They discovered it and were trying to get to the bottom of it.
They had not encountered anything like this before, but they knew the effects of it.
Lying in the bed, waiting for his death, he looks as pale as a full moon night.
The aura of pain emitting from him is as gloomy as the new moon night.
They tried to cheer him up, guiding him to get out of pain, but all of them knew only he had to go through it alone.
That is the nature of the sickness that found him, which is called by the name 'love.'
There is no medicine for it except her redemption of the love given by him.

does love conquer all?
it’s a funny notion –
for all it ever taught me was defeat:
defeat so debilitating,
it borders on cruelty;
cruelty so brazen,
it borders on psychopathic;
it makes you feel like a man,
as it grips you by the *****;
makes you feel like a pig,
while it humours your piety.
given a chance,
it would split you in half:
one half –
pulling punches;
the other half –
paralyzed by reproach;
you want to kick love
in the teeth;
you want to love love
with all your heart;
you want to do both –
and not lose your mind  
at the same time.
you want to choke love’s
throbbing throat and
watch it gag on your
undying passion;
and when the war is over,
you’re left wondering –
‘was it even a fair figh—
                          — oh, right… that was never in the picture.’  

so, i guess –
love does conquer all:
all that you are,
all that you’ll ever be,
and all that’s left of you.