What would someone who loved themself do?

Good question, no? Much has happened at The Hermitage since the end of the long 500 years of turmoil, but I managed to survive the massive global apocalypse that followed. Devil be damned, that was harsh. The archdeacon finally did arrive, however, in all his glory. A short peace traveled with him, and momentarily (in the total scheme of things), we did commingle, here at the hermitage. Exquisitely.

You may have gathered, through some sort of suspicious telepathy, that the archdeacon and I were involved in a relationship more than what our job descriptions contained. Well, this juicy fact was known to everyone, no doubt, as I had, while looking out from my high turret window, glimpsed shadowy shapes near the edge of the deepdarkforest that, when squinting and shielding my eyes from the sun, clearly became fairies of the woodland, gayly flitting about and whispering the worst of it. Of course the fairies knew of our tryst, for they enter rooms as they will, through jagged openings where mortar has crumbled, or under a window in the rectory that has been forgetfully left open a crack.

I digress. The point of it is this: What would someone who loved themself do? Or perhaps, to really get to the bottom of it I should say: What would someone do who loved another? After all, the archdeacon and I had been acquainted for decades. Some time before we both landed here, at The Hermitage, we knew one another at seminary, and had mutual friends who, even recently, have decreed him to be among the most revered of human beings, able to generously interpret and explain the most obscure of beloved sacred texts to the dullest of us. He possessed a devilishly lovely sense of humor and had uncanny intuition. These qualities, among others, led from attraction to a great reverence, and our bond grew strong indeed. You might call it a body and soul bond.

Before he died he undoubtedly knew that pages and passages of his sacred manuscripts would not be tolerated by those on high. He knew what was coming, and to protect me he hid said pages behind a heavy stone in the rectory wall where we once left intimate verses, words in fairy language which only he and I knew. I will keep these verses forever hidden behind stone, shared with none but the fairies.

The following lamentations, written during the year after the archdeacon's death, I send into the cosmos as an offering.