He had died in battle, defending the Land, so, as his Beloved, I petitioned the village council for the right to build a memorial in his honour. The council of course had to agree — the gods demanded as such — but there were those sitting on it who did not approve of our love and therefore put restrictions on it. His name would not be engraved, nor would his likeness. The priests would consult with the gods as to its location and the most auspicious day for its purification. I agreed without reservation. The site the priests determined was a short distance outside the village: a rock grotto with barren, twisted trees and dead undergrowth. It was perhaps the most desolate place possible. Could this be right? I asked. With mocking smiles verging on the malevolent, the priests replied it was chosen by the gods themselves: who was I to question their judgment? And so I commissioned a stonemason and an ironworker to build my Beloved’s resting place, and a special ceremony of Purification was written — also, so it was said — by the gods themselves. It verged ever so close on the insulting, yet I had no choice but to accept. The day of the Purification, a storm unlike any could remember swept across the land. Those of us brave enough to do so made our way to the grotto. The rocks shielded us from the brunt of the storm, but the ceremony could only barely be heard above the howling winds that raced through the gnarled branches overhead, creating such a shriek of misery that it was as if the gods themselves had come to mourn my Beloved’s passing. The ceremony was cut short, and we all hastened home to wait for the storm’s passing through the night. It was as if the howls followed us, in a relentless, terrifying barrage of sound… The next day, the skies had cleared, and I hastened to the grotto to complete the Purification… only to discover the once-barren trees were now covered in a profusion of pink and white, and the dead underbrush bore the weight of countless blossoms, all in a field of lush green grass. Amazed, I completed the ceremony, then raced back to the village to tell all what I had seen. The council and the priests returned with me to see the miracle for their own eyes. “This must be witchcraft!” the priests insisted. But how could it be, I asked, since the gods themselves had chosen this place? Did they not trust the wisdom of those they served? Now, it is perhaps the most beautiful place in our humble village. All across the Land, the Day of the Purification is an annual event, with a great festival of music and dancing to honour my Beloved. And when I pass from this earth, I will be interred next to him, and the festival will celebrate us both.