Sister, it is right for you to weep, for his body is unmade, and his soul rests with our Lady, for he loved you well. But know this. Know that so long as you carry the memory of his light, his love, and let them illuminate this world, then he is not yet dead, but lives with you. Raise your face, little sister, and let your combined light shine.
A millennium ago, the worshippers of the twin gods of Love and Truth established their orders within the growing city of Freeport. There, they trained their crusaders and clerics to go out into the world, to spread kindness, honor, and all manner of things that mankind found good, and to stand in opposition to the agents of the Dark Lords. Among those who stepped out into the world was a young woman, her name lost in time, she is remembered only as the Heartmender. While her mystical power as a healer and channeller of her Goddess' will was great, it was hardly unmatched, and not what she was remembered for. Rather, it would be for her quiet, gentle voice, and the soft touch of her healing fingers, and the calmness and acceptance, the reforged wills and mended souls that she left in her wake. For several decades she walked the war-torn and disease ravaged lands, and where her brethren raised steel against those who would harm others, she spoke to those left behind, assauging their spirits with her love, even as her hands healed their bodies, with both prayers and medicines. A gentle ear, simple herbs, these brought as much relief to those under her care as the magic of her Goddess, for she understood that what humans needed was as much in the heart as in the body.
She came to us, and she taught. She taught us to brew the mint tea for our stomachs, to pack the lamb's ear in wounds. Those who had the talent, she taught the prayers to seal wounds, to ward away the cough and the fever. Where these things were not enough, she worked the will of the gods, making whole our bodies, and our spirits. Aye, sir, we loved her, and wished to keep her, but she could not stay. She loved all men and women, you see, and more than we needed her.
Still, we would see her again, wrapped in the red light of the dawn once more.
And even after she died, that love would be returned to her by the many she cared for, sealed deep within their memories, and passed down in the stories they told their children, and their children's children, and so on, of the kind woman in the robes of the Goddess. In their eyes, she would be as close to an incarnation of the Queen of Love that they ever met. Thus associated with her, her robes would forever be a focus of those memories.
Once a bold red in color, these threadbare robes have faded to a barely pink off-white, while bits of pale yellow thread show where runes of protection once flowed across them. Yet, it is not in the broken runes that the power lies, but in the reputation of their first wearer, in the aura that surrounds them. A quiet calmness emanates from them, an aura that is greatly amplified by any empathy that the wearer might demonstrate for those near her. When worn, if the wearer can find it within them to empthasize, to freely love the injured and ill, they will have the knowledge necessary to bring healing, by calm words and simple remedies. Simply to be near the wearer will be soothing, and slowly healing; and with the active participation and care of the wearer, any injury or illness, may be conquered. Those who have attained the highest levels of peace, and whom already possess the ability to heal wounds by drawing upon the magic of the gods will find that their spells of healing are significantly magnified in power; and they may be able to conquer death itself, provided that the soul of the dead is willing to return. When the power of the robe is invoked thusly, however, all of its power ceases to function for a period of one week, its strength temporarily expended by the effort.
Meanwhile, anger and fear will drive that knowledge from the wearer, and should the wearer's hatred become intense enough, the robes themselves will refuse to even touch them, holding themselves apart from the wearer's body, while clearly desiring nothing more than to be removed.