He’d always known that he would be murdered. He would never wither away into old age, becoming feeble and decrepit. He wouldn’t lay down and just die. No, he’d be torn apart limb from limb, spilling his blood into the soil and leaving behind an angry, disturbed energy, imprinting this eternally onto the world. Then, he would return to his throne as a prince of hell. Perhaps again he would return, possessing a new body brought about through another vessel as he’d done this time around.
Eternity stretched out before him, and a horrible, terrible longing for this world’s destruction. Chaos would reign. He finished the final prayer, reaching the end—or beginning, full circle—of the beads. His fingers fell away from the rosary. “The savior’s blood is meant to be spilled,” he said, quietly assuring the youth of fate. “But I will never truly die.” He smiled, wickedly.