My darling, my life,

I've imagined my death time and time again. My life cut short by an ill-fated adventure, by an act of nature beyond my control. By war, perhaps, or the irony of never returning from the rite that would mark my ascension into lichdom. In each imagined circumstance, I was alone. The void frightened me terribly, as I knew not what lay beyond. I know, now. I would say that it's difficult to describe how one thinks, as a soul removed from its vessel, but I suppose I needn't search for the words when you know the sensation as well as I do — better, perhaps, for having known it first. It is strangely inchoate, isn't it? As though seeing things in colors rather than through words. My point is, I think I followed the shades of you. I wasn't afraid when we went to bed, and I wasn't afraid then, either. Some might say there's no reason for a soul or spirit to feel fear, but I think we both know that isn't truly the case. There are things in this world worth fearing.

I'm certain you could tell, that day, that I had thought again and again of how best to spare you. And yet, in your shoes, I'd have done the same thing. Brewed your tea myself, stayed with you until time came to bury you in the earth. It was selfish of me to expect otherwise. Can you forgive me my foolishness? You told me you love me — and, fool that I am, I wonder if I allowed that moment to pass too quickly, because you'd made it clear to me before in so many ways. That doesn't mean you can't still be angry with me. And you should be, when after all you've done for me — dressing me, loving me, killing me — I repaid you with grief. Well, grief and loneliness. As tempting as it is to separate the two, I've begun to think they're inextricably intertwined. Even in life, I've grown used to the color of you ever in my periphery, if not the center of my focus. I expect it, desire it, savor it. What to do, when you were no longer with me? I thought Manfred extraordinary for his drive, hence my placing him into a skeleton. I still think him extraordinary, but I understand him better. I think you would have still treated me fondly, were I but a wisp trailing in your shadow.

So, far from disapproving, the entire ordeal has only made me love you more. There's no part of you that could ever repulse me — affection aside, you forget I've dealt day in and day out with the fine matter and tissue that make up the mortal body. A little bile is nothing, though I'd free you from the cycle if I could. Which brings us back to this experiment's first figure, though that's not what I mean to spend this time on. (And I told you, didn't I, that my heart would still burn for you when we're both naught but bones? When no physical plane can contain my love for you save through the current of magic?)

But enough of questions. I've one more request to make of you, if you'd entertain the thought. You mentioned the gold I wear — I'd like to know if there's such a token you'd part with for me. I told you, I think, that each piece I wear bears a significance to me, from the bracelet given to me upon my joining the ranks of the Mourn Watch, to the ring that was once my father's. My eternity, each minute and hour, each day and year that stretches out since the moment we met, belongs to you. I'd wear something in honor of that, if you'd allow it. In one sense, I suppose I already bear a mark — if I gave you my death, does the mark of it upon my chest not belong to you? But I'd request something else, still; something you choose, rather than something I cast upon you.

Thank you, regardless. Thank you for loving me.

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Emmrich