There are consequences for breaking the rules, even if you have the best of intentions.

Glûg and the orcs during the Seige of Eregion / Credit: Ross Ferguson / Prime Video. Copyright: Amazon MGM Studios.

We don’t see a lot of betrayal throughout The Lord of the Rings.

I know what you’re thinking: In The Lord of the Rings, Isildur betrays all of Middle-earth, Saruman betrays Gandalf, Smeagol betrays Deagol, and Gollum betrays Frodo, and Boromir betrays the Fellowship. And in Amazon’s Lord of the Rings TV show The Rings of Power, the Dark Wizard (pretty much “Saruman 1.0”) betrays the Stranger (actually “Gandalf 1.0”), Ar-Pharazôn betrays Miriel, and Glûg betrays Adar.

That’s a pretty solid list of backstabbing. So allow me to rephrase: We don’t see a lot of betrayal by anyone acting outside of Sauron’s influence, directly or indirectly. The only thing that prevents me from declaring we don’t see any betrayal outside of Sauron’s influence is my lack of encyclopedic knowledge of author J.R.R. Tolkien’s Legendarium. But other than Melkor’s original rebellion, I would wager there are few, if any, examples of betrayal that can’t be quickly traced back to Sauron and his Rings.

Compare this, for example, to George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series, adapted for TV as Game of Thrones, in which we can list off nearly as many acts of betrayal in the first season/book alone: the assassination of Jon Arryn by his wife Lysa, Jaime Lannister shoving Bran from the tower, Cersei drugging King Robert on the hunt, Mirri Maz Duur cursing Khal Drogo, the Kingsguard hunting Arya and capturing Sansa, Joffrey ordering Ned Stark’s execution, the existence of Littlefinger.

In Westeros, acts of betrayal are muddled with conflicting motivations that we, the audience, agonize over as much as the characters themselves. But in Middle-earth, an act of betrayal is an act of evil, period. It makes sense when we stop and remember the first book of Tolkien’s famous trilogy has “Fellowship” in its title. The bonds between and among elves, dwarves, humans, and hobbits are paramount to Tolkien. Our heroes fight to preserve them, and where they erode, greed, pride, ambition, cruelty–and Sauron’s manipulations are to blame.

Until Glûg.

Glûg is an orc. He is the only orc throughout The Rings of Power (and perhaps throughout all works set in Middle-earth) who appears to have any sort of noble intentions. Glûg wants a home where he and his partner can raise their orc baby beneath the safety of an ash-covered sky. To achieve this end, Glûg serves Adar, a fallen elf who has become something like the adoptive father of orc-kind. The Uruk (“orc” in orc) refer to Adar as “Lordfather” because they believe Adar cares for them and fights for their well-being. Adar’s actions throughout Season 2, however, undermine Glûg’s trust in his Lordfather. Glûg fears Adar has become blinded by fear and lost sight of what’s best for the Uruk of Mordor.

Sam Hazeldine as Adar / The Rings of Power

And so, Glûg betrays Adar to Sauron, not out of a selfish desire to usurp Adar’s command, nor out of ambition to impose his will upon the peoples of Middle-earth, nor even out of hatred for Adar himself. Glûg believes Adar has broken his promise and Sauron will be the one to fulfill it. His decision to mutiny is as noble as one can be, coming from a place of concern not only for his own well-being, but his orc family and the rest of his Uruk brethren.

Of course, Glûg is wrong. Sauron does not have the orcs’ best interest in mind, and Glûg learns this with a sword through his throat. Such is the fate of orcs.

Orcs, hobbits and the little people in Middle-earth

Tolkien never crafted a definitive origin for orcs. Ironically, this arguably makes them the most authentic creatures of his mythology, as their origins are a tangle of conflicting stories ultimately muddled in shadow, much like our own. One relatively consistent element of their origins, however, is that orcs are doomed to bend to the will of Sauron (and Morgoth before him). In other words, orcs aren’t inherently evil, per se, but the arc of their history bends toward injustice.

Try as they might — though they don’t seem to try very hard — orcs are perpetually susceptible to the spirits of malice and discord that first formed them. One could argue this makes Glûg’s betrayal the most orc-like thing he could do: All his altruistic intentions lead him to murder one of the only beings to ever really care about him.

On the other hand, if we set aside the whole “cold-blooded murder” thing for a second, we might describe Glûg as a warrior who fights for his people’s future and, in order to do so, must confront someone he used to trust. We could use that same description to describe Elendil, Elrond, and Prince Durin. Except when elves, dwarves, and humans fight for the sacred bonds of fellowship, they gird themselves in plot armor more indestructible than mithril chainmail, and we call them good. When an orc fights for the sacred bonds of fellowship, they get a sword through the throat, and we call them Glûg.

When Tolkien wrote The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, he understood readers would relate most to characters who weren’t supposed to be heroes, which is why in a world filled with elves, dwarves, and great men (the omission of women from this phrasing is deliberate), the fate of creation falls to Gollum, Bilbo, and Frodo, the overlooked hobbits. The Rings of Power attempts to give us new hobbits in the form of the Harfoots (and the Stoors), but Glûg shows us if anyone should be “the new hobbits,” it should be the orcs, a people doomed to perpetuate and fall victim to evil despite their best intentions.

If the creators of Rings of Power ever considered that notion, they killed it at the end of season 2 (With a sword. Through the throat). But that’s okay, because orcs can’t be heroes. That would be breaking the rules.