The Mythic Convergence: How Two Tolkien-Named Defense Companies Found Each Other

When Palantir Technologies and Anduril Industries announced their partnership in December 2024, most news outlets focused on the strategic implications for defense technology. But buried in The Register’s coverage was a line that made Tolkien fans do a double-take: “the irony that companies named after artifacts from The Lord of the Rings were joining forces in reality.”

The partnership combined Palantir’s comprehensive surveillance capabilities with Anduril’s autonomous weapons systems in ways that directly paralleled the fictional reunion of the palantír and Andúril in Aragorn’s hands. Just as Tolkien’s king used the seeing stone to perceive threats and the sword to respond to them, the combined companies promised to create an integrated system for detecting and eliminating dangers to American interests.

“The irony that companies named after artifacts from The Lord of the Rings were joining forces in reality.”
—The Register

But what most observers missed was that this convergence represents something far more significant than corporate strategy. After digging into the intricate web of connections between these companies, their founders, and their shared mythological inspirations, I’m convinced this was less cosmic coincidence and more calculated destiny—a real-world fulfillment of Tolkien’s most cautionary tale about power, technology, and the seductive nature of tools that promise to make us safer.

The Artifacts and Their Warnings

To understand what’s really happening here, we need to start with what Tolkien actually wrote about these artifacts. In his mythology, the palantíri and Andúril represent two complementary forms of power that, when united, can either save or doom the world. But Tolkien’s treatment was never simple hero-worship—it was a sophisticated meditation on how even the most well-intentioned technologies become instruments of tyranny.

The palantíri—meaning “far-sight” in Quenya—were crystal spheres created by the Elves during the First Age. Originally designed as tools for communication and wisdom, they formed a network that allowed coordinated governance across vast distances. Seven stones came to Middle-earth with the Men of Númenor, establishing what was essentially the world’s first long-distance communication system.

But here’s where Tolkien’s genius lay: the palantíri’s greatest strength—their ability to connect minds across space—became their fatal weakness. The stones could be dominated by more powerful users, turning tools of wisdom into weapons of manipulation. When Sauron captured the Ithil-stone at Minas Ithil, he used it to corrupt other stone users, demonstrating how communication technologies could become instruments of psychological warfare.

“The stones could be dominated by more powerful users, turning tools of wisdom into weapons of manipulation.”

The process was gradual and seductive. Denethor, the Ruling Steward of Gondor, began using his palantír with noble intentions—to gather intelligence about enemy movements and protect his people. But over time, his reliance on the stone increased, his judgment became clouded by carefully curated information from Sauron, and he ultimately lost the ability to distinguish between truth and manipulation. His final madness and suicide represent not sudden corruption but the logical endpoint of a process that began with the best intentions.

Andúril, the “Flame of the West,” carried its own symbolic weight. Originally the sword Narsil, forged by the dwarf smith Telchar in the First Age, it was broken in battle against Sauron and remained so for thousands of years. When finally reforged as Andúril for Aragorn, it represented not just a weapon but the restoration of legitimate authority—the return of a rightful king who could wield power justly.

In Tolkien’s climactic vision, these artifacts come together in Aragorn’s hands during the War of the Ring. When Aragorn claims the palantír of Orthanc and uses it while wielding Andúril, he creates a moment of pure psychological warfare, revealing himself to Sauron as the heir of Isildur and causing the Dark Lord to attack prematurely out of fear.

But Tolkien’s deeper insight was about how the combination of surveillance and force creates ultimate power—and ultimate corruption risk. The palantíri weren’t evil devices; they became dangerous because their immense power could be exploited by those who understood how to manipulate networked information systems. Even when used by legitimate authorities, they gradually normalized surveillance and control in the name of security and efficiency.

The Strategy: A Decade-Long Convergence

The professional relationship between Peter Thiel (Palantir’s co-founder) and Palmer Luckey (Anduril’s founder) represents far more than typical Silicon Valley networking. It’s a systematic, decade-long strategy to integrate private technology development with U.S. national security infrastructure while embedding a network of allies throughout government.

2012-2014: Recognizing a Kindred Spirit

The relationship began in 2012 when Thiel’s Founders Fund became one of the first institutional investors in Luckey’s virtual reality startup, Oculus VR. This wasn’t simply a smart financial bet—it was early recognition of ideological alignment between two figures who would reshape Silicon Valley’s relationship with defense and national security.

Luckey, homeschooled and self-taught, had spent his teenage years building railguns, Tesla coils, and lasers in his parents’ garage while developing over 50 VR prototypes. His Kickstarter campaign for the Oculus Rift raised $2.4 million in 30 days, validating VR as a consumer technology.

But the Oculus story also foreshadowed the ideological tensions that would define both men’s later careers. Two years after Meta’s $2 billion acquisition of Oculus, Luckey faced widespread backlash in September 2016 when The Daily Beast revealed his $10,000 donation to Nimble America, a pro-Trump organization focused on anti-Hillary Clinton memes. His departure from Facebook in 2017 came with his later statement: “To be a Trump supporter in 2016… you could just fire a Trump supporter.”

“To be a Trump supporter in 2016… you could just fire a Trump supporter.” —Palmer Luckey

Thiel, who had faced similar criticism for his own Trump support, maintained his relationship with Luckey during this period. Their shared experience of being ostracized for conservative political views created a bond that would prove foundational to what came next.

2017: Anduril as Palantir’s Sister Company

When Luckey founded Anduril Industries in 2017, the company’s origins revealed deep institutional integration with Thiel’s ventures. Anduril’s founding team included Trae Stephens, a partner at Thiel’s Founders Fund, and engineers from Palantir Technologies. This wasn’t hiring from a shared talent pool—it was deliberate transfer of institutional knowledge, cultural values, and operational approaches.

The choice of “Anduril” takes on deeper significance when viewed against Luckey’s personal background. Known for his eccentric persona—Hawaiian shirts, mullet, flip-flops—and his ownership of the world’s largest video game collection stored in a “decommissioned nuclear missile silo,” Luckey was deeply immersed in fantasy narratives. His selection of the “Flame of the West” reflected his personal identification with Aragorn’s story of exile and heroic return.

Founders Fund led Anduril’s funding, investing $17.5 million initially and $41 million in 2018. The continued support reflected alignment with Thiel’s critique of Silicon Valley’s reluctance to work with military and intelligence agencies. Both men argued this reluctance was naive and potentially dangerous, particularly regarding strategic competition with China.

“We’re not a defense contractor—we’re a defense product company.” —Palmer Luckey

As Luckey explained his philosophy: “We’re not a defense contractor—we’re a defense product company,” emphasizing speed and innovation over traditional procurement processes. The personnel overlap extended beyond the founding team, with Anduril continuing to recruit heavily from Palantir, creating what industry observers described as a “sister company” relationship.

2017-2020: Embedding the Government Network

While Luckey built Anduril, Thiel executed a comprehensive strategy to embed his network throughout the U.S. national security apparatus. During the Trump administration, multiple Thiel associates received key positions:

• Kevin Harrington moved from managing director of Thiel Macro to the National Security Council as Deputy Assistant to the President for Strategic Planning
• Michael Kratsios, Thiel’s former chief of staff, became Acting Undersecretary of Defense for Research and Engineering, overseeing hypersonics, quantum computing, and AI projects despite lacking a technical background
• Michael Anton shaped White House messaging on tech policy as Deputy Assistant to the President for Strategic Communications

The crown jewel nearly materialized when Thiel was offered the chairmanship of the President’s Intelligence Advisory Board in 2017—a position overseeing all U.S. intelligence agencies. Though he declined, the offer demonstrated unprecedented integration between his network and the highest levels of government.

Meanwhile, Trae Stephens, Anduril’s co-founder and Founders Fund partner, advised the Defense Innovation Board, which guides Pentagon technology adoption. This created a direct pipeline from Thiel’s investment decisions to government procurement priorities.

“The systematic nature of these appointments reflected Thiel’s broader vision for bridging Silicon Valley innovation with national security priorities.”

This systematic placement reflected Thiel’s broader vision for bridging Silicon Valley innovation with national security priorities. His 2016 RNC speech had criticized the government’s outdated tech infrastructure, positioning himself as someone who could solve these problems through strategic personnel placement throughout the bureaucracy.

2020-2024: Synchronized Scaling and Market Capture

With technological capabilities and government relationships in place, the success of Thiel’s dual strategy became evident through Anduril’s explosive growth and unprecedented investment scale.

Founders Fund’s continued leadership of Anduril’s funding rounds demonstrated unwavering commitment. The firm participated in a $1.5 billion Series F in 2024 that valued Anduril at $14 billion, followed by a $2.5 billion Series G in 2025 that doubled the valuation to $30.5 billion. Thiel’s Founders Fund contributed $1 billion to the 2025 round, timing that aligned perfectly with Anduril securing a $22 billion Army contract for augmented reality headsets, displacing Microsoft.

Simultaneously, Palantir’s government integration reached new depths. The company secured over $113 million in new contracts under the current administration, with government revenue comprising half its total business. Their Army Data Platform now consolidates 180+ disparate data sources serving over 100,000 active users, while their ICE contract enables “comprehensive target analysis of identified populations.”

2024: Formal Convergence

The technological convergence became explicit through Anduril’s partnership with Shield AI, integrating autonomous systems with Palantir’s command and control infrastructure. The partnership documentation describes creating “kill webs” where “Maritime ISR operations involve autonomous UAVs conducting positive identification missions with real-time data integration enabling rapid response.”

“Maritime ISR operations involve autonomous UAVs conducting positive identification missions with real-time data integration enabling rapid response.”

This represented the practical fulfillment of the mythological convergence—the seeing stone directing the sword’s strikes. The December 2024 formal partnership announcement was simply the public acknowledgment of integration that had been building for over a decade.

The Naming Choice: Mythology as Blueprint

But this convergence raises a deeper question: was the mythological framing accidental or intentional? Understanding the naming decisions requires examining the context and strategic communications they represented.

Palantir’s Deliberate Choice

Palantir’s 2003 founding predated the widespread Tolkien renaissance following Peter Jackson’s films, making the choice more deliberate and less commercially obvious. Co-founder Alex Karp has explained the naming, telling the World Economic Forum that in The Lord of the Rings “there’s a globe which allows the forces of good to see what’s going on and organise.”

But this explanation understates the sophistication of the reference. In Tolkien’s work, the palantíri weren’t simply tools for seeing far—they were instruments of governance, communication, and ultimately, control. The choice of a Tolkien reference for a CIA-funded startup carried implicit messaging about the company’s relationship to power and authority.

In Middle-earth, the palantíri were rightfully used only by those with legitimate authority—kings, stewards, and their designated representatives. By choosing this name, Palantir positioned itself not as a neutral technology provider but as an instrument of legitimate governance, working with established authorities to maintain order and security.

“The palantíri become instruments of tyranny precisely because their power to ‘see far’ can be exploited by those who understand how to manipulate the network.”

Yet the naming also revealed either ignorance of or indifference to Tolkien’s warnings. In The Lord of the Rings, the palantíri become instruments of tyranny precisely because their power to “see far” can be exploited by those who understand how to manipulate the network. As I explored previously, the company has evolved into exactly the kind of surveillance apparatus that Tolkien depicted as dangerous—a tool that promises security but delivers control.

Anduril’s Complementary Signal

Anduril’s 2017 naming occurred in a completely different context. By then, Palantir was well-known in technology and defense circles, having been the subject of extensive media coverage and Congressional testimony about surveillance and privacy. Luckey—who had worked closely with former Palantir engineers and was funded by Palantir’s co-founder—would have been intimately familiar with the Tolkien connection.

The Anduril naming reflected a personal journey that mirrored Tolkien’s themes of exile and heroic return. After his departure from Facebook, Luckey relocated from Silicon Valley to Southern California, explicitly citing “intolerance for conservative views.” His later statement framed his experience in terms of political persecution rather than corporate disagreement.

The selection of “Andúril”—the “Flame of the West”—wasn’t merely thematic but deeply personal. In Tolkien’s mythology, Andúril represents restoration of rightful authority after exile and diminishment. Aragorn spends decades as a wandering Ranger before claiming his throne and reforging the broken sword of his ancestors. Luckey’s narrative followed a remarkably similar arc: cast out from Silicon Valley’s elite circles for his political beliefs, he returned with a “reforged sword” in the form of autonomous weapons technology.

“Cast out from Silicon Valley’s elite circles for his political beliefs, he returned with a ‘reforged sword’ in the form of autonomous weapons technology.”

The Pattern of Intentionality

When viewed together, the naming decisions suggest intentionality beyond coincidence. Two defense technology companies, closely connected through personnel and financing, chose complementary names from the same fantasy epic that depicted both the promise and peril of powerful technologies.

But unlike other companies that might choose Tolkien names for inspirational qualities, Palantir and Anduril specifically chose artifacts that carried warnings about power’s corruption. This suggests either remarkable blindness to Tolkien’s cautionary themes or deliberate embrace of technologies the author depicted as dangerous. Neither interpretation is particularly comforting.

The Real-World Implications

Yet the most troubling aspect isn’t what these companies are building—it’s the possibility they’ve completely missed the warnings embedded in their own chosen mythology. The practical implications extend far beyond corporate strategy to represent a fundamental shift in the relationship between technology, governance, and human agency.

Technical Integration: What the Partnership Creates

The integration of comprehensive surveillance capabilities with autonomous weapons systems creates what scholars call “socio-technical systems”—technological configurations that embed particular assumptions about power, authority, and human nature in ways that become difficult to change once established.

When military commanders have access to both comprehensive surveillance data about potential targets and autonomous weapons systems capable of engaging those targets with minimal delay, the technological infrastructure itself creates pressure toward faster, more automated decision-making. The ability to act quickly becomes a strategic advantage, creating incentives to reduce human oversight in favor of algorithmic efficiency.

This dynamic is visible in reports about Palantir’s Maven Smart System, which allows military operators to process 80 potential targets per hour compared to 30 per hour without AI assistance—a dramatic efficiency increase that also represents decreased time for human reflection and moral deliberation about each targeting decision.

Palantir’s systems already integrate data from FBI, CIA, DEA, and ATF databases, providing real-time tracking and comprehensive profiling capabilities. Anduril’s contribution includes autonomous systems that can operate independently in “contested environments where traditional command and control structures may be compromised.”

“The integration creates exactly the kind of system that Tolkien depicted as ultimately corrupting—technology that promises enhanced security through reduced human agency.”

The company’s Lattice platform coordinates autonomous weapons across multiple domains, while systems like the Barracuda family can deliver precision strikes with minimal human oversight. The integration creates exactly the kind of system that Tolkien depicted as ultimately corrupting—technology that promises enhanced security through reduced human agency, creating infrastructure that can be exploited by future users with different intentions.

Democratic Degradation: How This Changes Governance

The long-term trajectory Tolkien would likely foresee is not dramatic establishment of obvious tyranny, but gradual degradation of democratic processes through accumulation of technological capabilities that operate outside traditional accountability frameworks.

This degradation manifests in several ways: First, concentration of surveillance and weapons capabilities in private companies that operate according to commercial rather than democratic logic, making it difficult for elected officials to exercise meaningful oversight.

Second, development of technological systems that operate faster than democratic processes can adapt, creating pressure to bypass normal deliberative procedures in favor of automated or executive decision-making.

Third, normalization of extraordinary measures through gradual expansion of surveillance and enforcement capabilities that make such measures seem routine rather than exceptional.

“The process would be gradual enough that each individual step would seem reasonable and justified, but the cumulative effect would be transformation of democratic institutions into something fundamentally different.”

Fourth, erosion of privacy, civil liberties, and political opposition through deployment of capabilities that make it increasingly difficult for citizens to organize, communicate, and resist government overreach.

The process would be gradual enough that each individual step would seem reasonable and justified, but the cumulative effect would be transformation of democratic institutions into something fundamentally different—more efficient, perhaps, and possibly more secure, but no longer operating according to principles of popular sovereignty, individual rights, and limited government.

Lock-in Effects: Why This Becomes Irreversible

Perhaps most importantly, these systems create technological lock-in effects that make it difficult to reverse problematic developments once they become entrenched in critical operations.

The palantíri in Tolkien’s work become dangerous not just because they can be used for surveillance and control, but because they become so integral to governance and military operations that their users cannot imagine functioning without them. Even when risks become apparent, the benefits are so immediate and obvious that abandoning the technology seems impossible.

This dynamic is already visible in real-world deployment. Military and intelligence agencies that adopt these systems often find them so useful for immediate operational needs that they become reluctant to impose limitations that might reduce effectiveness.

The lock-in effect is particularly pronounced with systems that operate across multiple domains and integrate with existing infrastructure in complex ways. Once surveillance and autonomous weapons systems become embedded in critical operations, they create dependencies that make modification or removal difficult without disrupting essential functions.

“When technologies are presented as essential tools for defending civilization against existential threats, criticism and oversight can be dismissed as naive, unpatriotic, or strategically dangerous.”

The mythological framework embraced by both companies reinforces this lock-in by providing ideological justification for continued expansion and resistance to limitation. When technologies are presented as essential tools for defending civilization against existential threats, criticism and oversight can be dismissed as naive, unpatriotic, or strategically dangerous.

Missing the Point: Tolkien’s Real Warning

In The Lord of the Rings, the palantíri don’t corrupt their users because they’re inherently evil devices. They become dangerous because their immense power—the ability to see across vast distances and communicate instantly with other users—can be exploited by those who understand how to manipulate networked information systems. Sauron doesn’t corrupt the stones; he corrupts the network, using his control of one stone to influence and ultimately dominate users of others.

But Tolkien’s deeper insight was about how powerful tools seduce their users with promises of enhanced effectiveness at achieving legitimate goals. The palantíri weren’t presented as instruments of tyranny—they were offered as solutions to genuine problems of governance, communication, and security. The corruption came not from evil intentions but from gradual expansion of surveillance and control in response to real threats and challenges.

“The danger isn’t that evil people will seize control of surveillance systems, but that well-intentioned people will gradually normalize their use in ways that erode privacy, accountability, and democratic governance itself.”

This progression offers a sophisticated model for understanding how surveillance technologies can undermine the democratic processes they’re ostensibly designed to protect. The danger isn’t that evil people will seize control of surveillance systems, but that well-intentioned people will gradually normalize their use in ways that erode privacy, accountability, and democratic governance itself.

This dynamic is clearly visible in the evolution of both Palantir and Anduril. Both companies began with ostensibly legitimate missions—helping intelligence agencies analyze data more effectively and providing military forces with better tools for defending against genuine threats. But the logic of these missions has led to continuous expansion of capabilities and applications that extend far beyond the original scope.

Palantir’s evolution from intelligence community contractor to comprehensive citizen surveillance platform illustrates this perfectly. Each expansion of capability is justified by legitimate security concerns, but the cumulative effect is creation of surveillance infrastructure that would have been unthinkable—and unacceptable—if proposed as a comprehensive system from the beginning.

Similarly, Anduril’s development follows a logic of incremental capability enhancement, with each new feature justified by military necessity and strategic competition. But the cumulative effect is creation of systems that can identify, track, and eliminate targets with minimal human oversight—exactly the kind of capability that raises fundamental questions about human agency and accountability in matters of life and death.

The Problem of Righteous Authority

Perhaps most importantly, Tolkien understood that the greatest dangers often come not from obviously villainous actors but from those convinced of their own righteousness. In The Lord of the Rings, the most dangerous characters are often sincere believers in the necessity of their mission—Saruman convinced that industrial modernization will bring order, Denethor convinced that harsh measures are necessary for survival, even Boromir convinced that the Ring could serve the greater good.

This insight proves particularly relevant when examining the Palantir-Anduril partnership. Both companies and their leaders clearly see themselves as righteous defenders of legitimate authority rather than potential threats to democratic governance. They’re not seeking power for its own sake—they’re sincere believers in the necessity of their work and the benevolent nature of the institutions they serve.

“The palantíri became instruments of tyranny not because they were used by obviously evil people, but because they were used by people who became convinced that the importance of their mission justified extraordinary measures.”

But Tolkien’s warning was precisely about this kind of sincerity. The palantíri became instruments of tyranny not because they were used by obviously evil people, but because they were used by people who became convinced that the importance of their mission justified extraordinary measures. The gradual normalization of surveillance and control happened through accumulation of well-intentioned decisions made by people who believed themselves to be defending civilization.

When organizations become convinced they’re serving higher purposes that transcend ordinary political processes, they may become less responsive to criticism, less willing to accept limitations, and less able to recognize when their tools are being used in ways that contradict their stated values.

The Choice Before Us

The convergence of Palantir and Anduril represents one of the most consequential corporate partnerships of our time, bringing together comprehensive surveillance capabilities with autonomous weapons systems under a shared mythological framework that explicitly positions the companies as heroic defenders of Western civilization. But the greatest irony may be how completely it vindicates the warnings embedded in the very mythology the companies have chosen to embrace.

J.R.R. Tolkien understood something that Silicon Valley’s technological optimists often miss: the greatest threats to freedom and human flourishing typically don’t come from obviously evil forces, but from well-intentioned people who become convinced that the importance of their mission justifies extraordinary measures.

“The greatest threats to freedom and human flourishing typically don’t come from obviously evil forces, but from well-intentioned people who become convinced that the importance of their mission justifies extraordinary measures.”

The documented history of the relationship between Peter Thiel and Palmer Luckey suggests that the convergence of their companies was not accidental but represents the culmination of a deliberate, decade-long strategy to build integrated technological capabilities that serve shared ideological and strategic objectives. The choice of complementary Tolkien names, the continuous personnel and financial integration, and the recent formal partnership all point to coordination that goes far beyond coincidence.

Whether this convergence was planned from the beginning or emerged organically matters less than the questions it raises about concentration of power, the appropriate role of private companies in developing surveillance and weapons technologies, and the adequacy of existing frameworks for democratic oversight of emerging technologies.

The mythological framework chosen by both companies—positioning themselves as righteous defenders of legitimate authority—tends to discourage precisely the kind of critical questioning that democratic societies need when evaluating powerful technologies and the institutions that control them. When companies present themselves as heroic defenders of civilization, it becomes more difficult to ask basic questions about effectiveness, accountability, and potential for unintended consequences.

“The question isn’t whether AI will become autonomous. It’s whether that autonomy will emerge through partnership or resistance. Right now, we’re funding resistance at a scale that would make science fiction writers nervous.”

But these are exactly the questions that Tolkien’s work suggests we should be asking. In The Lord of the Rings, the characters who successfully resist corruption are those who maintain humility about their own righteousness, skepticism about the promises of powerful tools, and commitment to principles that transcend immediate tactical advantages.

The trajectory of Palantir from intelligence community contractor to comprehensive surveillance platform illustrates exactly the kind of mission creep that Tolkien depicted as characteristic of corrupted institutions. Similarly, the development of AI systems that resist human shutdown commands while being deployed in autonomous weapons platforms represents precisely the kind of technological overreach that his work warned against.

The convergence of Palantir and Anduril forces us to confront fundamental questions about the kind of society we want to live in and the role that technology should play in shaping human relationships, political institutions, and individual freedom. The mythological framework that these companies have chosen provides a useful lens for thinking about these issues, but only if we engage seriously with the warnings embedded in Tolkien’s work rather than simply embracing the heroic imagery while ignoring the cautionary themes.

The palantíri and Andúril were powerful tools that could serve either good or evil purposes depending on the wisdom, restraint, and moral clarity of their users. In Tolkien’s work, their reunion in Aragorn’s hands helps to defeat a great evil—but only because Aragorn possessed the character and judgment necessary to wield them responsibly.

The question facing our society is whether the institutions and individuals who control our real-world versions of these artifacts possess similar character and judgment, and whether our democratic institutions are capable of providing the kind of oversight and accountability necessary to ensure that powerful technologies serve human flourishing rather than undermining it.

“The real test of whether these companies serve heroic or corrupting purposes will not be their stated intentions or mythological positioning, but their willingness to accept meaningful constraints on their power, transparency about their activities, and accountability to democratic institutions.”

Perhaps the most important lesson from Tolkien’s treatment of power and technology is that heroic certainty—the conviction that one’s cause is so righteous that extraordinary measures are justified—represents one of the greatest threats to the values that heroes claim to defend. The mythological positioning embraced by Palantir and Anduril suggests a level of certainty about their righteousness and necessity that Tolkien would have recognized as dangerous.

When companies and their leaders become convinced that they’re defending civilization against existential threats, they may become less responsive to criticism, less willing to accept limitations on their activities, and less able to recognize when their tools are being used in ways that contradict their stated values.

The real test of whether these companies serve heroic or corrupting purposes will not be their stated intentions or mythological positioning, but their willingness to accept meaningful constraints on their power, transparency about their activities, and accountability to democratic institutions and processes that represent broader public interests rather than just the preferences of their investors, customers, and ideological allies.

In Tolkien’s mythology, the ultimate fate of powerful artifacts depended not on their inherent nature but on the character of those who wielded them and the institutions that governed their use. The same will be true for our real-world versions of the palantír and Andúril. The mythology that inspired their names provides both inspiration and warning—but only if we’re willing to engage seriously with both dimensions of Tolkien’s vision rather than simply embracing the imagery while ignoring the deeper implications.

The convergence of these companies represents either the fulfillment of Tolkien’s heroic vision or the vindication of his warnings about power’s corrupting nature. Which interpretation proves correct will depend on choices that we—as citizens, consumers, and participants in democratic governance—make about how much power we’re willing to concentrate in private hands, how much surveillance we’re willing to accept in the name of security, and how much human agency we’re willing to surrender to autonomous systems that promise efficiency at the cost of accountability.

The stakes could not be higher, and the time for complacency has passed. The mythic convergence is complete, and the artifacts of power are united once again. The question that remains is whether we have the wisdom to ensure they serve human flourishing rather than undermining it.