Morgoth’s Progeny: The Dragon in Tolkien’s Middle­earth Tales

JRR Tolkien: Heroic Fantasy and the Literary Tradition

Scott J Laurange

Dr Maddux

1 January 2016

6884 Words

LAURANGE 1

The shadow of Smaug looms large over the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. And well it should, for he is iconic, the pinnacle of both notoriety and well­wrought characterisation in the world of literary dragons. However, because of Smaug’s place in the Third Age of Middle­earth, it is more appropriate to look at him as a culmination of dragon­qua­dragon—the fulfilment or final iteration of what dragons were made to be, which must lead us to look at their maker, Morgoth.

If we are to understand the fame and robust characterisation of Smaug, we must turn to his origins—not his own individual history, unknown prior to The Hobbit, but rather his literary and ​ ​ cosmological origins in the earlier tales and the history of Middle­earth. Tolkien has a particular notion in his works of what dragons are, and though the creatures may not figure largely in the whole schema of Middle­earth’s history, their physical design and purpose tie directly into ​ Tolkien’s theology as well as his concerns about the modern world. Ultimately, for Tolkien, dragons are an expression of the corruption of the material world and the misuse of Free Will, and at the same time a comment upon the act of sub­Creation and mythopoesis. ​ ​ Tolkien’s fascination with Norse legends, as well as Germanic and Old English tales of heroism, is well­documented. These tales bear the seeds of all Tolkien’s dragons, most especially his central ones—Glaurung and Smaug. Fáfnir, the dragon central to Sigurd’s exploits in The Völsunga Saga, appears to have had the biggest impact, especially upon the physicality ​ ​ and wickedness of the early dragons. According to Humphrey Carpenter in his biography of the author, Tolkien “found delight in the Fairy Books of Andrew Lang, especially the Red Fairy

Book,” which ended with Sigurd’s famous slaying of Fáfnir. Carpenter recounts the influence of the tale on Tolkien in the author’s own words: “I desired dragons with a profound desire.... Of course, I in my timid body did not wish to have them in the neighborhood. But the world that LAURANGE 2 contained even the imagination of Fáfnir was richer and more beautiful, at whatever cost of peril” (Carpenter 30). The spell cast by this tale left a lasting impression, even inspiring him to try his hand at a dragon tale at the age of seven; at the same time, it seems to have inspired his enduring interest in language itself, both of which would prove essential to his mature writings

(Carpenter 30­31). According to Jonathan Evans, “The Lang version of the Morris adaptation of the machine,Magnusson translation of the Norse version of the Sigurd/Fáfnir legend thus seems to have played a fundamental role in shaping the young Tolkien's literary temperament—or should we say it in reverse: Tolkien's aesthetic and literary predilections led him to the Völsunga saga, and the recurrent—sometimes central—significance of dragons, dragon­lore, and dragon­slayers in the narrative cycles of his published fiction originates here” (Evans 176). So, while the Völsunga saga is essential for understanding the structure and basic story of The Lord ​ of the Rings, it is also at the heart of Tolkien’s conception of dragons, as well as the heroic tales ​ in which they live. It was even important enough to inspire the man to write his own verse version of the original saga. Tolkien’s version of Sigurd’s encounter with Fáfnir remains faithful to the original, but also highlights many specific details about the dragon that he would come to apply to his own dragons—most significantly Glaurung. Indeed, Tolkien seems to have used

Fáfnir as a sort of centralising figure to distill the wide and varied attributes of dragons from amongst the many mythologies and legends with which he was acquainted. Late in the First Age in the Middle­earth tales, before the fall of Morgoth, Tolkien would incorporate some of the other common elements (most notably, wings), but as Glaurung is the “father of dragons” and ​ the “Great Worm,” it would seem that the biggest influence on Tolkien’s dragon progenitor should be a streamlined essence of dragon. Evans says: LAURANGE 3

In the dragon­lore of Middle­earth we see the dragon­lore of the Middle Ages of the external

world disassembled, taken down to its elementary components, rationalized and reconstituted then

reassembled to fit the larger thematic purposes of Tolkien's grand narrative design. Tolkien treated

the disjointed inferences and disparate motifs found in medieval literature as if they were the

disjecta membra of a once­unified whole. (Evans 178) ​ Indeed, this matches Tolkien’s general approach to his entire project—to use his source material ​ to create a whole new conception of what does not exist amongst that ancient period of literature

(or what may no longer exist), but which he felt should exist. Thus he used the myriad details of ​ ​ dragon lore to create a unified concept of dragon modelled primarily off what he deemed to be ​ ​ the nigh perfect dragon, Fáfnir. It is also important to stress the impact made upon Tolkien by the classic Anglo­Saxon poem of Beowulf. The impressiveness of the dragon in the poem seems ​ ​ to have informed the conception of Tolkien’s later dragons, like Smaug, and the gold­hoarding aspect is necessary to the general character of the creatures as he builds them. But it’s also important to note that while Tolkien particularly (and famously against other critics) placed the dragon (along with Grendel and his mother) at the centre of the poem, he was not especially satisfied with the creature, either, which explains why Fáfnir, which his clear will and intelligence and cunning, would be the stronger influence on his early dragons. In a letter to

Naomi Mitchison, he says, “I find 'dragons' a fascinating product of imagination. But I don't think the Beowulf one is frightfully good…. Fáfnir in the late Norse versions of the Sigurd­story is better; and Smaug and his conversation obviously is in debt there” (Tolkien, Letters 134). ​ ​ Tolkien instead was inspired by the poetic resonance of the idea of dragon as introduced in ​ ​ Beowulf. In his seminal essay (and former lecture) “The Monsters and the Critics,” he says, “A ​ ​ dragon is no idle fancy. Whatever may be his origins, in fact or invention, the dragon in legend is LAURANGE 4 a potent creation of men's imagination, richer in significance than his barrow is in gold”

(Tolkien, “Monsters” 113). Beowulf’s worm functions as it should—serving as a heroic ​ challenge—but, he argues, relies perhaps too heavily on a symbolic, though not allegorical, representation of man’s faults (which, he also comments, is appropriate to the poem itself).

Further in the essay, he claims:

Beowulf's dragon, if one wishes really to criticize, is not to be blamed for being a dragon, but

rather for not being dragon enough, plain pure fairy­story dragon. There are in the poem some

vivid touches of the right kind ... in which this dragon is real worm, with a bestial life and thought ​ ​ of his own, but the conception, none the less approaches draconitas rather than draco: a ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ personification of malice, greed, destruction (the evil side of heroic life), and of the

undiscriminating cruelty of fortune that distinguishes not good or bad (the evil aspect of all life).

(Tolkien, “Monsters” 114)

Tolkien, then, seems to have striven to keep the connection to these personified sins, but to make them less visible on the surface. His dragons hoard gold, but their greed manifests more acutely in the humans (or dwarves, in The Hobbit) who encounter the creatures. He allows his dragons ​ ​ to be as dragon­like as possible—dangerous, cunning, and malicious. And so he finds within his potential sources amongst the dragon­lore the right kind of dragon not in Beowulf, but rather in ​ ​ the Völsunga Saga. Of course, within his own tales, he does not merely present one facet of the ​ ​ dragon, but rather creates the entire evolution of the creature over time.

The physical attributes of Tolkien’s dragons are essential to gaining an understanding of their purpose in his cosmology; indeed their very physicality itself, their connection to the material world, is critical to their role in Middle­earth. Because of the importance of Fáfnir to

Tolkien’s dragon concept, however, it is necessary to begin not in Middle­earth, but in his LAURANGE 5 version of the Völsunga Saga. Probably the most interesting aspect of Fáfnir (true of both ​ ​ versions) is that he is not originally a dragon, but a man who turns himself into a dragon after he commits patricide for the sake of Andvari’s gold (Tolkien, Sigurd 101). This element is not (at ​ ​ least not overtly) present in the Middle­earth tales, however the making of the dragons by ​ ​ Morgoth in many ways parallels (in a corrupted form) Ilúvatar’s creation of his Children. Most relevant here are the many human characteristics of the dragons, and the manner in which the ​ ​ creatures interact with humans (or elves, as the case may be) in the tales. That Fáfnir makes himself into the likeness of a dragon after a materialistic sin brings to light the most common ​ ​ association with dragons: gold­hoarding and greed. And Tolkien is particular (though subtle) throughout the tales to extend that materialism to the humans who interact with the dragons.

This desire for gold, interestingly, begins for Fáfnir in his “heart as a fire burneth,” which gives a ​ potential metaphorical source for the flame­breath so commonly associated with dragons—one ​ which proves essential to many of Tolkien’s dragons. Though Tolkien refrains from much description of the beast, that which he does provide (much more than the original saga) indicates a particular type of dragon which is clearly the model for Glaurung. As Sigurd (in a hole to strike at Fáfnir’s vulnerable belly) awaits the dragon’s arrival,

The fire and fume over fearless head rushed by roaring; rocks were groaning. The black belly, bent and coiling, over the hidden hollow hung and glided. (Tolkien, Sigurd 108) ​ ​ The description paints the dragon not as the winged behemoth which typifies our notion of dragon (especially embodied in Smaug himself), but rather a large, wingless serpentine creature. ​ LAURANGE 6

Even in the original Völsunga Saga, the “worm” creeps over the pits Sigurd has made, and seems ​ ​ ​ ​ distinctly wingless (64). As we see later, this is important to Tolkien, for his dragons begin without wings, and only gain them later for the final battle of the First Age.

In order to properly understand the origins of dragons in Middle­earth, however, we must consider both the early version of the stories in The Book of Lost Tales, as well as the refined ​ ​ version in The Silmarillion. In The Book of Lost Tales, particularly the tale of “Turambar and the ​ ​ ​ ​ Foalókë,” Tolkien provides a great deal of information about the formation of dragons at the hands of Melko (the proto­Morgoth), which is not so much absent in The Silmarillion as it is ​ ​ subtly subsumed (or perhaps assumed?) into the tales themselves. Either way, Turambar’s tale is ​ ​ rife with details absent in the later Quenta. The narrative states: ​ ​ Many are the dragons that Melko has loosed upon the world and some are more mighty than

others. Now the least mighty … are cold as is the nature of snakes and serpents, and of them a

many having wings go with the uttermost noise and speed; but the mightier are hot and very heavy

and slow­going, and some belch flame, and fire flickereth beneath their scales, and the lust and

greed and cunning evil of these is the greatest of all creatures: and such was the Foalókë whose

burning there set all the places of his habitation in waste and desolation. (Tolkien, Lost 97) ​ ​ Important to note here are the so­called “cold drakes” which do have wings, but not fire, and are more akin to the traditional “flying serpents” of lore (Simpson 31­32). Tolkien maintains the cold drakes in later tales, but they are later iterations of dragons, and wings do not show up in

Morgoth’s creations until the end of the First Age. Within the Lost Tales, Tolkien seems to be ​ ​ working within the lore, building his cosmology, and trying to incorporate as much as possible.

Later, for The Silmarillion, he has clearly developed his own conception of the dragon, as well as ​ ​ its evolution, and thus abandons many of the details. Still, that they are made creatures of ​ ​ LAURANGE 7

Melko, that their malice and destructiveness is present—this is what is most relevant. The typical aspects of dragons are present here (particularly in Glorund, the early version of

Glaurung) as well—the smoke and fire and venom detailed throughout, and of course the iconic hoarding of gold. Of Glorund’s hoard the narrative claims, “Already greater far had this worm waxen than in the days of the onslaught upon the Rodothlim, and greater too was his hoarded treasure, for Men and Elves and even Orcs he slew, or enthralled that they served him, bringing him food to slake his lust [?on] precious things, and spoils of their harryings to swell his hoard”

(Tolkien, Lost 97). Beyond their mere physical attributes, the greed is the likely the most ​ ​ common aspect between nearly all dragons of lore, and most of Tolkien’s dragons (but especially the named ones). The hoarding will become especially relevant when regarding Tolkien’s particular use of the dragons in his tales. Another relevant attribute of Tolkien’s dragons is their ​ ​ cunning, which manifests for Tolkien in both verbal manipulation and, in the case of Glorund

(and Glaurung) a sort of mesmerism in his gaze. His torment and manipulation of Túrin and

Nienori stand out in particular: “Turin was held by the spell of the drake, for that beast had a foul magic in his glance, as have many others of his kind, and he turned the sinews of Turin as it were to stone, for his eye held Turin's eye so that his will died, and he could not stir of his own purpose, yet might he see and hear” (Tolkien, Lost 86). And later, after Mavwin and Nienori ​ ​ have broken free of the spell from his “baleful eye” that had ensnared their minds, Glorund

“releases” them, and “with those words he opened full his evil eyes, arid a light shone in them, and Mavwin and Nienori quaked beneath them and a swoon came upon their minds” (Tolkien,

Lost 98­99). So, in addition to their physical threat, the dragons of Tolkien’s First Age are also a ​ threat to men’s command of their own wills. In The Silmarillion, as we will see, the dragons ​ ​ LAURANGE 8 evolve under the hand of Morgoth (though these changes are barely seen in the text until they are revealed, as Morgoth’s work is always done deep in Angband). But here in The Lost Tales, ​ ​ Tolkien provides a particular evolution of the dragon form which is curiously absent in his later iteration of the tales, but which proves exceedingly important in examining his concern with the material world. In “The Fall of Gondolin,” Melko adds to his army of natural dragons something new, and even more deadly—machine dragons. Meglin, in his turning against his elven kin, allowed evil into his heart and not only betrayed Gondolin to Melko, but “counselled Melko to devise out of his sorceries a succour for his warriors in their endeavour. From the greatness of his wealth of metals and his powers of fire he bid him make beasts like snakes and dragons of irresistible might that should overcreep the Encircling Hills and lap that plain and its fair city in flame and death” (Tolkien, Lost 169­171). These suggested creatures, the building of which ​ ​ Melko then pursues for years, are not dragons, but are like dragons and snakes. Additionally, ​ ​ ​ ​ they “overcreep” suggesting the land­based, wingless form of dragon. While these creatures are powerful, and second only to the Balrogs who “upon them rode,” the winglessness proves to be a fault in the attack on Gondolin as they could “not climb the hill for its steepness and for its glassiness, and by reason of the quenching waters that fall upon its sides” (Tolkien, Lost 171; ​ ​ 177). This is, perhaps, the reason for Tolkien’s changes in The Silmarillion to exclude the ​ ​ machine dragons and create an evolution from wingless to winged dragons, so that the dragons should not be stymied by an inability to cope with the landscape, making Morgoth’s last secret ​ ​ weapon to be that much more impressive. Thus, even Maeglin’s betrayal is more human (for an elf), and less Morgothian in design. Regardless, the physical attributes, and their change over time within Middle­earth, are essential to understanding Tolkien’s purpose in incorporating the LAURANGE 9 dragons into his tales. Furthermore, the shift from the early model in The Lost Tales to their ​ ​ more final iteration in The Silmarillion is particularly telling as to this purpose. ​ ​ In The Silmarillion, Tolkien provides a much richer evolution of Glaurung (formerly ​ ​ Glorund). In particular, Glaurung appears in the tales much earlier than his important encounter with Túrin, and makes a greater impression on the inhabitants of Middle­earth. His role as first dragon, indeed progenitor of dragons, is maintained, however, he does not appear fully formed ​ ​ and with great renown in The Silmarillion; he evolves, and then gains his notoriety. He does not ​ ​ begin as deadly threat, though certainly his presence is a cause of fear. The text claims:

Again after a hundred years Glaurung, the first of the Urulóki, the fire­drakes of the North, issued

from Angband's gates by night. He was yet young and scarce half­grown, for long and slow is the

life of the dragons, but the Elves fled before him to Ered Wethrin and Dorthonion in dismay; and

he defiled the fields of Ard­galen. Then Fingon prince of Hithlum rode against him with archers

on horseback, and hemmed him round with a ring of swift riders; and Glaurung could not endure

their darts, being not yet come to his full armoury, and he fled back to Angband, and came not

forth again for many years. Fingon won great praise, and the Noldor rejoiced; for few foresaw the

full meaning and threat of this new thing. (Tolkien, Silmarillion 116­117) ​ ​ What would prove to be a serious threat against the forces of good is seen here as, yes, a threat, but not an insurmountable one. Yet, because of the ignorance of the elves, his potential threat ​ ​ remains unperceived. When Glaurung next arrives, he has matured, grown into something much more terrible. In the Fifth Battle, “Morgoth loosed his last strength, and Angband was emptied. ​ There came wolves, and wolfriders, and there came Balrogs, and dragons, and Glaurung father of dragons. The strength and terror of the Great Worm were now great indeed, and Elves and Men withered before him; and he came between the hosts of Maedhros and Fingon and swept them apart” (Tolkien, Silmarillion 192). Clearly, time is on the dragon’s side, allowing it to grow in ​ ​ LAURANGE 10 strength and malice. Thus, when Glaurung enters the scene in Túrin’s tale, he has been able to ​ develop not only his physical threat, but also the mental threat we have already seen in the Lost ​ Tales. Here, also, Tolkien separates the dragon’s purpose from his maker’s: “Then Túrin, being ​ ​ yet bemused by the eyes of the dragon, as were he treating with a foe that could know pity, believed the words of Glaurung; and turning away he sped over the bridge.... But Túrin passed away on the northward road, and Glaurung laughed once more, for he had accomplished the errand of his Master. Then he turned to his own pleasure, and sent forth his blast, and burned all about him” (Tolkien, Silmarillion 214). Glaurung is subject to his maker, and fully willing to ​ ​ follow his purpose, but he also possesses his own desires—desires that ultimately lead to his ​ demise at Túrin’s hands. Were he simply a “machine,” a tool and minion of Morgoth, he would ​ fulfill his designed purpose. However, he has a will; he has desire, and the means to pursue it.

Toward this end, he focuses his malice not on all of man and elvenkind, but on one man, his greatest foe (and, interestingly, his clearest likeness), and thus through his manipulations of

Túrin and Nienor, Glaurung effects his own end. Again, the events here are not too dissimilar from those in The Lost Tales, but Tolkien has subtly wrought within them a greater, more ​ ​ profound purpose. Actions, say Tolkien’s tales, whether good or evil, have consequences.

Ultimately, though Glaurung falls at the hand of Túrin, the dragon’s progeny remain, and arrive in Middle­earth (and within the tales) during the Great Battle, which sees the final defeat of

Morgoth in Middle­earth. In his last hour, Morgoth “loosed upon his foes the last desperate assault that he had prepared, and out of the pits of Angband there issued the winged dragons, that had not before been seen; and so sudden and ruinous was the onset of that dreadful fleet that the host of the Valar was driven back, for the coming of the dragons was with great thunder, and LAURANGE 11 lightning, and a tempest of fire” (Tolkien, Silmarillion 252). Amongst these is the most powerful ​ ​ of the remaining dragons, the dreadful Ancalagon the Black. Morgoth has spent time evolving his dragons into their more dangerous, winged form (preparing Middle­earth for the later devastation of Smaug). Were it not for Eärendil, Morgoth’s last assault might have succeeded;

But Eärendil came, shining with white flame, and about Vingilot were gathered all the great birds

of heaven and Thorondor was their captain, and there was battle in the air all the day and through a

dark night of doubt. Before the rising of the sun Eärendil slew Ancalagon the Black, the mightiest

of the dragon­host, and cast him from the sky; and he fell upon the towers of Thangorodrim, and

they were broken in his ruin. Then the sun rose, and the host of the Valar prevailed, and well­nigh

all the dragons were destroyed. (Tolkien, Silmarillion 252) ​ ​ Morgoth uses his power of corrupting creation to alter his most dangerous creature into one that can assault men and elves in a way they cannot anticipate. Eärendil uses his own ingenuity and ​ influence to attain the cooperation of a natural master of the air to thwart the winged dragons. ​ ​ The defeat of Ancalagon marks the utter end of Morgoth’s physical influence in Middle­earth; ​ ​ after his exile, his influence is seen primarily through his legacy, namely the deeds of Sauron.

For Morgoth himself, there was to be no more making in Middle­earth. The legacy of his last act ​ ​ of making, however, is to be found in the eventual arising of Smaug—and without Morgoth’s ​ purposeful evolution of the dragon, Smaug’s power would not have been born.

Tolkien’s dragons serve a two­fold purpose: they are a sign of the Fallen, material world, and they elaborate upon his theological and poetic ideas. First, and foremost, the physicality of the dragons is critical. They are decidedly not magical creatures, but made ones. They exist on ​ ​ ​ ​ the physical plane, and affect events in a physical manner. Even the will­bending we see in both the Lost Tales and the Silmarillion is an attempt to influence mortal creatures to act a certain way ​ ​ ​ ​ LAURANGE 12 in the material world, not to assert supernatural control over nature. After all, Tolkien’s concern in both life and his literature is ever centred on the material world; this is the world Ilúvatar created, and the world we ourselves must live in. For Tolkien, the material world is both beautiful (after all, in both a Christian sense and that of Ilúvatar, Creation is essentially good) ​ ​ and corruptible. It is telling that in Tolkien’s creation story, “Ainulindalë,” Melkor is “chief” amongst those Ainur who “bent all their thought and their desire towards that place” (Tolkien,

Silmarillion 18). The motivation for Melkor/ Morgoth’s actions throughout The Silmarillion is ​ ​ ​ the desire to create the lost Edenic state within the Fallen, physical world. Tolkien, in a letter to his son, iterates this concept clearly when he says:

We all long for [Eden], and we are constantly glimpsing it: our whole nature at its best and least

corrupted, its gentlest and most humane, is still soaked with the sense of 'exile'.... As far as we can

go back the nobler part of the human mind is filled with the thoughts of sibb, peace and goodwill, ​ ​ and with the thought of its loss. We shall never recover it, for that is not the way of repentance, ​ ​ which works spirally and not in a closed circle; we may recover something like it, but on a higher

plane. (Tolkien, Letters 110) ​ ​ The essential problem (and defining characteristic) of Morgoth is that he bends his whole will not toward the regaining of that lost “Eden” of his time with Ilúvatar, but rather the making of his ​ ​ ​ own Eden, one centred on the physical world, which he would control absolutely. The difference between Morgoth and his followers, and the Valar, Elves, and (good) Men is the difference between Tolkien’s separation of the terms making and sub­Creation. The act of making has a ​ ​ ​ ​ distinctly material aspect, and when the Elves and Men fall into the Morgothian sin of greed, then they have fallen away from imitation of Ilúvatar’s creative power through sub­Creation.

This is especially apparent, and established as a major theme in the tales, right from the LAURANGE 13 beginning of Creation within the “Ainulindalë.” Morgoth’s immediate desire is for the

Imperishable Flame, and for the power over the wills of others. The first he never achieves, but all of his activities throughout the tales of Middle­earth are instead characterised by the use of made fire. He forges his weapons in fire in the deeps under Angband, and out of this comes the ​ fire­breathers themselves, the dragons. Though Tolkien did not maintain the idea of machine dragons in his reworking of the older tales into The Silmarillion, Melko’s making of them in ​ ​ “The Fall of Gondolin” demonstrates the character’s tie to the material world, and thus Tolkien’s dragons become a representation of the potential evils to be found in that world. The narrative provides great detail as to both the making and the materials involved:

Yet these years are filled by Melko in the utmost ferment of labour, and all the thrall­folk of the

Noldoli must dig unceasingly for metals while Melko sitteth and deviseth fires and calleth flames

and smokes to come from the lower heats, nor doth he suffer any of the Noldoli to stray ever a foot

from their places of bondage. Then on a time Melko assembled all his most cunning smiths and

sorcerers, and of iron and flame they wrought a host of monsters such as have only at that time

been seen and shall not again be till the Great End. Some were all of iron so cunningly linked that

they might flow like slow rivers of metal or coil themselves around and above all obstacles before

them, and these were filled in their innermost depths with the grimmest of the Orcs with scimitars

and spears; others of bronze and copper were given hearts and spirits of blazing fire, and they

blasted all that stood before them with the terror of their snorting or trampled whatso escaped the

ardour of their breath; yet others were creatures of pure flame that writhed like ropes of molten

metal, and they brought to ruin whatever fabric they came nigh, and iron and stone melted before

them and became as water, and upon them rode the Balrogs in hundreds; and these were the most

dire of all those monsters which Melko devised against Gondolin. (Tolkien, Lost 170­171) ​ ​ LAURANGE 14

There is a reflection here (possibly not intentional) of the later making of the Silmarils by

Fëanor—the fervent manner of the making and the making of something astounding the world had never seen before. The difference seems to be in manner and purpose of the making. While

Fëanor pours his skills and soul into an art, designed to create something beautiful and ​ ​ essentially good (even if their existence leads to much pain and evil in the world), something of ​ ​ ​ ​ the light, Melko’s making relies upon subjecting of the wills and lives of others to make the ​ ​ machines, and the machines themselves are designed to destroy, to extend his own darkness across Middle­earth. The purpose here of the machine dragons can be inferred from some comments Tolkien made to his song in two of his letters. He says, “There is the tragedy and ​ despair of all machinery laid bare,” and half a year later, “Still I think there will be a 'millenium', the prophesied thousand­year rule of the Saints, i.e. those who have for all their imperfections never finally bowed heart and will to the world or the evil spirit (in modern but not universal terms: mechanism, 'scientific' materialism. Socialism in either of its factions now at war)”

(Tolkien, Letters 87; 110). Tolkien’s experiences in the war, as well his observations during the ​ ​ Second World War, clearly drive his ideas about not only machines of war, but also the mechanical­mindedness of the modern age. Certainly, his tales demonstrate a great love of the created world; but its misuse, the focus on the material, he condemned, and nowhere more clearly than in his dragons—they are both (whether the living kind or the metal and fire behemoths of Melko) machines of war, and representations of the sin of greed. The source of the dragons is Melko/ Morgoth, and thus they reflect the evils of their creator. Morgoth coveted the

Imperishable Flame, and the Earth itself, and power over the wills of others, and then the

Silmarils themselves. Dragons’ desires are perhaps more basely material—eating people and LAURANGE 15 hoarding gold—but they originate in Morgoth’s own covetousness. Of the dragons Melko first made, it is said, “Even as their lord these foul beasts love lies and lust after gold and precious ​ things with a great fierceness of desire, albeit they may not use nor enjoy them” (Tolkien, Lost ​ Tales 86). Thus, they are made in the corrupted image and likeness of their maker. Even the ​ greed of the dragons can be seen as a weapon of sorts. The most stalwart of heroes, in encountering the dragons and their hoarded wealth, are often moved to acts of covetousness. Sin begets sin. This can be seen even in Tolkien’s sources, Sigurd and Beowulf: Sigurd is cursed, ​ ​ and the thief who steals from the dragon in Beowulf awakes the dragon and begins misery for ​ ​ Beowulf’s people (Beowulf 2211 ­ 2220). Though the king does not covet the gold for himself ​ ​ (he wishes to see it only for the sake of his people’s legacy), the initial act of greed does result in the cost of Beowulf’s life (Beowulf, 2794­2798). Likewise, Fáfnir’s hoard and the curse upon it ​ ​ (the warning of which Sigurd does not heed) leads to Sigurd’s end (Tolkien, Sigurd 32­33). In ​ ​ Tolkien’s tales, the hearts of men do not escape the lure of the material world when they encounter dragons. In both the early and later version of Túrin’s tale, Túrin, upon defeating the dragon takes the time to retrieve his sword. This is logical, and would not appear to be a sign of greed; yet as Tolkien paints the scenes, there is an undue amount of affection for the sword, and in both cases it leads to Túrin’s maiming, and ultimately his death. In The Book of Lost Tales, it ​ ​ is even stated that “he cherished Gurtholfin [the sword] beyond all his possessions” (Tolkien,

Lost Tales 108). This detail is absent in The Silmarillion, but he nevertheless desires to retrieve ​ ​ ​ his sword, and then mocks the dying dragon before his hand is maimed by the venom. In both tales, Túrin subsequently falls unconscious, and is described as lying on his sword. The connection of ill fate to material possession is obvious. In the Lost Tales version, Túrin even LAURANGE 16 kills himself later upon the same sword. Looking forward to the Third Age, one can also see that ​ ​ the gold of Smaug’s hoard does as much (or more) damage to men and dwarves as the dragon itself. In all cases, the dragons are the necessary vehicles for introducing the sin. They embody it, and their venom spreads to those who would otherwise be good of heart. And this moment, the moment when the hero chooses to fall prey to the dragon’s wiles, or rises above, is the ultimate purpose of Tolkien’s dragons.

If the gold hoards of dragons are the reflection of their maker’s covetousness, then their cunning and powers of mesmerism reflect his desire to subvert the wills of other beings. Here, in an exploration of the nature of Free Will, Tolkien’s theological and poetic concerns enter his project. The Silmarillion, and particularly “Ainulindalë,” makes all of Tolkien’s Middle­earth ​ ​ tales an exploration of our own creation, as well as our existence in a fallen world. Central to that, and founded in Ilúvatar’s creative act, is the notion of Free Will—something possessed by

(though he does not recognise—or possibly accept—that he does) Melkor himself. Though

Melkor strives with Ilúvatar in the working of the music, challenging the creation with his own rhythms, his music is never anything but that of Ilúvatar. Once the music (which is the theme of all Creation) is done, Ilúvatar proclaims, “And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite”

(Tolkien, Silmarillion 17). On its surface, it appears to be the absence of Free Will (and ​ ​ beautifully captures the conundrum of how Free Will can exist when God is omnipotent and omniscient). Yet Melkor chose to strive against Ilúvatar; his choice to make his workings a ​ ​ ​ ​ refutation of Ilúvatar defines him. Ilúvatar continues to all the Ainur, saying, “Behold your

Music! This is your minstrelsy; and each of you shall find contained herein, amid the design that LAURANGE 17

I set before you, all those things which it may seem that he himself devised or added” (Tolkien,

Silmarillion 17). Creation is the act of Ilúvatar; the Ainur (later Valar), in building up the ​ physical world of Middle­earth, are sub­Creators. Melkor, whose choices are always in his own hands, always works against the design, and in thus trying to sub­Create, only makes. But this is ​ ​ ​ also his theme. It’s his design to strive against, and it is necessary for the “wonders” Ilúvatar promises will come of the music. By demonstrating that one can always choose against what is ​ ​ good, Melkor thus becomes the symbol for Free Will, and especially the consequences of choosing the corrupt path over what is good. He is the source of corruption, and thus his makings, the dragons, reflect his nature.

Because the “Ainulindalë” sets forth a parallel to the Christian Creation story, and much of the Middle­earth tales provide both pre­ and postlapsarian parallels, we must consider the tales in light of Tolkien’s concept of the Eucatastrophe, and its connection to both Free Will and ​ ​ sub­Creation. In “On Fairy­Stories,” he says of the Incarnation and Resurrection, “There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many sceptical men have accepted as true on its own merits. For the Art of it has the supremely convincing tone of

Primary Art, that is, of Creation. To reject it leads either to sadness or to wrath” (Tolkien,

“Fairy­Stories” 71). Melkor rejects it, and he becomes wrath, and sows both wrath and sadness, and becomes Morgoth, the Dark Enemy. Tolkien’s tales and poetry are not acts of Creation; they are sub­Creation, for he is making a secondary world, a fictional world made after the fashion of his own Creator. Morgoth, in making dragons and the many other evil things of his devising, is trying to sub­Create, but he is making them after his own fashion, like unto himself, not to add to ​ the glory and beauty of Ilúvatar’s theme of Creation. Morgoth is the writer who misuses his gift. LAURANGE 18

In a letter defending LOTR, and his ideas within it, Tolkien says, “Great harm can be done, of ​ ​ ​ course, by this potent mode of ‘myth’—especially wilfully. The right to ‘freedom’ of the sub­creator is no guarantee among fallen men that it will not be used as wickedly as is Free Will.

I am comforted by the fact that some, more pious and learned than I, have found nothing harmful in this Tale or its feignings as a ‘myth’” (Tolkien, Letters 194­195). Though the metaphor ​ ​ ​ Tolkien uses for creation in The Silmarillion is music, the idea remains the same—Morgoth is an ​ ​ author who sub­creates improperly, wickedly. And through his makings, he bends other beings to misuse their Free Wills, thus furthering his own ends. The dragons then, of necessity, must follow Morgoth’s nature, and must also be agents of subverting the Free Will of other beings.

Túrin’s final actions, his choices in and after the slaying of Glaurung, likely stem originally from the dragon’s manipulation of his will: “And Túrin being under the spell of Glaurung hearkened ​ to his words, and he saw himself as in a mirror misshapen by malice, and loathed that which he saw…. Then Túrin, being yet bemused by the eyes of the dragon, as were he treating with a foe that could know pity, believed the words of Glaurung; and turning away he sped over the bridge”

(Tolkien, Silmarillion 213­214). Túrin’s retreat from the dragon, his will bent by the dragon’s ​ ​ power, sets into motion the events that would lead to the death of his sister, and then his own death. His choice is not taken from him by the dragon; it is influenced, but the choices remain his own. Speaking further on the concept of Free Will as it pertains to his tales of Middle­earth,

Tolkien says:

To conclude: having mentioned Free Will, I might say that in my myth I have used 'subcreation' in

a special way ... to make visible and physical the effects of Sin or misused Free Will by men….

[God] does not stop or make ‘unreal’ sinful acts and their consequences. So in this myth, it is

‘feigned’ … that He gave special ‘subcreative’ powers to certain of His highest created beings: LAURANGE 19

that is a guarantee that what they devised and made should be given the reality of Creation…. But

if they ‘fell’, as the Diabolus Morgoth did, and started making things ‘for himself, to be their

Lord’, these would then ‘be’, even if Morgoth broke the supreme ban against making other

‘rational’ creatures like Elves or Men. They would at least ‘be’ real physical realities in the

physical world, however evil they might prove, even ‘mocking’ the Children of God. They would

be Morgoth's greatest Sins, abuses of his highest privilege, and would be creatures begotten of Sin,

and naturally bad. (Tolkien, Letters 194­195) ​ ​ Thus, the whole of The Silmarillion, and indeed the great project of all the Middle­earth tales, ​ ​ becomes a working out of the Art of sub­Creation; Tolkien’s writing is akin to the workings of the Valar in Middle­earth, and he shows through Morgoth, and all of Morgoth’s evil creations the abuse of that gift. Of all Morgoth’s abominations, the dragons best demonstrate this abuse, ​ ​ for they are not only “rational creatures” he should not have made, but they also misuse their ​ ​ rational faculties for their maker’s malicious ends. There are no good dragons in Middle­earth; ​ ​ by their design, and by the will of their designer, they could not be anything but sinful and ​ ​ sin­breeders. Where they do not lay physical waste, they tempt toward physical sin. It is fitting, then, that in Morgoth’s defeat in the War of Wrath, a dragon—in fact the “mightiest of the dragon­host,” Ancalagon the Black—should be the agent of the destruction of the physical representation of Morgoth’s power in Middle­earth: the towers of Thangorodrim (Tolkien,

Silmarillion 252). These towers, essentially the smokestacks of Morgoth’s infernal ​ manufacturing, are destroyed by the product of his own making. Though some dragons survive to cause menace into later Ages, the majority are destroyed in this final battle. Ilúvatar’s Great

Music has been made with Melkor’s discord woven into it. Middle­earth is not without strife, not without monstrosities and cunning dragons, not without evil Men, but it is ever good and ​ ​ LAURANGE 20 strives toward the wonders that Ilúvatar promised the Ainur and his Children. By Tolkien’s sub­Creative act, the themes of Creation are shown to be harmonious in the end, no matter how much dragonfire might try to blacken the sheet music.

Dragons are by no means central to Tolkien’s tales as a whole; they occupy few pages of his work, overall. Yet, ideologically, they are intrinsic to what Tolkien had set out to do as an artist. In a fallen world, there must be sin; Man, who has Free Will, must have options to choose from. Heroism is essentially good, but heroes are still mortal; the may choose poorly. But the fight between good and evil, the choice between heroes and dragons, the choice of the Valar’s sub­Creation or Morgoth’s manufacturing—this is the choice all of humanity will have to make.

Tolkien’s tales outline these choices and their inevitable consequences. His story is our story, ​ ​ for “The peculiar quality of the ‘joy’ in successful fantasy can thus be explained as a sudden glimpse of the underlying reality or truth. It is not only a ‘consolation’ for the sorrow of this world, but a satisfaction” (Tolkien, “On Fairy­Stories” 70­71).

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Works Cited

Beowulf. Trans. Seamus Heaney. New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 2000. ​ Carpenter, Humphrey. J.R.R. Tolkien: A Biography. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, ​ ​ 1987.

Evans, Jonathan. “Medieval Dragon­lore in Middle­earth.” Journal of the Fantastic in the ​ ​ Arts 9.3. (1998): 175­191. JStor. Web. 25 December 2015. ​ ​ ​ Simpson, Jacqueline. British Dragons. Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Editions Limited, 2001. ​ ​ Tolkien, J.R.R. “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics.” The Monsters and the Critics and ​ Other Essays. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1984. ​ ­­­. The Book of Lost Tales 2. New York: Ballantine Books, 1984. ​ ​ ­­­. The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrun. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2010. ​ ​ ­­­. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien. Ed. Humphrey Carpenter. Boston: Houghton Mifflin ​ ​ Harcourt, 2000.

­­­. “On Fairy­Stories.” The Tolkien Reader. New York: Ballantine Books, 1966. ​ ​ ­­­. The Silmarillion. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 2001. ​ ​ ​ Völsunga Saga, The. Trans. William Morris and Eirikr Magnusson. The Pennsylvania State ​ University, 2003.