The Return of the King Sacrifice

See, Halbarad knows what's up: the great thing about the Shire is the innocence and security of its people. But in order to maintain that innocence, they must be protected, which falls to the Rangers. Sure, the Shire has produced a few extraordinary hobbits—Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, and Bilbo—who have been able to shape the course of Middle-earth. But for the most part, they travel off to do so in order that their kinsmen can remain as sheltered back home as ever. In other words, they fight so that the Shire can stay the Shire. Halbarad, too, is glad to suffer for the Shire without their knowledge, since their knowing would spoil their sense of safety.

Even Gandalf, superwizard, can't be in two places at once (although at times we wonder why not). So every military decision that he makes will come at some cost. By not pursuing the Nazgûl here, and deciding instead to save Faramir, Gandalf may have indirectly doomed Théoden to death. That's one tough call we're glad we don't have to make.

Hmm. Shmoop senses some Christian undertones. Do you? For one thing, Gandalf makes reference to "the heathen kings," and "heathen" generally refers to people who do not follow a monotheistic faith system such as Christianity, Judaism, or Islam. While Tolkien doesn't get into God specifically in this passage, Gandalf is setting himself and the people of Gondor apart from the "heathen" and from "the Dark Power." That means the Good side is aligned with some sort of Light Power, like, perhaps, God. He also makes a point to emphasize that it's not up to Denethor, or any mere mortal for that matter, to decide when to end a life. This is a classic Christian argument against suicide: having been given life by the will of God, many Christians believe that it shows the sin of pride to take that life away. Frankly, it seems like Gandalf is trying to persuade Denethor that his current route of self-sacrifice is actually a sin, and not so sacrificing at all.

We don't want to imply that Tolkien had this in mind when he wrote The Lord of the Rings (in fact, he couldn't have, if you think about when he started the books), but doesn't the Black Shadow remind you a bit of the radiation left over from nuclear weapons: even though a person can't see it, and even though a person may look uninjured, it can still kill a person long after a nuclear bomb exploded. The presence of the Black Shadow means that fighting the Nazgûl demands a sacrifice: even if you don't get injured and survive the fight with your life, you may still die afterwards from this cold, wasting sickness. Even if it means life and health, though, we don't think that either Faramir or Éowyn could have chosen not to fight the Ringwraiths. They are heroes, and that's how heroes roll.

Legolas's sudden sea-longing foreshadows the exceptionally bittersweet ending of The Lord of the Rings. See, that's the problem: in order to be without the massive dangers of Sauron, we also have to be without the equally massive awesomeness of the elves and wizards. Their goodness seems only to provoke the development of equal, opposite evil. So all the awesome folks like Legolas and Gandalf have to sail into the West so that Middle-earth can be safer.

One of the huge drawbacks of being an elf is that you remember everything. And since Tolkien generally seems to contend that things are always better in the past, the elves are always, well, glum. They remember how things were, which always makes how things are seem like a plain old disaster. When Legolas recalls what these green fields of Lebennin once looked like, how can he not be totally bummed that they're now hideous—thanks to war. For more on Tolkien's nostalgia for the past, check out our section on "Setting" in the The Fellowship of the Ring learning guide.

This is the moment when Aragorn pities the young men in his troop who take one look at Mordor and want to run for the hills. His offering them an alternative duty reminds us of an earlier scene in the series. Before the Nine Companions set out from Rivendell, Elrond reminds them that they cannot know their road ahead of time, so if any of them need to leave the Company (except for Frodo, who has to keep going), they should. Elrond offers, "let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall" (The Fellowship of the Ring Book 2, Chapter 3). Maybe Aragorn has learned from Elrond's example, and that's why he has mercy on his frightened soldiers, letting them go willingly rather than breaking their hearts by forcing them to continue. There is an advantage to this strategy, of course: by being generous enough to let unwilling soldiers go when Aragorn really, really needs all of the men he can get, he is also ensuring that the remaining force actually wants to be there and is capable of fighting. It's a sacrifice, sure, but it's one that might reap some benefits later.

As though we needed any more proof of Sam's devotion, here he is, sacrificing as much of his water as he can to keep Frodo going in these desperate times. But you know what we find interesting? You may have noticed: we're getting a lot of stuff from Sam's perspective these days. Starting in Book 4 and continuing in Book 6, Frodo and Sam's adventures in Mordor are told nearly exclusively from Sam's point of view. It's his emotions, his despair, and his sacrifices that have become the focus of Book 6. To be fair, at this point, all Frodo can think about is the Ring, like a flaming brand on his brain, which means that Frodo probably wouldn't be the most awesome of narrators right now: "Ring. Hurts. Ring. Burns." So in order to get a more complete picture of what's actually happening to the two of them, we have to rely on the perspective of the not-possessed member of this partnership. What's more, Sam's sympathetic outside observations of the pain and struggle of Frodo's journey reminds us, step-by-step, of the sacrifices Frodo has made to destroy the Ring.

In a letter dated September 1963, Tolkien comments on Frodo's final moments on Mount Doom: "he was restored to sanity and peace. But then he thought that he had given his life in sacrifice: he expected to die very soon" (source, pg. 327). Frodo expects that his quest to destroy the Ring will kill him, that, without the Ring, he must now die. That is the price he is willing to pay for the end of this awful duty that has been thrust upon him. But Sam hasn't been called upon to make that same sacrifice, and as Sam says in this scene, it's not his nature "to want to give up." Frodo may believe in the necessity of his sacrifice, but Sam, who remains more practical and less (to use Tolkien's word) "sanctified" (source, pg. 237) than Frodo, insists on saving not only his own life, but also Frodo's. Still, in a sense, Frodo is so set on the idea of dying for the quest that Sam's decision to bring Frodo out of the Sammath Naur only delays his ultimate sacrifice for a time. Is Frodo's deathly despair any different from Denethor's? How does his decision to follow Sam in this crucial moment differentiate Frodo from Denethor?

Ah, here we are at last. Frankly, we think the worst thing about the end of Return of the King is that Tolkien introduces us to this whole world and then insists on taking away huge chunks of it. Rivendell? Gone. Lothlórien? Gone. Gandalf, Elrond, Galadriel? All gone. Well, okay, maybe they're not actually gone, but they are in the West, in a place that "no man can discover" (6.4.70). But let's face it: one of the major themes of this series is that all things must end, even lovely things. What does Middle-earth get in exchange for the loss of the elves? By what logic must the elves and Gandalf leave Middle-earth at the end of Return of the King? How would the moral of the story change if Lothlórien and Rivendell endured, along with the reborn Shire and Gondor?