Ice and shadow descended upon the land. Long was the winter, cold the days. It was as though some malevolent enemy had spread its dark will across the earth, covering the ground with frost and snow, obscuring the skies in a blanket of grey, forcing men inside where the only respite was found in Netflix and ever-increasing power bills. In the fourth day of the first month I strode through my living room fortress and beheld the desolation before me. "It is too cold to go outside. Darkness has taken from me the will to leave," I said to my wife, Lady Brooke.
She nodded. "Troubling have been my thoughts of late. The apathy and ennui of these days weigh heavily upon me." She paused. "And yet, even in this dull hour, all hope is not lost. Did we not recently commemorate the birth of the celebrated Tolkien of old? Can we not find reason to further celebrate his honorable life?"
My brow furrowed as I stared intently at the entertainment center. "Perhaps," I whispered. "Perhaps." A thought began to form, beginning in the deepest parts of me as something primal and unspoken, until it spread through my entire being. Below the television, in the DVD stack, were the Chronicles of Tolkein, in their extended glory. But did I dare? For I knew that once began, the Chronicles had the power to ensnare our minds and capture our attention span to the exclusion of all other activity. Sleeping, eating, shopping: all of these would be lost forever until Tolkien's creation freed us from its grasp. And yet I knew that it was meant to be. The burden was ours to bear. "We will watch the Chronicles," I declared. Brooke nodded in solemn agreement. And so it began.
