Free Descent Into Madness by Catherine Woods-Field

feared his love – faced with the insurmountable pressures of immortality - would be fleeting. His love, as true as his intentions had been, did fade.  And when it did, what remained were two estranged beings and a gaping maw of guilt that became my cilice. 
                  For twelve years, we traveled together; as we traversed Europe, his mind began its subtle decline. I absorbed myself in the culture - the art, the architecture, and literature of Paris, of Madrid, of Berlin, of Moscow. I relished in the nightlife, in the festivals, and the balls. At times life seemed bearable for Aksel; then he would slip into a fit of hysterics or sulk into a room surrounded by darkness, and sit this way the entire night. Leaving him alone was the only thing one could do. He became irrational and sentimental, and spoke of nothing but the "old country," as if his lamenting would erase time. His sanity was slipping with the years, and I was powerless to help him.
                  Aksel spoke often of returning to his mother country – as if it would be a simple feat for me. 
                  "And do you think you would find tolerance there, Aksel?" I would ask him each time. "Acceptance?"
                  He never answered me.
                  "Wesley forced me from the convent; you chose this." I explained to him as gently as if I were speaking to a child.              
                  "The loss you feel for those you knew and loved, for your home land, it will never go away. You must now accept change, Aksel. Change will happen at a rapid pace now that you are immortal. You have to witness this for yourself! Time is nothing anymore. A century is but a decade and a year is but a moment. Life, my love, is nothing but a flash. Can you not see this?”
                  “The ones you loved when you were human, they have all passed this world. The ones you know now will be gone in the blink of an eye. It goes by that quickly with us, and we must treasure every second of it. Hold yourself not to one place, not to one moment, but be open to the change. It is going to happen, with or without you."               However, he would not heed my advice, and resentment swelled within him. It ate at him like a cancer. He became a mirror for pain and despair, reflecting blackness; and I had no cure for his ills. 
                  It was winter, 1470, and we were now in Buda, traveling along the Carpathian Mountains. Buda was the capitol of Hungary until the Ottoman Empire captured it in 1541; it later merged with the town’ sỚ buda and Pest to form Budapest in 1873.
                  Everything stunk of paprika in Budapest; it lingered on its peoples clothing, in their hair, and even in their blood cells, which we greedily drank. We slept in caves, abandoned mines, and fed off fattened villagers. I still left my prey dazed but alive, but occasionally Aksel would drain his, knowing too well that this would cause unwanted attention from a superstition people.
     
                  Buda, Hungary…
                  There was a cabin in which a couple resided on the outskirts of a tiny village, and we found ourselves there one night, about to feed. We had watched them prepare their meal, and observed the violent aroma of paprika and garlic wafting from the cabin.
                  Our senses, more acute than before the transformation, revolted against these pungent aromas. They stung at our membranes, burned our eyes. Merely odorous nuisances, they did not work as apotropaics deterring our entrance.
                  Yet as I approached the house, I turned my head to see Aksel still in the bushes a few yards back, carefully concealed in the shadows. He turned and walked a few feet before vanishing into the dreary night. I let him feed alone that evening, a night that became one night