#heyitsharding

The Grieving Mother has a name, buried somewhere deep in her soul. But she has hidden it away, and out of courtesy Miervaldis does not pry. He understands the desire to shroud the past. He understands too the feeling of being not understood, of watching others in silence, of the desire to choose who sees the truth of oneself.

It is ironic, in a way. Miervaldis is a priest of Berath, and the Grieving Mother is a midwife. One shepherds souls into the world, and the other keeps watch as they depart. And yet for their apparent differences, the two are very similar.

 The Grieving Mother has hidden her memories so deeply within herself that even she cannot reach them. Not on her own. But Miervaldis is a Watcher, and she is a powerful cipher, and between the two of them they uncover the broken pieces of her past, bit by scattered bit.

When the last piece is found and they have formed a full picture, Miervaldis wonders if he should have let them remain lost.

“I did not mean to cause pain,” the Grieving Mother says, her eyes shut tight against the memories. “It was what they wanted. I gave them comfort and guidance, as I always did. I never intended…” She shakes her head, her long dark hair rustling with the movement. “I thought I was doing right. I thought it was what they needed.”

“You may have been correct,” Miervaldis says, and the Grieving Mother halts in her self-admonition to look at him with dark, desperate eyes. “Correct in some manner, at least. You did know what they wanted of you. That’s the essence of it, I believe. The gift and curse of ciphers. Of Watchers, too, in a way. You see into them, their true thoughts, their beliefs and desires. You see everyone so clearly, except for yourself. You cannot dissect your own mind, just as I cannot resolve my own soul. But you convince yourself that you are what they think you are, and that through filling the role they wish of you, you find your purpose.”

“I thought I was doing right,” she repeats. “It was what I was supposed to give. They saw me as good, and so I was. What I did…it helped.” She sighs, a long, exhausted sound. “Until it didn’t. And then they saw me as a monster. Perhaps I was that as well.”

“Sometimes, fate can be cruel,” Miervaldis says evenly. “Sometimes doing the right thing can still wrong.” He feels the turmoil in the Grieving Mother’s soul, as glaring as the winter sun, and slowly places a hand on her shoulder. She trembles at the touch, but does not shy away. “That does not make one a monster.”

The Grieving Mother is quiet for a moment, and then says in her wind-whisper voice, “You are defined by your gifts as I am, and through them we have both found our path in this world. It was a path I was happy to walk, once, but now I find myself frozen in place. I cannot continue, knowing what I have done, and yet I cannot stray.”

“What would you have me do?” Miervaldis asks, although he already knows the answer. He can see the wish pulsing through her soul.

Absolution.

“Cleanse my soul of these memories,” she says. “I tried to hide them away, but my efforts only resulted in their fracture. You…you could erase them fully, and I will be free to continue forward in peace.”

It would be an act of mercy, Miervaldis knows. Just as The Grieving Mother’s initial deceptions were an act of mercy, for both parents and children. But mercy only delayed their pain, and in the end their peace could not last.

But The Grieving Mother knows this. She is no fool, and she now remembers fully her deeds and their consequences. Yet she still asks. Peace is too tempting a promise to give up, and Miervaldis has seen the end of enough lives to know that sometimes, peace is all that can be offered. It is the Usher’s greatest gift, oft overlooked and yet deeply treasured. Surely Berath would not begrudge this request?

Perhaps these are the reasons he agrees. Perhaps he knows this is what the Grieving Mother wants of him, and does not have it within him to deny her a refuge from her harsh reality, just as she once could not deny others. They are, after all, very similar.

 The Grieving Mother had a name, once. Miervaldis wipes it away, along with the remnants of a fractured memory and ruined life. He hopes his actions will help, and worries they will not. He wonders if he is allowing himself to be blinded by mercy just as she once was.

Which is more valuable, truth or mercy? He muses to himself as he carefully washes over the woman’s memories. The question stirs something within him, echoing other unanswered questions within his own soul even as he banishes the secrets of another. You always see other more clearly than you do yourself, he thinks again ruefully. The curse of ciphers and Watchers alike.

When it is done, Miervaldis can at least comfort himself with the fact that this was what the Grieving Mother wanted. Peace, of the same kind she could not resist granting to others.