Disclaimer: I do not own Disney's song Hellfire or The Tudors. Although it would be cool if I did. (:
The night was drafty. The clouds hung with gloom overhead. Inside a desolate room, kneeling by the hearth of the roaring fire was a man who was a pity to behold.
Deep in prayer, trying to find a way out of his plaguing desire was Wolsey. His lips moved fiercely. His words were dry and somber. The cackling of the fire loomed over his ears as if it were laughing at him.
"Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti ….
Beatae Mariae semper Virgini …
Beato Michaeli archangelo ….
Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis …"
When had such a proud man fallen under the spell of such a common women? A woman whom he swore to hate. A woman who hated him above all. But when he opened his eyes he saw her dancing there, swirling in the flames, baiting him to commit sin.
"Et tibit Pater
Quia peccavi nimis"
Her eyes were like coal; they emitted passion, lust, sin. They brought the blood in his veins to scorch from within. To pulsate throughout his body in ways that made him uneasy.
He couldn't. He wouldn't. He was a man of the church! He was pure, clean. But his thoughts were treacherous.
"Cogitatione
Verbo et opera"
Gazing deeper into the dancing flame he saw her again. The sun caught in her raven hair as she spun joyously. A dancer's body, perfect and ripe. Her hair spun wildly only to stop around her slim waist. He could see her. He could almost feel her. The fire's warmth enveloped him.
"Mea culpa
Mea culpa"
The fire in his viens. The burning desire …. But it was not his fault! It was all hers. She was a witch! It had been she who had cast the spell. Who had him on edge to just keep his hands at his side. To not reach out and touch her. To take her as his.
The passion was blinding. It had built up and bubbled over. He could not contain it! He closed his eyes afraid of even opening them.
"Mea maxima culpa
Mea culpa"
He heard her voice. As beautiful as a siren's. As bewitching as one too. "Wolsey," she called, "Wolsey."
"No!" he yelled. Hastily he opened his eyes and looked around. He was alone. Bitterly alone. But he saw here. There and there and everywhere. In a dress the color of red. Of passion. Spinning wildly, laughing with glee. Laughing at him. Her hair was like a dark halo. She was a gypsy.
"Kyrie Eleison"
She spun closer until she reached him. He reached out to grab her but she disappeared beneath his finger tips. A ghost of his longing.
Sweat clung to his brow. His blood pulsated. He groaned in frustration. "Witchcraft," he spat. "It's all witchcraft."
She would burn in hell, he thought. "Protect me Maria, don't let her bring me under. Don't let the witch cast her spell over me. For I am a righteous man!"
But it was too late and he knew. The siren had sung. The witch had cast her spell. She had brought him under.
"Kyrie Eleison"
That beauty. That body. What he would give to touch her! Why had God made man weak? Why was he weak to fall under that harlot's spell?
"God have mercy on me," he mumbled. "God have mercy … on her."
He looked back at the flames and fell to his knees. Anne will be his, regardless of whether he tastes the fires of hell for it.
"Kyrie Eleison"
Thanks for reading!
- owls-and-asters