The return of a rightful king to the long-empty throne of Gondor is at the heart of this third and final volume of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings – as is, of course, the conclusion of the quest to destroy the One Ring of Power, the utterly evil superweapon with which the Dark Lord Sauron had hoped to plunge all of the world of Middle-Earth into everlasting moral darkness.
In the preceding volumes of The Lord of the Rings – Part One, The Fellowship of the Ring, and Part Two, The Two Towers – Tolkien had created a vivid set of characters and sent them forth on an enthralling group of adventures. In Part Three, The Return of the King, Tolkien brings this transcendent work of fantasy literature to a truly epic conclusion.
Like The Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers, The Return of the King is divided into two Books. Book V chronicles how the riders of the horse-kingdom of Rohan go to the rescue of the besieged realm of Gondor – a campaign that culminates in the epic Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Book VI tells the story of how Frodo Baggins, the hobbit who carries the One Ring of Power, journeys with his friend Samwise Gamgee into the heart of the evil land of Mordor, so that the ring may be destroyed by being cast into the fires of Mount Doom.
As Part V begins, three members of the Fellowship – the man Aragorn, heir to the throne of Gondor; the elf prince Legolas; and the dwarf warrior Gimli – ride with the warrior horsemen of Rohan to the relief of Minas Tirith, the capital of Gondor, besieged as it is by Sauron’s orc forces. Two other members of the Fellowship – the wizard Gandalf and the hobbit Peregrin (“Pippin”) Took – join with the outnumbered Gondorian forces defending the city from within. The hobbit Meriadoc (“Merry”) Brandybuck, another member of the Fellowship, has been told that he is too small to go to war; but he is taken there nonetheless by “A young man…less in height and girth than most” (p. 91). This “young man” is actually a young woman – the courageous shield-maiden Éowyn, who will play a decisive role in the coming battle.
Tolkien, a devout Catholic, wrote The Lord of the Rings as a moral drama of the eternal conflict between good and evil; and one of the abiding themes of The Return of the King is that of people learning to follow what is good and avoid what is evil. This idea applies strongly, in this volume of LOTR, to Rohan’s king Théoden. In an earlier time, Théoden had been prey to the malign influence of his wicked counselor Grima Wormtongue, a spy for the renegade wizard Saruman. Now, however, Théoden has shaken off that evil influence; and as he leads his Rohirrim warriors to battle the orcs of Sauron before the walls of Minas Tirith, his restored power is described in language that combines Biblical cadences with images from the Eddas of Norse mythology:
Théoden could not be overtaken. Fey he seemed, or the battle-fury of his fathers ran like new fire in his veins, and he was borne up on Snowmane like a god of old, even as Oromë the Great in the battle of the Valar when the world was young. His golden shield was uncovered, and lo! it shone like an image of the Sun, and the grass flamed into green about the white feet of his steed. For morning came, morning and a wind from the sea; and darkness was removed, and the hosts of Mordor wailed, and terror took them, and they fled, and died, and the hoofs of wrath rode over them. (p. 138)
Théoden’s boldness and resolution contrast with the inactivity and despair of Denethor, Gondor’s steward or caretaker of the throne. Confronted with this existential threat to the people of the kingdom he holds in trust, Denethor takes no action and offers no hope: “Why do the fools fly?...Better to burn sooner than late, for burn we must” (p. 120).
The reason for Denethor’s twisted state of mind is made clear when, in a tense conversation with Gandalf, the Gondorian steward “drew aside [a] covering, and lo! he had between his hands a palantír” (p. 157) – one of the lost Seeing Stones with which one can seek out hidden knowledge. One of the appendices to The Return of the King explains further the significance of this choice that Denethor made, and of its fateful consequences:
[N]eeding knowledge, but being proud, and trusting in his own strength of will, [Denethor] dared to look in the palantír of the White Tower. None of the Stewards had dared to do this….In this way Denethor gained his great knowledge of things that passed in his realm, and far beyond his borders, at which men marvelled; but he bought the knowledge dearly, being aged before his time by his contest with the will of Sauron. Thus pride increased in Denethor together with despair. (pp. 418-19)
The palantír or Seeing Stones (some of which are in the hands of Sauron) embody the idea of forbidden knowledge – an important consideration for Tolkien, who believed that pride was the greatest of sins, the sin of Lucifer. Like Saruman, who studied demonology so assiduously that he eventually became demonic himself, Denethor has been corrupted by pridefully seeking power he was not meant to have.
After the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, the allied Gondorian and Rohirrim forces, albeit once again outnumbered, eventually gather for a second great battle, at the very gates of Mordor; and at a high point of conflict in that battle – “The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming!” (p. 208) – the reader is suddenly plunged back into Frodo and Sam’s lonely quest into the heart of Mordor.
Tolkien’s talent for descriptive language comes forth in passages like this one, in which Sam gets his first look at Mount Doom:
Hard and cruel and bitter was the land that met [Sam’s] gaze. Before his feet the highest ridge of the Ephel Dúath fell steeply in great cliffs down into a dark trough, on the further side of which there rose another ridge, much lower, its edge notched and jagged with crags like fangs that stood out black against the red light behind them: it was the grim Morgai, the inner ring of the fences of the land. Far beyond it, but almost straight ahead, across a wide lake of darkness dotted with tiny fires, there was a great burning glow; and from it rose in huge columns a swirling smoke, dusky red at the roots, black above where it merged into the billowing canopy that roofed in all the accursed land. Sam was looking at Orodruin, the Mountain of Fire. (p. 214)
The passages emphasizing Frodo’s suffering as he carries the ever-heavier Ring toward Mount Doom make for difficult reading; I recall reading these passages of The Lord of the Rings as a college freshman in Tidewater Virginia and thinking, “This is definitely not The Hobbit.” And in a chapter titled simply “Mount Doom,” Frodo and Sam’s portion of the quest finally reaches a dramatic resolution – one in which Gollum, the creature corrupted by the Ring and consumed by his need to get it back, plays a critical role, as Gandalf had foreseen in The Fellowship of the Ring.
As this book is titled The Return of the King, it should be no surprise that an important part of the book centers around the renewal of Gondor under Aragorn, the country’s rightful king:
In his time the City was made more fair than it had ever been, even in the days of its first glory; and it was filled with trees and with fountains, and its gates were wrought of mithril and steel, and its streets were paved with white marble; and the Folk of the Mountain laboured in it, and the Folk of the Wood rejoiced to come there; and all was healed and made good, and the houses were filled with men and women and the laughter of children, and no window was blind nor any courtyard empty; and after the ending of the Third Age of the world into the new age it preserved the memory and the glory of the years that were gone. (p. 304)
And the members of the Fellowship must eventually part, in scenes that are often quite moving – as when one character, grievously wounded by the hardships of the quest, announces to a friend that he must leave Middle-Earth:
“I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so…when things are in danger: someone has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them….[Y]ou will read things out of the Red Book, and keep alive the memory of the age that is gone, so that people will remember the Great Danger and so love their beloved land all the more.” (p. 382)
Even though Tolkien made a point of denying that the work was meant to have any World War II parallels, no doubt quite a few 1950’s readers of The Lord of the Rings, in countries like Great Britain and France and the United States of America, read passages like this one with a mental look back to the Second World War – and, perhaps, with a physical look across the room, to many a vacant chair in many a household around the world.
And thus The Lord of the Rings ends – a long and magnificent journey. So, then: now that you’ve read The Lord of the Rings – all 1,359 pages of it – are you getting that feeling of letdown that sometimes accompanies finishing a long book that is also a great book? Well, do not despair – for there are 133 pages of appendices to take you even further into the world of Middle-Earth.
The appendices include “Annals of the Kings and Rulers,” “The Tale of Years” (a chronology of the Westlands), “Family Trees,” a “Shire Calendar,” information on “Writing and Spelling” in the various Middle-Earth languages, and an appendix on “The Languages and Peoples of the Third Age.” One learns more about the love between Aragorn and the Elven princess Arwen – an area of greater emphasis in the Peter Jackson films than in the original books. There are even indexes to the poems and songs that form such a vital part of this fictive world; to various “Persons, Beasts, and Monsters” that play varying roles in the trilogy; and to places that are described or mentioned in the course of the narrative.
All of this detail gives The Lord of the Rings the feeling of being its own place, with its own reality – a place lived rather than imagined. It is for this reason, no doubt, that if you attend an event like the annual Comic-Con in San Diego, you may well meet LOTR fans who not only are dressed like elves but also speak the Elven language perfectly – the same way you may meet Star Trek fans who dress in Klingon garb and speak fluent Klingon. While learning an imaginary language, in the spirit of fandom, is not my path – I’ll stick with my studies of German and Hungarian, thank you – I respect the dedication of those who do follow that path, as I respect the sheer imaginative power of authors who can create a world so complete that readers or viewers of their works want so strongly to become a part of that world.
And one part of Appendix F, “On Translation,” spoke to me with particular strength about some of the things that may have been on Tolkien’s mind as he wrote The Lord of the Rings. After discussing at some length the beautiful and flowing languages of the Elves, Tolkien speaks of the “degraded and filthy” language of the Orcs and Trolls, and then adds that “Much the same sort of talk can still be heard among the orc-minded; dreary and repetitive with hatred and contempt, too long removed from good to retain even verbal vigour, save in the ears of those to whom only the squalid sounds strong” (p. 514).
Tolkien is right. Heaven knows that there are plenty of the orc-minded amongst us today.
Reading this particular passage, I felt very strongly that John Ronald Reuel Tolkien was speaking from his own experience. I thought about his time as a second lieutenant in the Lancashire Fusiliers during the First World War. What was it like for a contemplative, bookish individual like Tolkien to be placed amidst the aggressive, action-oriented world of soldiering? Did he hear things like, “Oi, what’s the bloody Professor going to do – hit Jerry with one of his books?” It would not surprise me.
And these reflections make me think of the Lord of the Rings character that most reminds me of Tolkien himself – Faramir of Gondor. Younger son of the Steward Denethor, and younger brother to Boromir who was a member of the original Fellowship of the Ring, Faramir, with his gentle and kind disposition, is often overlooked by Gondorians who are drawn to the charisma of his combative older brother; he is perpetually out of favour with his father, until it is almost too late. But Faramir (unlike his brother Boromir) never loses his moral compass; he fights with quiet courage – as Tolkien himself is known to have done – and he meets and marries the love of his life, as Tolkien did.
Faramir’s kind of heroism – like the heroism of Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Arwen, Théoden, Éowyn, and all those who fought, in the War of the Ring, for the preservation of the freedom of the West – is something that we can all celebrate, and can try to emulate in our own lives, as we face the problems of the present day. And that kind of heroism is something that we can all re-dedicate ourselves to emulating, each time we turn that first page and start re-reading The Lord of the Rings. And that, as Gandalf says, is an encouraging thought.