Hell Hath No Fury

30 October 1588

Dear Diary,

I’ve always loved Trier this time of year. The way the colors shift into warmer hues despite the brisk air, the bustle of the marketplace, how the Mosel River borders the region like a glistening snake – it’s all so wonderful. Our move from the countryside last year into the city was a highly anticipated one – even though the amount of people here is a bit overwhelming. I’ve made a lot of new friends who have made the transition easier. They’ve taught me so much and I’m grateful for their friendship. They’ve helped me better understand the life I want for myself. Have helped me take my future into my own hands.

And for that, I am forever grateful.

Today, the people are in high spirits, for archbishop Johann von Schönenberg will be overseeing the trial tomorrow within the cathedral. I feel increasingly nervous for the accused, Stefan Müller. They say he is to be tried for witch craft and worshipping the devil. The news was shocking to say the least. Stefan has been the local healer for years, and to think he could have been casting curses and spells on the townsfolk this whole time…it’s obscene, and I shudder to think how this will affect his younger brother, Klaus.

31 October 1588

Dear Diary,

Today has been a day I will not soon forget in my lifetime.

The trial started at dawn within the church. It was an amazing sight, watching the sun wash the bricks white as it rose above the hills. The four cathedral towers loomed like sentries above us as we were ushered into the inner sanctum. I always marvel at the architecture – everything is stone and mosaic tile, archways and high-vaulted ceilings. My favorite part, though, is the hallowed scene set above the choir.

The domed awning has dozens of marble statues set into a black backdrop. Smiling cherubs play their holy instruments as they dance. Angels offering Jesus a thorny crown, a cross, a spear, and incense. Two angels, in particular, always catch my attention. They are in the center of the mass, and hold both a shepherd’s crook and a sword as they blow their divine horns. The sigil of the Catholic church rests beneath them. A dove, outlined by the sun, flies above a benevolent Christ who smiles serenely on his flock. Marble clouds, wings, and grinning, childish faces fill in the remaining space.

It is both glorious…

…and terrifying.

Their blank eyes watch us as we file into the pews. Judging our sins as if they are the catalyst for God’s gaze. I sit towards the middle in hopes of not attracting their unwanted attention. The archbishop waits for the room to quiet down before he begins his sermon. The congregation is restless, eager to begin the trial – but they sing the hymns and take the holy communion without complaint.

The double doors open not soon after and the rustling of chains echoes throughout the sanctuary. We craned our necks in order to catch a glimpse of the witch as he shuffles by, head down. It is obvious in the way that he limps, how is face is swollen and bruised, that he has been tortured. His long blonde hair is matted with blood and an open gash on his arm bleeds freely. I realize, as he passes, all his fingers are missing nails.

Briefly, I wonder, if he confessed to his crimes.

They chained him to the floor before the alter where he is forced to kneel on tattered knees. A high-pitch keening noise escaped him as he settled onto the ground. The cathedral is filled with whispers. Like gossiping winds blowing through high grass, or a nest of serpents hissing their displeasure. I flinch as Klaus, who sits in the first pew, shrieks his brother’s name. He was cuffed by a nearby guard hard enough that he stumbled from his seat.

Archbishop von Schönenberg raised his hands for silence – then the trial began.

Stefan Müller, accused by an anonymous source of the crime of sorcery in the name of Satan plead ‘not guilty’ of the delinquency.

Evidence was levied against him.

Shelves full of mysterious substances and equipment.

Books with demonic summoning circles and spells.

Sketches of an ouroboros.

How he remained unwed and sired no children.

How he openly blasphemed against the Catholic church and its practices.

His attempts at creating the fabled, Philosopher’s Stone.

The list went on and on; each bit of evidence more damning than the last.

When given the opportunity to plead his case, Stefan had called himself an alchemist. A man of science who used his skills to better the community. His knowledge of healing came from books and experimentation, not a power contracted from the Devil.

The archbishop had frowned, unconvinced, and spoke quietly with the bishop on how they should proceed. The flock took a collective inhale, waiting, with smothered grins, for the only outcome available for an obvious witch.

Death.

Klaus had flung himself towards his brother’s shackled form when the verdict was issued. Stefan was to be burned at the stake – a way to cleanse the evil from his soul before God took him to be judged. Wretched tears poured down Klaus’s face; they rained onto the floor before the alter, like an immolation to Christ. His sobs reverberated throughout the hall, a requiem of misery – accompanied by Stefan’s, muffled, broken cries – their hymn was that of loss. Of abandonment. Of grief in its rawest form. Klaus begged, desperately, upon his knees for his brother’s life – to no avail. His forlorn weeping and gasping prayers created a pained, almost familiar, ache in my chest. It raised mottled gooseflesh across my skin.

The congregation adverted their gaze, unable to bear witness to the agony playing out between the two brothers.

Imagine the assembly’s surprise when Noah Wulf – a scholar from the city’s college – marched, grim-faced, down the aisle. He knelt between the brothers, and murmured quieting words to them both. Stefan had looked shocked, then furious, then…resigned. Klaus had just looked grateful as he clung to his brother’s shaking shoulders.

Noah stood then, tall and confident, as he glared at the archbishop behind the alter. His fierce gaze, dark and foreboding, caused a shiver to course down my spine. Here was a man who was not to be reckoned with – who had wealth, power, and family name behind his voice.

The words he spoke felt like a hot brand upon my skin, and I will wear the scars of them for the rest of my days.

“Stefan Müller is innocent. I am the great deceiver. I stole his soul in the name of my Dark Lord, and have been forcing him to commit sin. He had no knowledge of my treachery.”

He reached into his coat pocket and threw a handful of something onto the ground. A jettison of green flame bursts into the air followed by black, gritty smoke.

The flock bleated in fear.

The hissing of serpents filled the cathedral once more – drowning out the angry cries of the archbishop for order. Begrudgingly, the church quieted with wide eyes. The air was thick with murderous intent. I trembled as Archbishop von Schönenberg crossed himself and said a muttered prayer under his breath. He threw his arms wide, robes swayed under the force of the gesture, and sentenced Noah Wulf to death in place of Stefan Müller.

Klaus sighed in relief.

Stefan began to silently cry.

Noah was seized by the crowd.

I was one of the last to leave and watched sadly as the brother’s had exited together.

I trailed behind, watching the crowd who, moments ago, were quiet churchgoers fending off sin – but now are a rabid mob cheering the demise of powerful man. Noah had capitulated himself to their clawing hands – yet his head was held high. Proud. Blood coated my tongue where I bit my cheek too hard.

Several burly men held the scholar against a charred post in the town square. The priests had cleaned up the area the night prior for the eventuality of a guilty verdict. Everyone knew the trial was a farce. No matter what, a witch was to be burned today. Thick chains were pulled from the swarm, and Noah stood stoically as they tied him tight. Bundles of sticks were placed at his feet, piled high, then higher. Everything was doused in oil.

The archbishop stood on the pedestal, in his glittering gold and finery, and spoke to the frothing mob. He praised God’s infinite wisdom. His grace. His mercy. How Satan had no hold on his devout followers. How apostates would be sniffed out, then encouraged the people to do their part in the hunt.

Treachery has no place in Trier.

He had turned to the smirking Noah and demanded he repent for his debasement – rebuke the Devil and beg God to save his soul.

The scholar laughed, the sound insulted and haunting. The gathering gasped at the savagery behind it. Then he spat at Archbishop von Schönenberg’s feet.

“That is what I think of your God! Of you naïve fools! To hell with all of you – I hide in shame no more!” Noah had shouted, a terrible grin stretching across his handsome features.

The archbishop merely shook his head in dismay. “Then let the Devil take you.”

I hadn’t seen the torches being lit, nor the priests throw them at the base of the stake.

What I did see was the ripple of black smoke that shot into the sky. The fire heaved its first breath, became a living thing – a gluttonous thing – as it devoured the oblation set before its maw. Voracious fingers of flame pawed up Noah’s pant legs; the oil he had been soaked with was like water to a parched man – the bonfire guzzled it with gusto.

Then, Noah became the eye of a raging inferno.

His eyes were manic as he screamed into the heavens. He had thrashed wildly against his bonds, shrieking and shrieking like a banshee. His clothes were eaten first, then the conflagration licked along his skin, his hair. It kissed his face; paid special attention to his lips, his eyelids, until they cracked and shriveled from the intensity of the flame’s passion.

And still, he screamed.

The crowd had gone silent, watching this authority burn upon the pyre. More yells to my right, and suddenly a figure lunged onto the pedestal, shoving the archbishop aside.

It was Stefan Müller.

He pitched himself into the flame.

The heat of the bonfire must have been extreme, because he immediately caught fire as he made his way towards a seizing Noah. He became Vulcan, the Roman God of Fire, golden hair a blazing halo that engulfed him. Stefan wrapped his arms around Noah and rested his cheek against the scholar’s charred chest. Cerulean eyes full of admiration. Of love. It was horrible to watch as he stood there, untethered, holding this man as they burned alive.

Black smoke curled thickly from their incinerated remains – the stench was enough to make me gag. I had scanned the crowd for Klaus, and I found him, staring blankly at the burned corpse of his brother. My heart went out to the poor boy. It is difficult losing one’s family – especially when they feel the need to sacrifice themselves. Of this I know too well.

Eventually, the congregation dispersed; they had had enough madness for the day. I stayed behind, transfixed by the blackened cadavers wrapped in a lover’s embrace. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. Only Stefan was supposed to be punished for his crimes.

Two lives had been lost, this day, when only one would have sufficed.

Such a waste – that needless suffering – such a waste.

You see, it was I who alerted the authorities of Stefan’s penchant for blasphemy. It was what my sisters recommended I do after he turned down my engagement proposal. He was an eligible bachelor, and we had become close over the last year – I did not understand his adamant refusal to wed me. I have been called beautiful, intelligent, that any man would be lucky to have me. Not soon after my betrayal is when I witnessed Stefan’s and Noah’s…indiscretion.

Then I understood.

Stefan could not love me, because he already loved another.

A love more taboo than any claims of the occult.

But by then, it was too late – I had already informed the diocese.

I stared and stared – traced the lines where two loves melted into one.

Not all hope is lost though, I will not let their love vanish from this world.

My sisters will be pleased, for tonight is an auspicious night, and we require remains from the newly departed.

Before the priests returned to dispose of the bodies, I had quickly collected a handful of ash from each of them, a bit of bone too, then rushed into the forest.

A full, harvest moon lit the woods like an eerie lantern. I dashed down the familiar trail, bare feet crunching through fallen leaves. I entered the clearing, glad to see my sisters patiently waiting for me.

Gracia. Christina. Ingrid. Hilde.

All nude except for a crown of bones atop each of their heads.

The summoning circle had been prepared.

The Book of the Shadows placed upon the alter in preparation for my dark baptism. It was the Promised Day, my wedding night, and I was told my new husband would love us all infinitely.

I had sprinkled the ashes around the circle, placed the bone fragments beside the book, and joined my coven.

Then – we danced.

Our chanting rang through the trees as we preformed our spell. The candles flickered, our summoning circled glowed crimson, the air became sweltering – but we did not stop. Not when the moon eclipsed, nor when woodland animals joined our waltz, nor when a sentient darkness lifted us into the air.

Not until our Dark Lord stood before us.

He was a satyr, with cloven hooves and furred legs, his human half was both Stefan and Noah transmuted into a single being. Cerulean eyes lingered along our curves and his charming smirk beckoned us closer. Horns curled over tussled, black hair. He touched us, whispered his adoration in a way only the divine could.

When I looked into the molten eyes of my God and he looked back at me, all I could see was love.

My sisters and I love him and he loves us.

If anyone finds this diary just know, we went willingly into his dark embrace – comforted by the fact that he desires us all equally. He hungers for our obedience and our souls – which were given to him unconditionally. Our devotion is absolute.

Tell granny that I will miss her, but not to worry – I am with God now.

Sincerely Yours,

Monika Meyer