The Sweet and the Bitter

Death and Dying in J. R. R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings

Amy Amendt-Raduege

• Publisher: The Kent State University Press
• Year: 2018
• ISBN:
  9781631012860
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literary Criticism in Science Fiction
• Index: Literature

In 1956, J. R. R. Tolkien famously stated that the real theme of The Lord of the Rings was "Death and Immortality." The deaths that underscore so much of the subject matter of Tolkien's masterpiece have a great deal to teach us. From the heroic to the humble, Tolkien draws on medieval concepts of death and dying to explore the glory and sorrow of human mortality. Three great themes of death link medieval Northern European culture, The Lord of the Rings, and contemporary culture: the way in which we die, the need to remember the dead, and above all the lingering apprehension of what happens after death. Like our medieval ancestors, we still talk about what it means to die as a hero, a traitor, or a coward; we still make decisions about ways to honor and remember the departed; and we continue to seek to appease and contain the dead. These themes suggest a latent resonance between medieval and modern cultures and raise an issue not generally discussed in contemporary Western society: our deeply rooted belief that how one dies in some way matters.

While Tolkien, as a medieval scholar, naturally draws much of his inspiration from the literature, folklore, and legends of the Middle Ages, the popularity of his work affirms that modern audiences continue to find these tropes relevant and useful. From ideas of "good" and "bad" deaths to proper commemoration and disposal of the dead, and even to ghost stories, real people find comfort in the ideas about death and dying that Tolkien explores.

"The Sweet and the Bitter": Death and Dying in J. R. R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings examines the ways in which Tolkien's masterwork makes visible the connections between medieval and modern conceptions of dying and analyzes how contemporary readers use The Lord of the Rings as a tool for dealing with death.

CHAPTER 1

The Wages of Heroism

The Lord of the Rings is a book filled with death. More than fifty named characters die within its pages, nine of them major characters. In addition, there are songs and ballads that commemorate events long past, ruins and monuments that link the living to the dead, tales of ghosts and restless dead that haunt borderlands, and thousands of nameless individuals who fall during the long struggle against Sauron. None of these people ever existed, of course, and yet we cannot help but believe their deaths somehow matter—not because they themselves lived but because we recognize in their experiences something of our own. For the characters and the readers of The Lord of the Rings, death goes far beyond the inevitable sense of loss that accompanies it; it is a real and continual possibility lying at the end of all their actions. In the book as in the Primary World, death is the inevitable outcome that each individual must face, the fear that must be overcome. Its presence, spoken and unspoken, fills almost every page. Tolkien certainly didn’t intend it that way, and yet when he re-read the book he realized that “the real theme” of The Lord of the Rings was “Death and Immortality.”¹ Much has been written about Tolkien’s philosophy of immortality and the Gift of Death. Much more remains to be said about the way those nine major characters die, and still more about the consequences of those deaths for those who remain behind. The ways the peoples of Middle-earth face death and respond to the dying reveal a great deal about their morality, their worldviews, and their values—much as they do in our own.

Though Plato was perhaps the first to acknowledge that the very act of living is but preparing for death, and the Bible reminds us seven times that Heaven and earth will pass away, these observations seem far too general to be of much help when facing one’s own mortality.² In the Middle Ages, however, people responded to the uncertainties of life by writing conduct books for everything from “hunting and hawking … [to] table manners for children,”—which extended right into guidebooks for dying a proper death.³ These books, the ars moriendi, or “art of dying,” first appeared around the middle of the fifteenth century and remained international bestsellers until the beginning of the eighteenth.⁴ Caxton’s abbreviated version, somewhat lavishly titled “Here begynneth a lytill treatise shorte and abreged spekynge of the arte and craft to knowe well to dye” (1490), apparently translated by Caxton, was among the first books to come off the English printing press. At least five more English variations of the ars moriendi were published within the next fifteen years.

Although the traditional ars moriendi no longer exist as such, literature occupies a unique place in our understanding of death. For one thing, all texts belong to our collective experience; once published, a book is theoretically available to everyone. And for another, it can provide us with examples we are unlikely to face in any individual life but that can enhance our experience of life and death in significant ways. It is worth noting that when discussing attitudes toward death, historians, sociologists, anthropologists, physicians, and even archaeologists turn to literary sources to discover what people of a given time were thinking and feeling about death. Wills and testaments can reflect burial practices and funerary rites; chronicles give us dates, places and names; monuments mark changing attitudes toward the fate of the soul and body. But literature puts words in the mouths of the dying and gives them the chance to speak. The experience of others, even fictional others, teaches us about the myriad ways of facing death, whether with dignity and courage or fear and despair, and in so doing provides us with blueprints for the ways we might face our own deaths when the time inevitably comes. The Lord of the Rings is an important text because it provides its readers multiple models for their own moments of passing.

Today, the dying are usually relegated to hospitals or nursing homes, removed from society, although recent trends toward hospice care have started to influence popular perceptions.⁵ A recent article in the Atlantic pointed out that Americans in particular have problems facing the inevitability of death, although the phenomenon is by no means limited to the United States.⁶ Death takes place offstage, as it were, and so the manner of dying becomes less influential—at least, on the surface. But the traditions of ages are not so easily set aside. Only in modern times has death been separated from everyday experience, and even so the idea that a person’s deeds in life have a consequence in death has not disappeared. Even today, when a good person dies, people console themselves by saying, “She’s surely resting in the arms of God.” In the case of less desirable individuals, however, the phrase becomes “He’ll get what’s coming to him.” In the first case, death is seen as a reward; in the second, it becomes the hope for retribution. Without even being aware of it, we rehearse medieval conceptions of “good” and “bad” deaths: “The moral significance of one’s life was thought to be complemented by the specific kind of death one met: whether it was peaceful and expected, or sudden and violent. Thus the precise manner of one’s death, as much as the moral quality of one’s life, had bearing upon one’s fate in the afterlife.”⁷ In a variety of cultures and historical periods, one’s behavior in life determined one’s fate in death. In the Middle Ages, perceptions of “good” and “bad” death were heavily influenced by societal ideals of the heroic death as well as the traditions of the ars moriendi. Thus, the ideals of the ars moriendi and the literary portrayals of the heroic death not only provided guidelines for the way to die, they promoted the way to live. Furthermore, they reinforce important cultural norms of “right” and “wrong”: the prospect of a punishment that endures even into the afterlife provides, in theory at least, a good reason for behaving well in this one.

In principle, the details of the ars moriendi were comparatively simple. First, the dying individual, often given the generic name Moriens, is advised to prepare constantly for death, since no one knows when or how it will come about. Second, he or she is warned about the five temptations—failure of faith, desperation (despair), impatience, vainglory, and unwillingness to let go of worldly things—and asked to refute them. Third are the interrogations, a series of questions designed to reinforce and affirm the values of the Church. Fourth is the imitatio Christi, where Moriens is encouraged to focus on Christ’s actions on the cross as a guide. At this point, the attention switches largely to those surrounding the dying; they are first given a series of prayers to say for the benefit of the departed and then given an outline for the proper care and preparation of the body. Because clergy wrote the various tracts of the ars moriendi, the vast majority of the text is concerned with the religious aspects of dying, filled with prayers, orisons, and saintly quotations. But nestled among all the ritualized clerical trappings of death are glimpses of everyday human concerns—the need to dispose of worldly possessions, for instance, or the deep reluctance of the dying soul to part with the people he or she has loved on earth. The books outlining how to go about dying properly were wildly popular, best sellers in their day.⁸

The guidelines governing the proper way to face death, then, extended past the moment of death and into the realm of everyday life. So deeply are these ideas embedded in our social psyche that they often remain “unpacked and literally abstract in our presentations of them”—but they remain nonetheless.⁹ From Beowulf to Star Trek, Western society has internalized what it means to die a good death, and most people intuitively know what a good heroic death should look like.

These, then, are the conventions surrounding literary heroic deaths. In poems such as Beowulf and The Battle of Maldon, the precise traits of a heroic death are clearly outlined. First, the hero delivers a heroic speech, wherein he—and it is usually a “he,” though there are exceptions—acknowledges the likeliness of his eventual death in the looming battle, but pronounces that he must go anyway, because it is his duty or because it will ensure that his deeds will be remembered, or sometimes both. Traditionally, a heroic death presupposes death in battle; moreover, it is usually a battle that seems unwinnable, against an otherworldly monster or almost insurmountable odds. Once the battle begins, the hero can neither retreat nor surrender, however wounded he may be: to do so would bring down death and destruction on his own head and ensure a dreadful fate for those under his protection. Sometimes, he may withdraw for a short time, to rest and recover slightly from his wounds, but always he must return to the battle. He cannot relent until his enemy is slain. But the hero has been mortally wounded in the process, and frequently his weapon is destroyed or ineffective. His companions rush forward to aid him, but it is too late. The hero can do no more. And so, even as his enemy is destroyed, he brings about his own death. Before he dies, though, he expresses some hope that he will pass into the next world, shares his last wishes, and expresses his affection for those he leaves behind. And so he dies on the field of battle among the detritus of his victory and the grief of his friends. It is a good death.

Of all the deaths presented in The Lord of the Rings, that of Théoden King most overtly follows this pattern. When he rides to the Battle of Pelennor Fields, he knows it will likely be his last. Indeed, he hardly expected to survive the previous one. He has already endured great hardship: he has outlived his only son, defeated the forces of Isengard, and overcome the temptation to yield to the voice of Saruman. And now he proposes to ride to the aid of Gondor, where he will face an enemy no less indomitable than the Dark Lord himself—or at least the vast army the Dark Lord has gathered. He knows that if they fail, it really will be the war to end all wars: if Sauron wins, his people will endure nothing but misery and thralldom, as long as the world endures.

So Théoden King rides to war, one last time. Like his prototype, Beowulf, he recognizes that it is his right and duty to lead his people, to defend them with his last breath if need be. He does not actively seek death, but neither does he fear it. If he must die, better to do it among his warriors, where he can put his experience to use and protect his people as long as he can. When his nephew Éomer urges him to stay behind in the relative safety of Harrowdale, Théoden replies that doing so will accomplish nothing and that his death in battle would bring no grief. So it is really no surprise that when Hirgon arrives with the Red Arrow, representing Denethor’s urgent request that the Rohirrim come to Gondor, Théoden replies that he will lead his forces to the fight, though he does not really expect to return (RK, V, iii, 775).

That the Red Arrow is an object of profound significance seems obvious, both from the fact that Denethor has sent it with no other real message and from Théoden’s reaction to it. It is a tangible reminder of the ancient bond between Rohan and Gondor, an alliance that has stood for 508 years, where each promised to come to the aid of the other. When he sees it, Théoden knows for certain that the outlook is bleak indeed. He could refuse. The Rohirrim have just faced down an enemy of their own, leaving their army weakened and their people battered. But once Gandalf frees him from the manipulations of Gríma Wormtongue, Théoden has shown himself to be a good and wise king. It was his intention to ride to the aid of Gondor all along, but now he knows his aid is needed. “Old friendship and oaths long spoken” is motivation enough. “Even if Rohan itself felt no peril, still we would come,” he tells Hirgon (RK, V, iii, 782). It hardly matters if the “old friendship” Hirgon speaks of lies between Denethor and Théoden, or even if they knew each other at all. Nor is it important if the “oaths long spoken” refers to the original bonds between Cirion and Eorl or renewed oaths spoken at the ascension of each new steward and king: Théoden’s people have made a promise, and they will keep it.

Thus, Théoden’s motives are honorable and above reproach, even for cynical modern readers. Modern audiences tend to be suspicious of someone who does a good deed with the aim of winning praise or fame (lof), although these ends were exactly what motivated an Anglo-Saxon warrior in the first place. Keeping a promise, however, still matters to most people. In this way, Tolkien smooths over the rough edges Anglo-Saxon and Gothic motivations that inspired the character, even as he allows those same motivations to remain out in the open.¹⁰ Four times, the word “glory,” a common translation of lof, is used in association with the death of Théoden King: three times during the Battle of Pelennor Fields and once during his funeral song. “Doom,” the modern equivalent of dom, also appears in that song, although there it carries its modern meaning of “fate, destiny” instead of its Anglo-Saxon connotation of “judgement” or “fame.” For an Anglo-Saxon warrior, the praise of one’s contemporaries was the only way of ensuring immortality. The last word in Beowulf, the most famous of the Anglo-Saxon poems, is lofgeornost, “most eager for fame,” which suggests that Beowulf was not motivated by greed or power, but the “reputation and renown” that alone could ensure that his name would live on after his death.¹¹ The speaker in the poem we call The Seafarer states quite bluntly:

Forþon bið eorla gehwam æftercweþendra

lof lifgendra lastworda betst

Seafarer, ll. 72–73

[Therefore for all men the praise of those who speak of him afterward, the [ones still] living, is the best memorial]

This kind of glory—the hope that his deeds will be remembered—is the best Théoden hopes for for himself. He has not given up hope entirely. Though he recognizes that he rides to the greatest battle of his age, “in which many things shall pass away,” many things is not all things (RK, V, iii, 786). It is an important difference, as the example of Denethor will demonstrate (see chapter 2). Hoping that one’s deeds will be remarkable enough to tip the scale in a battle that cannot honorably be avoided is not the same as seeking out fame for fame’s sake. Théoden knows even before leaving Rohan that he and his Riders will be badly outnumbered, although just how badly will not become clear until they reach Pelennor Fields. Even after receiving the Red Arrow, he continues to make provision for the future of his people, protecting them as best he can regardless of his own fate. He does not take Éomer’s advice to remain behind in Edoras but leads his troops into battle. As Janet Brennan Croft notes, “the heart of the morality of leadership, for Tolkien, was the willingness of a leader to take the same risks as those he leads,” and Théoden certainly meets and even surpasses that expectation.¹² Not only does he join the fighting outside Minas Tirith, he puts himself in the center, where the fighting will be heaviest. Refusing to be daunted by the sheer weight of numbers or the horrible smell of death, he calls his men to battle in a clear voice and springs into action, riding faster even than the knights of his own éored (RK, V, v, 819). It is a stirring moment, as the King of Rohan leads his men, his golden shield flashing, his white horse shining, the fresh wind carrying promise of victory at the turning of the tide. Though an old man, he leads the charge against the chief of the Haradrim and singlehandedly brings down both standard and bearer: a clear token of victory. In many tales, such a moment would be the king’s finest hour, and he would ride triumphantly homeward.

But not here. Théoden is pitted against a foe greater than he knows. From across the field, the Nazgûl senses the change in the weather and comes to confront the old man, scattering the King’s éored or causing the horses to cast their riders from their saddles from sheer terror. The isolation of the hero, too, “has a long history in heroic literature, not least in the heroic legends of Scandinavia.”¹³ Théoden alone remains in the saddle, undaunted even by the Lord of the Nazgûl. Then a dart pierces Snowmane’s side, causing the horse to fall and crush his rider beneath him. It is not Théoden’s fate to destroy the Nazgûl, but there is no need: he has already done all a hero needs to do. His courage and military prowess bring Éowyn to the precise place she needs to be in order to face the Lord of the Nazgûl; her love for the old man (and, in turn, Merry’s love for her) gives her the courage to bring the Witchking down.

True to ancient tradition, Tolkien gives the King of the Mark a last chance to speak, and when he does, his words are filled with grace and acceptance. He at once forgives Merry for disobeying his orders, recognizing the hobbit’s courage instead of chastising his insubordination. Instead of lamenting his death, the King focuses on what good he has accomplished: “I go to my fathers. And even in their mighty company I shall not now be ashame...