Author's note:
I don't own any of the Lord of the Rings characters, story lines, etc. I'm
only doing this for fun and for my love of Tolkien's works. It's not like
anybody would ever offer to pay me for this anyway, and I couldn't accept
if they did, now could I?
* * * * * * * THE TALE OF MARIAN
Chapter One: Remembrance.
This is a story of love.
None can foresee where love will take us. Love fulfilled leads some to great happiness, yet leads others to their downfall. Love lost or unrequited drives some to accomplish great deeds, and others to fall into darkness, despair, and even death. Love given, even with the best intentions, can result in either good or ill. Love withheld can be a curse, or a blessing.
Love of a person, love of duty, love of an idea, or a place, or a thing: Which is the greater love? Each of us must judge for ourselves. Why does it matter, you may ask? It may be what matters most of all, for what each of us - even the most insignificant of us - loves, and how we choose to show our love. . . . . . . . affects us all.
* * * * *
My name is Jason. I am writing this all down, although stories are better told out loud than read. But soon, none will live who remember. We are no longer a world that has time to teach our children to memorize long tales, or to make them sit and listen. As Marian was wont to tell me, life is too short, too diverse, too complicated. We are specialists, each knowing only our little corner, our own little territory. So we write it all down, copy it, disseminate it on every medium imaginable - papers, magazines, e-mail, faxes, disks - so that as a people, we won't forget the important things. The important things will be there, she assured me, buried somewhere in the flood of worthless information that assaults us every day, so that we can find them when we need to remember.
I am sitting here now, next to her, where she asked me to bring her. This room is where she wanted to die, and how could I deny her? I could never deny Marian anything. I could trick her, tease her mercilessly, goad her, make her laugh, but I could not say no to her. I know every laugh line, every sad line, every wrinkle on her face. I watched them appear and deepen through the years, a map of every step upon our way. Does it sound like I was her lover? I was not. She was my loyal and abiding friend, and I hers, though you wouldn't know it from watching us, unless you watched for a long time.
We had time to talk, here, before she left me. She was old and tired, she said. She was ready to go. At one point she told me that she looked forward to no longer remembering the things that hurt inside, the memories she both cherished and was haunted by every day, even in her dreams at night more often than not. I don't think she meant to tell me that. But didn't we do it, Jason, she then smiled and laughed, weakly now. That was more like her, to look at the good things. Look at what we had done! Look at what you have done, I told her. He would have been proud of you. Maybe, she said, the familiar look of self-doubt clouding her smile. Maybe, in the end, her best would have been good enough for him, after all. A tear slid down her face, and I was sad that I had caused it. But she needed to hear it from someone before she was gone, that he would have approved. She still had faith, she said then, that mankind would not squander the gifts we had been entrusted with. I, Jason, still had time to tend it, to see it unfold. It had been set in motion. It would blossom. Time would tell.
* * * * * * * THE TALE OF MARIAN
Chapter One: Remembrance.
This is a story of love.
None can foresee where love will take us. Love fulfilled leads some to great happiness, yet leads others to their downfall. Love lost or unrequited drives some to accomplish great deeds, and others to fall into darkness, despair, and even death. Love given, even with the best intentions, can result in either good or ill. Love withheld can be a curse, or a blessing.
Love of a person, love of duty, love of an idea, or a place, or a thing: Which is the greater love? Each of us must judge for ourselves. Why does it matter, you may ask? It may be what matters most of all, for what each of us - even the most insignificant of us - loves, and how we choose to show our love. . . . . . . . affects us all.
* * * * *
My name is Jason. I am writing this all down, although stories are better told out loud than read. But soon, none will live who remember. We are no longer a world that has time to teach our children to memorize long tales, or to make them sit and listen. As Marian was wont to tell me, life is too short, too diverse, too complicated. We are specialists, each knowing only our little corner, our own little territory. So we write it all down, copy it, disseminate it on every medium imaginable - papers, magazines, e-mail, faxes, disks - so that as a people, we won't forget the important things. The important things will be there, she assured me, buried somewhere in the flood of worthless information that assaults us every day, so that we can find them when we need to remember.
I am sitting here now, next to her, where she asked me to bring her. This room is where she wanted to die, and how could I deny her? I could never deny Marian anything. I could trick her, tease her mercilessly, goad her, make her laugh, but I could not say no to her. I know every laugh line, every sad line, every wrinkle on her face. I watched them appear and deepen through the years, a map of every step upon our way. Does it sound like I was her lover? I was not. She was my loyal and abiding friend, and I hers, though you wouldn't know it from watching us, unless you watched for a long time.
We had time to talk, here, before she left me. She was old and tired, she said. She was ready to go. At one point she told me that she looked forward to no longer remembering the things that hurt inside, the memories she both cherished and was haunted by every day, even in her dreams at night more often than not. I don't think she meant to tell me that. But didn't we do it, Jason, she then smiled and laughed, weakly now. That was more like her, to look at the good things. Look at what we had done! Look at what you have done, I told her. He would have been proud of you. Maybe, she said, the familiar look of self-doubt clouding her smile. Maybe, in the end, her best would have been good enough for him, after all. A tear slid down her face, and I was sad that I had caused it. But she needed to hear it from someone before she was gone, that he would have approved. She still had faith, she said then, that mankind would not squander the gifts we had been entrusted with. I, Jason, still had time to tend it, to see it unfold. It had been set in motion. It would blossom. Time would tell.