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I don’t remember the day I fell in love. It might have been the day I watched her bathe in a river when we were children, or the day she told me she was in love with me. I might have always loved her. I’ll never know.
The day I told her was dark, and I didn’t know whether or not she would ever give me her response. I don’t know if she even heard me, but when she woke up she kissed me, soft and light. That might have been the day I decided that I wanted to settle down.
A few months later I told her again. It was then that I knew she loved me back. She had taken my hand in hers and we just walked through the forests, calm and in bliss.
The day she told her father is a day I regret. She wanted for us to get married become one forever. She needed her father’s permission to get the sword, it was family tradition. It was that day we moved in together.
The days after that were spent together, doing everything and yet nothing at all. We’d sit in my parents old cottage and just exist in each other’s company.
The day she proposed is the day I knew we were meant to be. We had just gotten a few new books for my library, and she was embroidering a velvet dress of hers. We had taken a break from our respective projects, when she reached into the pile of clothes and pulled out something heavy and iron.
The day I’ll remember forever is the day we got married, we exchanged sweet verses and finally our love was binding and forever.
The day I’m most proud of is the day I got to finally tell her parents that we were moving into the forest. We had gotten a new cottage, with a large plot of land for our horses. Her parents rejected the idea of our love. We haven’t spoken to them since.
The day I felt the most sorrow was today. The day she died of a plague. The monsters who claimed this land their own spread their diseases to all in this country. I survived, she died. She died young and believing I no longer loved her. She died loved.