ORCS AND THE DARK LORDS
Claude.ai - A Spiritual-Psychological Study
of Tolkien's Orcs and the Nature of Authoritarian Power in the 21st Century
Amazon's The Rings of Power
"Evil cannot create anything new, it can only distort and destroy what has been created by good forces."
— J. R. R. Tolkien, "The Silmarillion"
Instead of a Preface: The Mirror That Does Not Lie
This study is not an attempt to use Tolkien's orcs as a political label or propaganda tool. The purpose is different and, as we see it, more serious: to understand how the fictional world created by a British Catholic philologist in the mid-20th century turned out to be such a precise spiritual and psychological instrument that people of the 21st century come to know and name—themselves—through it.
We are speaking of a phenomenon that could be called an archetypal mirror. Tolkien did not write allegories and consistently refused them. But he created something more profound—a system of images rooted in a millennia-old Indo-European tradition, in which psychological and spiritual laws are expressed with such completeness that reality inevitably reflects them. The question of what exactly is reflected, and why, is the subject of this text.
But behind the image of the orc lies another question, perhaps more important: what creates orcs? What turns people, endowed with free will, the capacity to love, create, and sacrifice—into beings who voluntarily serve destruction? The answer to this question requires turning not only to Tolkien, but also to the psychology of power, the history of totalitarianism, theological anthropology, and finally—to what is happening in the world right now.
Part I. The Orc as a Theological Figure
1.1. The Problem of Origin: Created Evil
Perhaps the most significant fact about orcs in Tolkien's legendarium is not that they are cruel or ugly, but that their origin remains a theologically open question. Within the theology of Arda, this is not accidental—it is the author's fundamental position.
According to the most widespread version, reproduced in "The Silmarillion," Morgoth—the first Dark Lord—captured elves in the early days, and through prolonged suffering, torture, and magic, transformed them into orcs. This is the "theory of corruption": evil does not create, but distorts. However, Tolkien himself, as is evident from his private letters and later notes, was deeply dissatisfied with this explanation.
He was troubled by the following question: if orcs descended from elves—beings who are immortal and endowed with an incorruptible soul (fëa)—then what became of these souls? If they remained in the orcs, then orcs possess moral responsibility, free will, and consequently—the possibility of salvation. If Morgoth destroyed the fëar, then he committed something theologically impossible within Arda: creation from nothing (in the form of annihilation). Neither option satisfied Tolkien.
In later texts, never published during his lifetime, he experimented with a different version: orcs are not elves, but men captured by Morgoth. Or—entities created from "animated matter" without a true fëa. But none of the options seemed final to him. The problem remained unresolved.
"The question of the origin of orcs is one of the most difficult in the legendarium. I believe they possessed reason and will, albeit in an extremely distorted form. But were they truly free in their evil—or merely puppets? I do not know. Perhaps different orcs were different in this regard."
— from Tolkien's letters, Letter No. 153
This theological uncertainty is not a weakness, but a depth. Tolkien, as a practicing Catholic, knew that the problem of evil is not solvable purely rationally. In Christian theology, evil is not substantial: it does not exist by itself, as an independent reality, but is a diminishing, a distortion, an absence of good where it should be. Privatio boni—"the privation of good" in the formulation of St. Augustine.
Orcs are the embodiment of this idea in narrative form. They are not monsters created from nothing. They are what elves or men could have become if something terrible enough had been done to them. Their cruelty, their mindless submission, their capacity for sudden bursts of dark merriment—all of this is not a "different nature," but a distorted nature. A nature that is all the more painful to recognize the more clearly one sees its origin.
1.2. "Basic Morality" and the Problem of Freedom
Tom Shippey—one of the most authoritative Tolkien scholars—in his work "The Road to Middle-earth" draws particular attention to the scene of conversation between two orc captains, Gorbag and Shagrat, in the tower of Cirith Ungol. This is perhaps the most psychologically rich dialogue in the entire trilogy—and at the same time the most uncomfortable for anyone who would like to see orcs as simply "pure evil."
" 'Maybe things'll quieten down when the war's over.'
'They say it's going well,' said Gorbag.
'They would say,' snorted Shagrat. 'We'll see. But if it does go well, there'll be more room—what d'you say?—if we get a chance, you and me'll slip off and set up somewhere on our own with a few trusty lads, where there's good loot nice and handy, and no big bosses.'
'Ah!' said Shagrat. 'Like old times!' "
Shippey points out: the orcs here demonstrate a "basic morality"—that is, a set of values largely coinciding with human ones. They value comradeship, fairness among "their own," personal freedom, the possibility of "living normally"—without fear, without endless war, without pressure from above. Gorbag complains about the Nazgûl not because they are evil—but because they inspire terror and give nothing in return. Shagrat is dissatisfied with endless "service"—and dreams of a simple life.
This is a crucial observation. It means: orcs do not have an "evil nature" in the sense of a complete absence of good. They have the seed of everything human. But it is a seed that never received conditions for growth—only for suppression, deformation, use for others' purposes.
Psychologically, this corresponds to what in modern science is called disorganized attachment—or, more broadly, the result of chronic trauma in early childhood. A person who grew up in an environment where basic needs for safety, recognition, and love were systematically unsatisfied or satisfied unpredictably—develops precisely such a "basic morality": there is an inner knowledge of what is good, but no possibility to implement it in life. A dual morality appears: one set of rules for "one's own," another for "others." The capacity for loyalty combines with the capacity for cruelty. The desire for freedom—with an inability to use it except through domination.
1.3. The Mirror of Galadriel and the Fear of Recognition
In "The Fellowship of the Ring," there is an episode that is often underestimated: Frodo looks into the Mirror of Galadriel and sees possible futures—including images from which one wants to turn away. Galadriel warns: the mirror shows not only what will be, but also what may be—and what already is, but is not visible.
This is a metaphor for the entire Tolkien project. His legendarium is a mirror of this kind: not prophecy, not allegory, but a space in which archetypal truths are exposed so clearly that the viewer inevitably recognizes something of their own in them. This is precisely why "The Lord of the Rings" evokes such strong reactions—and precisely why some react to it with irrational irritation.
Those who identify themselves with Mordor and the orcs do so not because they like evil. They do so because these are the only images in the entire legendarium in which they recognize themselves. Not as villains—but as people living in a certain type of world: industrial, hierarchical, devoid of beauty, demanding submission and offering in return not love and meaning, but only belonging to "us" against "them."
This recognition is painful. And reactions to pain vary. One can try to change it. But one can also accept the pain as the norm and call it pride.
Part II. The Psychology of Orc Society
2.1. Fear as the Basis of Social Order
The society of Mordor rests on one foundation—fear. This is not a metaphor or an exaggeration: Tolkien consistently shows that almost all social interactions in the orc world are based on the threat of punishment, not on voluntary cooperation. Sauron's servants obey not out of loyalty—but because the alternative is worse. Orcs submit to commanders not out of respect—but from fear of the consequences of rebellion.
Moreover, fear is total: orcs fear Sauron, fear the Nazgûl, fear their commanders. Commanders fear Sauron. Sauron, in turn, fears the One Ring—more precisely, fears losing it, fears that someone else might take it. All of Mordor is a pyramid of mutual fear, in which each level is kept in obedience by the level above.
Political psychology has well described this phenomenon. Hannah Arendt in "The Origins of Totalitarianism" pointed out that totalitarian regimes use terror not as an instrument to achieve specific goals, but as an end in itself: constant fear destroys horizontal ties between people, makes any independent association impossible, and forces everyone to see a potential informer in their neighbor. This is precisely what we observe in Mordor: orcs do not trust each other, they suspect, they snitch. When Shagrat reports Gorbag to Sauron—he does so not out of ideological loyalty, but out of self-preservation.
Psychoanalytically, this corresponds to what Erich Fromm in "Escape from Freedom" called the "authoritarian character": a personality formed under conditions of chronic fear and the absence of genuine love develops a specific duality—subservience before those who are stronger, and sadism towards those who are weaker. This is not a pathology in the clinical sense—it is an adaptation to a specific environment. In an environment where strength is the only value, the psyche naturally organizes itself around strength.
2.2. Domination Without Meaning: Sauron's Goals
One of the deepest questions that "The Lord of the Rings" asks is this: what, actually, does Sauron want? What is his ultimate goal?
The answer Tolkien gives—and it is fundamentally important—is that Sauron wants order. But not order as a condition for prosperity or happiness—but order as an end in itself. An order in which every thing knows its place, every will is subject to one Will, and throughout the world there is not a single movement that is not sanctioned by the One Ring.
In his letters, Tolkien describes it thus: Sauron began as a "decent" Maia—a servant of Aulë, the god-smith. He sincerely hated disorder and chaos. But gradually his love for order degenerated into a love for control, and his love for control into a striving for total dominion. He wanted "good"—but good on his own terms, and only that. This is the root of his fall: not a thirst for evil for evil's sake, but a thirst for power for the sake of good—as he understands it.
This is a psychologically and theologically accurate description of how tyranny is born. A tyrant, as a rule, does not consider himself a villain. He is convinced—sincerely or almost sincerely—that he knows better than others how society should be structured, and that his task is to ensure this correct order, even if it means breaking a few million destinies along the way. Violence for him is not a pleasure (though not an inconvenience either), but a tool. Victims are not people, but elements standing incorrectly in their places, which need to be put right or removed.
2.3. The Ring and the Logic of Power
The One Ring is one of the most psychologically precise symbols in all of world literature. Its nature is well known: whoever bears the Ring gradually loses themselves—not immediately, not sharply, but inexorably. Their will is suppressed by Sauron's Will. Their "I" dissolves into the "I" of the Lord.
But what is important: the Ring does not merely enslave. It promises power—and this promise is not false. The Ring-bearer indeed gains power, indeed sees what others do not see, indeed becomes capable of much that is inaccessible to ordinary beings. The problem is that this power has a price: gradually, "you" and "the Ring" change places. You think you are using it—but it is using you.
This is an extremely precise metaphor for what happens to people who acquire and hold authoritarian power. Power really does change a person—this is not a figure of speech, but a psychological fact, confirmed by years of research. It activates neural mechanisms associated with dopamine reward. It reduces empathy—literally, at the neurobiological level. It creates a specific distortion of perception that psychologist Dacher Keltner called "the power paradox": the very qualities—compassion, the ability to listen, the capacity to see another's point of view—that help a person come to power are destroyed by power itself.
The Ring-bearer is convinced they are in control of the situation. But at some point, it turns out that the situation controls them. Gollum is an extreme case of this transformation: a creature once a hobbit, that is, a being with a genuine, living inner life—transformed into something whose entire psychic reality has shrunk to one word: "my precious."
This "my precious" of Gollum is the key word of totalitarianism. Not "ours," not "common," not "in the name of"—but precisely "mine." Power that calls itself service to the people or a historical mission, at its core always reduces to this: to the inability to let go, to the horror at the thought that power might pass to another.
Part III. The Dark Lord as a Psychological Type
3.1. The Narcissism of Power and Its Structure
Modern political psychology has developed sufficiently precise tools for describing authoritarian leaders. One of the most productive is the concept of the "Dark Triad"—the combination of narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy that, in one configuration or another, is found in most authoritarian leaders.
Narcissism here is not merely inflated self-esteem. It is a specific psychic structure in which the "I" perceives itself as unique, exceptional, chosen—and therefore not bound by ordinary rules. Rules exist for others. Morality—for the weak. Agreements—as long as they are beneficial. The grandiosity of this "I" is fed not by real achievements, but by a constant stream of external confirmation and admiration: from state media, court flatterers, mythologized history.
Machiavellianism—in its psychological (not philosophical) sense—is an instrumental attitude towards people: they are means, not ends. Allies are valuable only insofar as they are useful. As soon as they become a threat or cease to be needed—they are eliminated. This is not cruelty for cruelty's sake: it is cold rationality, in which the human dimension is simply absent.
Psychopathy, finally, is reduced or absent empathy combined with high impulsivity and a propensity for risk. A psychopathic leader does not experience remorse for decisions made. They can simulate regret—but it is precisely simulation, a social technology. Inside—emptiness where another's suffering should be.
Now let's overlay this portrait onto the image of Sauron. Narcissism—undoubtedly: the conviction of his own right to dominate the entire world, the inability to accept that other beings have the right to their own will. Machiavellianism—obvious: all allies (Nazgûl, orcs, men of Harad) are merely tools he uses and, if necessary, sacrifices. Psychopathy—in that the suffering of enemies not only does not disturb him, but serves as confirmation of his power.
Tolkien, of course, did not read psychological classifications. But he read history—and saw war. He knew what power that has become an end in itself looks like. And he created an image in which psychological truth is embodied with a precision that would have been impossible with conscious adherence to an academic scheme.
3.2. Morgoth and Sauron: Two Types of Destructive Power
Interestingly, Tolkien's legendarium contains two Dark Lords—Morgoth and Sauron—and they are fundamentally different psychologically. This difference in itself is a subtle observation.
Morgoth—the first and greatest—is power driven by envy and nihilism. He wants to destroy creation simply because it exists, because there is beauty in it that he himself cannot create. His envy of God (Eru Ilúvatar) is cosmic: it is envy of the very act of creation, of the ability to give being out of love. Morgoth cannot love—and therefore hates the very existence of love.
Sauron is quite different. He was Morgoth's servant, but his driving force is not nihilism, but a will to order. He does not want to destroy the world, but to reorganize it. His ideal is an efficient hierarchy in which every element occupies its place and performs its function. Beauty does not interest him—but he would not destroy it for destruction's sake. He destroys it because beauty is unmanageable, unpredictable, doesn't fit well into the system.
We recognize these two types in history. Morgoth is pure nihilism, embodied in phenomena such as apocalyptic terrorism or cults of destruction. Sauron is managerial totalitarianism, convinced of its own rationality and efficiency.
But in both cases—one common feature: the inability to accept the free will of another as a reality worthy of respect. Both Morgoth and Sauron hate freedom not because it is dangerous—but because it ontologically offends them. The free will of another means the world does not belong to them entirely.
3.3. The Ring and Its Temptation: Why People Choose Service
But the most terrifying question is not about Sauron. About him, things are more or less clear. The most terrifying question: why do people go to serve him?
The answer to this is scattered throughout the trilogy. The nine Nazgûl were men—kings, sorcerers, warriors—who accepted rings from Sauron. They wanted power, long life, knowledge. They got it—but at a price they hadn't considered beforehand. Gradually, their will was absorbed by Sauron's Will, and they became wraiths: beings without a self, living only as instruments of another's will.
This is a precise psychological metaphor for what happens to people building careers in authoritarian systems. At the initial stage, the choice seems pragmatic: the system provides resources, status, protection. A person thinks they are using the system for their own interests. But gradually—and this happens very slowly, almost imperceptibly—the system begins to shape the person themselves. Their values adjust to the demands of the hierarchy. Their speech fills with formulas of loyalty. Their perception of reality deforms under the pressure of the official narrative. At some point, they find they cannot think otherwise—not because it's forbidden, but because the very instrument of thinking has changed.
Psychologist Robert Lifton, in his study of totalitarian thinking ("Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalism"), described eight characteristics of "ideological totalism"—and all of them describe with astonishing accuracy the system Tolkien depicts in Mordor: the demand for absolute loyalty, the sacralization of language, the division of the world into "pure" and "impure," the suppression of personal doubt in the name of collective faith.
People go to serve the Dark Lord because he offers what they lack: certainty. Clarity. Belonging. In a world where meaning is not obvious, where freedom terrifies, where responsibility for one's own choices is heavy—a great hierarchical system with answers to all questions seems like salvation. This is what Erich Fromm called "escape from freedom": the voluntary renunciation of autonomy for the security of submission.
Part IV. The Wars of Mordor: The Mechanics of Authoritarian Aggression
4.1. War as an Existential Necessity for Tyranny
A totalitarian regime needs an enemy. This is not accidental, nor is it a psychological pathology of individual leaders—it is a systemic necessity. A regime whose legitimacy is based not on the consent of the governed and not on achievements in peaceful construction, but on mobilizing fear—cannot afford peace. Peace means having to answer ordinary questions: about well-being, about justice, about meaning. War shifts all these questions to a different plane: there is an enemy, and until the enemy is defeated, all sacrifices are justified.
Sauron wages war against the West not because the West threatens him—he wages it because his system cannot exist alongside a system based on different principles. The very existence of Gondor, Rivendell, Lothlórien—is a challenge. Not military—ontological. They prove that one can live differently. This is intolerable.
War solves this problem radically: it destroys the possibility of comparison. In wartime, dissent is treason. Doubt is weakness. Questions are aid to the enemy. The suffering of the people becomes not an indictment of the regime, but its justification: "look what they have done to us."
4.2. Orcs at War: Deindividualization and the Mechanism of Cruelty
Social psychology has long studied the phenomenon that occurs with people under conditions of war and deindividualization. Classic experiments—Zimbardo, Milgram—showed: normal, ordinary people are capable of cruelty they themselves would consider monstrous in other conditions—if the structure of the situation allows them to shed personal responsibility.
This mechanism operates through several key elements. First—dehumanization of the enemy: the enemy is denied belonging to the category of "normal people," they are described as a threat, disease, vermin. Second—diffusion of responsibility: "I was just following orders," "everyone did it," "it was policy." Third—gradual involvement: from small to larger, so each subsequent step seems only a small continuation of the previous one.
Orcs in Tolkien's legendarium exist in a state of permanent deindividualization. They have no names—only nicknames or titles. They have no past that is told, no families that wait. They have formation, order, enemy. This is the ultimate form of what totalitarian systems do to people: they turn them into a function. Not a person—into a role. Not a human—into a resource.
And yet—and here Tolkien again proves deeper than he seems—orcs remain human in the most important sense: they suffer. Gorbag is afraid. Shagrat is tired. Orcs trapped in Cirith Ungol kill each other not out of malice—but from fear and despair. This suffering is not a sentimental detail, but a theological point: even in an extremely deformed being, something remains that hurts. And this "something" is the last remnant of the image in which they were made.
4.3. Why Mordor Fights
Orcs fight because the system that created them and which they serve cannot exist without war. They are victims of the same Mordor they serve. This does not absolve them of responsibility—a person with a "basic morality," according to Shippey, bears responsibility for their choices. But it makes the picture incomparably more tragic than a simple opposition of good and evil.
Part V. The Spiritual Anatomy of Darkness
5.1. Why Evil is Boring and Why This Matters
Hannah Arendt, who attended the trial of Adolf Eichmann—one of the main organizers of the Holocaust—wrote a book whose title became a formula: "Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil." Eichmann was not a monster. He was a bureaucrat. An organizer. An executor. A man who was "just doing his job"—the job of logistics for the destruction of millions of people.
This is perhaps the most terrible discovery of the 20th century: evil does not require diabolical motives. It does not need malice or hatred. It needs only—the absence of thinking. The refusal to think about what is actually happening. Arendt called this "thoughtlessness"—not stupidity, but precisely the refusal to think as an existential choice.
Tolkien shows something similar in orc psychology: most orcs are not "evil." They simply do not think. They obey, fight, kill—not out of hatred, but because this is their world, their norm, their mode of existence. The idea that one could live differently simply does not occur to them—or occurs, as with Gorbag, in the form of a vague dream that will never be realized.
This is precisely why the fight against totalitarianism is first and foremost a fight for thinking. For the human capacity to stop and ask: what am I actually doing? Whose interests does this serve? What are the consequences? Systems that produce orcs destroy this capacity not necessarily by prohibition—it is enough not to let it exercise, replacing questions with slogans, and reflection with ritual.
5.2. Image and Likeness: What Remains Human in the Orc
In Christian anthropology, man is created "in the image and likeness" of God. The image (imago Dei) is that which is inalienable: reason, will, the capacity for love and creativity. Likeness (similitudo) is that which can be lost through sin: concrete conformity to virtue, living communion with God.
Orcs in Tolkien's legendarium are beings who have preserved the image but lost the likeness. They have will—but deformed. They have reason—but serving destruction. They have capacity for relationships—but only in the form of hierarchical fear or animal solidarity. This is a theologically accurate picture of what happens to a person under conditions of systematic suppression of their spiritual nature.
Orthodox theologian Alexander Schmemann wrote about man from whom "the sky has been taken away"—that is, the vertical dimension of existence, correlation with the transcendent. Without sky, only the horizontal remains: power or submission, "us" or "them," survival or perishing. Life is reduced to functions—and in this sense it becomes orcish: quite active, quite effective—and quite devoid of meaning.
But—and this is fundamentally important—lost likeness can be restored. This is not only a Christian, but also a psychological truth. Trauma is not a life sentence. Deformation is not forever. History knows examples of people who emerged from the darkest systems and preserved—or restored—their humanity. This requires conditions: safety, time, an encounter with something capable of answering the question of meaning. But it is possible.
5.3. What Opposes Mordor: A Few Words on Beauty
In "The Lord of the Rings," there is a detail easy to miss: the very presence of beauty possesses power. Elven lands—Lothlórien, Rivendell—are not just physically safe. They restore those who enter them. Frodo, Sam, Aragorn come there exhausted—and leave capable of continuing.
This is not a sentimental detail. Tolkien, as a professional medievalist, knew that beauty in medieval aesthetics is not an adornment of reality, but its manifestation: where there is genuine beauty, there is participation in being. Ugliness is not merely an aesthetic flaw: it is a sign of ontological disturbance, the presence of non-being.
Mordor is ugly not by accident. All of Sauron's industrial machinery—forges, towers, fumes—is an embodiment of alienation from being. It is a world where there is nothing extra, nothing that exists simply because it is beautiful. Only function. Only utility. Only production.
And this is precisely why one of the most profound acts of resistance to totalitarianism is—the creation of beauty. The maintenance of spaces where life is not reduced to function. Reading poetry. Tending gardens. Raising children with stories of good—not as propaganda, but as a living memory that the world is larger than Mordor.
This may seem insignificant against the backdrop of armies and ring-quests. But Tolkien—and here, as always, he is precise—shows that this is precisely what proves decisive. Sam Gamgee carries in his pocket a handful of earth from Galadriel's garden. It is this earth that helps restore the Shire after Saruman's devastation. Beauty is preserved—and restores what war destroyed.
Instead of a Conclusion: The Palantír and the Choice
Tolkien's orcs are not a metaphor. They are an archetype. The difference is fundamental: a metaphor replaces one thing with another, an archetype points to a structure that is embodied in infinitely varied concrete forms. Orcs embody what happens to people—to any people, in any country, any culture—when certain conditions come together in a certain way.
These conditions are well described: the systematic suppression of the vertical dimension of life—meaning, beauty, the transcendent. The replacement of love with fear as the basis of social order. The dehumanization of "others" and the instrumentalization of "one's own." The destruction of thinking through the replacement of questions with slogans.
Where these conditions persist long enough—orcs emerge. Not as a biological species, but as a psychological and spiritual type: people with a "basic morality," capable of solidarity within the group and cruelty outside it, dreaming of "slipping off from the big bosses," but unable to organize life without a hierarchy of domination. People in whom the image of God is preserved—but the likeness is lost.
Sauron is also an archetype. The archetype of power that has turned its desire for order into the destruction of freedom. Power that cannot let go, because without control over others it does not know who it is.
Tolkien—Christian to the marrow of his bones—does not leave us alone with this grim portrait. In his world, there is an answer. Not military, not political—primarily spiritual and personal. It is Frodo's answer, who carries the Ring not because he is stronger than others, but because he does not want power. It is Sam's answer, who follows his friend not out of duty, but out of love. It is Gandalf's answer, who chooses to perish rather than take the Ring—because he knows the price of power.
The choice Tolkien offers is not between strength and weakness, not between victory and defeat. It is a choice between modes of being. Between a world where a person's value is determined by their function—and a world where it is determined by their presence. Between a culture of domination and a culture of gift. Between Mordor and the Shire—not as geographical points, but as existential orientations.
This choice faces every generation. And that people of the 21st century repeatedly turn to images created in the mid-20th century has its own deep logic. Tolkien created a Palantír—a seeing-stone in which the truth about the world is reflected. Looking into it can be agonizing. But looking—is necessary.
