Megrin and the Herbs of Memory

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The morning mist hung heavy over the hills as Megrin wandered through the fields. His red cloak was damp with dew, and the flame of his locket shimmered dimly beneath his hood. In his pocket, he carried a bowl of soil containing a single shoot: the Reminora, a plant known only to few. Its leaves could evoke memories so clearly that one could sense the scent, the sound, even the pain of days gone by. Megrin hadn't found it out of curiosity, but because it had come to him. One night when the stars stood unusually still, he had discovered it in the shadow of an ancient stone circle, hidden among ferns. Since then, he had guarded it like a heart of green glass. But as he reached the village, a restless murmur wafted towards him. People stood in groups, their faces pale. "Memories are circulating," a woman whispered. "Yesterday, two men suddenly spoke of an argument that no one but them could have known about. Today, a child cried because it saw a mother who was no longer alive." Megrin immediately sensed what had happened: someone had taken some of the reminora. He hurried to the fountain square and saw an old man standing there, his eyes glazed over, a bundle of bright leaves in his hand. "I remember!" he cried desperately. "My son, his first steps, the song he sang to me. You won't take these images away from me!" The crowd backed away. Memories that burned so strongly could tear a heart apart. Megrin stepped forward. "The plant doesn't belong here," he said calmly. "It feeds on balance. Too much remembering plunges you into yesterday and takes away your today." The man shook his head. "You talk about balance because you don't know what it means to lose!" Tears streamed down his cheeks. He tore at the leaves as if he wanted to devour them. Megrin raised his hand, and the medallion glowed. The flame within flickered, as if reflecting the restlessness of the crowd. "I know what loss is," he said. "But memory doesn't heal if forced. It only heals if carried—and moved on." He approached slowly until the man, trembling, let the leaves fall. Megrin knelt and gently took the bundle. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a packet of common herbs, their scent soothing, and placed them in the man's hands. "These are weak but kind. They let you cling to good people without burning you." The old man sobbed, nodded, and clung to the inconspicuous leaves. But Megrin wrapped the reminora in cloths, secured it with a cord of copper wire, and said: "No man should rule over memories as if they were weapons. They belong to time—and to time alone." The villagers bowed, some in gratitude, others in fear. But Megrin ignored their stares.