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I confess, to almighty God,
And to you, My Brothers and Sisters,
That I have sinned through my own fault,
In my thoughts and in my words,
In what I have done,
And what I have failed
To do;
And I ask the blessed Mary, ever Virgin,
All the Angels and Saints,
And you my Brothers and Sisters,
To pray for me,
To the Lord,
Our God.
~Confiteor

My sword drug through the snow; my black armor, heavy, clanked deeply; my footsteps sank heavily through the deep blanket of white on the ground. It was Christmas Eve, the bells rung, the choir sung, the congregation gathered. I stood outside for the moment, watching them all inside. Then my footsteps carried me on. My sword, given to me, by a master, named for storm, carved its own path through the snow. The castle, my castle, lay ahead.
I climbed the path, my cold and brittle black armor, weighing heavily, cutting deeply, reminding me of my mortality. The shell around me served as weak insulation, the jagged ends had long since cut through my undergarments, and now, pierced the tender flesh beneath. There was a battle, fought, and decided, which drew me so far and made me walk alone, through the long, dark, bitter path, to the place I resided in. I hoped no one would be waiting for me, Ridiva, would have left, her attention for this holiday was lacking. The servants, they should have fled.
That is how I entered the residence, to be greeted by those who believed me worth loyalty.
“Sigfried, my lord, my liege, welcome home.” They called.
“Sigfried, we are glad to see your return.”
“Thanks to you, for remaining here in wait of me, you may leave me if you wish.” But none left. The seven servants, whose loyalty to my father, prevented them from abandoning me. It was his castle, his name, and his nobility, that allowed me to exist here.
I sat at the writing desk, removed my helm, my arm bands and pauldrons, my leggings, and all the armor I could save my breastplate. My once white undergarment, cut from a single piece of cloth, was now stained in reds and browns, torn into pieces, darkened. I coughed, the red on my hand, provided proof that the feeling in my chest was what I believed it was.
“Sir, we have messages.”
“Go ahead.”
“Lady Ridiva has left us, she asked only that we inform you of this.”
Of course, I knew this.
“Lady Lucia sends her warmest wishes, her love, her friendship, from Castel D’Angelii.”
I knew this as well. This time, was the last.
“Thank you, I wish to send her a reply. Tell her thus: Forget me. Forget my name, Forget that you ever knew me. I am but a worthless wretch, on whom your time is wasted.”
“Y-Yes, sir”
I turned now to the desk, and set the parchment before myself. I wrote and recorded the events. I now sit and feel the pain in my chest. I am, I am not worth remembering. I am forgotten. The coughs, which began long ago at the battle continue now.
“Sir, you are trembling.” The servant had said
“Sir Sigfried,  you have a fever”
“I know this,” I had responded “I know too that I have a pain in my head”
“Sir! We shall prepare a meal for you at once and prepare your bedroom”
“There will be no need, I am through.”
The way they looked at me. It was strange. As though pitying the blue dampness of my skin, my deep rattling coughs.
I continue writing, it seems to be, the only thing I have strength to do, despite the blood now seeping through the parchment. Those who leave this world on this day, on Christmas day, are not remembered. This day is solely for the birth of a savior, one so great, that there can be nothing else on this day. Thus there are no memorials. The snow falling outside, is slowly turning to rain, which comes through the window.
I know not what purpose I had, or still have left in me.  Life for me, is not as full of joys and happiness, as that of others. In just living my life, it seems as though sadness piles up all around me, in the walls of this castle, in the black armor I’ve worn, in the sword I bear, in my very body.
Writing is now becoming difficult, hunched over as I am. I have no wishes left.
Lord           I      am      not       worthy    to        receive        you

But

Only      Say    the   word

And I shall be (ed. here, blood smears the parchment, this was found in the castle of one Sigfried van Tono, Christmas day. He expired.)