I will love you

In this life and all the ones after.

"I love you," whispered he in my ear. He said. So then why, not even a year later, has the Priest ordered his mouth stitched, his eyes the same, doctor with needle and thread? And the shears he cut hair with not fifteen minutes ago. The harlot screamed, cursed revenge upon all who defiled him, damned him to their scorning fire. Something, perhaps the devil itself heard him. For when his breathing halted, his chest stuttered no more; dead, the boy did not stop screaming. And he was not alone. In pain and with no Earthly answer did they die. And he rose again.

The despondent soul travelled. Long after his body was buried and gone. He would always awake again. In the gays, in the not, in those who hated, and those who loved. Ones with seventeen wives, ones with one singular link to this wretched world, one who yearned to kill and put to end such vile sin. Each and every time his hands stained with blood. Each and every time he killed his own kind. It was evil and it was cruel and Aster will surely die without Wilhelm by his side.

A curse for so many hundreds and hundreds of years and a hundred more. Perhaps, at long last, broken by a love that would not succumb. Wilhelm, no matter what Aster's prolific, vengeful howls said, did not let what he felt falter. Wilhelm dead. Aster clinically deranged.