On Mara

Mara is the way a mother holds your hair back when you’re bent over the toilet bowl, retching and sobbing and begging for just five minutes of sleep. Have you ever considered exactly how beleaguered love is in this universe? This isn’t Enantio-speak, at least not directly; more like, what kind of world is built on the destruction of a brother by a brother, over and over again, with no reconciliation? Why was the first act of creation the death of Love in Nir, before any of that King and Rebel and Observer bullshit?

Brutally, unfairly, Mara is the handmaiden. She is the charitable one. She is the negotiator, the Tear-Wife, the feeder of the sick rather than the leader of the faithful. In a just world, she would be the Almighty, the Wolf-Mother. Restoration would be a perfectly valid school of magic. And yet, she’s fine with her position.

Well, she’s not fine, but the not-fine comes from the anguish of knowing that you should be able to help when you can’t. Ever wonder why she showed up in Morrowind to help you save the Heart and resolve the Tribunal? I mean, the only other guy who even remotely returned your calls is Talos, and it’s his goddamn heart, at least in part. Mara is the white knuckles you get when you hear your girlfriend’s voice break over the phone. They’re four thousand miles away, and they’re hurting, and the best you can do is say “Honey, I’m so sorry,” but inside you’re screaming. You should be there. You should be able to stop the hurt, and the best you have are impotent tears and a couple of salve phrases that don’t accomplish jack shit.

Kyne is at least proactive for the moment; she can do something to keep her mind off the grief. Mara can only put up her tears in silent pleading that they might be used for the spring rains to come. And that’s how it is with grief that isn’t yours, right? You’d love to march up to whoever’s in charge of the world’s ills and deck them right in the face, but that’s not how these things get fixed. You can only hope and pray that someday, you’ll be able to take your list of injustices down off the wall, and spend the rest of eternity drowning them under funnel cakes and movie nights and pillow talks. And someday, you’ll be fine with that too. You never wanted to rule the world; it’s hard enough serving it.