Éowyn vs. the Nazgûl: Love as a Battle
Jul. 5th, 2013 12:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ljwrites-For attackfish's mother and the countless other parents, spouses, children, family, and friends who have the scars to show for love.
I mentioned before in a post about the nature of heroism that Éowyn's battle against the Witch-king of Angmar reads to me like a metaphor for taking care of a loved one in need. I decided to elaborate on that after talking to attackfish about her own mother's struggles in caring for her ailing daughter and son.
I discussed the central irony in Éowyn's story in the earlier essay: That she despised her role as caretaker for her uncle King Théoden and later the Rohirrim women and children, yet it was her love rather than her lust for glory that enabled her to overcome the Nazgûl-terror and made her a hero. I have argued that this development led her to revise her idea of what heroism means and led her to a self-acceptance and happiness.
Now I would like to delve deeper into Éowyn's showdown with the Witch-king to make the case that not only did Éowyn's choice to protect her uncle lead to her victory over the Witch-king, the entire battle scene, not to mention her reasons for riding into battle and the aftermath of her hurts, encapsulated her struggle as a caretaker and showed the heroism--and shadows--inherent in caring for a loved one in need.
A Question of Motivation: Ride of the Dry-Nurse
First, I would like to cast doubt on my own earlier argument that Éowyn followed the Riders out of a desire to get out of the role of "dry-nurse," as she put it, and win renown for herself. Or at least, I would like to argue it wasn't her only motivation. That may be her stated motive and she might have sincerely believed it, but I can't help but feel a bit skeptical.
Going with the Riders into battle just happened to mean that she could stay close to her uncle Théoden, the same uncle at whose side she had stood throughout the years his physical and mental health was failing. That kind of bond can be difficult to let go of, especially knowing her uncle is riding into almost certain death. What if disguising herself as Dernhelm was an extension of her years as Théoden's primary caretaker, a step she took because she couldn't bear to let him go into danger without her?
It may be a bit comical to think of Éowyn acting like a weeping mother following her child's school bus on the first day of school. I don't think it has to be ridiculous, though. Time spent taking care of a loved one creates a bond and, in difficult cases, a set of traumas all its own. It's very natural for a caretaker to imagine all sorts of horrible scenarios for his or her charge--what will they do without me? Will they be okay? It's ironic that the caretaker may in this way end up depending on the charge as much as the other way around.
Caretaking is also its own source of identity. It may be no picnic, especially if there's some adversity such as sickness or disability, but being a caretaker means you are in control of the situation and will Do Something About It for the one you love. That's why greater independence on the part of the person cared for can be hard for the caretaker. It's a cause for celebration, of course, but it's also a big change that means the caretaker has to do some soul-searching to find his or her bearings again.
A possible hint of this loss lies in Éowyn's "dry-nurse" line, where I thought I caught a hint of her ambiguity about the situation:
(The Return of the King Book V, Chapter 2: The Passing of the Grey Company; emphasis mine.)
We can read this statement as Éowyn saying she's been holding back because her uncle needed her and she wants her freedom now that he doesn't anymore. On the other hand it can also read, on a more emotional level, that she is seeking a different role because Théoden no longer needs her like he used to. Maybe her bitterness at her circumscribed role as a woman is compounded by the separation from her charge.
I am not saying by any means that Éowyn was being insincere about her desire for heroism on the battlefield. Nor am I trying to ascribe a "womanly" motivation to her because I find the desire for heroism an inadequate drive for a female character. Rather, I think Éowyn's personal ambition and cultural background became a frame for her to speak of her loss of identity. Also, just to clarify, I also don't think the desire and identity of being a caretaker are exclusive to women at all. The major experiences I've had with the caretaking dynamic has been with my dad as my caretaker, and I see the experience of nurturing as a human one at heart, not a gendered one, though there are heavy expectations for women on this front.
Now that we've thought a little bit about what got Éowyn to the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, let's move on to the battle proper and what happened there. Having made the case that at least part of her motivation for riding into battle had to do with her identity and sense of loss as a caretaker, I will next argue that the course of her battle with the Witch-king was a reflection of both the sacrifice and the triumph of someone who takes on the task of caring for another.
Battle with the Witch-King: A Moral Choice
As you know from the book, when the Witch-king descended on the Pelennor Fields scattering the Rohirrim, Éowyn was the only one who initially stood by Théoden's side instead of being terrified or borne away. I have argued in the the previous essay that it was her love for her uncle rather than her stated reason to make a name for herself that gave her the courage to stand up to fear itself.
I don't call the Lord of the Nazgûl, or the effect he has, "fear itself" just to be cute. In many ways, that seems exactly what he is to her. From the first the Witch-king shows a curious disinterest in Éowyn as a target. He's mainly interested in getting her out of his way so he can reach his true target, Théoden. The Nazgûl is deadly to the already vulnerable Th´oden, but it will let her go if she chooses not to intervene.
This dynamic reminds me of Lily Potter's confrontation with Voldemort from the Harry Potter series. There, too, Voldemort initially wanted to get Lily out of the way so he could get to her son, something that was a source of tremendous speculation in the fandom for years until the reason was revealed. Unlike Rowling with Voldemort, Tolkien never gave an explicit reason for the Witch-king's ultimatum, though I'm guessing it was more a taunt than anything else, rather like a cat playing with its prey. The situations are similar--a woman pitted against unfathomable evil, standing between it and a helpless person she cares about--and vividly reveal the choice involved in caretaking: Step aside and stay safe, or enter into a hopeless fight and almost certainly come to grief?
To me the setup represents not so much of the bloody confusion of actual battle--fog of war this isn't--but rather a clear moral choice between preserving one's well-being and defending another. It's even starker because the situation is actually framed in terms of a non-choice: Not an exchange between her life and Théoden's, but rather whether to die with him or not with his death as a foregone conclusion. Or rather, to suffer a Fate Worse than Death, since the Nazgûul Lord is very clear that he will not kill her:
(The Return of the King Book V, Chapter 6: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields; same for all quotes in this section.)
When you read these words with the frame I'm using, this threat becomes a statement on the psychological toll of caring for a loved one, and the battle becomes one of emotional investment rather than physical prowess. Why pour your heart and soul into keeping this shadow from one who is already doomed? Stand aloof from the situation, maybe just go through the motions, and you won't be hurt. If you do choose to fight for your loved one heart and soul, however, you will be crushed and know only eternal torment. It probably won't kill you, but you will wish it did. Such is the price of love in adversity.
We all know what Éowyn did next. (We do, don't we? If you don't, you really should turn back.)
I always imagine her saying this very quietly, neither dramatic whisper nor defiant shout but a simple declaration of resolve. "Do what you will." She can't control what the evil will do; it is what it is, and it will try what it will. What she can control is her own reaction: "I will hinder it, if I may." (Emphasis mine.) For all the power of her adversary, for all the seeming hopelessness of the situation, she will stand against it to the end. Maybe she will succeed, most likely she won't. Either way she will try, and that is her dignity, the one thing the Nazgûl will never strip from her.
In a way, no matter what the outcome Éowyn has won the battle with her decision to fight. I have speculated above about the Nazgûl's reasons for saying he will spare her, but in the end there can be only one good story reason for what he did: Like any good fear-monger, his goal is to degrade the soul. If Éowyn had chosen to step aside, she might have been safe but I don't think she'd ever have been the same again. Would she ever have been able to look herself in the eye, knowing she had turned her back on a helpless Théoden when he needed her most? She simply would not be the same woman who had stood by her uncle through the hopeless days of Wormtongue's rule. Nor would be she be the same woman who rode in disguise to be by her uncle's side.
The best-case outcome of such a choice would be her soul being scarred with shame and guilt. At least then, by suffering clean honest pain, she could eventually forgive herself and move on with greater wisdom than before. The worst outcome would be her refusal to acknowledge what she had done and making excuses for herself, preventing the wound from healing and twisting her into a calloused mass of self-rationalization. That really would have changed her for the worse, and I think that's what the Nazgûl wanted.
But she refused to play the Nazgûl's game, and instead changed it into one she won no matter what. You can see his panic in the way he falls back on prophecy:
Then comes one of those moments when the world is made anew, what Tolkien termed Eucatastrophe in his essay On Fairy Stories. It is one of those moments when a single revelation changes everything, our way of looking at the world, and reveals the wondrous layers of possibility in life. Éowyn reveals herself to be woman, and what's more, that she is defending her uncle and will not stand aside for the Ringwraith to claim him. Her gender, the femininity that made her a dry-nurse, became no longer a liability but a source of hope. Her role as caretaker, which she thought kept her from great deeds, raised her above fear into exalted courage. She was woman born, her aged uncle's dry-nurse, and that made her a hero before she struck a single blow.
In the Bitter Watches of the Night: The Toll of Caretaking
So love is great, caretakers are awesome hurray, but there is a shadow to the experience. In the Houses of Healing where Aragorn heals Éowyn, Gandalf and Aragorn have some really interesting things to say about caretaking and the effect on women, who are disproportionately expected to take on the role.
From the start Aragorn is clear about the toll the battle with the Witch-king took on Éowyn. In the framework of this essay, one can read his statement as one about the psychic cost of caring for a loved one against steep chances, battling constant fear:
(The Return of the King Book V, Chapter 8: The Houses of Healing; same for all quotes in this section.)
Aragorn goes further back than the battle with the Nazgûl, though, and traces the source of her trauma back to her days caring for an invalid Théoden during Wormtongue's rule:
Yeah, sure, buddy. Éomer's defensiveness is understandable, if disingenuous. Perceiving himself to be blamed for Éowyn's condition (Éowyn is his little sister and his responsibility - Aragorn is saying her illness took root long before the Witch-king - Aragorn is saying it's Éomer's fault), Éomer refuses to believe that Éowyn's time as their uncle's caretaker, while hard, could possibly have hurt her so deeply. Fortunately, Gandalf does not let him dismiss her suffering so easily:
Let me say for the record how impressed I am with Tolkien's understanding of the constricting effect of caretaking, something Gandalf will make even clearer shortly in this exchange. The tremendous undervaluation of the caretaker's role, both socially and economically, is also a very immediate reality in our world as well as in Rohan and Middle-Earth.
Gandalf speaks eloquently on how Éowyn was likely affected by those years of hopelessness, without the benefit of Éomer's extended world and the recognition he had. She had to come face-to-face every day with the starkness of her uncle's decline and the approaching ruination of her House:
Éomer's reaction is my favorite moment in this scene:
No more defensive dismissal, no impassioned speech, just the simple silence of contemplation. It would be dishonest of Éomer to say he understood: He has not truly been made aware of what those years were like for Éowyn, but only been made aware of his ignorance. The most heartfelt answer in the absence of knowledge is the absence of words, whether glib rationalization or disbelief. In that silence, there is room to reexamine his assumptions and his own privilege. In acknowledging his ignorance he has space to listen, and think, and finally, maybe, to understand.
Despite Éowyn's waking and seeming as well as one can expect under the circumstances, the scene ends on an uncertain note with her words: "But hope? I do not know." She, too, needed a moment of pause, a void to fill with contemplation and conversation until it became the fullness of understanding and she could make sense of her own story. I have discussed that inner journey in the earlier essay.
Wrap It Up: From Middle-Earth to Earth
The road of heroism, by definition, is a rough one. In the best stories the adversity is internal as well as external, a fight against doubt and trauma as well as monsters and villains. I make the argument here that Éowyn's battle with the Witch-king, including the leadup to it and the aftermath, reads as a testament to both the high courage involved in being a caretaker under difficult circumstances and the terrible cost of caring for a vulnerable loved one.
It really doesn't help when the difficulties of the role are dismissed out of hand, whether the statement is "women are naturally nurturing and caring, so this shouldn't be hard for you" or "you wouldn't think this was so hard if you really loved your children." (Someone actually said that second part to FishMama. You may now lose your faith in humanity.) Social perceptions of caretaking as low-value work makes a hard situation even harder, and deeply impacts whatever self-worth that was not already bruised by being dismissed as a bad woman/parent/spouse/etc. As though battling the horror of the external evil weren't enough, these attitudes open up a second front in the caretaker's spirit.
Who will care for the caretaker? She may fell the Nazgûl with the strength of her steadfast courage, but win or lose she is left with battle wounds that need tending. Her friends and allies can help with their support, both physical and moral. The greatest gift we can give from our position outside the battle and looking in, however, may be our willingness to acknowledge our own ignorance of what she has been through. and our humility in listening to her--her feelings, her suffering, her experiences. It's the least we can offer our hero: If she can stand against the monster at risk to her body and spirit, can't we muster the courage to face the reality of her hurts?
attackfish's mother and the countless other parents, spouses, children, family, and friends who have the scars to show for love.I mentioned before in a post about the nature of heroism that Éowyn's battle against the Witch-king of Angmar reads to me like a metaphor for taking care of a loved one in need. I decided to elaborate on that after talking to attackfish about her own mother's struggles in caring for her ailing daughter and son.
I discussed the central irony in Éowyn's story in the earlier essay: That she despised her role as caretaker for her uncle King Théoden and later the Rohirrim women and children, yet it was her love rather than her lust for glory that enabled her to overcome the Nazgûl-terror and made her a hero. I have argued that this development led her to revise her idea of what heroism means and led her to a self-acceptance and happiness.
Now I would like to delve deeper into Éowyn's showdown with the Witch-king to make the case that not only did Éowyn's choice to protect her uncle lead to her victory over the Witch-king, the entire battle scene, not to mention her reasons for riding into battle and the aftermath of her hurts, encapsulated her struggle as a caretaker and showed the heroism--and shadows--inherent in caring for a loved one in need.
A Question of Motivation: Ride of the Dry-Nurse
First, I would like to cast doubt on my own earlier argument that Éowyn followed the Riders out of a desire to get out of the role of "dry-nurse," as she put it, and win renown for herself. Or at least, I would like to argue it wasn't her only motivation. That may be her stated motive and she might have sincerely believed it, but I can't help but feel a bit skeptical.
Going with the Riders into battle just happened to mean that she could stay close to her uncle Théoden, the same uncle at whose side she had stood throughout the years his physical and mental health was failing. That kind of bond can be difficult to let go of, especially knowing her uncle is riding into almost certain death. What if disguising herself as Dernhelm was an extension of her years as Théoden's primary caretaker, a step she took because she couldn't bear to let him go into danger without her?
It may be a bit comical to think of Éowyn acting like a weeping mother following her child's school bus on the first day of school. I don't think it has to be ridiculous, though. Time spent taking care of a loved one creates a bond and, in difficult cases, a set of traumas all its own. It's very natural for a caretaker to imagine all sorts of horrible scenarios for his or her charge--what will they do without me? Will they be okay? It's ironic that the caretaker may in this way end up depending on the charge as much as the other way around.
Caretaking is also its own source of identity. It may be no picnic, especially if there's some adversity such as sickness or disability, but being a caretaker means you are in control of the situation and will Do Something About It for the one you love. That's why greater independence on the part of the person cared for can be hard for the caretaker. It's a cause for celebration, of course, but it's also a big change that means the caretaker has to do some soul-searching to find his or her bearings again.
A possible hint of this loss lies in Éowyn's "dry-nurse" line, where I thought I caught a hint of her ambiguity about the situation:
"I have waited on faltering feet long enough. Since they falter no longer, it seems, may I not now spend my life as I will?"
(The Return of the King Book V, Chapter 2: The Passing of the Grey Company; emphasis mine.)
We can read this statement as Éowyn saying she's been holding back because her uncle needed her and she wants her freedom now that he doesn't anymore. On the other hand it can also read, on a more emotional level, that she is seeking a different role because Théoden no longer needs her like he used to. Maybe her bitterness at her circumscribed role as a woman is compounded by the separation from her charge.
I am not saying by any means that Éowyn was being insincere about her desire for heroism on the battlefield. Nor am I trying to ascribe a "womanly" motivation to her because I find the desire for heroism an inadequate drive for a female character. Rather, I think Éowyn's personal ambition and cultural background became a frame for her to speak of her loss of identity. Also, just to clarify, I also don't think the desire and identity of being a caretaker are exclusive to women at all. The major experiences I've had with the caretaking dynamic has been with my dad as my caretaker, and I see the experience of nurturing as a human one at heart, not a gendered one, though there are heavy expectations for women on this front.
Now that we've thought a little bit about what got Éowyn to the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, let's move on to the battle proper and what happened there. Having made the case that at least part of her motivation for riding into battle had to do with her identity and sense of loss as a caretaker, I will next argue that the course of her battle with the Witch-king was a reflection of both the sacrifice and the triumph of someone who takes on the task of caring for another.
Battle with the Witch-King: A Moral Choice
As you know from the book, when the Witch-king descended on the Pelennor Fields scattering the Rohirrim, Éowyn was the only one who initially stood by Théoden's side instead of being terrified or borne away. I have argued in the the previous essay that it was her love for her uncle rather than her stated reason to make a name for herself that gave her the courage to stand up to fear itself.
I don't call the Lord of the Nazgûl, or the effect he has, "fear itself" just to be cute. In many ways, that seems exactly what he is to her. From the first the Witch-king shows a curious disinterest in Éowyn as a target. He's mainly interested in getting her out of his way so he can reach his true target, Théoden. The Nazgûl is deadly to the already vulnerable Th´oden, but it will let her go if she chooses not to intervene.
This dynamic reminds me of Lily Potter's confrontation with Voldemort from the Harry Potter series. There, too, Voldemort initially wanted to get Lily out of the way so he could get to her son, something that was a source of tremendous speculation in the fandom for years until the reason was revealed. Unlike Rowling with Voldemort, Tolkien never gave an explicit reason for the Witch-king's ultimatum, though I'm guessing it was more a taunt than anything else, rather like a cat playing with its prey. The situations are similar--a woman pitted against unfathomable evil, standing between it and a helpless person she cares about--and vividly reveal the choice involved in caretaking: Step aside and stay safe, or enter into a hopeless fight and almost certainly come to grief?
To me the setup represents not so much of the bloody confusion of actual battle--fog of war this isn't--but rather a clear moral choice between preserving one's well-being and defending another. It's even starker because the situation is actually framed in terms of a non-choice: Not an exchange between her life and Théoden's, but rather whether to die with him or not with his death as a foregone conclusion. Or rather, to suffer a Fate Worse than Death, since the Nazgûul Lord is very clear that he will not kill her:
Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind me left naked to the Lidless Eye.
(The Return of the King Book V, Chapter 6: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields; same for all quotes in this section.)
When you read these words with the frame I'm using, this threat becomes a statement on the psychological toll of caring for a loved one, and the battle becomes one of emotional investment rather than physical prowess. Why pour your heart and soul into keeping this shadow from one who is already doomed? Stand aloof from the situation, maybe just go through the motions, and you won't be hurt. If you do choose to fight for your loved one heart and soul, however, you will be crushed and know only eternal torment. It probably won't kill you, but you will wish it did. Such is the price of love in adversity.
We all know what Éowyn did next. (We do, don't we? If you don't, you really should turn back.)
A sword rang as it was drawn. "Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may."
I always imagine her saying this very quietly, neither dramatic whisper nor defiant shout but a simple declaration of resolve. "Do what you will." She can't control what the evil will do; it is what it is, and it will try what it will. What she can control is her own reaction: "I will hinder it, if I may." (Emphasis mine.) For all the power of her adversary, for all the seeming hopelessness of the situation, she will stand against it to the end. Maybe she will succeed, most likely she won't. Either way she will try, and that is her dignity, the one thing the Nazgûl will never strip from her.
In a way, no matter what the outcome Éowyn has won the battle with her decision to fight. I have speculated above about the Nazgûl's reasons for saying he will spare her, but in the end there can be only one good story reason for what he did: Like any good fear-monger, his goal is to degrade the soul. If Éowyn had chosen to step aside, she might have been safe but I don't think she'd ever have been the same again. Would she ever have been able to look herself in the eye, knowing she had turned her back on a helpless Théoden when he needed her most? She simply would not be the same woman who had stood by her uncle through the hopeless days of Wormtongue's rule. Nor would be she be the same woman who rode in disguise to be by her uncle's side.
The best-case outcome of such a choice would be her soul being scarred with shame and guilt. At least then, by suffering clean honest pain, she could eventually forgive herself and move on with greater wisdom than before. The worst outcome would be her refusal to acknowledge what she had done and making excuses for herself, preventing the wound from healing and twisting her into a calloused mass of self-rationalization. That really would have changed her for the worse, and I think that's what the Nazgûl wanted.
But she refused to play the Nazgûl's game, and instead changed it into one she won no matter what. You can see his panic in the way he falls back on prophecy:
"Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!"
Then comes one of those moments when the world is made anew, what Tolkien termed Eucatastrophe in his essay On Fairy Stories. It is one of those moments when a single revelation changes everything, our way of looking at the world, and reveals the wondrous layers of possibility in life. Éowyn reveals herself to be woman, and what's more, that she is defending her uncle and will not stand aside for the Ringwraith to claim him. Her gender, the femininity that made her a dry-nurse, became no longer a liability but a source of hope. Her role as caretaker, which she thought kept her from great deeds, raised her above fear into exalted courage. She was woman born, her aged uncle's dry-nurse, and that made her a hero before she struck a single blow.
In the Bitter Watches of the Night: The Toll of Caretaking
So love is great, caretakers are awesome hurray, but there is a shadow to the experience. In the Houses of Healing where Aragorn heals Éowyn, Gandalf and Aragorn have some really interesting things to say about caretaking and the effect on women, who are disproportionately expected to take on the role.
From the start Aragorn is clear about the toll the battle with the Witch-king took on Éowyn. In the framework of this essay, one can read his statement as one about the psychic cost of caring for a loved one against steep chances, battling constant fear:
But Aragorn came to Éowyn, and he said: "Here there is a grievous hurt and a heavy blow. . . . Alas! For she was pitted against a foe beyond the strength of her mind and body. And those who will take a weapon to such an enemy must be sterner than steel, if the very shock shall not destroy them."
(The Return of the King Book V, Chapter 8: The Houses of Healing; same for all quotes in this section.)
Aragorn goes further back than the battle with the Nazgûl, though, and traces the source of her trauma back to her days caring for an invalid Théoden during Wormtongue's rule:
"It was an evil doom that set her in this path. . . . Her malady begins far back before this day, does it not, Éomer?"
"I marvel that you should ask me, lord," he answered. ". . . Care and dread she had, and shared with me, in the days of Wormtongue and the king's bewitchment; and she tended the king in growing fear. But that did not bring her to this pass!"
Yeah, sure, buddy. Éomer's defensiveness is understandable, if disingenuous. Perceiving himself to be blamed for Éowyn's condition (Éowyn is his little sister and his responsibility - Aragorn is saying her illness took root long before the Witch-king - Aragorn is saying it's Éomer's fault), Éomer refuses to believe that Éowyn's time as their uncle's caretaker, while hard, could possibly have hurt her so deeply. Fortunately, Gandalf does not let him dismiss her suffering so easily:
"My friend," said Gandalf, "you had horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields; but she, born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait upon an old man, whom she loved as a father, and watch him falling into a mean dishonored dotage; and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff that he leaned on."
Let me say for the record how impressed I am with Tolkien's understanding of the constricting effect of caretaking, something Gandalf will make even clearer shortly in this exchange. The tremendous undervaluation of the caretaker's role, both socially and economically, is also a very immediate reality in our world as well as in Rohan and Middle-Earth.
Gandalf speaks eloquently on how Éowyn was likely affected by those years of hopelessness, without the benefit of Éomer's extended world and the recognition he had. She had to come face-to-face every day with the starkness of her uncle's decline and the approaching ruination of her House:
"But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?"
Éomer's reaction is my favorite moment in this scene:
Then Éomer was silent, and looked on his sister, as if pondering anew all the days of their past life together.
No more defensive dismissal, no impassioned speech, just the simple silence of contemplation. It would be dishonest of Éomer to say he understood: He has not truly been made aware of what those years were like for Éowyn, but only been made aware of his ignorance. The most heartfelt answer in the absence of knowledge is the absence of words, whether glib rationalization or disbelief. In that silence, there is room to reexamine his assumptions and his own privilege. In acknowledging his ignorance he has space to listen, and think, and finally, maybe, to understand.
Despite Éowyn's waking and seeming as well as one can expect under the circumstances, the scene ends on an uncertain note with her words: "But hope? I do not know." She, too, needed a moment of pause, a void to fill with contemplation and conversation until it became the fullness of understanding and she could make sense of her own story. I have discussed that inner journey in the earlier essay.
Wrap It Up: From Middle-Earth to Earth
The road of heroism, by definition, is a rough one. In the best stories the adversity is internal as well as external, a fight against doubt and trauma as well as monsters and villains. I make the argument here that Éowyn's battle with the Witch-king, including the leadup to it and the aftermath, reads as a testament to both the high courage involved in being a caretaker under difficult circumstances and the terrible cost of caring for a vulnerable loved one.
It really doesn't help when the difficulties of the role are dismissed out of hand, whether the statement is "women are naturally nurturing and caring, so this shouldn't be hard for you" or "you wouldn't think this was so hard if you really loved your children." (Someone actually said that second part to FishMama. You may now lose your faith in humanity.) Social perceptions of caretaking as low-value work makes a hard situation even harder, and deeply impacts whatever self-worth that was not already bruised by being dismissed as a bad woman/parent/spouse/etc. As though battling the horror of the external evil weren't enough, these attitudes open up a second front in the caretaker's spirit.
Who will care for the caretaker? She may fell the Nazgûl with the strength of her steadfast courage, but win or lose she is left with battle wounds that need tending. Her friends and allies can help with their support, both physical and moral. The greatest gift we can give from our position outside the battle and looking in, however, may be our willingness to acknowledge our own ignorance of what she has been through. and our humility in listening to her--her feelings, her suffering, her experiences. It's the least we can offer our hero: If she can stand against the monster at risk to her body and spirit, can't we muster the courage to face the reality of her hurts?
