My beloved Sigyn, I do not know what else I can put into words. I have done terrible things, but I cannot undo them. I have no one to blame for my death but myself.
Yet.
Yet if I had not done these things, you and I would not have connected, would not have had those sweet dreams together in the courtyard or curled in your bed. Or perhaps we would have, but at a different time. Or perhaps I would have simply died in the Void and nothing would have come of it at all.
I do not know.
I cannot know.
And perhaps that pains me the most. Not knowing and wondering if, had I not, and had you accepted me for what I am, we would have had more time.
I would usually say that what is done is done and it matters little what I wonder, but given that tomorrow I will die, likely by the axe, there is no time later to wonder and worry. Why not spend these last hours envisioning a life of happiness, possibly pretending that it would have happened in time, and smiling as I go?
Or not. It will likely only make me quite sad to think of these things.
I should try to think of nothing at all.
I could also write letters to each of you.
But I cannot think of what else to say. This diary seems letter enough.
Dearest Sigyn, I love you. I would hope for more flowery last words, but they fail me. Tell the children, as I have said before, that I love them, and that I was blessed to hear them call me Father for as long as I did. I hope I did well by them.
Wherever my ashes are buried, likely in a pauper's grave, unmarked on the outskirts of the city, I ask that once a year on a date of your choosing, you bring a rose and briefly remember me. No more, for I cannot stand the thought of you shedding tears for my sake.