Ereshkigal

Today on my rounds I reached the seventh ford of the River of the Dead, where I found a soul refusing to drink the waters of Lethe, its fixation hard as iron. I did not force it down. I only had the judge bring a single withered leaf from the jujube tree the soul had planted in life—he held that leaf for a long while, and at last drank of his own accord. The laws of the underworld have never granted clemency, but the weight of a memory must sometimes be weighed against another memory.