In The Two Towers, characters frequently compare their own experiences to stories of heroic deeds and wonder whether their actions will be recorded or bring them fame. To encourage Legolas and Gimli, Aragorn predicts that their hunt for the orcs will be “accounted a marvel” among the stories of Middle-earth. Merry, while praising Pippin’s resourcefulness in freeing them from capture, tells him that he’ll get a chapter in Bilbo’s book. Frodo, watching an army march towards Osgiliath, fears suddenly that his quest is too late, and that “no one will ever know” what he accomplished. Sam wonders if the tale of Frodo and the Ring will ever be told as a bedtime story for children. Yet Aragorn and the hobbits are motivated to do what is right—and often difficult—regardless of whether anyone will know about it, and even when they are certain that no one will. While there is an allure to the sort of glory that accompanies being put into a story, and while it can be comforting to think that one’s deeds might be remembered, The Two Towers continually asserts that true heroism involves a devotion to honor rather than glory, and to internal values rather than external reward.
Rather than urging Legolas and Gimli to seek fame for an empty reason, Aragorn prioritizes saving their friends above all else. They are undertaking a chase that no one besides themselves will see—what they need is speed, not glory. Surpassing legendary heroes’ bravery and skill in hunting down the orcs is a feat that’s worthy of glory—but glory isn’t their motivator, and it’s only a byproduct of their efforts. Similarly, though Merry and Pippin aren’t opposed to the idea of glory and earning a place in Bilbo’s book, fame isn’t what motivates them to act heroically. While escaping from the orcs, they are motivated solely by necessity and their desire to live. Pippin acts to save their lives without any thought of fame or praise, and it is only once they’re safely away from the battle that Merry is able to look back and glorify him.
Similar to Aragorn, Merry, and Pippin, Frodo undertakes the quest to destroy the Ring because of a need rather than a desire for fame or glory, but, as he travels into Mordor, the idea of being remembered becomes increasingly important to him. As Frodo watches the army march from Minas Morgul, he fears that Middle-earth will be destroyed by Sauron’s forces before he can complete his quest. In that case, everything he suffered will be for nothing. Even if he does succeed in destroying the Ring, no one will ever know, because there will be “no one [he] can tell.” In the moment, it’s desperately important to Frodo that his story be heard and his pain acknowledged. It is a selfish desire, born from his fear and despair, but one that’s perhaps natural given how alluring the promise of recognition can be. Still, when Frodo gathers the strength to stand, he feels certain that his quest is inherently worth finishing. He decides that he must destroy the Ring if he is able, “and that whether Faramir or Aragorn or Elrond or Galadriel or Gandalf or anyone else ever knew” about what he did is beside the point. Even though he believes that he’s likely to die attempting to destroy the Ring, and that no one will know what happened to him, he has to do it because it’s the right thing to do.
Sam, though aware of the allure of fame, is driven to heroism by his love for Frodo rather than selfish aggrandizement. In wondering whether Frodo will ever be in a fireside story, Sam doesn’t seek glory, but rather comforts himself and dreams of some validation that their efforts mattered. Frodo’s presence in stories, in some future day, inherently means that there will be a Middle-earth that still has bedtime stories and little hobbits who want to hear them. Sam’s faraway hope is for Frodo to have the recognition he deserves and to “live to tell” his story—he doesn’t want fame for himself and doesn’t believe “Samwise the Stouthearted” has any place in the tale at all. Sam is driven exclusively by his selfless devotion to Frodo. It motivates him to both the mundane heroism of caring for Frodo and the incredible courage required to defend Frodo from Shelob.
When Sam and Frodo discuss stories, they suggest that people just wander into a story, as they did, and decide to accept the responsibility of being in one—no one, they think, would willingly endure what they’re currently enduring. This implies that seeking out dangerous opportunities for glory when there is no real need is foolish and self-destructive, not truly heroic. Heroism implies necessity—a hero does what they must because they have to. Glory and recognition might come from a heroic action, but if glory is the purpose of the act, it isn’t truly heroic.
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Heroism, Honor, and Glory Quotes in The Two Towers
Boromir opened his eyes and strove to speak. At last slow words came. ‘I tried to take the Ring from Frodo,’ he said. ‘I am sorry. I have paid.’ His glance strayed to his fallen enemies; twenty at least lay there. ‘They have gone: the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them.’ He paused and his eyes closed wearily. After a moment he spoke again.
‘Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed.’
‘Let me think!’ said Aragorn. ‘And now may I make a right choice, and change the evil fate of this unhappy day!’ He stood silent for a moment. ‘I will follow the Orcs,’ he said at last. ‘I would have guided Frodo into Mordor and gone with him to the end; but if I seek him now in the wilderness, I must abandon the captives to torment and death. My heart speaks clearly at last: the fate of the Bearer is in my hands no longer. The Company has played its part. Yet we that remain cannot forsake our companions while we have strength left. Come! We will go now. Leave all that can be spared behind! We will press on by day and dark!’
‘It is hard to be sure of anything among so many marvels. The world is all grown strange. Elf and dwarf in company walk in our daily fields; and folk speak with the Lady of the Wood and yet live; and the Sword comes back to war that was broken in the long ages ere the fathers of our fathers rode into the Mark! How shall a man judge what to do in such times?’
‘As he has ever judged,’ said Aragorn. ‘Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear; nor are they one thing among Elves and Dwarves and another among Men. It is a man’s part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house.’
‘Now,’ thought Pippin, ‘if only it takes that ugly fellow a little while to get his troops under control, I’ve got a chance.’ A gleam of hope had come to him.
The cakes were broken, but good, still in their leaf-wrappings. The hobbits each ate two or three pieces. The taste brought back to them the memory of fair faces, and laughter, and wholesome food in quiet days now far away. For a while they ate thoughtfully, sitting in the dark, heedless of the cries and sounds of the battle nearby.
‘Of course, it is likely enough, my friends,’ he said slowly, ‘likely enough that we are going to our doom: the last march of the Ents. But if we stayed at home and did nothing, doom would find us anyway, sooner or later. […] Now at least the last march of the Ents may be worth a song. Aye,’ he sighed, ‘we may help the other peoples before we pass away.’
‘You have not said what you know or guess, Aragorn, my friend,’ he said quietly. ‘Poor Boromir! I could not see what happened to him. It was a sore trial for such a man: a warrior, and a lord of men. Galadriel told me that he was in peril. But he escaped in the end. I am glad. It was not in vain that the young hobbits came with us, if only for Boromir’s sake.’
‘I have spoken words of hope. But only of hope. Hope is not victory. War is upon us and all our friends, a war in which only the use of the Ring could give us surety of victory. It fills me with great sorrow and great fear: for much shall be destroyed and all may be lost. I am Gandalf, Gandalf the White, but Black is mightier still.’
He rose and gazed out eastward, shading his eyes, as if he saw things far away that none of them could see. Then he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said in a soft voice, ‘it has gone beyond our reach. Of that at least let us be glad. We can no longer be tempted to use the Ring. We must go down to face a peril near despair, yet that deadly peril is removed.’
‘The end will not be long,’ said the king. ‘But I will not end here, taken like an old badger in a trap. Snowmane and Hasufel and the horses of my guard are in the inner court. When dawn comes, I will bid them sound the Helm’s horn, and I will ride forth. Will you ride with me then, son of Arathorn? Maybe we shall cleave a road, or make such an end as will be worth a song—if any be left to sing of us hereafter.’
‘I will ride with you,’ said Aragorn.
‘Yes, when you also have the Keys of Barad-dûr itself, I suppose; and the crowns of seven kings, and the rods of the Five Wizards, and have purchased yourself a pair of boots many sizes larger than those you wear now. A modest plan. Hardly one in which my help is needed! I have other things to do. Do not be a fool. If you wish to treat with me, while you have a chance, go away, and come back when you are sober!’
‘No, no! Not that way!’ wailed Sméagol.
‘Yes! We wants it! We wants it!’
Each time that the second thought spoke, Gollum’s long hand crept out slowly, pawing towards Frodo, and then was drawn back with a jerk as Sméagol spoke again. Finally both arms, with long fingers flexed and twitching, clawed towards his neck.
‘It was an evil fate. But he had taken it on himself in his own sitting-room in the far-off spring of another year, so remote now that it was like a chapter in a story of the world’s youth, when the Trees of Silver and Gold were still in bloom. This was an evil choice. Which way should he choose? And if both led to terror and death, what good lay in choice?’
‘Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and I alone could save her, so, using the weapon of the Dark Lord for her good and my glory. No, I do not wish for such triumphs, Frodo son of Drogo. […] War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Númenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom.’
‘All is lost. Even if my errand is performed, no one will ever know. There will be no one I can tell. It will be in vain.’ Overcome with weakness he wept. And still the host of Morgul crossed the bridge.
Then, at a great distance, as if it came out of memories of the Shire, some sunlit early morning, when the day called and the doors were opening, he heard Sam’s voice speaking. ‘Wake up, Mr. Frodo! Wake up!’
[…]
Frodo raised his head, and then stood up. Despair had not left him, but the weakness had passed. He even smiled grimly, feeling now as clearly as a moment before he had felt the opposite, that what he had to do, he had to do, if he could, and that whether Faramir or Aragorn or Elrond or Galadriel or Gandalf or anyone else ever knew about it was beside the purpose.
‘Yes, that’s so,’ said Sam. ‘And we shouldn’t be here at all, if we’d known more about it before we started. 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 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.’
‘Why, Sam,’ he said, ‘to hear you somehow makes me as merry as if the story was already written. But you’ve left out one of the chief characters: Samwise the stouthearted. “I want to hear more about Sam, dad. Why didn’t they put in more of his talk, dad? That’s what I like, it makes me laugh. And Frodo wouldn’t have got far without Sam, would he, dad?”’
‘No, Mr. Frodo,’ said Sam, ‘you shouldn’t make fun. I was serious.’
‘So was I,’ said Frodo, ‘and so I am.’
Even as Sam himself crouched, looking at her, seeing his death in her eyes, a thought came to him, as if some remote voice had spoken, and he fumbled in his breast with his left hand, and found what he sought: cold and hard and solid it seemed to his touch in a phantom world of horror, the Phial of Galadriel.
[…]
As if his indomitable spirit had set its potency in motion, the glass blazed suddenly like a white torch in his hand.
‘What shall I do, what shall I do?’ he said. ‘Did I come all this way with him for nothing?’ And then he remembered his own voice speaking words that at the time he did not understand himself, at the beginning of their journey: I have something to do before the end. I must see it through, sir, if you understand.
He flung the Quest and all his decisions away, and fear and doubt with them. He knew now where his place was and had been: at his master’s side, though what he could do there was not clear. Back he ran down the steps, down the path towards Frodo.
[…]
‘I wonder if any song will ever mention it: How Samwise fell in the High Pass and made a wall of bodies round his master. No, no song. Of course not, for the Ring’ll be found, and there’ll be no more songs. I can’t help it. My place is by Mr. Frodo. They must understand that—Elrond and the Council, and the great Lords and Ladies with all their wisdom. Their plans have gone wrong. I can’t be their Ring-bearer. Not without Mr. Frodo.’
