A Burden Of Memory And Healing

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Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

“The truth is a burden. You’re lucky you don’t remember.”
That’s what I told him. And, like an innocent child, he believed me without question. Just as it doesn’t occur to him to ask why we lived in this secluded forest, or why he must not wander beyond the boundaries I’ve laid out, or what I ward against.
It pains me to abandon my companions like this. But they remain adamant about killing him. Which I understand. I do. For all his current innocence, he still poses an immense threat.
And yet, having gazed into the soul of the self-proclaimed Paragon of Evil and found its core to be festering grief and aimless hate towards the world which had hurt him so… it would have gone against every one of my vows to strike him down.
My goddess agrees. I cling to that assurance. She empowered me to cast the spell which wiped the Paragon’s mind, regressing him to that sweet, curious boy I saw huddled in the core of his soul. She guided me here. Even now she watches over us. I am carrying out her will. And I will do so as long as I can.
For I fear the spell will not last; even with a goddess’s hand in my own, overcoming the will of such a powerful mage was a struggle indeed. His old self will strive to reassert control.
What can I do?
I spend time with him. Listen to him. Teach him all over how to care for himself. And then how to care for others. When he’s curious about the magics I weave, I teach him those too - ignoring my misgivings, for I know that magic will out. Better for him to be trained this time.
Fire magic is his favourite. Seeing that wild grin with flames reflected in his eyes brings to mind the burning of Ravensbridge, and I cannot keep myself from shuddering. But he listens to me when I caution about the dangers, both mundane and to his soul, from careless channelling of such destructive powers. I hope that shows he’s different now. At least for now.
Then one morning he says he had a strange dream, where he was lying under a tree while a woman patted his head and called him Roy, and he could see a man and a young girl fishing not far away. The dream made him feel very happy, he says, but also somehow sad.
Ah. Based on what I’d seen of his memories, I tell him that was likely his family, that they had died, and the pain of losing them drove him to the state he was in when we met.
The last part a truth carefully chosen to deceive, for his aimless violence when I first encountered him did spring from his tragic loss, fermented and poisoned by the wild energies he dabbled in without wisdom or care.
He sits silent. Digesting this. Then he weeps, and I gather him to me, and we mourn together. Finally airing a wound he has carried for far too long.
He digs graves for them. Erects stone markers, carved with magic he applies under my guidance. Achieving far greater control than he ever could have before.
As he continues to dream of his past, and learns their names one by one, he adds these to the graves, with etchings of what they loved - and what he’d loved about them.
I fear this will turn into obsession, drawing him down the path he’d taken before. But I cannot deny his grief. So I do all I can to help him bear it.
When he dreams of their deaths, the monster that killed them and the storm it carried, of how the fear and pain and grief awoke his magic, our little hut shakes, and I brace for the worst. He rushes out into the gathering rain and I chase after him, magic burning in my hands - but he only went to kneel before their graves.
Standing close behind him, straining my ears to make out what he mumbled, I’m shocked to recognise the prayers I’d said when erecting the markers. So I kneel with him, and join him in prayer, prompting whenever he’s forgotten a section.
Then we go back inside, and he spends the night staring silent into the fire. I meant to stay up with him, but… I drift off and don’t wake until dawn, finding him making pottage.
In bits and pieces we speak about it. His grief flows cleanly.
I hope that’s the end of it. That he will remember no more. And he never speaks of his dreams to me again. Nor does he wallow in pain, instead redoubling his study of magics. He wishes to learn all I could teach him, particularly about healing, and mending, and making right.
Then one day he says “Please, teach me the spell to suppress memories. In case I am ever in your place.”
My stomach drops. Had he simply realised? Or did he remember our confrontation?
Seeing my unease, he smiles. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m grateful. Truly. You were right - this truth is a painful burden to bear. But. I think I rather must.”
His gaze wanders to the open doorway, to the forest… and the wounded lands beyond. “In my lashing out, how many souls were left aching and lost, like mine was? I fear I will never be able to make it all right. But you have taught me that’s no reason not to try. I must speak to your friends. Apologise. Beg for their aid in fixing what I broke and ruined.”
I exhale. Touch his arm, and feel my goddess’s hand resting on my shoulder. “It is always better to leave a good work half-done than never started.”
That night I teach him the remaining spells I know. And the next day we set out, teacher and apprentice, seeking to mend which had been broken.

Prompt was “Write a story containing the line of dialogue ‘The truth is a burden. You’re lucky you don’t remember’.”