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Last time, we traced the scars of war across Tolkien’s early life. Now, we enter the shadow of The Lord of the Rings—a tale forged in the mud of the trenches and tempered by death, faith, and memory.

Middle-earth is not fantasy—it’s a reckoning. Its wars echo the shell-blasted fields of World War I. Its darkness mirrors the despair Tolkien watched consume friends and empires. Beneath the magic lies something older, heavier: the burden of power, the price of hope, and the slow, gnawing corruption of the soul.

And yet—somehow—light endures. The Lord of the Rings became a banner for peace in the 1960s, a refuge for the disillusioned, and a beacon for those still searching for meaning in a broken world.

This isn’t just myth. It’s warning. It’s memory. It’s a story that keeps speaking—because the darkness it knew is never far from our own. Let’s return to Middle-earth… where every step forward comes with a cost.

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