write so much about war? Might it not be more effective to promote such virtues outside the context of war than to present so much war and violence, and then suggest that one still needs to be virtuous? Put another way, scenes and dialogues suggesting a strong ethic against the torture of enemy prisoners may be completely lost when they immediately precede or follow other scenes in which heroes are portrayed running spears, swords, and arrows through their enemies in the midst of battle. To some, Tolkien seems even to glorify violence. This certainly seems unhelpful if an author wants to promote peace.
What does one say to such a criticism? Battles do hold a significant place in the tales of Middle-earth. The Hobbit culminates in the Battle of Five Armies, in which many fortunes and futures are made (or lost). Nearly all of The Lord of the Rings focuses on a single war, moving (or so it seems) from one battle to another: the skirmishes at Weathertop, Moria, and Amon Hen; the Battle of Helm’s Deep; the skirmish in Ithilien between Faramir’s men and the Southrons; the Siege of Minas Tirith and the Battle of the Pelennor Fields; and the battle on the Morannon in front of the Black Gate of Mordor. The same can be said for The Silmarillion, in which the battles are given lofty elvish names, such as Dagor Agloreb, Dagor Bragollach, Dagor-nuin-Giliath, and Nirnaeth Arneodiad. Just the cinematic trailer to Jackson’s film version of The Two Towers, with the violent battle scenes depicted there, might be enough to convince some that Tolkien glorifies violence. The officially licensed video games with graphic and gory depictions of orcs spilling blood (and having their blood spilled) were inevitable.
In light of this, it is instructive to explore how exactly Tolkien portrays war. How does he describe battle scenes? What images does he use? What narrative devices? What voices?
The Battle of Five Armies
As the first major battle in either The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings, the Battle of Five Armies is an appropriate place to begin our exploration of Tolkien and war. From the perspective of Middle-earth’s history (if not also from the perspective of the narrative), it is the second most important event in The Hobbit, behind only Bilbo’s finding of the Ring. Does this battle read like a description of a video game? Or like something altogether different?
As the battle approaches—in a chapter appropriately titled “The Clouds Burst”—the pace of the narrative increases toward its climax. Finally we read, “So began the battle that none had expected; and it was called the Battle of Five Armies, and it was very terrible” (Hobbit, 339). Except that the battle did not begin quite yet. Or at least the narrative account of the battle did not begin. Four and a half more paragraphs ensue that give an overview of the situation leading up to the battle from an omniscient narrative voice. This overview describes the historical setting for the battle, the geography of the battle site, and, most important, the work of Gandalf in bringing together the elves, men, and dwarves, who give up their enmity toward one another and unite to fight a common enemy. One thing we do get from this opening line, however, is the first adjective Tolkien uses to describe battle: terrible.
Then comes the actual description of fighting: “A few brave men were strung before them to make a feint of resistance, and many there fell before the rest drew back and fled to either side” (Hobbit, 340). At this point the battle begins in earnest, and as it does, The Hobbit takes an interesting turn in its narrative voice; Tolkien temporarily abandons the omniscient view and begins to describe the battle from the very limited viewpoint of Bilbo, the hobbit: “It was a terrible battle. The most dreadful of all Bilbo’s experiences, and the one which at the time he hated most—which is to say it was the one he was most proud of, and most fond of recalling long afterwards, although he was quite unimportant in it” (Hobbit, 341). Again we see the same word, terrible, as the descriptive adjective for battle. One cannot help but see in this depiction something of Tolkien’s own World War I experience of fighting in battle in 1916 as an infantryman. He viewed the war from the trenches, unable ever to see the big picture or understand how his actions fit into the broader perspective of the war as a whole, or even into that particular battle. Tolkien lost two of his closest friends and then contracted trench fever.
But the main point I wish to make is that this approach—the switch from an omniscient overview to Bilbo’s perspective—personalizes the battle while adding distance to it. That is, the focus of Tolkien’s narrative at this stage, rather than focusing on the details of the fighting, shifts to the feelings of one individual involved. In this case, moreover, the individual is one who is “quite unimportant” from a military or strategic viewpoint, who doesn’t really understand what is happening and is invisible to the rest of the combatants. This helps connect the battle with the reader, who would likely feel much the same in a battle of that scope, while adding spatial distance to the narrative, as of one watching the events from afar. Tolkien adds even more distance to the battle—this time temporal distance—by describing it in the way that this unimportant character Bilbo remembers it “long afterwards” rather than the way he views it at the moment. A conclusion one might draw is that Tolkien is more concerned with those involved in the battle than with the battle itself. (We will return to this point later.)
The battle continues from there, but it is described in broad brushstrokes, once more from a high and distant perspective, with hours flashing past in just a few sentences. We get this in such simple statements as, “Day drew on” (Hobbit, 343). As for description of the fighting itself—swords whacking off body parts, spears plunging into enemies, or any of the sort of visual detail we might expect in a modern video game—there is almost none. In over twenty paragraphs that narrate the battle, there are only a handful of descriptions that might be called graphic: “The rocks were stained black with goblin blood” (Hobbit, 341). “Many of their own wolves were turning on them and rending the dead and the wounded” (Hobbit, 342). “Thorin wielded his axe with mighty strokes” (Hobbit, 343). “Once again the goblins were stricken in the valley; and they were piled in heaps till Dale was dark and hideous with their corpses” (Hobbit, 343–44). Note that even these descriptions are broad and general; only the third of these four even mentions a specific person. If the reader imaginatively fills in the missing detail, the broad brushstrokes painted by the author make it clear that it would not be pleasant detail. It is a gruesome and negative picture of war: bloodstained rocks, betrayal, and dead bodies.
That’s about all the detailed graphic description of the violence of the fighting we are given. The narrative then returns again to Bilbo.
On all this Bilbo looked with misery. . . .
“Misery me!” [thought Bilbo.] “I have heard songs of many battles, and I have always understood that defeat may be glorious. It seems very uncomfortable, not to say distressing. I wish I was well out of it.” (Hobbit, 344–45)
As we know, of course, the battle does not end in defeat for Bilbo but in victory. Tolkien, however, avoids describing the victory because his narrator is knocked unconscious before the battle ends: “‘The Eagles!’ cried Bilbo once more, but at that moment a stone hurtling from above smote heavily on his helm, and he fell with a crash and knew no more” (Hobbit, 345). This is significant. If one wanted to glorify war, then victory would be the ideal moment to do so. Yet Tolkien doesn’t even let us experience victory with the victors. It is not until well later, after the battle is over and victory won, that Bilbo awakens.
When Bilbo came to himself, he was literally by himself. He was lying on the flat stones of Ravenhill, and no one was near. A cloudless day, but cold, was broad above him. He was shaking, and as chilled as stone, but his head burned with fire. . . .
“Victory after all, I suppose!” he said, feeling his aching head. “Well, it seems a very gloomy business.” (Hobbit, 346)
Between these two passages, Tolkien is quite explicit. Battle is neither glorious in defeat (contrary to what Bilbo had always thought) nor even glorious in victory. Rather, it is miserable, “uncomfortable,” “distressing,” and overall “a very gloomy business.” Indeed, it would be difficult to look at the scene to which Bilbo awoke and call it victory. Many good elves, men, and dwarves lie dead, and many others mortally wounded. In short, there is little glory in it—not in Tolkien’s narrative description, anyway.
The Black Gate and the Skirmish with Southrons
If we move from The Hobbit to The Lord of the Rings, the three biggest battles are (in chronological order) the Battle of Helm’s Deep, the Siege of Minas Tirith (also called the Siege of Gondor, which culminates in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields), and the battle in front of the Black Gate. We will start with the last of these and move backward.
Interestingly enough, Tolkien describes the battle in front of the Black Gate in a way so closely parallel to the Battle of Five Armies in The Hobbit that I can only imagine the parallel is intentional—in the same way that the two stories also open with parallel passages of parties, although one is “unexpected” and one “long-expected,” and both end with the homecoming of hobbits to the Shire after a long time away. Both are the final major battles in their respective books, both involve several different armies coming together to fight a common foe, both involve a single hobbit (as an unimportant character), and both end with the unexpected coming of the eagles presaging an unlooked-for hope and victory. Both battles also involved Gandalf as a critical agent in bringing the allied forces together to fight the common enemy.
The battle in front of the Black Gate begins with the armies of Mordor sweeping down upon Aragorn’s army as Sauron springs his trap. Four paragraphs describe Aragorn’s quick ordering of his troops as the enemy rushes toward them from all sides. Then, as with the Battle of Five Armies in The Hobbit, the narrative suddenly switches from a distant omniscient view to the perspective of an unimportant hobbit.
Pippin had bowed crushed with horror when he heard Gandalf reject the terms and doom Frodo to the torment of the Tower; but he had mastered himself, and now he stood beside Beregond in the front rank of Gondor with Imrahil’s men. For it seemed best to him to die soon and leave the bitter story of his life, since all was in ruin.
“I wish Merry was here,” he heard himself saying, and quick thoughts raced through his mind, even as he watched the enemy come charging to the assault. . . .
He drew his sword and looked at it, and the intertwining shapes of red and gold; and the flowing characters of Númenor glinted like fire upon the blade. “This was made for just such an hour,” he thought. “If only I could smite that foul Messenger with it, then almost I should draw level with Old Merry. Well I’ll smite some of the beastly brood before the end. I wish I could see cool sunlight and green grass again!”
Then even as he thought these things the first assault crashed into them. . . .
“So it ends as I guessed it would,” his thought said, even as it fluttered away; and it laughed a little within him ere it fled, almost gay it seemed to be casting off at last all doubt and care and fear. (V/x)
As noted, this narrative switch in perspectives occurs the moment the battle begins. The focus turns to the thoughts and feelings of the character rather than the graphic details of the battle. The words used to describe Pippin’s thoughts on this battle are similar to those used of Bilbo’s perspective on the earlier battle: horror, doom, bitterness, and ruin. There are, however, two contrasts between the scenes. First, though this battle is even more significant to the peoples of Middle-earth than the battle at the end of The Hobbit—and involves considerably larger and more powerful armies—it is described with far fewer words. Once the preliminary bargaining and diplomacy are over, and Gandalf has rejected the terms of Sauron’s emissary, barely over one page (eight paragraphs) is given to the actual description of this important battle, all of which comes from Pippin’s perspective. Then Pippin (like Bilbo) is knocked unconscious.
A second difference is that the reader gets somewhat more of the hobbit’s thoughts and feelings at the moment (rather than retrospectively), which is surprising since there is less overall narrative devoted to this battle than is devoted to the Battle of Five Armies. In particular, not only is the narrator concerned with Pippin’s role and position as the battle begins, but he tells us just what is going through the hobbit’s mind during those first few moments. Certainly some of his thoughts are directed toward the present instant: the horrors he is about to face and what he hopes to accomplish against his foes. But much of his thought is turned toward things having little to do with battle: first toward his friend Merry, and then toward “cool sunlight and green grass.” These are the things—friends, sunlight, grass—that are really important in the tale; this, and not war and battles, is the stuff of life, the stuff that counts. And thus this, even in the midst of a battle scene, is what Tolkien’s narrative brings us back to.
These are not the only two instances where Tolkien uses a hobbit to give us a perspective on the wars of men. Nowhere is that hobbitish view more stark than the view we get from Sam of the skirmish fought between Faramir’s men and the Southron forces passing through Ithilien. Most of the battle is described only as faint sounds heard by Sam, with one comment of narration from Damrod, one of Faramir’s men who is guarding Sam and Frodo. There is only one actual paragraph with any visual description of the battle itself, again only as seen by Sam in glimpses through the trees. The description ends with one of the enemy soldier’s falling dead almost at Sam’s feet. And then we have Sam’s summary, which is very telling: “It was Sam’s first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much. He was glad that he could not see the dead face. He wondered what the man’s name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace” (IV/iv). Here Tolkien not only personalizes those on “our side,” as we might call the free peoples of Middle-earth, but he also personalizes one of the enemy soldiers. The young Southron has a name, a heart, and a history. He may be evil, or he may not be. He may, Sam realizes, even have a desire for peace; he may be as much a victim of Sauron’s threats and lies as the folk of Gondor. Even the long march this enemy soldier followed to this battle is one that took him from a home, much as Sam himself had arrived at that same spot on a long march taking him away from his own home. In short, the fallen figure has a face, and Tolkien lets us know he has a face even though we cannot see it. It is a dead face that Sam is glad he cannot see, and that comment alone strengthens the sense of the humanity of this foe: a humanity he shares with Sam, and with the soldiers of Faramir who killed him. One cannot construe this as a glorious image of war.
The Rohirrim and the Anglo-Saxons
Working backward through the story, we turn next to a lengthy discussion about the Siege of Minas Tirith, the longest and most involved battle in this war. It would take considerable time to examine that entire battle, as the siege along with the Battle of the Pelennor Fields spans three chapters of The Return of the King. But one observation first needs to be made of the battle as a whole. Though the siege and battle last for many days, none of the narration takes place on the battlefield until the very end when the Rohirrim, led by King Théoden, arrive, and even then the reader sees only a little of the battle before it sweeps past. Next, the reader experiences the battle but only dimly through the eyes of the uncomprehending hobbit Merry. Up to that point, what little description of the battle Tolkien does provide is given from the perspective of those on top of the walls—Pippin and Beregond—looking out at the distant battleground and trying to guess what is happening. In other words, there is little description of the warfare. Rather, the real narrative action takes place within the city and focuses on how the characters respond to the siege: what they feel, what they think, what they say. The battle Tolkien describes in most detail is the battle against despair, and especially the ability of Gandalf and the Prince of Dol Amroth to bring hope to those who have lost it.
When the narrative finally switches from the spectators within the walls of Minas Tirith to the fighting outside the walls, the one scene Tolkien chooses to emphasize is the battle between Éowyn and the Nazgûl, and the subsequent death of King Théoden: a microcosm, but an important one, within the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. This fight is described with a very different narrative voice than the previous two battles I have commented on.
But lo! Suddenly in the midst of the glory of the king his golden shield was dimmed. The new morning was blotted from the sky. Dark fell about him. Horses reared and screamed. Men cast from the saddle and lay groveling on the ground.
“To me! To me!” cried Théoden. “Up Eorlingas! Fear no darkness!” But Snowmane wild with terror stood up on high, fighting with the air, and then with a great scream he crashed upon his side: a black dart had pierced him. The king fell beneath him.
A great shadow descended like a falling cloud. And behold! It was a winged creature: if bird, then greater than all other birds, and it was naked, and neither quill nor feather did it bear, and its vast pinions were as webs of hide between horned fingers; and it stank. . . . Upon it sat a shape, black-mantled, huge and threatening. A crown of steel he bore, but between rim and robe naught was there to see, save only a deadly gleam of eyes: the Lord of the Nazgûl. To the air he had returned, summoning his steed ere the darkness failed, and now he was come again, bringing ruin, turning hope to despair, and victory to death. A great black mace he wielded.
But Théoden was not utterly forsaken. The knights of his house lay slain about him, or else mastered by the madness of their steeds were borne far away. Yet one stood there still: Dernhelm the young, faithful beyond fear; and he wept, for he had loved his lord as a father. . . .
And so he died, and knew not that Éowyn lay near him. And those who stood by wept, crying: “Théoden King! Théoden King!” (V/vi)
In this battle, after Théoden is struck down, his niece Éowyn (initially in the guise of a male soldier named Dernhelm) faces the Lord of the Nazgûl in combat. And with the aid of Merry, she defeats him, though in the process both she and Merry are grievously wounded. As mentioned, it is a scene very different from the majority of Tolkien’s battles. Unlike many other battles, in which the reader is given very little graphic description of the fighting, this battle is described in great detail: the “swift stroke” of Éowyn’s “steel-blade,” the fall of the Nazgûl-Lord’s mace, each word spoken between the combatants, even the shivering of shield and breaking of bone. Why the difference? Why the sudden level of detail?
One thing to be considered here is that Éowyn is not facing a foe of flesh and bones. Unlike with the Southron who falls dead at Sam’s feet, we are not intended to feel any sympathy for Éowyn’s foe. The Nazgûl whom she destroys is not a mortal or physical being but a spiritual foe: a wraith. The Nazgûl has no blood to be shed. Thus, though the battle between the two takes place in the physical world with physical weapons, Tolkien may be giving us a glimpse of the deeper nature of reality. There is both a physical part of reality and a spiritual part of reality. Since the eye cannot see the spiritual plane, Tolkien visualizes it in the physical realm. We might well conclude that since the only foe we see close up on the Pelennor Fields is a wraith, the real enemy that must be faced in Middle-earth is a spiritual enemy. No battle against a physical foe is depicted with such detail.
There are also at least two other important reasons for the narrative voice and style of description that Tolkien uses in this scene, neither of which have the purpose of glorifying war—or the effect of glorifying war when read in their context. The first reason lies in understanding who Théoden and Éowyn are, and more generally who the Rohirrim are. Tolkien models the people of Rohan directly after the Anglo-Saxon people.[25] The language of Rohan is Old English (Anglo-Saxon). The word Riddermark, for example, comes from Ridenna-mearc; ridan is Old English for “to ride,” ridda for “rider,” and mearc for “border” or “marches”; hence, Ridenna-mearc for “riders of the border.” Meduseld means “mead hall.” Likewise, names of many people in Rohan are often just Anglo-Saxon words. Théoden is simply Old English for “prince” or “lord.” The poetry of Rohan takes the same verse form in meter and alliteration as that of Old English poetry. (Those familiar with Old English poetry should consider the poem sung by Éomer after Théoden’s death: “Mourn not overmuch! Mighty was the fallen” [V/vi].)
Even the speech patterns of the Rohirrim are modeled after Old English heroic verse. Consider the “welcome” given to Gandalf, Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas by the guards at the gates of Edoras (the palace of King Théoden).
“None are welcome here in days of war but our own folk, and those that come from Mundburg in the land of Gondor. Who are you that come heedless over the plain thus strangely clad, riding horses like to our own horses? Long have we kept guard here, and we have watched you from afar. Never have we seen other riders so strange, nor any horse more proud than is one of these that bear you. He is one of the Mearas, unless our eyes are cheated by some spell. Say, are you not a wizard, some spy from Saruman, or phantoms of his craft? Speak now and be swift!” (III/vi)
This speech is borrowed almost directly from the welcome given to Beowulf and his warriors by the beach-guards when they arrive at Heorot to visit Hrothgar in the Old English poem Beowulf. The Dane’s coastguard speak thus:
“What are you, bearers of armor, dressed in mail-coats, who thus have come bringing a tall ship over the sea-road, over the water to this place? Lo, for a long time I have been guard of the coast, held watch by the sea so that no foe with a force of ships might work harm on the Danes’ land: never have shield-bearers more openly undertaken to come ashore here; nor did you know for sure of a word of leave from our warriors, consent from my kinsmen. I have never seen a mightier warrior on earth than is one of you, a man in battle-dress. That is no retainer made to seem good by his weapons—unless his appearance belies him, his unequalled form. Now I must learn your lineage before you go any farther from here, spies on the Danes’ land. Now you far-dwellers, sea-voyagers, hear what I think: you must straightway say where you have come from.”[26]
No one who is deeply familiar with Beowulf could miss the similarities:
| Tolkien | Beowulf |
|---|---|
| who are you that come over the plain | what are you that come over the sea-road |
| long have we kept guard here | long have we kept guard here |
| I have never seen a horse more proud | I have never seen a warrior mightier than is one of you |
| some spy from Saruman | spies in the Dane’s land |
| speak now and be swift | speak now and be swift |
About the only significant difference is that in the former case the arriving party has come by horse, and in the latter case by ship.
So why is this connection important? What does it matter that the Rohirrim are Tolkien’s Anglo-Saxons who found their way into Middle-earth? Part of the answer is simply the narrative richness imparted in the tale. If the Rohirrim have Anglo-Saxon names and Anglo-Saxon speech patterns and sing the poetry of Old English heroic verse, then in a scene that focuses on the death of their great king, it makes sense for the narrative voice—in addition to the voices of the characters themselves—to complete the richness by using the idiom of Old English heroic verse. That is what Tolkien, a professional scholar of Anglo-Saxon language and literature, has done. Tolkien’s description begins with a phrase similar to that at the start of Beowulf: “Lo!” or “But, Lo!” It continues in a manner consistent with Old English narrative style—namely, that really important actions are described three times with three slightly different images: “Shield was dimmed. Morning was blotted. Dark fell.”
But the language and literature of the Anglo-Saxons (and thus of the Rohirrim) come out of an early Germanic culture, in which war was glorified; or, if not war, then at least the warrior—whether in death or in victory. A chieftain became a chieftain because of his prowess in battle, and when he died he was buried with his weapons and with those of his vanquished opponents. The great heroes at the start of Beowulf are praised for their military victories and brave deeds, and especially for conquering other peoples and making them pay tribute. In short, we see this scene sometimes through the eyes of the Rohirrim (Théoden, Éowyn, and later Éomer) and sometimes through the eyes of Merry. When seen through the eyes of the Rohirrim, we do get a glimpse of this glorification of the life and death of a warrior that would have characterized the society of Rohan. “I go to my fathers,” Théoden says. “And even in their mighty company I shall not now be ashamed” (V/vi).
The hobbit Merry, however, provides us another perspective on this battle, much as the hobbits Bilbo, Pippin, and Sam did for the battles already discussed. Or, rather, Tolkien—while giving us the narrative richness of Anglo-Saxon verse—provides us, through Merry, another perspective that is less glorious. Indeed one might say that the hobbits, when present at a battle, bring realism to our understanding of war. War, as seen through their eyes, is as close as we can come in the book to war as seen through the author’s eyes. Even in a society that glorifies the warrior, such as that of the Rohirrim, Tolkien uses the hobbits to give us a clearer picture of what war is really about; the hobbits deglorify it when others have glorified it. At the Pelennor Fields, when seen through Merry’s eyes, there is no glory but only sorrow, dread, and blind, sick horror (V/vi). And it is through Merry’s eyes, not those of the Rohirrim, that the narrator gives us our final glimpse of this battle: Théoden is dead, Éowyn unconscious, and Éomer gone. The outcome is not glory but death, and tears, and sorrow.
So Fair, So Desperate
Without diminishing the importance of the narrative richness of Tolkien’s depiction of the people of Rohan, I believe there is a second and more significant reason that this scene is described as it is, why Tolkien’s narrative gives it a certain glory. We must look at each of the three characters involved: Théoden, Merry, and Éowyn.
Consider, first, King Théoden. Just days before this battle begins, he is “a man so bent with age that he seemed almost a dwarf” (III/vi). If he were bent with age because his body really was old and decrepit, then the reader would have no reason to be dismayed. But Théoden is only deceived into thinking himself too old and frail to do anything. In reality, there is still considerable strength left in his bones and muscles. As the visitors to his hall notice, “his eyes still burned with a bright light,” and “bent though he was, he was still tall” (III/vi). What has happened to him? The most obvious thing is that he has listened to the lies of his supposed counselor Gríma, son of Gálmód (whom all save Théoden have aptly named “the Wormtongue”), who is passing on the lies of Saruman. Gríma’s rhetoric is that “those who truly love [Théoden] would spare his failing years” (III/vi). Thus Théoden has come to believe himself old and frail, and his people weak, and has been convinced that his only hope is to withdraw into a defensive cocoon and let the world’s problems pass over him and his country. Gandalf later tells him, “And ever Wormtongue’s whispering was in your ears, poisoning your thought, chilling your heart, weakening your limbs, while others watched and could do nothing, for your will was in his keeping” (III/vi). And because of that deception—that falling under the spell of Saruman—Théoden is unwilling to fight in the battle against Sauron or to lend the aid of his people to the desperate need of his neighbors in Gondor.
We must also note that in addition to the illness brought about by this deceit, there is yet a subtler decline of the nobility of the House of Eorl, one that perhaps has gone back many generations. Théoden himself later describes this condition: “Long have we tended our beasts and our fields, built our houses, wrought our tools, or ridden away to help in the wars of Minas Tirith. And that we called the life of Men, the way of the world. We cared little for what lay beyond the borders of our land. Songs we have that tell of these things, but we are forgetting them, teaching them only to children, as a careless custom” (III/viii). In short, the kings of Rohan have ceased to believe in the wisdom of the old stories passed on from generation to generation; they have forgotten how broad and wonderful and mysterious is the wide world around them. This fall is evident in the dark tales and words they speak of Galadriel, calling her a “sorceress” and “net-weaver”—as Gimli says, speaking evil of “that which is fair beyond the reach” of their thoughts (III/ii). It is equally evident in that they no longer have any knowledge of, belief in, or concern for the Ents of Fangorn Forest, which is on the very border of Rohan.
When Gandalf comes to Théoden’s Golden Hall, however, a healing begins for both of these ills. The deceit of Saruman, being the more recent, is the more quickly and easily cured. By breaking this spell—in part by silencing Wormtongue—Gandalf helps Théoden see that there is still strength in his bones, still strength in his people, and still hope if they can “stand unconquered a little while.”
“It is not so dark here,” said Théoden.
“No,” said Gandalf. “Nor does age lie so heavily on your shoulders as some would have you think. Cast aside your prop!”
From the king’s hand the black staff fell clattering on the stones. He drew himself up, slowly, as a man that is stiff from long bending over some dull toil. Now tall and straight he stood, and his eyes were blue as he looked into the opening sky. (III/vi)
In a very real sense, Théoden has been healed; Gandalf has set him free from the chains of deceit that bound him to inaction. As the imagery suggests, he moves from darkness to light; he has been blind and now he sees.
With this healing accomplished, Théoden’s eyes are also opened to the decline that has come with the loss of the old wisdom and the shrinking of his world. A few days later, Gandalf—aided by the appearance of the Ents—spurs this process, reopening Théoden’s eyes.
“Is it so long since you listened to tales by the fireside? There are children in your land who, out of the twisted threads of story, could pick the answer to your question. You have seen Ents, O King, Ents out of Fangorn Forest, which in your tongue you call the Entwood. Did you think that the name was given only in idle fancy? Nay, Théoden, it is otherwise: to them you are but the passing tale; all the years from Eorl the Young to Théoden the Old are of little count to them; and all the deeds of your house but a small matter. . . . You should be glad, Théoden King. . . . For not only the little life of Men is now endangered, but the life also of those things which you have deemed the matter of legend. You are not without allies, even if you know them not.” (III/viii)
What happens here, fundamentally, is that Gandalf restores Théoden’s perspective (his sight). When the world of the House of Eorl grew too small, then it was only natural that the kings of Rohan considered themselves larger and more important than they really were. They had become selfish, forgetting that their own needs and problems were but a small part of Middle-earth, in both time and space. As the contact with the Ents reminds Théoden, however, their lives are but a small matter in the broad sweep of time, and their kingdom is just one of many kingdoms in danger from Sauron. Yet, in realizing this, Théoden also realizes that he is not alone; he has allies even if he knows them not. And this gives him both the motivation to begin to fight for a bigger cause and the hope that this larger battle may be won.
And so the real glory of the scene at the Battle of Pelennor Fields is not the glory of a physical battle, whether of victory or defeat, but the glory of those who choose to use whatever strength they have to resist evil. “You may say this to Théoden son of Thengel,” says Aragorn, “open war lies before him, with Sauron or against him” (III/ii). If Théoden does not choose to fight against Sauron, he will be serving him. He must choose. And he does. Thus, though he falls slain in the physical battle, he is victorious in the moral battle to choose well.
The stories of Merry and Éowyn are also important in understanding this scene. Merry is the easier of the two to understand. In addition to providing the hobbitish perspective we explored earlier, there is something personal about his individual story that is worth exploring. Merry is terrified of battle in general, and terrified of the Black Rider in particular. He has no love whatsoever of war. He is a hobbit, and although he is (or is to become) more adventurous and more noble than most of the other folk of the Shire, he does not long for battle or see it as glorious. For Meriadoc Brandybuck, the victory comes in overcoming his fear in order to come to the rescue of Éowyn, even if it means doing so in the most inglorious fashion of crawling on his belly and stabbing the Nazgûl from behind: “She should not die, so fair, so desperate! At least she should not die alone, unaided.” And the glory of the scene is also his love for a king who had become like a father: “‘King’s man! King’s man!’ his heart cried within him. ‘You must stay by him. As a father you shall be to me, you said.’” The glory is the awakening of the “slow-kindled courage of his race” (V/vi). It is his sheer choice to move and act, despite the terror that could have paralyzed him. It is his will not to give in to despair. That this choice is made in the context of a battle, and involves a sword, is not the critical aspect of the heroism (or glory), for we see the same glory in each step taken by Sam and Frodo across the plains of Mordor. Indeed, the battle itself is very inglorious.
By contrast, Éowyn’s character is far more complex. We do see in this scene a certain glory in the love that she holds for her uncle: she is “faithful beyond fear,” loving Théoden “as a father.” And as with Merry, we see a glory in her courage, “so fair, so desperate.” But Tolkien is working something else in her character. Like her uncle Théoden, Éowyn needs to find healing, but it is a different type of healing. While her uncle is so afraid of death that he has become shameful, she is so afraid of shame that she seeks death. As Gandalf later indicates to Éomer, Éowyn’s brother: “She, born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait on an old man, whom she loved as a father, and watch him falling into a mean dishonoured dotage; and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff he leaned on” (IV/viii). And so, in her despair, seeing nothing left in life, Éowyn seeks glory in death, and in particular, glory through death in battle (an Anglo-Saxon ideal). But unlike Théoden, whose healing has already come, who is willing to die, and who finds death though he does not seek it, Éowyn is denied the very death she seeks. In sparing her from death, Tolkien gives his reader the opportunity to see the healing she later finds. It is by the author’s grace that Éowyn does not die but is able to learn that the type of glory she sought earlier is not the answer.
To understand this healing, we must understand the illness. Éowyn’s illness is twofold. The first part is observed by both Aragorn and Éomer. She loves Aragorn, but he does not return her love: “Few other griefs amid the ill chances of this world have more bitterness and shame for a man’s heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned” (IV/viii). The second part of her illness is described by Gandalf: she suffers the shame of watching the king she loved as a father falling into “mean dishonoured dotage; and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff he leaned on.” And yet the two illnesses are really one. As Aragorn observes, she doesn’t so much love him as “only a shadow and a thought: a hope of glory and great deeds, and lands far from the fields of Rohan” (IV/viii). Her “illness”—if illness is even the right word—is a desire for glory. In other words, if what we earlier observed about the Rohirrim and their Anglo-Saxon love of the warrior’s glory is true, then Éowyn is simply the manifestation of her people’s weakness, exaggerated to an extreme by the taunting of Wormtongue perhaps, but still true to the character of her people. And so, while her bravery and loyalty embody the best traits of the Rohirrim, her longing for glory in battle—which Tolkien illustrates so vividly in that battle scene—shows their weakness. In this subtle presentation of both the strengths and weakness of a “real” character in a “real” world we see the skill of Tolkien as a writer.
Éowyn’s physical healing, from the wound inflicted by the Nazgûl, comes at the hands of Aragorn. Her spiritual healing, however, is administered by the steward Faramir in the Houses of Healing at Minas Tirith.
“I wished to be loved by another,” she answered. “But I desire no man’s pity.”
“That I know,” he said. “You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a great captain may to a young soldier he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest that now is. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle. Look at me, Éowyn!”
And Éowyn looked at Faramir long and steadily; and Faramir said: “Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell. And I love you. Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Éowyn, do you not love me?”
Then the heart of Éowyn changed, or else at least she understood it. And suddenly her winter passed, and the sun shone on her. (VI/v)
The healing seems instant here, but it really takes place over several days. It is only completed at this moment, as we see through Éowyn’s response: “I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren” (VI/v). Éowyn is willing to give up her pursuit of glory, especially the glory of the warrior: the glory of “slaying,” the glory of the “shieldmaiden” and the “great Riders.” And so, through the Rohirrim in general and through the battle of Éowyn with the Nazgûl in particular, Tolkien gives us a view of a culture that really does glorify war and battle, and the life of a warrior. But through Éowyn’s illness he also shows us what such pursuits and values ultimately lead to, while through her healing he shows us the good that results when such pursuits are renounced.
Hope and Healing
One other note is in order regarding Éowyn. In her story, one might be tempted to see a male chauvinist attitude: that a woman’s healing comes by finding the love of a man, giving up the world at large, and settling down to the supposedly more feminine pursuits of home and kitchen. Several chapters could be written on Éowyn alone, but this would represent quite a divergence from the main subject of this book. I will limit myself to a few brief comments. Tolkien’s professional world as an Oxford professor was unquestionably a male world, and certainly there is a male romantic image in the way he portrays women in general, and in particular in his portrayal of Éowyn finding healing through the love of a man. But to simplify it further would miss most of what we can learn from this scene. Among other things, it is remarkable that Tolkien gives voice to this very concern. That is, he gives voice to Éowyn as a woman living in a man’s world: “All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death” (V/ii). Éowyn’s argument here is in response to Aragorn when he reminds her of her duty to her people. If Tolkien thought there was no virtue in this argument, then why would he include her words in his narrative? At the very least, if Tolkien thought her argument was fundamentally flawed, then he could have put a reply in Aragorn’s mouth; surely Aragorn understands duty and responsibility. Yet Aragorn shows only sympathy and understanding, asking her what it is that she does fear. Including this passage, without any rebuttal, gives credence to Éowyn’s argument. Even more respect and understanding is given to Éowyn’s position through the wisdom and gentleness of Aragorn.
Probably the most important aspect of the depiction of Éowyn and especially of her healing, however, lies in the commonality between her and Faramir. Faramir, a man, is as much opposed to battle as Éowyn later becomes. Not only does Tolkien’s female character commit herself to “be a healer” and to “love all things that grow and are not barren,” but Faramir himself is also committed to the same goals. “Let us cross the River,” he says, “and in happier days let us dwell in fair Ithilien and there make a garden. All things will grow with joy there” (VI/v). To say that in Tolkien’s narrative Éowyn ought to give up battle only because she is a woman would miss the depth of the author’s portrayal of both Éowyn and Faramir and the extent to which the author’s narrative really does deglorify war.
In fact, the great desire of Sam and Frodo, and even of Merry and Pippin, is to give up their swords, return to the Shire, and take up peaceful pursuits such as gardening. In short, Tolkien does not portray it as solely a womanly virtue to abandon the glories of the battlefield and to turn instead to the house and garden and the pursuit of peace, but as a manly virtue as well.
Sandra Miesel, in her excellent essay “Life-Giving Ladies: Women in the Writings of J. R. R. Tolkien,” acknowledges that “Tolkien idealized women” with a “positive—even too positive—attitude that weaves through all his works.”[27] This is a much more accurate criticism than that Tolkien’s women are either useless, merely ornamental, or altogether negative. But regarding the cause of Éowyn’s unhappiness and Tolkien’s portrayal of it, Miesel notes both simply and insightfully that Éowyn “fastens on Aragorn as the answer to her bitter lot but mistakes the hero for the man and is rebuffed. Tolkien is sympathetic to the frustration of this steely lily flower but rejects her notion that men’s work is the only kind worth doing.” And with respect to Éowyn’s healing, or newfound happiness, Miesel concludes, with equal insight, “Éowyn outgrows her hero-worshipping crush for genuine love. She and her husband . . . will rule a deserted region as prince and princess. The lily finally gets to bloom in a real garden where both courage and nurturing skills count.”[28]
The “Contest” at Helm’s Deep
Though the Battle of Helm’s Deep involves considerably smaller armies than either the Siege of Minas Tirith or the battle in front of the Black Gate, and though it lasts only one night, an entire chapter of The Lord of the Rings is devoted to this battle, and it seems to take on an importance even beyond that. (This one chapter dominates Peter Jackson’s film version of The Two Towers.) This battle is somewhat different from the others we have explored. Helm’s Deep is described in the present, by characters who are physically present, rather than with the spatial and temporal distance characteristic of the narrative descriptions of other battles. Of greater significance, it is the one important battle at which no hobbit is present!
Some might argue that the evidence of Tolkien’s glorification of war may be found in this battle, in the contest between Legolas and Gimli as to who would kill the most orcs. That such a sport is made of war and killing is certainly disturbing. Why, then, does Tolkien include it? Before seeking to answer this, we should make two important observations. Though the battle, including some hand-to-hand fighting, is described in a very concrete present, here too there is little graphic description of violence. A large majority of the narrative is devoted to dialogue among the defenders during moments of respite, especially to the current state of their hope or despair. We get only occasional glimpses of the defenses at some particular strategic moment.
More specifically, with respect to the contest, even though the narrator recounts some of the dialogue wherein Gimli and Legolas boast to each other of their current scores, we witness very few of the actual tallies. We are with Gimli for numbers one, two, and twenty-one of the forty-two orcs he slays, and that is all. And little picture do we get even of these three: “An axe swung and swept back. Two Orcs fell headless. The rest fled.” As for Legolas, we see only number thirty-nine (of forty-one), and that from a distance: “The foremost fell with Legolas’ last arrow in his throat, but the rest sprang over him” (III/vii). It is also important to note that it is Gimli who initiates the contest, when he boasts of his first two slain orcs. And Gimli, though he is noble for a dwarf and grows to be wiser than most others of his race, is yet a dwarf and not the symbol of wisdom in Tolkien’s tales. That is, he represents the values of his people, not the values of the author.
What does Tolkien accomplish in the chapter “Helm’s Deep,” and why would he include not only the battle itself but also the subplot of the contest between Gimli and Legolas? The text suggests a number of reasons why Tolkien includes this material, none of which are for the glorification of killing. It is here at the Battle of Helm’s Deep that Aragorn keeps the word he gave to Éomer when the two first met.
“When your quest is achieved,” [spoke Éomer,] “or is proved vain, return with the horses over the Entwade to Meduseld, the high house in Edoras where Théoden now sits. Thus you shall prove to him that I have not misjudged. In this I place myself, and maybe my very life, in the keeping of your good faith. Do not fail.”
“I will not,” said Aragorn. (III/ii)
In giving his aid to Aragorn, Éomer places his life in Aragorn’s hands. Aragorn repays that trust and more; he also honors Éomer’s plea for help: “Return with what speed you may, and let our swords hereafter shine together!” (III/ii). This is why it is important not only that they meet again but that they draw swords together. Aragorn is meeting the real need of the people of Rohan, which is for military aid against the threat of Saruman. Furthermore, he is doing so at great personal risk, not only to his own life but also to all his dreams and plans. Certainly such self-sacrificial giving on Aragorn’s part is worthy of praise. Indeed, it is in Rohan that Aragorn’s great nobility begins to show visibly, when he first meets Éomer: “Gimli and Legolas looked at their companion in amazement, for they had not seen him in this mood before. . . . In his living face they caught a brief vision of the power and majesty of the kings of stone” (III/ii). It is seen again at the battle: “So great a power and royalty was revealed in Aragorn, as he stood there alone above the ruined gates before the host of his enemies, that many of the wild men paused” (III/vii). And as the future king of Gondor risks his life for the people of Rohan, he earns the allegiance of Rohan’s future king. When it comes to “The Last Debate” of the Captains of the West, deciding whether to ride against Mordor and challenge the Black Gates themselves, Éomer admits, “I have little knowledge of these deep matters.” But he goes on to add, very poignantly, “but I need it not. This I know, and it is enough, that as my friend Aragorn succoured me and my people, so I will aid him when he calls. I will go” (V/ix).
What we see here is more than mere allegiance; it is a deep bond of friendship that is forged at Helm’s Deep. In fact, three friendships are either forged or solidified at the battle. In addition to that of Aragorn and Éomer, the second is that of Gimli and Éomer, for Gimli also risks his life in the battle several times to help Éomer and the people of Rohan. When he saves the life of Éomer—interestingly enough, by tallying his first two orc heads—and Éomer thanks him for it, we should recall the harsh words spoken between the two at their first meeting, and how close they had come to deadly blows just a few days earlier. Though little more is said of their friendship as the book continues, it becomes clear that there is something significant to it. Not only is Gimli at Éomer’s side when the Battle of Helm’s Deep is over, but when the entire War of the Ring is finally finished, the dwarf returns to Rohan and makes his permanent home at the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, as Éomer’s neighbor.
It is also here in the context of war that we see the blossoming of the friendship between Gimli the dwarf and Legolas the elf and the real care they have for each other. This too is greatly significant, considering not only the animosity between their races, which traces back through countless generations to the very First Age of Middle-earth, but also the tension between the two individuals at the start of the Quest—recall that Gloin, the father of Gimli, had been imprisoned by Thranduil, the father of Legolas, which Gimli alludes to at the Council of Elrond. Even after they had passed through Moria, there was enough tension between the two that Legolas grumbled, “A plague on Dwarves and their stiff necks!” (II/vi). By the time the Battle of Helm’s Deep is over, however, it seems that Legolas’s greatest concern is the well-being of his friend Gimli. He is certainly more concerned for Gimli than for their contest: “I do not grudge you the game, so glad am I to see you on your legs!” (III/viii). It is shortly after the battle that the two make their famous agreement: Gimli will visit Fangorn with Legolas if Legolas will return with Gimli to Aglarond, epitomizing a friendship between elf and dwarf that may be unique in the entire history of Middle-earth.
The point here is that one may glorify the friendship that is born in the context of war, and see the goodness in that friendship, without glorifying the violence out of which that good came. Many friendships have been born in times of hardship, and there are few hardships greater than those experienced in the Battle of Helm’s Deep that night—or the type of battle in which Tolkien himself fought, was wounded, and lost two of his close friends. Put another way, it is said that there is no greater love than to lay down your life for a friend, and it is in war that the opportunity to do so is most apparent.
In a similar vein, we must also realize what a great burden such an evil night is on those involved, even the strongest-willed among them. It is a night that Aragorn describes as “a night as long as years” (III/vii). This burden can probably be fully understood only by those who have suffered it themselves. Such a contest as Gimli and Legolas have, however grim it may be, acts to lighten the heavy load and may even be necessary to the survival of those forced to endure war as soldiers. That such a contest is required of Legolas and Gimli serves to show the horror of war, not its glory.
War, the Individual, and Fellowship
In looking at what Tolkien does not do in his depiction of war—he does not glorify war or violence—we have also seen some positive things that he does accomplish. We have begun to notice, in the battle of Éowyn and the Nazgûl, that something is happening at the unseen or spiritual level that is as significant as what goes on in the seen physical world. We have also discovered that the individuals involved in the great battles of Middle-earth are more important than the military outcomes. Tolkien reveals to his readers what the participants of battle think, feel, and value. We see that green grass and friendship are far more valuable than glory. In focusing on the individual character rather than on the physical details of the battle, Tolkien places value on the individual life—whether that of a hobbit, a dwarf, an elf, a man, or even one of Sauron’s slaves.
This is not to say, however, that Tolkien was an “individualist”—not in the way that word might be understood in the late twentieth or early twenty-first century. Though an individual life is of greater importance than the military outcome of a battle, this does not mean that the individual is more important than society. On the contrary, time and again throughout the books the main characters subjugate their own desires for the good of the community to which they belong. When the elves of Lothlórien single out Gimli the dwarf to be blindfolded before entering their kingdom, Aragorn insists that the entire Fellowship, including himself, be blindfolded; the unity of the Fellowship as a whole is more important than Aragorn’s (or any other member’s) own individual pride and comfort. Aragorn, when he chooses to pursue the orcs in hopes of rescuing the two hobbits at the start of The Two Towers, is putting aside the longing of his own heart to go to Minas Tirith. Their contest at Helm’s Deep aside, we get the strong impression that Gimli’s welfare is more important to Legolas than his own.
The same can often be said of all the members of the Fellowship. Even Boromir, at the end of The Fellowship of the Ring, gives up his own pursuit of glory in an attempt to save Merry and Pippin. Gandalf, though he may have been the most important foe of Sauron, sacrifices his life to save the others. By contrast, in the few instances when we are given a close-up view of the orcs, we see the exact opposite: the individual orcs—Uglúk, Grishnákh, Shagrat, Gorbag—usually put themselves and their own goals above the good of the community. Looking at the relationship between the individual and community from a different perspective, when Gandalf goes to Rohan and rescues Théoden, he does not simply restore an individual king but an entire kingdom. Likewise, when he comes to Minas Tirith, he does not merely bring help to Denethor and Faramir; he brings hope to all those on top of the walls of Minas Tirith who are fighting the battle.
In fact, this observation is consistent with the other observations we have made so far, and it ought to be seen as central to the conclusion of the chapter. If the individual, as an individual, really were the most important thing, then pursuit of personal glory in battle would make sense. But pursuit of glory in war is not what Tolkien espouses. Galadriel does not tell the members of the Company that hope remains as long as each individual is strong and brave, but rather that “hope remains while all the Company is true” (II/vii, emphasis added). In other words, their commitment to one another and to community is more important than their individual strength. The nine who set out on the Quest from Rivendell, in contrast to the Nazgûl, are not nine individuals but one Fellowship. The choice of title of the first book of the trilogy tells us something about Tolkien’s view of community!