“But I count you blessed, Gimli son of Glóin: for your loss you suffer of your own free will, and you might have chosen otherwise.”
—Legolas
The choice of the wise of Middle-earth to refuse the temptation of the Ring is undeniably important in The Lord of the Rings, but it is by no means the only important choice made by the heroes. That Tolkien emphasizes so many choices is significant. Indeed, it is difficult to overlook the extent to which the Middle-earth writings stress the reality of choice. This reality runs through The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and The Silmarillion from bottom to top, beginning to end. It is in their very fabric. As we will explore in this chapter, it is the choices made by the heroes that define their heroism. We might say that the importance of choice in Tolkien’s writing is the very thing that defines his writing as heroic literature.
As obvious as this may be, the importance of choice is still worth exploring for two reasons. The first is a reason I explored in another book, The Mind and the Machine (which has a chapter on the role of creativity and free will in Tolkien’s writings), and also touched on in Following Gandalf, the predecessor to this book.[39] There are many famous figures in the world today, as there were during Tolkien’s time, who deny that humans have any real freedom to make their own choices. Humans are, they claim, merely programmed machines. As a result, those who deny free choice are suspicious of heroic literature, or of what the twentieth-century psychologist B. F. Skinner (one of Tolkien’s famous contemporaries who denied free will) dismissively called “the literature of freedom” (a type of literature that Skinner thought should be rejected).[40] I will not belabor that point here but will note only that while many readers who enjoy Tolkien’s works might themselves claim not to believe in free choice, there can be no doubt that Tolkien did believe in it and made it central to his writing. Whatever readers think about the matter, free choice must be understood as central to Tolkien.
The second reason for exploring the importance of choice in Tolkien’s work relates to one of my central critiques of Peter Jackson’s film adaptations of Tolkien’s works. There are fans whose perception of The Lord of the Rings comes from Jackson’s films rather than from Tolkien’s books. Just as fans who have been influenced by the films rather than the books might be more inclined to see the works as glorifying violence, they might also miss the fundamental importance of the free choices of the heroes. This is because with almost every important heroic character in The Lord of the Rings, Peter Jackson’s film adaptation sadly diminishes the significance of the very choices that (in Tolkien’s books) made these characters heroic.
The list of examples is long and, for those who are concerned with the fundamental philosophical ideas behind Tolkien’s works, disturbing. At least some are worth mentioning. In Tolkien’s works, both Merry and Pippin consciously choose to join their friend Frodo in his departure from the Shire, well in advance of when he actually departs, because he needs help. They make this choice even though they also know the journey will be dangerous, and that danger terrifies them. As Merry says to Frodo: “You can trust us to keep any secret of yours—closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends. . . . We are horribly afraid—but we are coming with you; or following you like hounds” (I/v). In Jackson’s version, by contrast, Merry and Pippin are caught stealing vegetables and get chased by farmer Maggot’s dogs, and only accidentally fall in with Frodo and Sam as they head out from the Shire. Though they later do make some heroic choices, this initial choice of heroism and friendship is taken from them.
The devaluing of Gandalf’s great heroic choice in the Jackson films is even more egregious. In Tolkien’s works, it is Gandalf who wants to lead the Company through the Mines of Moria because he believes it is the best path. Aragorn foresees some disaster awaiting Gandalf there and warns the wizard of it. In the books, therefore, it is Aragorn, not Gandalf, who argues they should instead try crossing the pass of Caradhras to avoid the foreseen harm to Gandalf. Nonetheless, Gandalf is willing to face the danger of Moria for the good of the Company. This free choice of Gandalf’s ennobles his later sacrifice at Khazad-dûm in Tolkien’s works. By contrast, Peter Jackson portrays Gandalf as so afraid of passing through Khazad-dûm that he pushes the Company to the ill-fated attempt at the pass of Caradhras. And even when this crossing of Caradhras fails, Gandalf forces on Frodo the uncomfortable burden of deciding whether to go through Moria because he is seemingly unwilling to make that choice himself. Gandalf’s heroic choices are diminished by Jackson.
And the list could go on. The true Faramir of Tolkien’s books would never have attempted to force Frodo to return to Minas Tirith with the Ring. Though he knows the choice to help Frodo on his journey will bring the ire of his father, Faramir makes that difficult choice to let the Ring go because it is the morally right choice, as we explored in the previous chapter. Jackson’s Faramir instead tries to force Frodo and the Ring back to Gondor, and only later seems to change his mind out of fear rather than out of a heroic choice.
Likewise, Tolkien’s Ent Treebeard, once he understands the danger that Sauron poses to the trees of Fangorn Forest as well as to all of Middle-earth, convinces the Ents at the Entmoot to make the great sacrifice of aiding Gondor and Rohan by attacking Saruman at Isengard. He makes this heroic choice even though he fears it might bring about the destruction of the Ents. “Of course, it is likely enough, my friends,” he tells Merry and Pippin, “likely enough that we are going to our doom: the last march of the Ents” (III/iv). Indeed, the Ents don’t just make this heroic choice; they make it remarkably quickly by Entish standards. Jackson’s Treebeard, by contrast, initially refuses to help Merry and Pippin; he must be tricked into attacking Isengard in a fit of rage, more over the loss of his own trees than out of a desire to help others. Likewise with Théoden. Tolkien’s Théoden, when he understands the dangers, not only agrees to send Rohan to war at the request of Aragorn and Gandalf, but chooses to lead his army himself, ultimately at the cost of his own life. Peter Jackson’s Théoden refuses to aid Aragorn; he chooses instead to go into hiding, and only fights because the war comes to him.
Again and again, where Tolkien’s heroes make heroic choices, Jackson’s versions of these characters must be tricked or forced or involuntarily stumble into the courses of action that seem to make them heroes. It is important, therefore, to see just how important choice was to Tolkien, and to heroism.
The Reality of Choice
Beyond noting the contrasting portrayals above, we could deepen our exploration of the reality of free will and the importance of choice in Tolkien’s writing by taking an obvious route: considering passages that explicitly describe and even emphasize the choices being made. One of my favorite scenes in The Lord of the Rings is the first meeting between Gimli and Galadriel, during which the elven queen breaks down the centuries-old enmity between elves and dwarves. Gimli looks into her eyes and sees a friend where once he saw an enemy. So incredible is this reconciliation and healing of wounds that afterward Gimli is ever ready to go to blows against anybody who speaks ill of the Lady of the Wood. If it weren’t so noble, it would be almost comic when at their parting the stammering dwarf asks—to the murmuring and astonishment of all present—for a single strand of the Lady’s hair rather than for any other gift. Likewise, Gimli’s bravado would be ridiculous were it not so moving when Tolkien has him stand up to Éomer and more than one hundred of his mounted Rohirrim over a perceived insult given to Galadriel. Gimli is ready to face certain death to defend the honor of this great elven queen.
In fact, what emerges is a love—though not of a romantic kind—of Gimli for Galadriel, and for the “light and joy” he finds in her kingdom. When he leaves Lothlórien, he is dismayed at the loss. “I have taken my worst wound in this parting, even if I were to go this night straight to the Dark Lord,” he bemoans. “Alas for Gimli son of Glóin.” The response of Legolas gets at the heart of this chapter: “Alas for us all! And for all that walk in the world in these after-days. For such is the way of it: to find and lose, as it seems to those whose boat is on the running stream. But I count you blessed, Gimli son of Glóin: for your loss you suffer of your own free will, and you might have chosen otherwise” (II/viii, emphasis added). Legolas speaks directly of the dwarf’s “own free will” and then goes on to further emphasize the reality of that free will by saying that Gimli “might have chosen otherwise.” Being able to choose between different courses of action is the very essence of what it means to have free will. We also get a taste of what heroism means: the hero is the one who makes the brave choice, even when it brings about his own suffering. For that, Legolas counts Gimli blessed.
Tolkien gives us a similar comment at a very critical moment toward the end of The Fellowship of the Ring. In order to escape Boromir, Frodo puts on the Ring and climbs to the top of Amon Hen. There Sauron becomes aware of him, and the Eye begins to seek him out, only narrowly being drawn away at the last moment by some other power—which we later learn is Gandalf. It is as Frodo sits “perfectly balanced” between the “piercing points” of these two powers that “suddenly he was aware of himself again. Frodo, neither the Voice nor the Eye: free to choose, and with one remaining instant in which to do so” (II/x). Here we see again the emphasis that Frodo is “free to choose.” But there is even more than that. It is not only that he is free to choose but that the essence of his existence as Frodo—what he remembers when he becomes “aware of himself”—is this freedom to choose. He is neither the Voice nor the Eye; he is not compelled to do good or to do evil but must choose on his own which he will do. And yet, under the strain of those powers, he almost forgets that. Or, put another way, he almost forgets himself. It is his awareness of himself that makes him aware of his freedom to choose. Why? Because the freedom to choose is fundamental to what it means to be a self.
It is also this “freedom to choose” that makes heroism possible, for it is the choices one makes that determine whether one is a hero. This is what Elrond tells Frodo when Frodo accepts the Quest: “But it is a heavy burden. So heavy that none could lay it on another. I do not lay it on you. But if you take it freely, I will say that your choice is right; and though all the mighty elf-friends of old, Hador, and Húrin, and Túrin, and Beren himself were assembled together, your seat would be among them” (II/ii). As with Legolas’s earlier remark to Gimli, we see again in Elrond’s words the double emphasis on Frodo’s free will: that his action is done “freely” and that it is a “choice.” That it is a free choice is exactly what makes Frodo a hero whose seat belongs with the greatest heroes of Middle-earth. Tolkien’s Middle-earth is a world where heroism is possible because it is a world where real choices are possible. Tolkien’s books are full of the language of heroism, which is to say, the language of choice.
We don’t need to travel very long in Middle-earth before we see this. The Hobbit is more lighthearted and less deeply heroic than The Lord of the Rings. As Gandalf points out at the beginning of that story, “In this neighborhood heroes are scarce, or simply not to be found” (Hobbit, 53). Nonetheless, we see the glimmering of heroic traits in Bilbo (and through him, the potential for heroism in all of us simple folk). Interestingly enough, it is not in seeking adventure or danger that Bilbo shows these traits. In fact, he has no desire for adventure or danger. Rather, it is in his willingness to do what he ought to do, even when it is uncomfortable, that Bilbo’s heroic traits can best be seen. He calls it his “duty,” a word used more than once to describe how Bilbo makes his choices. As the story progresses, this sense of heroic duty is developed further. We see it when Bilbo is willing to go back into the goblin caverns after the dwarves, however miserable he feels about it, because he fears they have been left behind and that it is his duty to return for them. In that sense, the dwarves—who are certainly more skilled in battle and more used to danger and adventure than the hobbit—are shown to be much less heroic: they will not choose to do for Bilbo what he is willing to do for them.
Bilbo’s greatest act of heroism, according to the narrator, comes when he is in the tunnel preparing to descend into Smaug’s lair for the first time: “It was at this point that Bilbo stopped. Going on from there was the bravest thing he ever did. The tremendous things that happened afterwards were nothing compared to it. He fought the real battle in the tunnel alone” (Hobbit, 270). What is this brave thing? It is not any of his battles, neither his attempted thievery from the trolls, nor his fight against the spiders in Mirkwood, nor his daring dialogue with Smaug, nor even his small role in the battle against the goblins at the end. It is, simply, the choice to go on, to put one foot in front of the other. This is precisely the sort of “battle” that is important in Tolkien’s writing. It is much more important than any military battle. It is a battle that even servants must face—that is to say, a choice that even servants are given—as Sam learns when his master falls in Shelob’s Lair. In a description closely akin to that of Bilbo in the lair of Smaug, we read that Sam “took a few steps: the heaviest and the most reluctant he had ever taken” (IV/x). Indeed, the observation that this “bravest thing,” the “real battle” as it is called, has nothing at all to do with military battle also says much to the subject of whether Tolkien glorifies violence.
The fundamental nature of this relationship between heroism and choice is captured wonderfully in the peculiar wisdom of Sam on the Stairs of Cirith Ungol.
“But I suppose it’s often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually—their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t.” (IV/viii)
It is not the big battles and exciting brave adventures that make the hero but the decision to go on and not turn back. It is a decision that is made not just once but continuously, even as the chances of turning back come at the hero continuously. It is also a decision that ordinary “folk” can make, one that turns those ordinary folk into heroes when they do make those choices. Sam and Frodo themselves make this choice, akin in nature to the choice of Bilbo, but more difficult and more significant: the choice to keep going when they were in Mordor and not to give up, to take one step after another across Udûn and up the side of Mount Doom, “every step of fifty miles” (VI/iii). Even when their steps turn to crawling, they go on: “‘I’ll crawl, Sam,’ [Frodo] gasped. So foot by foot, like small grey insects, they crept up the slope” (VI/iii). Why is this heroic? Because they are free. They have the choice to give up or to go on. That they choose the latter is the essence of their heroism.
Aragorn and the Doom of Choice
How important is choice in Tolkien’s writing? Choices form the bookends of The Two Towers, which ends with a chapter titled “The Choices of Master Samwise” and starts with a chapter that might well have been called “The Choices of Aragorn son of Arathorn.” If there is any character in whom, and for whom, the importance and difficulty of choice is especially captured, it is Aragorn. When Éomer first meets Aragorn, he senses something deep and noble about this stranger to Rohan. “What doom do you bring out of the North?” he asks. “The doom of choice,” answers Aragorn (III/i). In other words, when Aragorn answers, “The doom of choice,” he is really answering, “freedom”; freedom is his fate, his destiny, his punishment. Though only four words long, his answer is truly—like the proverbial picture—worth a thousand words. Many different understandings are layered within it. Even the word doom is loaded. In its Anglo-Saxon roots, it refers simply to a law. Yet it can also connote a judgment or sentence passed down, a destiny or fate laid upon one, or some terrible thing that is about to happen. It is also one of the root words of freedom, or “free-doom”: the state in which one’s doom, or destiny, is free for one to choose.
At one level, then, Tolkien is making a statement about the race of men. Choice is our doom. Not only are we free and able to choose; it is our destiny as beings of free will that we must make choices—and then live with the consequences of those choices! As Aragorn tells Frodo at Parth Galen: “I fear that the burden is laid upon you. . . . Your own way you alone can choose. In this matter I cannot advise you. I am not Gandalf, and though I have tried to bear his part, I do not know what design or hope he had for this hour, if indeed he had any. Most likely it seems that if he were here now the choice would still wait on you. Such is your fate” (II/x). Here Tolkien emphasizes Frodo’s choices. Twice Aragorn reminds Frodo of the reality and “burden” of choice: “You alone can choose,” he tells him, and “the choice would still wait on you.” Choice is Frodo’s “fate”—a statement that is itself an ironic twist. Yet Aragorn is also aware of his own choices, and of the “part” he himself has to “bear,” especially in Gandalf’s absence. Choice is the fate of all in Middle-earth; each “alone” can choose his or her own way. Though Frodo is already quite aware of his difficult choices, Tolkien puts this most intense statement of those choices into Aragorn’s mouth, probably because Aragorn is so conscious of his own burden of choice. Thus, when Aragorn answers Éomer, he is, as has been pointed out, making a statement about all members of his race, but he is also answering this question in a painful and personal way. He is particularly aware of his own destiny, the many difficult choices he has had to make and those he will soon have to make. Almost from the moment Gandalf falls and Aragorn takes over leadership of the Fellowship, he is plagued by the choice of where and how to lead them. “Would that Gandalf were here!” he says, on the Great River. “How my heart yearns for Minas Anor and the walls of my own city! But whither now shall I go?” (II/ix). Thus, as much as he would like to help Frodo, he seems relieved at Parth Galen that the final choice falls on the Ringbearer, and not himself.
Indeed, Tolkien shows us an Aragorn who is nearly overwhelmed at times by the choices facing him, and who is filled with great human doubt about his ability to make them. On several different occasions, we hear him lament the choices he has made. On the opening page of The Two Towers, as the Fellowship is falling apart, he cries: “Alas! An ill fate is on me this day, and all that I do goes amiss” (III/i). A short time later, capturing both his doubt about past decisions and his confusion about current ones, he continues:
Vain was Gandalf’s trust in me. What shall I do now? Boromir has laid it on me to go to Minas Tirith, and my heart desires it; but where are the Ring and the Bearer? How shall I find them and save the Quest from disaster? . . .
Are we to abandon him? Must we not seek him first? An evil choice is now before us! (III/i)
The whole war against Sauron is a war to preserve freedom in Middle-earth. Yet we can see why Aragorn might refer to his own free-doom as a doom in the sense of punishment. He has three choices, and all of them come with the possibility of great loss. It is, truly, an “evil choice.” Or, as Gimli comments, “maybe there is no right choice” (III/i).
Despite Gimli’s words, Aragorn does make a choice, though it comes after much painful deliberation. “I will follow the Orcs,” he says, and “my heart speaks clearly at last” (III/i). However hard that choice is, once it is made, Aragorn sticks to it with determination (and several exclamation points): “‘Come! We will go now. Leave all that can be spared behind! We will press on by day and dark! . . . With hope or without hope we will follow the trail of our enemies.’ . . . On and on he led them, tireless and swift, now that his mind was at last made up” (III/i, emphasis added). As with many other choices throughout the books, Tolkien brings emphasis and clarity to the actual moment of decision, showing us just how real the choice itself is and also how important the process of choosing is.
Even after Aragorn makes his choice to pursue Merry and Pippin, and guesses (albeit wrongly) that in making such a choice he may have removed himself from having any significant role in the remainder of the war—commenting that “ours is but a small matter in the great deeds of this time”—he is still very conscious of his choices. “A vain pursuit from its beginning, maybe, which no choice of mine can mar or mend,” he says, in deciding whether or not to risk taking a rest. “Well, I have chosen” (III/ii).
There are many heroes in The Lord of the Rings, but among the race of men Aragorn represents the greatest. It is thus fitting that the burden of choice is shown to be greatest for him also. But freedom and wisdom do not imply moral infallibility for any created being in Middle-earth—not for the great or the small, neither for Aragorn nor for Sam, not even for wizards.
The Prophecies
Even Gandalf, at times, seems torn by the choices he must make, particularly—as was the case with Aragorn—when he must make those choices without perfect knowledge. He shares this uncertainty at the Council of Elrond: “Whence came the Hobbit’s ring? What, if my fear was true, should be done with it? Those things I must decide” (II/ii). As wise as he is, Gandalf does make mistakes in his choices. One such error of judgment is his early inaction with regard to the Ring. “I was at fault,” he confesses to the council. “I should have sought for the truth sooner” (II/ii). Another error is his decision, after hearing news from Radagast about the Nine being abroad, to go straight to Saruman rather than returning to the Shire. “Never did I make a greater mistake!” he confesses (II/ii). The choice of which route the Fellowship should use in order to cross the mountains also burdens Gandalf, and it is the subject of debate and disagreement between him and Aragorn. Neither feels certain of the route, and both see evil and great danger in all paths. It is interesting, therefore, to note that Aragorn himself later defends the choices of Gandalf, whom he thinks dead. “The counsel of Gandalf was not founded on foreknowledge of safety, for himself or for others,” says Aragorn. “There are some things that it is better to begin than to refuse, even though the end may be dark” (III/ii).
This comment brings us to a deeper subject, on which Tolkien himself was hesitant to tread. Gandalf’s plans were not founded on “foreknowledge of safety,” and yet they were founded on some sort of knowledge beyond what was plainly visible. There is a strong sense in The Lord of the Rings, and even in The Hobbit, that the wise of Middle-earth—especially Gandalf and Elrond—have a faith in a power higher than themselves, and that this faith aids them in making the choices they need to make, no matter how difficult. There is both a seen and an unseen reality in Tolkien’s Middle-earth. These might be called the material plane and the spiritual plane. The spiritual plane, though less visible, is no less real to Tolkien. We see this in comments such as those of Gandalf to Frodo: “There was something else at work, beyond any design of the Ring-maker. I can put it no plainer than by saying that Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, and not by its maker. In which case you also were meant to have it. And that may be an encouraging thought” (I/ii). The passive voice used twice for the verb meant—made even more important by Tolkien’s repeated emphasis of that word—implies an unmentioned and unseen subject of the verb. The subject is not the Ring’s maker, Sauron, but rather a greater power that is able to overrule Sauron’s will. The words of Elrond, spoken later to those gathered at the council, have similar implications: “That is the purpose for which you are called hither. Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world” (II/ii). Again, there is a clear indication of some higher power at work—higher than that of Elrond. Indeed, it is a power capable of calling men, dwarves, and elves from all over Middle-earth so that all arrive at Rivendell at just the right time. It is also a power with a purpose beyond chance, which has authority to give moral orders to the inhabitants of Middle-earth.
For Gandalf, the recognition of this higher power at work, above and beyond any design of Sauron, is an “encouraging thought.” It strengthens him to his task and to making difficult choices—choices that are not based on foreknowledge of his own safety and that appear to others as a fool’s hope. To those who see only in the physical plane, the choices of Gandalf, who also sees in the spiritual plane, may seem foolish. The same could be said about Elrond’s vision and his choices.
However, the fact that those present at the Council of Elrond were “called hither” by some higher power, though it should encourage them, does not in any way remove their responsibility and duty to “find counsel for the peril of the world.” In other words, the very thought of a power above our own free-doom enables rather than disables that free-doom. One cannot point to that higher power as an excuse to abdicate the responsibility of choosing.
Secondly, while it is clear that this higher power has a hand in shaping events—summoning, by dreams and other means, strangers from distant lands to come to Elrond’s council and guiding the footsteps of Sméagol and Bilbo so that the Ring would one day fall into Frodo’s hands—the presence, power, and plan of this guiding hand does not in any way remove the reality and significance of the free choices given to individuals in Middle-earth. As Gandalf says to Bilbo at the very end of The Hobbit, “Surely you don’t disbelieve the prophecies, because you had a hand in bringing them about yourself?” (Hobbit, 362). Gandalf simultaneously acknowledges the validity of prophecy and the reality of free will. As Tom Shippey points out with regard to prophecy in Middle-earth, Tolkien’s characters “have free will but no clear guidance, not from the palantír, or from the Mirror of Galadriel. As it happens, all the visions seen in the Mirror by Sam and Frodo seem to be true, though they are a mix of present, past, and future; but . . . they have no effect on anyone’s actions.”[41] In the age-old theological debate between predestination and free will, Tolkien seems to come down solidly on the side of . . . both.