Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

And so, Will Graham found himself in a small village called Loreto, nestled in the rolling hills of Le Marche, in central Italy. He looked up at a man sitting in a dimly lit room, surrounded by people who kneeled at his feet. He is leaned forward, his hand resting on the bowed head of a frail woman. His expression is serene, his eyes cast downward, and a soft, golden glow emanates faintly from his touch, illuminating the worn wooden table beside him, where a bowl of herbs and olive oil sits. The woman’s eyes are rolling back and her mouth is slightly open. Behind him, the room fades into shadow, its only adornments a plain cross and the faint outline of an olive branch carved into the wall. Will stares at this man depicted in oil on a golden framed canvas.

“That’s Saint Hannibal,” a young woman with doe eyes said. Mirriam, her name was, and she was the one who found Will, wet from the rain, his white shirt stuck to flesh, hardening his nipples, pink through the fabric, probably ripe to the tongue. Cheeks red as cherry from running, lashes thick with rain, falling like teardrops on his boyish face. Pink, glistening lips trembling with cold as he sat, freezing, on the seat of the cheapest bus he could find. She’d offered him a towel, and a blanket, and asked him where he was going in Loreto, to which he replied with “I’m actually not sure, I—Just needed to find a new place to live,” and Mirriam, being aptly trained to spot the wounded and weak, saw right there and then, that he was perfect.

He had nowhere to go, and the money in his pocket would not last long, and Mirriam had spoken of a place, a commune, where Will could be welcomed and given free shelter and sustenance, and all he had to do was help around. And so, there he was, in the Cappella of San Hannibal, a chapel, in the rural part of Loreto. He stared at the painting on the wall again, smiled kindly to Mirriam and said “Oh.” She smiled, not looking at him but at the art, and told him “he’s not a popular saint, he’s mostly local, but he was a great man for this place, donated a lot, healed folks for free”, Will nodded and she continued, walking away from the painting, and Will followed behind. “I know you said you’re not very religious but…I think you’ll feel his touch once you start being here every day.”

It wasn’t long before Will found comfort in the commune’s routine. He’d mostly help with cleaning, organizing and occasionally helping in the ceremonies. He grew up catholic, but hadn’t known much about god personally, yet he did find a curiously enticing presence in the cappella. When the rector, a man named Jim, invited him to the weekly catechism, he agreed, mostly to be polite, although a bit uncertain at first. Upon arriving at the room, where whitewashed walls bore faint cracks and held a single, unadorned crucifix, Will sat and listened. Father Crawford, the chapel’s priest, talked of the rapture of San Hannibal, of a sacred alabaster of onyx and of salvation, “with his healing hands, San Hannibal of Elation washes away our guilt, raising our flesh to the Heavens,” he said, and Will knew nothing of the meaning of those words, but he was curious of how the saint’s name resonated in his lower belly, out of all places, sending a tingling sensation that should feel inappropriate, but did not.

At the commune’s residence, Will slept in a narrow room on a bed scarcely wider than a cot, beneath a wooden crucifix that cast long, solemn shadows by candlelight. The room was part of the boys’ quarters, yet he was spared the burden of sharing it. He tolerated the other boys well enough, but Will had always been delicate—too finely attuned to the presence of others, their restless minds that seem to talk to his, the weight of their gazes. Prolonged company stirred something in him, something volatile, something that had once left his parents stricken with fear.

As a child, Will’s body was an instrument of hysteria, seizing in fits that rattled the bedframe and sent his mother into frantic prayers. His father, less pious, resorted to rope. They would bound him at night, desperate for rest, though neither bindings nor blessings could quell the storms that raged in him. By thirteen, doctors had declared him “neurotic” and sentenced him to the cold precision of electroconvulsive therapy. The years passed, but the treatments did nothing but carve silence into him. When that failed, they sent him away at age seventeen—two years in a sanatorium where his body bore bruises as proof of their attempts to cure what they did not understand.

When he returned home, he could not speak, his voice stolen from him. And when he began to waste away, letting hunger hollow him out, his parents spoke of sending him back. That was when he ran.

That was how he came to Loreto. To the Cappella of San Hannibal of Elation. To the stillness of his monastic room, where only the cross bore witness to the fervor rising in him.

And the fits did not cease when he came to the commune—no, they followed him like a shadow, relentless and inescapable. Running from home had not freed him from himself. Every night, they overtook him. But he had learned, long before, to suffer in silence. He knew better than to wake the others, to let his body’s betrayals disturb the hush of the commune. He feared their judgment, feared what they might do if they saw him thrashing, feared they would call him possessed. He had seen what happened to those believed to be touched by darkness—a woman in the sanatorium had tried to drown her own child, certain the Devil had taken root in its skin.

So Will bound himself. He would tie his wrists to the bedpost with the clothes he was given, bracing for what he knew would come. And still, his body rebelled. It bucked against its restraints, lurching in frantic, stifled violence, his limbs jerking against the bindings until bruises bloomed along his arms, dark as ink stains. They joined the marks already scattered across his skin—silent testaments to all the ways he had been subdued, contained, made small in the face of his own unrest. Sleep was a fleeting thing, a cruel whisper that never stayed. 

Yet when morning came, he’d use his teeth to free himself from the ropes, and rose. There was no refuge in sleep here as there had been back home, no collapsing into bed for hours when exhaustion threatened to consume him. He had work to do. The commune, the chapel—they demanded his effort, his gratitude and payment. And so, half-conscious and swaying on his feet, he did as was required of him. He dragged himself through the corridors, his eyes burning, his body heavy with weariness , the fullness of his skin, flushed with the heat, catching the light where sweat pooled in beads along his collarbone, damp in the hollows of his throat . More than once, as he scrubbed the chapel floors, his knees buckled and his forehead met the cold stone, He lingered there, dazed, the scent of old stone and faint incense curling in his lungs, the way it offered relief to his fevered flesh. H is mind slipping toward unconsciousness before he wrenched himself back.

"Child, pray for the Saint to keep you at night," Father Crawford told him one morning, catching sight of his bloodshot eyes, the hollowed-out weariness etched into his face. "He heals those afflicted by night terrors."

So as memories flickered behind his closed eyes that night, Will rose from his bed, drawn by a restless need for relief, the wooden frame creaking softly beneath him as he shifted. The lace-trimmed sheets clung to his skin, thin with age, their delicate weave damp from sleep. As he pushed them aside, they slid over his thighs, pooling at his hips. The heat of his body lingered in the fabric, the ghost of his warmth trapped in the fine embroidery. He sat up, his bare shoulders flushed, his collarbones slick where sweat had gathered in the night. The stale summer air pressed against him, thick and drowsy, as he dragged a hand through his hair, heavy with tiredness.

He had exhausted every means of quieting his mind and body, and so, as a final concession to hope, he chose to do as he had seen the others do—to light a candle for the Saint.

Every bedroom held a modest table meant for devotion. His had remained untouched, a space he had avoided without ever questioning why. Whether out of reverence or reluctance, fear or something nameless, he had let it sit in silence. But that night, as the storm raged beyond his window, rattling the walls with its fury, Will reached for the old red lighter resting on his bedside table. With a flick of his thumb, the flame leapt to life, a flicker of gold blooming in the dimness, its glow licking over his skin, trembling  as he brought it to the waiting wick of a single white candle. The wax softened instantly, scentless but warm.

The soft glow illuminated the wooden-framed image before him—the serene face of the man who, they said, had healed the sick with his touch. His gaze was gentle, his hands poised in benediction. Will hesitated, then picked up the prayer card he had been given on his first day, its edges softened by time. He whispered the words written there:

"Oh, blessed Saint Hannibal, healer of weary hearts, grant me peace in my turmoil, strength in my weakness, and hope in my despair. Lay your healing touch upon my spirit, that I may rise whole and elated, to walk in the grace of your eternal care. Amen."

The candlelight flickered. The thunder rolled.

Will lay back down, his body sinking into the mattress, and in his dreams, a cooling hand came to rest upon his fevered brow. Firm and large, it cradled him in its touch, and he drifted into the hush of weightless clouds until morning came. He slept peacefully. For the first time in his life.

The morning after, he felt strange. He had never been a believer, nor quite a non-believer either; faith had simply never touched him. Yet he had prayed, and something had answered. It worked. Whatever it was—whatever reached through him, unfurling in the marrow of his body—it worked. A miracle in itself. For the first time he could recall, he woke up feeling rested, as though some invisible weight had lifted.

That afternoon, he was assigned to clean the library within the chapel. On his way, he passed the painting again—the one of Saint Hannibal and the woman. He had seen it before, but this time, something in his body commanded him to stop. His gaze lingered, drinking in the details he had previously overlooked. The saint’s hair caught the light—whether from the sun or the flickering glow of candle flames, he could not tell—but it shimmered like silver thread. His cheekbones were prominent, almost severe, and his eyes, small yet piercing, glowed with an amber hue, kissed with red at their depths. His hands, veined and strong, belonged to an elder man, yet his form was neither frail nor old. He was something else. And the woman—he had not truly seen her before, not like this. Her body was painted with such exquisite sensuality, every curve a hymn to flesh. The red of her dress, almost translucent, revealed the faint outline of her pinkish nipples beneath. Will caught himself staring, mouth slightly parted, before tearing his gaze away and pressing on.

The library was modest yet nice, lined with shelves that bristled with books, their spines dulled by time. A large window at the back allowed sunlight to stream in, painting long golden streaks across the wooden floor. He set to work, pulling out books, dusting the shelves, the small of his back curving as he leaned forward, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight over the soft, taut line of his spine. Hair falling in loose strands, framing the curve of his neck, some of it brushing against the back of his ear with each subtle turn of his head. His lashes fluttered as he scanned the titles, a fleeting, unintentional gesture, but one that caught the light just enough to make the shadows beneath his eyes seem even deeper. Yet his mind was not adrift in its usual chaotic reveries. It was fixed. Fixed on hands—on long fingers, thick veins, the sensation of a touch—

His own fingers hesitated on the spine of a book. It was covered in deep red fabric, the title etched in gold: Liber E. There was no author, no indication of origin. A flicker of curiosity burned in him, and he opened it. The first page bore only three words: The Path of Ecstasy. His pulse quickened. He turned another page.

Of Saint Hannibal of Elation, and the workings of the initiate.

Curiosity now a fever, he abandoned his task entirely, retreating into the book’s depths.

LIBER SANCTI HANNIBAL’S
A Treatise on the Arcane Rites of Divine Ecstasy

To feast upon the marrow of divinity, one must first unmake the self. In dissolution, the soul is tempered; in sacrifice, it is refined. He who walks the path of Saint Hannibal must drink deep of his mysteries, for his hands, sanctified by the flesh of offering, unlock the gates of rapture untold. The profane shall cower before the truth, for ecstasy is the gift of the chosen, and agony its twin. To suffer is to be reshaped; to surrender is to be crowned. Blessed is he who submits, for he shall be devoured by grace and unsurmountable pleasure.

Will's throat worked, a hard, deliberate swallow that caused the muscles in his neck to tighten, the delicate line of his jaw shifting as he gulped down whatever thoughts were stirring within him. He had never read anything like that before. His world had been one of simple fables, of children’s tales where magic was bright and good. But this was something else. It unsettled him, yet he could not turn away. Slipping the small book into his pocket, he forced himself to finish his cleaning. Back in his room, he hid the book beneath his pillow. That night, he prayed again. And in his sleep, he dreamed of hands, that gripped his hair, gently but firm, pulling and tugging through the strands with hunger that made Will's scalp burn, a tender, delicious pain that rooted itself deep. The fingers dug in, the nails pressing into the softness, scraping against his skin with a delightful pressure that could break him open.

Then, the hand slid down the back of his neck, curving around the tender flesh with possessive ease. The pulse there thrummed beneath his skin, hot and wet, sticky with the heat of it. Will leaned into the touch, mouth parting, trying to drink the sensation in, his body aching with something thick and heavy—something sweet and rotten all at once. His throat contracted, every muscle in his neck tightening as he swallowed down the burn of unbearable longing, a slow, sticky ache that spread through him, coating him in its warmth.

When he woke, he felt rested, yet his body ached. A bittersweet, hollow yearning. He did not know if it was a trick of his imagination, or something more. He could not bring himself to care. It was healing him, and that was enough.

Chapter Text

As the weeks passed Will became even more familiar with the commune, weaving into the rhythms of its people. Among them was a girl his age, Alana. She was sweet, devout, draped always in white lace that clung to her figure like a bridal veil. She was ever at the altar, tending to candles, reading the Saint’s booklet, studying at the library, anointing the sick who sought blessings. She had been kind to him since his arrival. It was she who had first given him the Saint’s prayer card.

One afternoon, as he wiped down the altar, he found her oiling candles.

“What is that for?” he asked.

She glanced up, a gentle smile gracing her lips. “The oil?”

He nodded.

“They are holy oils, meant to anoint the candles—to consecrate them, so they may burn in proper worship.”

He feigned understanding, watching as she worked with practiced grace. The rich scent of sandalwood filled the space, clinging to the air between them. “Hey, Alana,” he ventured, hesitant. She met his gaze, waiting. “Have you ever seen a red book in the chapel’s library?”

Her hands stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming. “Liber E?”

“Yes.”

She continued anointing, though her movements were slower now, measured. A lock of dark hair, concealed beneath her delicate lace veil, slipped forward. “Yes, I have.”

She hesitated. He stepped closer, picked up a candle to help her, and looked at her, urging her to tell more.

A sigh, barely audible. “I— well, don’t go telling everyone, but…I tried some of the practices.” Her voice was soft, confessional. “In secrecy.”

That caught his attention. “And?”

She turned to face him fully, the light from the stained glass window catching in her blue eyes. “I felt nothing.” A pause, then: “so I stopped.”

He frowned. “Why?”

Her lips parted, then pressed into a thin line. “I think that book was written under spiritual delusion. It should not be here. Are you reading it?”

“Um, no,” he lied, poorly. “I mean—I read a little.”

Her gaze sharpened. “You should drop it, Will. I don’t think it’s a good source.”

They finished their work in silence, parting ways soon after. But Will was not afraid. Not impressed, nor shaken. Alana, for all her devotion, was ruled by fear. He was not. Whatever Liber E was, it did not frighten him. It called to him.

That night, he continues reading, reclining on his bed, his body a silhouette against the soft beige sheets, their edges kissed with delicate lace. His skin, unburdened by the modest garments he wears throughout the day, feels liberated in the cool air, the red book resting on his bare chest.

And every night, without exception, Saint Hannibal finds him in his dreams, appearing with the same deliberate grace. The saint’s fingers linger in his hair, each stroke slow and deliberate, tasting the sensation, savoring the softness of it, as if Will was something to be devoured. The touch doesn't end—it presses deeper into him, a steady rhythm that refuses to let go, each finger curling into his scalp, massaging the space between his ears with a tenderness so sharp it borders on discomfort, but stays just on the perfect edge of pleasure, too. The saint's hand moves with purpose, firm, but coaxing, urging him closer, pulling him into a softness, unbearable and necessary. The scent around them—sickly sweet, like ripe fruit, rotting in the warmth—clings to the air, thick and heavy, wrapping itself around Will’s senses.

He is clothed in pale, flowing garments, the fabric so thin and delicate it shimmers under the dim light, the softest whisper of a cloud caught on the edge of the wind. The edges of his robes graze the floor, whispering with his every movement, caressing the marble beneath him as he shifts ever so slightly, the sound so faint it’s barely perceptible. The room is suffused with a dim, golden light that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. The walls are distant, obscured by a haze of mist that rolls and swirls lazily in the air, thick like a fog. The ceiling above them is impossibly high, vanishing into darkness, as if the dream itself has no end. Heavy drapes of deep crimson hang along the walls, swaying with a breeze that comes from nowhere. There is a faint sound, soft and rhythmic, like the faint pulse of a heartbeat, a deep, slow thrum that vibrates, a sound he feels in his very chest as much as he hears.

The Saint’s garment clings to his body in places—across his broad chest, just below the ribs, where it dips in a soft curve, outlining the firmness of him. In other places, it billows, the folds rippling like water, pooling at his feet in a sea of white that glow from within, illuminated by something otherworldly.

His face is serene, yet there is something dark that seems to wait just beneath the surface of that ethereal calm. His features are perfect, almost too perfect, chiseled with an intensity that borders on inhumane. A high forehead, light, almost invisible brows furrowed in an unreadable expression, eyes that are too piercing, too knowing, as though he could see into the very depths of Will’s soul. His lips are full and slightly parted, the faintest curve at the edges, as if he’s about to smile, though no such expression ever quite forms. His skin is so honeyed, the color of sunset, but beneath it, the faintest trace of veins ripple like the currents of a still pond. His hair falls in soft, unkempt waves, silver as the moon in the night sky, tumbling past his shoulders in waves of ink that seem to catch the light in strange, mesmerizing ways.

Will’s own body trembles in the Saint’s presence, responding to his touch, his energy, the weight of his gaze. His skin is flush with warmth, flushed from the heat, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. Sweat beads on his brow, the delicate skin of his neck. His bare chest is damp, slick, the muscles of his back flexing with each subtle shift as he kneels, his body as pliant and fragile as a leaf in the breeze. 

Will kneels on the floor, the marble cool beneath him, but the heat of the Saint’s presence is so all-encompassing, so consuming, that it feels as though the very air itself is pulsing with warmth. His knees press against the cold stone, the sensation sharp against his skin, yet he remains still, unable to move, anchored in place by the weight of the Saint's attention. The floor beneath him is smooth, glistening with some unseen moisture that only seems to enhance the dreamy atmosphere.

Saint Hannibal’s gaze remains locked with Will's, unwavering, searching for something within him, something only he can see. His expression is unreadable, yet the faintest curve at the corner of his lips betrays a knowing, a satisfaction that Will cannot understand. He wants to speak, but the words die in his throat before they can leave his lips, smothered by the intensity of the moment.

The air between them thickens, the silence stretched to its breaking point, and Will’s chest tightens, his pulse quickening. He feels the pressure of the Saint’s presence all around him, a weight that presses into his skin, into his very bones, until he can barely breathe. There is nothing else but this moment, this suffocating, infinite moment, where time stretches and warps, where everything else fades into the background and all that remains is the saintly touch, the heat of his skin, and the weight of his attention.

Kneeled at His feet, just as the woman in the painting had, the image searing itself into his memory.

By day, as he carried out his duties, Will felt a growing obsession with the Saint’s paintings, unable to let go of the affection of his dreams, as if they were portals of attachment, where he could perhaps feel a lingering of His touch. Three paintings adorned the chapel, one more within the main house. One depicted the woman in red, near the entrance of the chapel. Another, right at the altar, showed the Saint standing alone, his eyes calm, a soft smile playing on his lips, draped in robes of green and gold. Yet another, in the corridor that led to the bedrooms, captured him holding the alabaster, smooth and gleaming in one hand, the other resting near the center of his belly, just above his loins. There is one more, on the kitchen, a group scene, with Saint Hannibal encircled by people, all of them frozen in a rapture of movement, their bodies responding to him as he stands at their center. The final one is a portrait, hung on a door, behind the altar. It’s only his face, serene and unearthly. His eyes are a deep reddish-brown, and his lips are full and inviting, as if sculpted by desire itself. He looks hungry, that lingers in Will’s mind, a thought he quickly dismisses, though the image gnaws at him.

Over time, Will realizes the depth of his fixation, as moments spent in front of the paintings slip away unnoticed, entire hours vanishing into the still air. He catches himself staring at the Saint’s face in the largest painting, the one in the chapel where he stands alone, green and gold draping his body in soft folds, the light around him warm and glowing. Will tries to focus on the details—the folds of fabric, the delicate brushstrokes of the faint smile—but he drifts, and when he comes back to himself, his mouth is dry, his body tight, his knees weak. He does not remember what he was thinking, only that his heart is racing, his skin feels flushed, and his hands tremble when he looks away.

At night, it deepens.

Saint Hannibal visits him in dreams, yes, but it no longer feels like a simple vision, something passive and holy. When he opens his eyes in the dream, Saint Hannibal sits before him, his presence so close that Will feels the heat radiating off his body in waves. His face is close enough now that Will can count the individual lashes that frame those dark, knowing eyes, feel the brush of His breath, warm and slow, stirring the damp strands of Will’s hair. The room around them is dim, suffused with a golden haze, casting flickering shadows that twist like smoke in the air.

Will’s breathing slows, sinking deeper into the dream, into the sensation of being held by something soft and divine—but insistent, demanding. The Saint’s hands hover over him, so close to his skin that Will can feel the electric hum of their presence before they make contact. A gentle caress traces the curve of his jaw, the lightest brush against the sensitive pulse at his throat, fingers lingering there. He shudders, a quiet, breathless sound escaping his lips, and it makes Saint Hannibal smile—just a fraction, a fleeting curl of the lips that never quite completes itself.

"Rest," the Saint murmurs, but the word holds no tenderness. It is not a command, nor is it a request. It is a promise, wrapped in silk, dripping with possession like honey oozing out of Will’s apertures. And his body responds before his mind can catch up. He lowers his head, his body curling toward the Saint’s lap, pushed by his heart into this position, coaxing him to find comfort. His head rests there, soft and yielding, his skin hot to the touch, every nerve exposed, every inch of him a live wire trembling in the Saint’s grasp.

Saintly fingers move again, curling beneath Will’s chin, lifting his face to meet his gaze. Will’s pulse races, the quick thrum of his heartbeat matching the rhythm of the Saint’s slow touch. The warmth of the Saint’s fingers on his skin is almost unbearable, and the sensation seeps deep into him, consuming. Slowly, painfully so, the Saint leans down, bringing his lips to Will’s forehead, to the soft curve of his eyelids, then, finally, to his mouth. The kiss is not rushed, but it is purposeful, pressing against his lips with a weight that makes Will’s entire body shiver.

The kiss deepens, a warmth spreading through Will, a burn that settles low in his belly, his thighs tightening. He can taste something in the kiss—an overwhelming sweetness that clings to his tongue, thick, coating the roof of his mouth. It floods his senses, that slippery, slithery texture, drowning him in it, and the pressure of the Saint’s body against him grows, subtle but insistent, pressing him into the softness of the floor beneath them. Wherever that is.

Will cannot speak, cannot breathe, as the Saint’s lips move over his own, gentle but demanding, pulling him deeper into the kiss. His hands curl into the folds of the Saint’s robes, the fabric slipping through his fingers like silk, soft and cool with the touch of sweat that has begun to bead on his skin. Every inch of Will’s body hums, vibrating, with the feeling of being wanted, of being drawn toward something ancient and terrifying and delicious.

The Saint pulls back, just enough for Will to gasp, the air suddenly cool against his fevered skin. His chest rises and falls quickly, but the Saint was not done. His fingers glide to Will’s throat again, tilting his head back with gentle authority, the pressure there so light, delicate, but commanding. His gaze locks with Will’s, and there is a knowing in those dark depths, a glint of danger.

Something in him breaks wide open, spreading out in all directions, filling him with an ache so deep. He wants Him to say something, anything, but He doesn’t. With a trembling body, heavy with want, Will cannot help but lean into the Saint’s touch once more, offering himself up.

The dream stretches on, unbroken, endless.

Will wakes with his thighs aching, his hands curled into the sheets, the feeling of fingers ghosting over his scalp, his throat, his lips. It’s a sensation that used to feel like one of his fits, yet now…Now they are pleasurable. Immensely so. And the feeling  would linger, those long fingers tilting his chin up, of warm lips pressing to his forehead, his eyelids, his mouth—

Breathless, his skin damp, and his body throbbing with need, Will would wake up so rested. So…Happy? Will Graham was starting to experience what it was to be happy. An emotion he never thought could reach him.

And it eagered him, it made him hungry. Which led him enticed to try one of the rites of the book. The neophyte rite, as it was titled. It called for six candles, three black ones and three red ones. Which Will got from the chapel’s apothecary. He did as the book instructed, placing the candles on a circle on the floor, and laying in the middle, naked, reciting those strange words:

I call forth, from the depths of the womb, the All-Mother, she who is the veil of night and the first light of creation.

Sacred One, who births the dawn, whose breast feeds the soil, whose rivers flow with the blood of the earth, I bid thee rise!

Lend thy womb to my soul, thy touch to my hands, thy warmth to my spirit.

Mother of Night, I seek thy embrace, that I may be remade in thy image.

By the waters of thy blood, by the fire of thy hearth, by the silence of thy waiting, I summon thee.

By the Father who stands at the crossroads of dawn and dusk, who wears the crown of stars, I beckon thee!

O Father, whose gaze is the truth of the heavens, whose heart beats with the rhythm of the universe, guide me with thy strength, thy wisdom, thy sovereign law.

In thy hands I place my fate, under thy gaze I am reborn.

By thy sword, by thy flame, by thy oath I swear loyalty.

I call thee, O Father, to bestow upon me thy guidance and thy wrath.

Lastly, I summon the Cocumbine, the keeper of secret pleasures and forbidden unions,
She who is the lover of both sun and moon, whose touch stirs desire like a serpent’s tongue.

O Cocumbine, keeper of the hidden path, whom none but the chosen may trace,
I offer my devotion to thee, that thy flame may burn within me.

Grant me the knowledge of thine intimate ways, that I may partake in the mysteries unknown, whisper thy secrets into my flesh, O Mistress of the sacred union.
By thy body, by thy breath, by thy sighs I am bound to thee.

Mother, Father, Cocumbine—three forces in one,

Come forth in this hour, bless me with your presence,

And let the veil between worlds part as the sacred energies converge.

As it is written in the blood of the ancients, so it shall be done.

At first, Will felt nothing. But then, with an intensity that seemed to tear through him, a searing heat ignited in his lower belly, a sharp, consuming sensation that surged violently through his loins. The rush of it was so sudden, so acute, that it blurred his vision—everything went white, and he collapsed, his body giving way to the overwhelming force. He awoke moments later, disoriented, as his senses slowly returned to him.

His gaze fell to his belly, where a slick, warm coating glistened on his skin, his body’s sweet release staining him in a way he had never known, for coming, was to Will as seizing. He had been marred by his own body to attempt at pleasure. But this sensation was alien and intoxicating, an unfamiliar bliss that left him dizzy and breathless. Will felt the stirrings of something primal deep within him, a hunger that demanded to be sated once more, and immediately.

As his mind cleared, he noticed something else—impossibly, the candles he had set earlier had melted completely in mere moments. His heart quickened as he staggered to his feet, still dizzy from the intensity of his rapture. He dressed hastily, the tremor in his limbs betraying the disquiet within, before rushing out to retrieve more candles, eager to repeat the ritual.

Entering the chapel, the faintest light caught his eye—something at the altar. His breath caught in his throat as he moved closer. The painting of the Saint was glowing, an ethereal, pulsing light radiating from within the image itself. No candles were lit, and yet, the painting seemed to breathe, as if alive. Will stepped forward, drawn by the magnetic pull of the Saint’s gaze. When he stood directly before it, and the saint’s eyes moved, locking with his. Will’s heart lurched in his chest, a surge of panic slamming through him as he dropped to his knees, the cold stone floor grounding him in a way he could not escape. His hands trembled violently in front of him, his breath short, as terror and something more compelling gripped him.

For a moment, he was paralyzed, but as the weight of the Saint’s gaze held him captive, a strange calm descended upon him. The fear ebbed, replaced by an overwhelming peace that seemed to wash over his entire body. Slowly, almost against his will, his hands rose, trembling, reaching for the canvas. As his fingers brushed against the Saint’s robes, a jolt of energy shot through him, starting at his fingertips and racing down through his body, straight to his cock. The sensation was like fire and ice entwined, a current of pure power that left him breathless.

Before he could fully process it, a voice broke the trance. It was Alana, calling out his name, standing some distance away. He startled, jerking back from the painting as if burned, and scrambled to his feet, instinctively trying to steady himself. She approached, holding a bundle of candles, confused to see Will there. He struggled to regain his composure, his voice shaky as he mumbled an excuse, claiming that he had come to pray, unable to sleep, feeling the Saint's presence.

Alana’s smile was brief, polite. "That is wonderful, Will. I am happy you are coming to His ways," she said, her tone a little hurried, eager to begin her own vigil. Understanding the need for her privacy, Will nodded, murmuring his goodnights before retreating, unable to get more candles.

Though he had not repeated the ritual, and the fire of his desire remained unfulfilled, Will did not end that night entirely disheartened. As he lay in bed, he found solace in prayer, but his dreams carried him somewhere far more vivid, far more intoxicating. He dreamt of Saint Hannibal, the Saint’s presence so vivid he could almost feel the warmth of His touch. In the dream, he sat upon the Saint’s lap, their bodies entwined in an embrace within a meadow bathed in soft, golden light. Will wore a diaphanous, white robe that clung to his form, exposing his bare flesh, while Saint Hannibal’s robes were green and gold, open at the chest, His hands firmly gripping Will’s thighs with a tenderness of ownership, and possession. Will could feel the Saint’s heat radiating from His chest, the sensation of being held so close, of being claimed, of being wanted.

Will’s legs folded beneath him, his head tilted back, resting against the Saint’s chest, and He shifts beneath him, and Will’s body instinctively responds—his own limbs curling around the Saint’s, his hands falling to the folds of fabric at his waist, feeling the silken texture between his fingers. The fabric of the Saint’s robes is cool to the touch, but Will’s own skin is feverish, every inch of him alive with sensation. His hands tremble as they move, unsure at first.

Will’s lips part with a soft sigh. The saint’s hand moves again, resting on the back of Will’s neck, his touch firm but never harsh. The pressure of it sends a ripple of warmth down Will’s spine, a thrill that spreads outward, igniting the tips of his fingers, the pulse in his throat, the ache in his thighs.

His breath becomes shallow, quickening as the Saint shifts once more. His leg is pressed against Will’s side now, the heat of it seeping through the layers of their clothing, a friction that builds between them. Will shifts too, a slight arch of his back. His fingers slide beneath the fabric of the Saint’s robes, tracing the line of muscle at his side, feeling the tension there, the power in the curve of his body. His palms flatten against the Saint’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the layers of clothing.

And when the Saint finally leans down, his lips brushing against Will’s forehead, the kiss is soft and deep, pressing against the skin, a promise. A claim. Will’s pulse skips, his body shifting against the Saint’s, seeking more.

He awoke with the full force of that yearning pulsing through his body, a deep, aching hunger that refused to be quieted. His entire being cried out for Him. The boundary between dream and reality blurred as he lay there, breathless, consumed by a desire he could neither understand nor deny. It did not matter if it was mere fantasy, for his body had already spoken its truth. He wanted to return—to stay there, in the warmth of Saint Hannibal’s lap, to remain in that sacred, undeniable connection. The need, the hunger, was too deep, too real to ignore.

Chapter Text

And Will’s days followed their quiet, monotonous rhythm—tending to his duties, performing the humdrum tasks that were required of him. Often, this meant scrubbing dishes in the commune’s small kitchen, the clatter of porcelain against metal punctuating the otherwise still air. It was during one such routine that he first encountered Deacon Clark Ingram. The man’s smile was something that set Will’s nerves on edge, its coldness and calculating nature sending a tremor down his spine. There was something unnervingly familiar about it, a glint that reminded him of a nurse in the sanatorium, someone who had taken his voice away, made him feel small, vulnerable, in ways that left scars no one could see.

As Will stood at the sink on one of his first days, his hands immersed in suds, he was caught off guard when Ingram approached. The Deacon passed too close, the length of his body brushing against Will’s back in a way that felt deliberate. His voice, smooth and saccharine, slithered through the air. “What a joy to have a new face around. And such a beautiful one at that. Welcome to our home, Will.” His words dripped with a faux innocence, but Will saw through the facade immediately—this was not a man of pure intentions.

From that moment, Will's every instinct screamed at him to avoid Ingram. Whenever their paths crossed, he made an effort to step aside, to slip out of the man’s reach as quickly as possible. He could feel the cold, predatory energy emanating from the Deacon, and he saw the way Peter, the mute boy from the commune, shrank whenever Ingram approached. The poor boy trembled visibly, his fear palpable. Will could do little but watch, knowing that nothing could be done in the open. He knew too well how these things played out—awareness and avoidance were his only shields. All he could do now was be vigilant, to keep his distance and remain unnoticed by Ingram, for as long as possible.

And every night, Will immersed himself in Liber E., absorbing its cryptic words with rapt attention. One evening, as he traced the inked passages, his eyes landed on a name scribbled above a sentence: "The alabaster shall be given to the dilectissimus." Someone had written Clarice above the word “dilectissimus” in careful strokes. He scanned further, searching for more, but the name appeared nowhere else.

That word, dilectissimus, tugged at something in his memory. He had seen it before—the painting. The woman in red. And that night, his dreams were steeped in crimson.

He found himself draped in crimson fabric, silk-like teasing his bare skin as it flowed across his body, pooling at his knees and shoulders. The fabric clung to his form, the heat of his body coaxing it to melt against his skin like liquid fire, sending shivers that seemed to ripple out from the center of his chest. 

His knees were pressed into the cool wood beneath him, the grain of the floor rough and unyielding against his skin. His legs parted, a soft strain in his hips, and he could feel the bottom of his ass resting against his heels, and how he was unconsciously rearing it ever so slightly. He could almost taste the air, thick with desire, oozing like nectar drew from carnal relish.

His hands splayed before him, fingers trembling softly as they brushed over the wooden floor, feeling its imperfections, the smoothness of the grain, the occasional sharp edge. His breath came slowly, deeper now, his lungs filling with the intoxicating heaviness of the room, as if the air was saturated with something that called him to surrender.

Before him, the Saint sat in a grand chair, his eyes locked on Will with a hunger so palpable, it seemed to reach out, wrapping around him like bondage. The Saint’s gaze was unblinking, every inch of him seeming to devour Will’s body, every trembling breath. Will could feel it, a tangible pressure pressing against him, coaxing his body to respond. The heat in his chest bloomed, spilling down into his stomach, his thighs, until it pooled in his testicles. And like a thread that make his hips arch, his spine curve even more, the Saint’s gaze had a growing thrum that made his pulse race.

There was no need for words; the air between them was thick with something potent—ancient and primal. Will knew he must look wanton, exposed in his position, randy, even, like a little harlot posing for an artist in ancient times. But he couldn’t bring himself to care, at least not enough to stop, not when Saint Hannibal looked so approving of it, pleased with it. The warmth of his body, the delicate pull of the fabric against his skin, the unyielding presence of the Saint before him—everything was a dizzying mix of sensation that rooted him in place, made him feel weightless and tethered at once.

The pulsating throb in his cock was a constant, a reminder of the power that seemed to surge from the Saint’s gaze. Will stayed perfectly still, caught in the languid ebb and flow of the moment, his limbs tingling with the pull of desire. The fabric on his skin burned with its touch, the roughness of the wooden floor beneath him offering some balance, while everything else, everything he could taste, touch, feel, was a distant, sweet dream, where nothing existed but the undeniable pull between them.

The next morning, while dusting the chapel, Will found Mirriam cleaning the paintings. Sunlight caught in her blonde hair as she carefully wiped the ornate frames.

"Mirriam?" Will stepped closer.

She turned with a smile. "Hi, Will."

He pointed beneath the painting. "What does San Hannibal et Dilectissimus mean?"

"Saint Hannibal and his most beloved."

"Oh." A sharp pang cut through him, swift and unnameable. "He was married?"

"No—at least, not that we know of." Mirriam’s hands glided over the canvas frame, delicate and reverent. "This is Clarícia,” the name echoed in Will’s mind, pulling on something familiar. “She was a devout woman who served Saint Hannibal as a man."

Will frowned. "Served… how?"

"Oh, you know," she said with a shrug. "He was a busy man. She was always near him, helping, learning. She devoted herself to his teachings and preached his words after he was gone."

Will hesitated before asking, uncertain how such questions were received here. "How did he die?"

Mirriam’s movements slowed, as if the answer was sacred. "Saint Hannibal’s final miracle as a living man was his ascension. He told his followers he was ready to leave this world, and so he did—peacefully, in his sleep."

The words echoed in Will’s mind, unsettling in their certainty. Was that even possible?

He wanted to know more. Needed to. And he knew where he had to go.

It was Saturday, and on Saturdays, they only worked in the morning. The rest of the day was theirs. So Will spent his hours in the chapel’s library, buried in books and papers from their archive, unraveling the mysteries of Saint Hannibal.

Founding Charter of the Cappella di San Hannibal

In Nomine Domini, Anno Domini 1295

By the grace of Almighty God and under the sacred authority of the Holy Mother Church, we, the clergy and faithful of the Diocese of Fermo, do hereby establish the Cappella di San Hannibal, to the everlasting glory of God and in veneration of His servant, Saint Hannibal of Elation. This holy site, situated in the village of Loreto within the blessed province of Le Marche, is consecrated as a place of devotion, prayer, and healing for the afflicted.

Let it be known that Saint Hannibal, a physician of both body and soul, lived among us in great generosity, tending to the poor and infirm with selfless charity. He brought solace to those burdened by melancholia and profound desolation of the spirit. The afflicted who sought his intercession have been blessed with elation of spirit, liberation from sorrow, and profound peace.

Therefore, it is decreed that this chapel be dedicated to the memory of Saint Hannibal, where pilgrims may come to honor his name and seek his intercession. We entrust its care to the clergy of this diocese and ordain that the following feast days shall be observed in his honor:

• April 2: The Feast of Saint Hannibal’s Ascension into Glory.
• August 15: The Feast of Divine Elation, commemorating the miraculous healings attributed to his intercession.

The Cappella di San Hannibal houses a relic of the saint and remain a beacon of solace for those burdened by affliction. The relic, described as a sacred wand made of alabaster and believed to be a symbol of his healing touch, is enshrined within the chapel’s altar. Though common folk venerate it as a tool of his divine works, its true nature—shrouded in the symbolism of life and creation—remains a sacred mystery. The relic was a personal possession of Saint Hannibal, preserved by those closest to him as a testament to his profound connection to the divine.

Additionally, it is known that Saint Hannibal’s remains are interred within the consecrated grounds of the chapel. While the precise location is obscured to protect the sanctity of his body, pilgrims and scholars alike may honor his memory through devout prayer and reflection at the chapel’s holy grounds.

May this sacred place inspire devotion, healing, and the greater glorification of God through His servant, Saint Hannibal.

Given under our hand and seal this third day of April, in the Year of Our Lord 1295.

Vita Sancti Hannibalis (1320s)

Commissioned by the Holy See for the Canonization of Saint Hannibal of Loreto

In the name of the Holy and Indivisible Trinity, the Most Holy See, in its wisdom and divine guidance, has gathered the true and faithful accounts of the life, virtues, and miracles of the blessed Hannibal of Loreto, known to the people as a man of unparalleled grace, a healer of both body and soul, and a beacon of divine serenity.

On His Life and Works

Saint Hannibal was a man of refinement and learning, whose presence was marked by a quiet grandeur. Clothed in the richest silks and adorned with the rings of his station, he moved among the people not as one above them, but as one set apart by providence. Though he carried himself with elegance, his humility was unquestionable; wealth did not burden him, nor did luxury dull his devotion.

It is recorded that he arrived in Loreto as a physician of extraordinary skill, having studied the healing arts in Greece, where he was initiated into the most profound mysteries of the body and mind. His knowledge surpassed mere medicine—those who sat in his presence felt their suffering lessen before he ever laid hands upon them.

The afflicted sought him, and in his presence, they found relief. The melancholic, the fevered, and the lost came to him, and it is said he restored not only their flesh but their spirits, guiding them toward divine tranquility.

On His Death and the Mystery of His Passing

Saint Hannibal spoke of his departure with neither fear nor reluctance, as if his soul had long been prepared. On the eve of the Feast of the Assumption, he gathered his followers and said:

"My work is not ended, only transformed. I shall not leave you; those who seek me shall find me still, for the veil is thin, and I am never far."

That night, he withdrew to his chamber, where he was found at dawn, lying in perfect repose, untouched by suffering. No sign of illness marked him, nor did the signs of decay touch his form in the days that followed. Those who entered his chamber spoke of an otherworldly fragrance, as if the air itself had been sanctified.

On His Miracles and Sanctification

Following his passing, miracles were attributed to his name. Pilgrims who touched his relics—his fine garments, his instruments of healing, the alabaster wand he carried in times of deep reflection—spoke of visions and of burdens lifted from their hearts. The sorrowful found solace, the restless were calmed, and even the gravely ill rose from their beds, claiming to have been restored by his grace.

In recognition of his virtues and the undeniable miracles wrought through his intercession, Pope John XXII, in the Year of Our Lord 1320, declared Hannibal of Loreto among the blessed saints, to be venerated by the faithful and commemorated on the Feast of Saint Hannibal, the 15th of August.

His chapel, the Cappella di San Hannibal, stands as a place of devotion, where his presence lingers and his intercession is sought by those in despair.

Thus is recorded the life and works of Saint Hannibal of Loreto, as faithfully transcribed by the Holy Church, that his name may endure among the saints and his deeds inspire the generations to come.

Reliquary Inscriptions – Cappella di San Hannibal

Inscription upon the Wooden Reliquary Chest

"Here rest the sacred relics of Saint Hannibal, healer of the broken-hearted, guide to the lost, and servant of the Lord. Those who seek comfort, let them kneel; those who seek peace, let them pray; for his hand is ever upon those who call his name."

Catalogue of Relics Held within the Cappella

• The Vestment of Saint Hannibal – A simple linen robe, worn by the Saint in his daily ministry. Many pilgrims have laid their hands upon its fabric and felt a great peace.
• The Prayer Beads of the Saint – Made of olive wood, these beads were carried always in his hands, and it is said they still retain the warmth of his prayers.
• The Stone Bowl of Saint Hannibal – From which he took his daily nourishment; those who drink from it in devotion claim to find themselves filled with divine clarity.

Record of the Missing Relic

Among the sacred objects once preserved within this chapel, one artifact is no longer accounted for:

A Wand of Alabaster, said to have been used by Saint Hannibal in his moments of deepest prayer and reflection. It was kept in a reliquary of carved cedar, sealed by the faithful, but its absence was discovered in the Year of Our Lord 1295, shortly after his passing, when the reliquary was opened and found empty.

The loss of this relic remains a mystery, though its absence has not diminished the fervor of those who seek the Saint’s guidance. His presence, it is said, remains undiminished.

Thus do we keep record, that all who enter may know the relics of the Blessed Saint Hannibal, and the loss that time has wrought upon his memory. May his grace endure beyond what hands may steal and eyes may see.

Although Will had found many books and papers, the information was frustratingly uniform. The Saint’s life remained largely obscure; his death, even more so. But one fact stood out—his body was there, entombed beneath the chapel, beneath Will’s very feet. The realization sent an unexpected heat coursing through him.

And the alabaster…Missing?

How could it be gone? Stolen perhaps? Liber E. had declared it was meant for the Saint’s most beloved—had someone taken it for themselves?

And none of the books had mentioned Liber E. at all. Will needed more answers—though he wasn’t even sure what questions he was asking. He only knew he had to keep searching, and the chapel’s library was no longer enough. He had already been lucky to find Liber E., given how unorthodox it seemed. But now, he needed something more.

On his way back to the boys’ quarters, he passed through the aisle and spotted that man. The one he saw at least once a week—sometimes three. Tall, striking, with a slight peculiarity in his lip that made him all the more intriguing. And a little intimidating. There was something off about him. He never smiled, never met anyone’s eyes. He would arrive, kneel in silent prayer, and leave. He barely spoke beyond the occasional good morning or good night, and even then, his voice felt absent. He always looked as if he were frowning.

That day, though, as Will walked past, the man looked directly at him. A moment stretched too long, suspended in the stale chapel air. Then, just as quickly, he looked away and rushed out.

Back in his bedroom, Will returned to Liber E., as he always did. The other day, he had read about a magick oil—one meant to heal wounds, bruises, and scars, and to enhance pleasure. He had plenty of bruises and scars. It seemed like something he could make use of, and the ingredients were simple enough: rose oil, jasmine, castor oil, and ylang-ylang. The chapel’s apothecary carried most of them, but not ylang-ylang. For that, he would have to search the local market—the same place Alana often bought her worshipping tools. He figured they might carry the oil as well.

But the market was overwhelming. A narrow corridor packed with movement, voices, the crush of unfamiliar scents and noises. It made him nauseous, but he forced himself to focus. Get in. Get out. He found the oil soon enough but had no money to spare, only the loose change the church leaders sometimes gave in exchange for small favors. In the end, he traded a necklace—his mother’s.

On the way back to the commune, something caught his eye. A tiny, old bookstore, tucked away as if hiding. Immediately, his thoughts returned to the chapel’s books—the dry, careful history he had been raised on. His hunger for something else, something outside of those walls, stirred. It was worth a look.

Maybe he would find something there.

The space was cramped and timeworn, the scent of aged paper thick in the air. Still, the collection was intriguing. Given that they were in Loreto, it was no surprise that an entire section was dedicated to Saint Hannibal.

He moved along the narrow shelves, scanning their spines. Most of it was the same dry  material he had already combed through in the chapel’s library. His eyes ached, his ears buzzed from the lingering sensory strain, and just as he was about to give up, something caught his attention.

Tucked deep behind one of the shelves—almost deliberately hidden—was a book that stood out from the rest. It was newer. Far newer. While the surrounding volumes bore cracked leather and fraying pages, this one was glossy, modern, untouched. The plastic sheath still clung to its cover, pristine and unbroken. And there, staring back at him, was the same image that adorned the chapel’s altar: the Saint’s face, eyes a deep red, steeped in serene devotion. Bold white letters slashed across the cover:

The Cult of Saint Hannibal, by Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier, Ph.D.

A jolt of energy shot through Will as he turned the book over, devouring the words on the back cover:

The Cult of Saint Hannibal
(Revised and Expanded 1972 Edition)

"A saint canonized for his miracles. A relic that vanished without a trace. A secret order erased from history."

Saint Hannibal of Loreto was no ordinary holy man. A physician trained in Greece, he was known for his refined manner, his healing touch, and the inexplicable ecstasy that overcame those who sought his aid. His chapel, hidden in the Marche countryside, still draws quiet pilgrims, yet little is spoken of the mysteries that surround his cult.

Church records tell of his piety and devotion. Scholars, however, whisper of something else. Fragments of lost texts hint at a secret order—an unnamed sect that practiced rites outside the bounds of Christian doctrine. And then, there is the missing relic. An object once housed in his chapel, documented in early inventories, before disappearing entirely. What was it? Why was it taken? And what truth did it contain that the Church sought to bury?

This book delves into the enigma of Saint Hannibal—his life, his influence, and the silent war waged over his legacy. Piecing together hidden records, suppressed testimonies, and the unsettling accounts of those who have felt his lingering presence, The Cult of Saint Hannibal is an invitation to look beyond the sanctioned history and into something far more strange, and far more dangerous.

"Not all saints are meant to be worshipped."

His exhaustion vanished. He ripped the plastic sheath, and flipped it open, fingers brushing over a small author’s photo—an elegant woman with golden hair.

About the Author

Dr. Bedelia DuMarier is a distinguished scholar specializing in the historical accuracy of religious narratives. She holds a Ph.D. in Comparative Theology and Medieval History from the University of Bologna and has spent decades researching the intersection of faith, folklore, and suppressed religious movements. As a professor at the University of Ancona, she has dedicated her career to uncovering hidden truths within Church history.

Her work challenges conventional interpretations, drawing from archival research, forgotten manuscripts, and the accounts of those who have kept the past alive in whispers. The Cult of Saint Hannibal is the culmination of years spent unraveling the mysteries of a saint whose influence lingers in ways the Church never intended.

The table of contents unfolded before him, and he knew instantly: he had to devour every word.

Table of Contents

The Cult of Saint Hannibal
By Dr. Bedelia DuMarier

Introduction

• Shadows in the Hagiography: Unraveling the Mystery of Saint Hannibal
• The Limits of Canonization: What the Church Chose to Preserve

Part I: The Life and Legacy of Saint Hannibal

1. A Physician and a Saint: The Noble Origins of Hannibal
2. The Greek Influence: Medicine, Philosophy, and the Occult
3. The Miracles of Healing: A Gift or a Practice?
4. The Chapel in Loreto: A Sanctuary for the Afflicted

Part II: The Hidden Order
5. The Dilectissimus: The Most Beloved and His Inner Circle
6. Beyond Devotion: The Order of the Sacred Flesh
7. The Church’s Dilemma: Canonization and Concealment
8. Secret Rites and Forbidden Practices

Part III: The Lost and the Forbidden
9. The Libers.: Saint or Sorcerer? The Mysterious Lost Books
10. The Ecstasy: Miracle or Sin?
11. The Missing Alabaster: Relic, Ritual, or Scandal?
12. The Papal Interventions: Attempts to Erase the Evidence

Part IV: A Legacy That Endures
13. The Cult that Never Died: Modern Devotees of Saint Hannibal
14. Rumors of the Tomb: Where the Saint May Rest
15. The Fragments of Truth: What Scholars Whisper

Epilogue

• Faith, Fiction, or Forbidden Knowledge? The Lasting Influence of Saint Hannibal

Appendices

• Translations of Key Texts
• Church Records and Censored Documents
• Theories and Scholarly Debate

His pulse quickened. What was this book doing here? He doubted the believers would welcome the author's perspective. But that didn’t matter.

All he wanted now was to consume it entirely. He pulled the best good boy face he could conjure to convince the bookstore owner to give him the book for free. It worked, of course. Beneath it all, Will had always been a cunning boy.

Back home, Will set to work preparing the oil. The process itself was simple, but according to the red book, it required a ritual to awaken its true properties—to infuse it with the Saint’s power.

He waited until the quarter was still, the quiet weight of sleep settling over the others. Only then did he begin. Candles flickered as he traced the symbols exactly as instructed, the ritual unfolding in careful precision. He spoke the incantation aloud.

Nothing happened.

No shift in the air, no sign that anything had changed. Still, he smoothed the oil onto his skin. It was warm, silken, fragrant—a mixture of roses, jasmine, and something richer beneath. The instructions had been explicit: it must also be applied to his nipples, cock and hole. So he obeyed, fingers moving delicately, carefully, savoring the sensation.

After his usual nightly prayer, sleep took him. And that was when the oil’s magick began to work.

In his dreams, he was still in bed, but bare, legs sprawled open. His body shimmered under the dim glow, slick with the oil from head to toe. Then something thick, smooth, deliberate pressed inside him slowly, exquisitely, unraveling pleasure unlike anything he had ever known. He squirmed against the sheets, body writhing in surrender, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not open his eyes. He could only feel it unraveling him from the inside out, stretching him open with something vast, something beyond flesh. The pressure was unbearable in its sweetness, a slow, molten invasion that sent tremors through his limbs. 

Will whimpered, his body reacting on instinct, hips tilting up to meet this force. His breath caught as pleasure curled in his stomach, sharp and deep, spiraling outward like ripples in water. He felt possessed, claimed, but there was no fear—only a yielding, a helpless surrender to the sensation consuming him.

The sheets beneath him twisted in his grip, damp from his sweat, but he could not feel the fabric as much as he felt him—the Saint's cock in the shape of a wand made of stone, thick and inescapable, seeping into every part of him. It was in his bones, his blood, his skin; it was inside him in a way nothing had ever been, pressing deeper, deeper, until he could no longer think.

His body arched, muscles tensing and relaxing in waves of unbearable bliss. His lips parted in a breathless moan, but no sound escaped—only the tremor of his throat, the flutter of his pulse. The pleasure was raw, electric, spreading like a fever, yet he could not move away from it, could not resist it. He was held by spirit itself, wrapping around him, sinking into him.

He tried to open his eyes, to see what was being done to him, but his body refused. He could only feel. He could only receive. The Saint was inside him, reshaping him, making him his.

And Will had never felt so complete.

The night stretched into eternity, an unseen dance that blurred the lines between dream and reality.

Chapter Text

When he woke, he was intoxicated by lingering bliss, his mind hazy, unable to form coherent thoughts. For most of the day, he simply existed, adrift in the remnants of what had touched him in the night.

He did his duties, but barely. And his blissed out state did not go unnoticed, as Father Crawford, Mirriam and some other boys he lived with caught him staring into nothing, lost inside his own mind, standing and looking into the void, asking him if he was alright, and Mirriam even insisted to pray over him, but when she called upon Yahweh’s name, Will recoiled in an overly dramatic way he did not meant to nor anticipated. 

“Will, what is it?” Mirriam asked, startled.

“Nothing just—I’m fine, Mirriam. I appreciate your intention, but I’m fine.”

Mirriam stared at him in confusion, but he walked away. When he had his back towards her, in the corridor of the commune’s main house, he swallowed hard, nervous, not sure what had happened, or why he felt his body rejecting that prayer so abruptly. Well, at least it woke him up from the dizzy state he spent the majority of the day in.

Later in the evening, laying in bed, body oiled up and bare on the sheets, feeling the heat of central Italian summer, he market the pages from Dr. DuMarie’s book that intrigued him the most:

Chapter IV: The Possibility of a Cult

"To speak of Saint Hannibal solely as a historical figure canonized by the Church is to ignore the deeper, more esoteric narratives surrounding him. Though the Church recognizes his divine nature and miracles, it does not acknowledge the sects that followed him in life, nor the ones that persist in secrecy even now.

Historical manuscripts, buried in the private archives of monasteries and inaccessible to the general public, suggest that Hannibal was not only a saintly figure but also a cult leader. His followers did not merely venerate him—they surrendered to him, body and soul. The accounts describe clandestine gatherings in his estate, where initiates underwent rites designed to break their former selves and reconstruct them in his image. The cult, despite lacking official recognition, did not dissolve upon his death. Instead, it evolved, splintering into hidden sects, adapting and surviving through centuries, whispered about in the darkest corridors of esoteric academia.

These groups are not legend. There are signs of their presence even in modernity—an encrypted letter found in the Vatican’s vaults in the 18th century speaks of ‘the ones who carry the red light in their eyes’ and ‘those who have eaten from his hands.’ It was dismissed as apocryphal by scholars of the time. But the pattern repeats itself. Even now, there are those who claim that his followers still exist, that his teachings still circulate in texts never meant to be read by the uninitiated."

Chapter VII: The Secret Practices of Saint Hannibal

"One cannot examine the truth of Saint Hannibal’s cult without confronting the nature of its rites. The accounts found in suppressed monastic records, cross-referenced with private testimonies of those who served in his household, paint a picture the Church refuses to accept: the mansion was not just a place of study, nor merely a sanctuary for the wayward—it was an altar, a temple, and a site of transformation.

In the dim glow of candlelight, his followers gathered to partake in sacraments unlike those of any known faith. There are records of rituals involving the exchange of flesh—not metaphorically, but literally. His adherents, kneeling before him, would offer their bodies for devotion. Some accounts describe these gatherings as orgiastic, a fusion of spiritual ecstasy and physical dissolution, where the self was unmade in the presence of the Saint. His touch was a benediction, his gaze an invitation to surrender. In these rites, the participants claimed to feel an overwhelming dissolution of the boundary between themselves and Hannibal—a moment of divine obliteration.

Among the most unsettling recovered texts is a fragmented parchment describing a ritual simply referred to as ‘The Red Supper.’ Though incomplete, it speaks of initiates consuming from the Saint’s own hands, a gesture both symbolic and literal. The specifics are deliberately vague, but the implication is clear: this was not mere communion, not wine and bread, but flesh and blood. Whether it was meant as transubstantiation or something more carnal, more ancient, remains obscured. The Church has erased most references to it. But the text, buried deep in forgotten archives, does not lie."

Chapter XI: The Lost Red Book and Other Forbidden Texts

"Of all the texts attributed to Saint Hannibal and his followers, none is more infamous than the lost Red Book. It is said to have contained his personal doctrines, written not as sermons but as a grimoire of sorts, with meditations, and instructions for those who wished to follow him beyond the limitations of mortal faith. Unlike the canonical texts that paint him as a saint of benevolence and wisdom, the Red Book is believed to have revealed the path to something else entirely—something the Church could never allow.

We know of its existence through whispers in other manuscripts. A letter from an unnamed monastic scribe in the 16th century describes ‘a book bound in red fabric, heavy with ink that is not ink, with words that burn and cannot be spoken without consequence.’ Another account, written by a scholar in 1742, speaks of a fire in an abbey where the book was supposedly housed—though the official record lists the fire as accidental, those who have studied this history suspect otherwise.

But the Red Book was not alone. There are references to other lost texts: a black-bound volume detailing the rites in his estate, a scroll written in an unknown language that followers claimed could only be understood in trance, and a series of letters between Saint Hannibal and an unnamed correspondent—letters that, if recovered, might contain the final truth of what he really was.

If these books still exist, they remain hidden in the collections of those who know their worth. But the nature of forbidden knowledge is that it never truly disappears. It lingers in the margins, waiting to be found."

Will knows deep in his body that he needs to find this woman. She possesses knowledge he craves, and he knows just how to persuade her to share it.

Finding Dr. Bedelia DuMarier wasn’t difficult—after all, the book itself listed her place of teaching. That very weekend, Will spent his last bit of money on bus tickets to Ancona, a journey of roughly an hour and a half from Loreto. Upon arrival, he realized he had not anticipated the challenge of actually encountering Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier. Standing in the unfamiliar city, dumbfounded by his lack of planning, he did the only thing that he could think of—he prayed.

“Saint Hannibal, if you can hear me, please help me find Bedelia Du Maurier, so that I can… so that I can get closer to you,” he whispered, feeling slightly foolish, half-afraid that all of his fervor and devotion had been nothing but a self-induced illusion.

Minutes passed. Will sat down on the sidewalk, waiting for something—perhaps a miracle. Just as he was about to get up and search for water, golden streaks of hair caught his eyes like a flash of sunlight. Bedelia Du Maurier stood mere centimeters away. Without a thought, impulse took over.

“Doctor DuMaurier!” he called out.

She turned, visibly annoyed, and assessed him with a cool, scrutinizing gaze. “Yes?”

“My name is Will. Will Graham. I read your book on Saint Hannibal, and I need to ask you something.”

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to schedule a meeting,” she said briskly, already turning away.

“I have the Red Book, Doctor DuMaurier,” Will blurted out.

She halted, turning back to him with a skeptical smirk, brows slightly raised. “The… Red Book?” she echoed, almost mockingly.

Will pulled the book from his pocket. Her eyes flickered. “I have Liber E., Doctor. And I am willing to give it to you in exchange for a meeting.”

She studied him. The amusement in her expression softened into something more calculated. Without a word, she extended her hand, silently demanding the book. Will handed it over. She flipped through its fragile pages carefully, her breath subtly shifting as she realized its authenticity.

After a long pause, she handed it back. “One hour,” she said, her voice even, masking whatever thoughts churned behind her eyes. “Follow me.”

He trailed her through the cold, marble corridors of the university to her office, nestled in the very back of the building. The space was opulent—dark wood, leather furniture, paintings framed in gold, and an overwhelming number of books. Bedelia made no offer for him to sit, neither bothered to do sit herself. Instead, she took Liber E. from him again, placing it on a large table and examining it with a delicate instrument, unwilling to risk touching it with her hands.

“I will need a copy,” Will stated, trying to sound self-assured. “If you want the original.”

“I can arrange that,” she said, still fixated on the book.

“I wanted to ask—” he began, then hesitated, watching her unwavering focus. “Do you know anything about someone named Clarice?”

“Clarícia?” she corrected, glancing at him for the first time.

“Yes, Clarícia.”

“She appears in one of the most famous iconographies of Saint Hannibal. San Hannibal et Dillectissimus. She’s the woman in red. The Scarlet Woman. Likely an acolyte.”

“Was she romantically involved with him?”

“Most likely. Then again, if you read my book, you’d know that most members of his sect were, to some degree.”

“Right… but in Liber E., her name is written above the term dilectissimus—”

Bedelia froze. Her hands stilled over the fragile paper. Slowly, she lifted her gaze. “Where?”

“Page thirty-six,” Will said, watching as she eagerly flipped through the book. “It states that the alabaster lies with the most beloved. I was wondering what that meant.”

She traced the name with a contemplative gaze, then leaned back, exhaling sharply. “Claricia Sterling was one of Saint Hannibal’s most devoted followers—both in life and in death. She was meant to be burned at the stake.”

“What?” Will’s eyes widened. “Why?”

“Cannibalism.”

She said it plainly, watching him for a reaction. Will merely raised his brows, waiting for more. Bedelia sighed and continued.

“She consumed every member of the sect. But her family was influential—very wealthy. They pleaded for her life, claiming melancholia, perhaps demonic possession. The church concealed the truth from the public. They fabricated a suicide to explain why she wasn’t executed. But her father kept her hidden. Three days later, she truly died, and they held a secret funeral, burying her under another name.”

Will accepted the glass of water Bedelia silently offered him, processing this revelation. “Why didn’t you write about that in your book?”

“Because I am a smart woman, Mr. Graham,” she said with a knowing smile. “The church and I have an understanding. They permit my research in exchange for my discretion. Sometimes.”

Will contemplated that for a moment. “And what do you really think happened to the alabaster?”

“You’ve read my book. You already know my official stance.”

He leaned in slightly. “And without the church’s oversight?”

She chuckled, raising her brows. “What I think, Mr. Graham, is that the alabaster of Saint Hannibal of Elation lies with the most beloved. With her, the dilectissimus. It lies,” her voice dropped slightly, as if indulging in a secret. “in Clarice Sterling’s grave.”

Will left with copies of the pages and a heart pounding with something indefinable—anticipation, revelation, or something far greater than he could even comprehend. He needed to find Clarice. He needed to find her.

When he returns home late in the afternoon, his bag weighed down with papers and his chest tight with anticipation, Will nearly stumbles over Alana, who is sitting alone on the chapel’s front steps.

“Oh—hi, Will. You went out?”

“Uh, yeah. Just needed some air,” he answers, hesitating before lowering himself onto the step beside her.

She smiles softly. “It can feel a little stifling here, can’t it? Small town, closed-in spaces.”

He shakes his head. “No, I like it. I don’t mind. I just... I’d never been to Ancona before. Thought I’d see it for myself.”

“And? What did you think?”

“It’s fine, I guess.” Will isn’t in the mood for small talk, but leaving abruptly would be awkward. He glances at her. “What about you? What are you doing out here?”

“Nothing. Just... taking a break,” she exhales.

“You? A break?” He smirks. “In the five months I’ve been here, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take one.”

“Maybe I should start,” she says with a weak smile, folding her arms over her knees.

“You tired?”

“No, I’m just... inefficient.”

Will frowns, his interest piqued now. “Inefficient how?”

She hesitates before continuing. “I mean, like you said—I never stop. I’m always doing something. But sometimes it feels like it’s not enough, you know?”

“You mean with the church? The commune?”

“No, not that,” she sighs, then stops, as if weighing her next words. “With my faith.” The last word is barely more than a whisper, like she doesn’t want to say it aloud.

Will blinks. “Your faith? Alana, you’re the most devout person in this place. How could it not be enough?”

She lets out a breathy laugh. “That’s kind of you to say, Will. I used to feel that way too. Or at least—I tried to. But... I don’t know. My prayers don’t work. No matter what I do, I can’t reach it.” Her jaw tightens on the last sentence, frustration flickering over her face.

“Reach what?”

She looks at him, almost pleading. “Elation.”

Will exhales, a strange sensation unfurling in his stomach. Not guilt, exactly—just an odd awareness. He had felt it, intensely, in such a short time. And Alana, devoted for years, had not. But it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t help it.

“Maybe,” he says slowly, “you’re so anxious for the result that you don’t leave space in your body for elation to happen.”

She turns to him, visibly surprised, as if the words don’t quite belong in his mouth. Will barely speaks at all, after all. She nods, slow and thoughtful, letting it settle. Then, without another word, they rise and head back toward the house for dinner.

Later that night, alone in his room, Will pores over the notes Bedelia gave him—clues to the possible whereabouts of Clarice Starling’s grave.

She is convinced they buried her under the name Klaris Asteri, a woman whose grave appeared near her father’s home shortly after the town first began whispering of Clarice’s death. Bedelia doesn’t claim the discovery as her own but attributes it to a cryptic note found in a historical manuscript—one she insists is still in the church’s possession. Though, of course, she had memorized the name and conducted her own research.

Via Veneto, 18 - Loreto Marcas, Plot 88.

“Why Klaris Asteri?” Will had asked.

“Something like ‘light of stars’ in Greek,” Bedelia had replied. “No one in Saint Hannibal’s sect used their real names. It was very likely her cult-name—or, as they called it, the magnum name.”

Via Veneto wasn’t far, of course. It made sense that the chapel’s surroundings would hold Saint Hannibal’s remnants—this was where he had lived, where he had been at his most present. Will could hardly wait to go there himself.

But for now, he prays.

Kneeling on his bed, his body bare, glistening with Red Dragon Oil, as the book called it. A thin, pale yellow fabric draped over his skin, pooling at his thighs. Hands raised above his head, head bowed, legs parted.

He moans the saint’s name like a mantra, needing no more than that to feel His presence. Hannibal, Hannibal.

The fabric slipped from his shoulder, gliding down his chest, his ribs, his stomach—a phantom touch so delicate, so deliberate, it felt like fingers tracing his skin, following the lines of his body with knowing intent. A whisper of silk over his nipples, down the taut plane of his abdomen, dragging ever so lightly over the pulse at his hip. His breath stuttered, lips parting on a sigh.

It was not just fabric.

It was Him.

The Saint was here, manifesting as the silk, unseen but unmistakable, fingers woven into the movement of the cloth, palms smoothing over his shoulders, his arms, his sides. The touch was spectral, tender, and yet heavy with possession, an embrace without form, a presence without weight—except Will felt Him, all over, inside, beneath his skin.

The thin veil slipped lower, baring him, exposing him completely. Will shuddered, hips twitching forward into nothing. A moan slipped from his lips, helpless, as if the Saint Himself was pressing him down, spreading him open, taking him.

And oh, he wanted to be taken.

The veil twisted and coiled, pressing to his chest, the sheerest pressure of a palm, then a mouth, parting against his sternum. His breath hitched. The sensation melted lower, a slow descent of warm, wet friction against his stomach, his navel. A whimper caught in his throat. His fingers twitched, aching to grasp at nothing, at Him, to feel what was touching him.

But the Saint did not allow it.

The fabric curled around his thighs, a teasing sweep over his inner flesh. Will's legs trembled, spread further apart without thought. His body knew what to do, knew what was being asked of it. The fabric—His hands—skimmed up, up, until the barest whisper of contact grazed the aching weight of Him. A sharp gasp tore from Will’s lips. The touch did not linger—it circled, traced, tormented.

He moaned, high and desperate, not caring if he could be heard.

Hannibal, Hannibal.

The fabric obeyed, twisting, shifting, the sensation of firm, knowing fingers ghosting over the curve of his ass, spreading him open. Heat bloomed behind his navel, spiraling outward, an unbearable pleasure, suffocating, holy.

A breath at his ear.

A voice, smooth as honey, murmured against his temple—Mine.

The fabric coiled, pulled, and Will shattered, his body’s sweet nectar drawn out by Saint Hannibal like a sacred juice from the gods.

Chapter Text

As Will drifts further from reality, the rituals grow increasingly demanding, yet he cannot resist bending to the will of the Saint. After all he has done for Will—freeing him from the afflictions of his body and mind, gifting him bliss beyond measure—how could he refuse him anything? At first, it is simply a desire to deepen and expand the euphoria, to push further into its intoxicating depths each day. But soon, he hears the call—like angels whispering seductively in his ears, beckoning him. The Saint is summoning him, luring him in, and Will longs to follow. He is meant to follow.

That thought alone carries him into the cold night, sneaking out of the boys' quarters, through the main house, into the backyard. Barefoot, he does not realize he has stepped on a branch, likely cutting into his skin, until he is already dazed, his focus locked on one of the chickens in the coop.

He likes them, he does. But he prefers the lambs. He loves the dogs and the cats. And so, unfortunately for the chickens, they are the ones he chooses.

"It will be fast, soft, and sweet. I promise," he whispers to the bird cradled in his arms. It remains strangely still, yielding to Will’s delicate grip, silent even as he carries it through the corridors, all the way to his bedroom.

Inside, everything is prepared: the candles, the sigils, the bowl, the knife. He sets the chicken at the center of the ritual space, atop the sigil he traced from the book, and calls upon the names he is meant to invoke. The chicken stiffens—unnaturally still, frozen in time, as though some unseen force has spared it from the suffering to come. Will, undeterred, takes the blade and slices its throat, watching the blood spill forth in thick, glistening waves.

That night is a fever dream of crimson, flesh, and feathers. Will follows every instruction, consuming the consecrated offering, and with it, he is overcome. The ecstasy is beyond anything he ever imagined, beyond even the possibility of what he believed could exist. His entire body quakes with the intensity of it, a current of pure bliss surging through him, blanking his mind. There is nothing but the sensation—raw, unfiltered life, burning bright and unaltered. 

He uses the last of his energy to clean up the remnants of the sacred act.

The next day, his body betrays him. He stumbles through his tasks, his legs failing him, knees buckling to the floor more than once. Deacon Ingram notices and strides toward him, taking him by the arm.

"Sweet boy, you are so frail. Let us take you somewhere to rest, no?" The honeyed voice is sickly sweet, the grip on his waist deliberate, fingers creeping lower.

Will tries to pull away. "I'm fine, just dehydrated. I just need water—if you could get it for me. Please? Deacon."

A pause, then a forced smile. Ingram relents, stepping away, presumably to fetch the water. Will seizes the chance to disappear. But as he rounds a corner, his escape is halted—Saint Hannibal's image looms from a painting, ensnaring him in a trance. When he comes to, he is no longer in the hallway.

He is in a room. On a bed. Alone—except for Deacon Ingram.

The Deacon sits beside him, a hand on Will’s thigh, resting against bare skin where his shorts ride up. Panic seizes Will’s chest. He bolts upright, but Ingram pushes him back down.

"What is it, my boy? You must rest. Come now," he croons, hands drifting, brushing over Will’s body, creeping lower.

Will shivers and prays—not to God, but to the Saint. Saint Hannibal, hear my call. Come to me. Take me away from him.

Dizzy, weak, paralyzed by fear, Will watches as Ingram leans closer, lips hovering near his face. Then—

A knock at the door.

"Deacon Ingram? Can you help with the vigil preparations?"

Will doesn’t recognize the voice, but it doesn’t matter. Relief floods his veins. Ingram hesitates, then rises to answer. Will doesn’t wait. Summoning strength from nowhere, he bolts, stumbling out of the room so fast he barely registers the person who unwittingly saved him.

He barely makes it to the chapel’s aisle before colliding with someone—strong arms catch him before he falls. It’s him, that man. Tall, and striking, he steadies Will, brows furrowed in concern.

"I—I’m sorry, I—" Will stammers, still shaken, eyes darting for any sign of Ingram.

"Are you alright?" The man’s voice is deep, smooth, with a slight lisp.

"Um—yeah. Just a bit dizzy. Thanks." He tries to stand on his own, grounding himself.

The man guides him to a pew, still frowning. "You sure?"

Will exhales, searching for a way to prolong the conversation—stalling until he feels safe. "Hey, what kind of oil do you use on your candles?"

The man blinks. "What?"

"I see you here a lot. You always anoint your candles. I was wondering what kind of oil it is."

He has long suspected it—Dragon Oil. The scent is unmistakable. The energy, too. But he never voiced it. Not until now.

"It’s… a special kind of oil—"

"It’s Dragon Oil, isn’t it?"

The man stiffens. The change is immediate, his expression shifting to one of pure shock. Fear.

Will wasn’t expecting that, not truly. What were the chances, after all? He assumed the man just had an oil with similar ingredients, that was all. But it seemed like that was not all.

"What did you say?" the man whispers, his gaze locking onto Will’s.

A cold wave washes over him. He suddenly feels unsafe again.

"I, um—"

"How do you know about Dragon Oil?" The man leans in.

"I read about it. In a book."

"What book?"

"The…" Will hesitates, but realizes honesty might be his best leverage. "Liber E."

The man’s face darkens. "That’s impossible."

"Well, I did."

"Where did you find Liber E.?"

"Here. In the library. Why? Have you been looking for it?"

The man lets out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. "Looking for it? Looking for it?"

Will shrugs. "It was here. I read it. Made the oil. Been using it. It’s good."

The man stares at him, silent.

"I’m Will, by the way. Will Graham."

A long pause. Then, finally—

"Francis."

Will nods. "So, Francis. You’re a follower of Saint Hannibal? You’re always around."

"I am," he says carefully. "Are you?"

"I’ve been…connecting with him. Only recently."

Francis tilts his head slightly. "You’ve read Liber E. You’ve done the rituals?"

Will studies him. "You know the rituals? I thought you hadn’t read it."

"I know of the book. Of its…Nature.”

A chill runs through Will, but he feigns nonchalance. "Well, yeah. I’ve been doing them."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What are your results?"

Will meets his gaze. "Exactly what the book promises."

Francis stares for what feels like an eternity before finally speaking, voice grave. “Will Graham,” intoning Will’s name like an invocation. “What have you been doing?"

Will remains steady. "I don’t understand the question."

Francis smirks. "Oh, but you do."

A moment of tense silence stretched between them. Will decided to be honest—or at least usefully so.

“I’ve been researching the Saint’s life. That’s all.”

“Is that? All? Mere curiosity?”

“Maybe. You tell me, Francis.”

“I think there’s more to it. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I don’t think you’re just a follower of the saint, either. There’s more to you, too.”

“Quid pro quo?”

Will contemplated. He had to be smart about this, or he could get himself into a lot of trouble—expelled from the only home he had.

“I want to know where Clarice Starling is.”

“Clarice is dead. She lies in grave 88 at Via Veneto’s cemetery.”

Confirmation. 

“Do you think the Saint’s alabaster is with her?”

“It’s not,” Francis said immediately. Confidently. Too confidently. Will didn’t argue.

“Well?” he pressed.

“I am not just a follower, you are right. I am looking for the relic.”

“You think it’s here?”

“I think it could be.”

The Saint’s here too, Will heard in his head, but he decided not to say it. For some reason, he wanted to keep that information to himself. Though he suspected Francis already knew.

Francis walked him back to the boys' quarters, and as strange and intimidating as he was, there was a strange kindness to him. He should be weary, even more so than Deacon, since Francis was much larger and visibly stronger. But he wasn’t. For a reason he could not identify. They found a silent kinship over their secret endeavors regarding the Saint.

That night, Will prayed like he had never prayed before. He pleaded for protection, pleaded for the saint to be with him.

“Hear my call, stay by my side. I need you to hide me in your presence. I need you to look after me, so that I can get to you.”

The following days pass with a measure of improvement. Will regains his strength, and he sees Francis again. Their conversations remain brief, but there is a shift—Francis is intrigued by the fact that Will lives within the church’s grounds. He asks if Will feels it, the Saint’s presence. Will nods in response, offering no elaboration. Francis then inquires about the catacombs, where it is suspected that the Saint’s body lies, whether Will has ever found them. Will says no. Yet, he isn’t entirely certain if that is true, for he has been dreaming of them for some time now, or at least what seems to be them.

Later that week, Will finally makes his way to Via Veneto to check on Clarice’s grave. He doesn’t have to search for it; as soon as he arrives, he sees it from afar—a glow emanating from the lot. He moves closer, and indeed, it is lot 88, under the name Klaris. A current of energy surges through him, confirming what he already suspects.

The lot is marked by a weathered headstone, its edges softened by time, its inscription half-consumed by lichen and shadow. Just beneath the name—faint, almost lost to erosion—an olive branch is carved into the stone. Exactly like the one in the painting of the Scarlet Woman. Clarice. The lines are delicate, precise, each leaf curling with the quiet grace of something once alive.

The grave’s seal has been re-mortared, cracks forming where it was disturbed. A thin layer of newer dirt covers the site, barely concealing the disruption. Francis has been here, of course—his certainty about the alabaster’s absence had been too absolute. And yet, the glow remains. Will does not open it. He decides to wait, knowing that the second ritual must take place in a graveyard. He will reopen the grave only at the perfect moment.

The stakes for this rite are higher, the requirements more severe. It demands flesh and blood—human this time. The blood and flesh of a “tainted man”. Will does not need to look far. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, he finds himself far less hesitant to take a human life than he was an animal’s. Especially considering whose life he intends to take.

Ripe for reaping, Deacon Ingram prowls the corridors of the boys’ quarters on a  stormy night as Will returns home after a walk.

“Mr. Graham, it’s late. What are you doing out of bed?” The Deacon’s voice is slick with rot, nearly spilling from his mouth.

“Just taking a walk. What about you, Deacon? Keeping an eye on us?”

“Always.”

“Of course.” Will forces a honeyed tone into his voice, laced with subtle provocation. He steps closer, pressing himself against the dimly lit wall. “You know, I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Do you think you could… talk to me until I fall asleep?” He blinks slowly, arching his back slightly.

The Deacon’s eyes gleam with filth. “I—of course, Will.”

He moves without hesitation, opening the door to his bedroom, his steps measured, purposeful—a beautiful predator approaching the altar of sacrifice. The Deacon watches him with dim, rotting eyes, seeing nothing but what he expects: a lost soul seeking absolution. The heavy scent of incense thickens the air, masking the sweat gathering at Will’s nape, the metallic weight of the dagger concealed beneath the folds of his sleeve.

The Deacon extends his arms in a mockery of comfort, papery lips curling in a knowing smile. A false prophet, veiled in sanctity.

Will bows his head, steps closer.

Close enough to smell the decay on the Deacon’s breath. Close enough to hear the wet rattle in his lungs. Close enough that the man doesn’t see the dagger slip from Will’s sleeve, doesn’t realize the danger until Will is nearly upon him, gaze lifting, sharp, unwavering.

He walks straight into his own downfall.

The blade flashes, swift, merciless, slicing clean across his jugular.

Blood spills in torrents, staining the white sheets, seeping into the sacred vestments that now serve as nothing more than a shroud for the dying. The Deacon chokes on the warmth flooding his throat, a feeble, grasping gurgle. Will clamps a steady hand over his mouth, silencing him, pressing him back into the bed. Their eyes lock—one filled with frantic, fading light, the other impassive, judgment already passed. A life undeserved, in Will’s judgment.

“Fucking pervert,” Will mutters, his final words to the man before dropping his body to the floor. Then, methodically, he begins cutting. Small pieces. Enough to feed to the stray dogs so that the rest will fit neatly into the suitcase he has found.

The night was thick, oppressive, pressing in on him like damp velvet. The streets were nearly empty at this hour, the commune half-asleep, save for the occasional shadow slinking into an alley, the distant echo of laughter spilling from some window. Will kept his head low, his grip firm around the weight of his offering, its heft dragging at his arm, biting into his shoulder. The strain was almost unbearable given his fading energy. But it was necessary.

The lamps were casting long, flickering pools of yellow along the cobblestones, distorting his shadow, stretching it monstrous against the walls of the old buildings. His boots strike the ground in steady rhythm, a metronome counting down the distance to the graveyard.

Via Veneto looms ahead, the iron gates barely visible against the darkness beyond. Here, the silence takes on a new shape—denser, expectant, as if the graves themselves were listening.

He stepped off the barely paved street, his breath fogging in the cold. Gravel crunches beneath him as he moves toward lot 88, weaving through the rows of the dead. The weight in his arms grows heavier, or perhaps the night itself bears down on him, thick with something unseen. The air was different—earthy, damp, threaded with the faint perfume of decaying leaves and stone gone moss-slick with age.

Lot 88 waited ahead, shadowed by the silhouette of a withered cypress, its twisted limbs reaching skyward like skeletal fingers. Will slows, exhales, adjusting his grip on the offering. His pulse is steady. His purpose clear.

He steps into the darkness and does not look back.

The glow was still there.

Discreetly, Will invokes the spirits and forces the book instructs him to, consuming the Deacon’s flesh in accordance with the rite. Then, at last, he lifts Clarice’s grave. It is already loose from Francis’ earlier disturbance.

Within the putrid coffin, amid the decayed remains of Claricia Sterling, something glimmers. Around the skeleton’s neck, held in a skeletal grip, hangs a smooth, black onyx alabaster.

Was Francis lying? Why would he? Why didn’t he see it?

Only through the dilectissimus can the alabaster be perceived and only the dilectissimus can touch it.

A passage from Liber E. echoes through Will’s mind. He reaches forward and takes it.

Back at his room, urgency overtakes him. He strips, oils himself and the alabaster with Dragon’s Oil, and follows an instinctual impulse. He inserts it inside himself. He watches his hands move, but it does not feel like they belong to him. His lips part, his back arches, whispering a name between breathless moans. Hannibal, Hannibal.

At some point, he finds himself elsewhere—on a beautiful white bed that stands like an altar, its frame heavy, its canopy draped in lace so fine it trembles with the breeze. The fabric cascades, pooling onto the wooden floor in folds that look liquid. The sheets, though rumpled, are untouched by time—white as bone, soft as old love letters. A single pillow, plump and waiting, rests at the head of the bed, as if calling someone home.

The air is thick with dust and memories, the scent of aged wood and something floral, long faded. The lace catches the light, turning the bed into something half-ethereal, half-funereal. This is not just a place of rest—it is a threshold, a space where time bends, where dreams slip into waking, where the veil between past and present is gossamer thin.

Will was beneath the Saint. His cock is not a human cock but the alabaster itself, gliding in and out of Will’s  body in slow, deliberate motions. Bliss overtakes him, unraveling him thread by thread. He dissipates, dissolves, unable to contain so much pleasure within a single body. He is completely gone. Nothing binds him to reality anymore. Not fear, not pain.

Only pleasure. Only bliss.

A touch—not physical, but more—skimmed along his throat, curling around the sides of his neck, pressing down. His lips parted. A breath—no, a whisper—spilled from him as the sensation moved downward, deeper, spreading through him in waves.

It filled his hole first, thick and cool, making him lightheaded, making him sink further into the bed. Then upper, upper, a steady push, an invasion that did not tear, did not force, but claimed. Will gasped, thighs falling open, his head pressing back against the downy pillows.

"Yes," he voice hummed, deep and knowing. It poured through the Saint like honeyed wine, slipping between his ribs, curling around his spine, stretching into him with exquisite inevitability.

Will trembled. His fingers clenched in the sheets, then relaxed. His chest rose and fell in slow, uneven waves. His thighs pressed together, then parted wider, inviting more, surrendering more.

The spirit pressed deeper. Through his skin. Through his sinew. Through his core. Will’s lips trembled as another moan ghosted past them. It felt like being kissed from the inside, like hands pressing through his bones, molding him to fit something greater, something endless.

"Take me," Will whispered, whimpered. His own voice sounded foreign—too breathless, too wanting.

“As you wish.”

The sensation of the alabaster thickened, filling every inch of him, stretching him to his limits and beyond. Will arched, a broken cry leaving him as he felt it seal inside him, as if the Saint had pressed his lips to Will’s spine and breathed himself in.

His fingers twitched. His pulse throbbed. He could still feel the weight of sheets draped over him, the silks cool against his overheated skin, but nothing about him was his own anymore.

And he did not want it to be.

Chapter Text

There were no more tomorrows for Will; he simply drifted through reality. At some point, he found himself seated on one of the chapel’s pews near the altar, with Father Crawford and Abbess Beverly standing over him.

“I told you he was special, Sister Katz,” Father Crawford said with a bright smile.

“Will?” she called, her own smile slightly strained. “Can you hear me?”

Will nodded, his gaze fixed on the altar rather than on her. A serene smile formed on his lips. “Of course, Sister.”

“Mirriam,” Father Crawford called, glancing past Will. “Good, you’re here. Can you do something for me?”

Will didn’t need to turn around to know Mirriam’s face was alight with readiness. “Of course, Father. What can I do?”

“Help dear Will prepare for consecration.”

The word struck something deep within Will. He wasn’t sure if it was good or bad, but something stirred—enough to ripple through his blissful haze, though not enough to pull him fully out of it. Still, he became aware that time had passed. When he last remembered sitting here, thirty-one candles had burned on the altar—one for each day of the month. Now, there was only one.

“When was the last time I ate?” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, but the words came aloud. Soft laughter followed from Mirriam and Father Crawford. Will turned toward them, searching for an answer.

“Mirriam,” Father Crawford gestured for her to take him, and she nodded, reaching for Will’s hand to help him stand.

He let himself be led, leaving Sister Katz and the priest behind—one pleased, the other concerned.

Will couldn’t anchor himself in his surroundings enough to understand where they were going, but he caught fragments of Mirriam’s words as they moved.

“This is wonderful, Will. The moment I saw you, I knew you’d be perfect. I could see the potential for deep devotion in your eyes,” she said as they seemed to float through the air.

“What’s going on?”

Alana’s voice broke through, coming from some unseen direction before her hazy figure materialized in front of them.

“Will is ready,” Mirriam said, her voice bright with delight. “He’s preparing for the ceremony.”

Ceremony? What ceremony?

“Will is… He’s being consecrated?” Alana’s tone lacked Mirriam’s radiance.

Whatever happened next, Will and Mirriam continued without Alana, floating forward until they reached a cold, empty space.

“Here, let me help you out of these,” Mirriam said, tugging his T-shirt over his head. The moment his skin was exposed, his mind sharpened—just a little.

“Sorry, what are we doing?” he asked as she folded his shirt.

“We told you yesterday. Don’t you remember?”

“Sorry, I—don’t.”

Yesterday? Will had been drifting in a haze of bliss, detached from time itself.

“Well, that’s alright,” she said. “I suppose the Lord has been placing your mind elsewhere.”

She smiled. “This is part of the preparation for your ceremony. You need to soak in exalted water.”

“Exalted?”

(…) And thou shall sink into the exalted waters and see His face in the depths of your own darkness.

A passage from Liber E. echoed in Will’s mind, triggered by her words.

“Come on, I’ll help you in,” she said, guiding him to a large, empty stone basin.

“There’s no water,” he murmured.

“You’re meant to sit inside. I’ll fill it, and then Father Crawford will bless it. It’s a gradual process.”

Time blurred. When the basin was full, Will became aware again. Father Crawford stood over it, a crucifix dangling from his hand, intoning words that sounded like Latin. Candlelight flickered across the water’s surface, reflecting in shifting glows. There were no windows—at least none he could find.

Then, slowly, his head slipped beneath the water—by his own will or someone else’s, he couldn’t tell. The world fell silent.

His eyes opened to shimmering light above. He wanted to inhale, to let the water invade him, take him, possess him. Just as he was about to surrender, a tall shadow loomed behind Father Crawford’s figure. Blurred. Indistinct.

Will jolted upright.

When he searched for it above the water, it was gone.

Father Crawford stood still, looking upward, hands clasped in prayer.

The pull of the darkness was irresistible. Will sank again, this time with his eyes shut.

Soft, cool, and all-encompassing—the sensation cradled him. Time lost meaning. Hours? Days? He couldn’t know.

When his eyes opened again, he lay on a white bed in a room he had never seen before.

“Will!” Sister Katz’s voice called out, her hands finding his forehead. “How are you feeling?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t feel like speaking but forced himself. Her face was too tense.

“I’m alright. Where are we?”

“We’re in the sunroom, in the main house. Do you need water?”

Will thought the name suited it. Golden light filtered through sheer white curtains on the balcony window. He nodded, and she produced a glass of water from somewhere.

The cool liquid sliding down his throat, spreading through his chest, felt foreign. How long had it been since he last drank?

He looked down at his own body. If not for the underlying sense of bliss, he might have been startled by how much thinner he was. Will had been carved down to something finer, something delicate and yielding. His ribs pressed against the skin, casting shadows, each rise and fall of breath accentuating their fragile beauty. His collarbones jutted like the edge of a silver knife, sharp enough to cut light. Beneath them, his chest hollowed slightly, the skin drawn taut over the delicate cage of his ribs, trembling with each pulse of life.

His hands moved, tracing the planes of his stomach, the lean stretch of him. Thin, starved, emptied of all but what was necessary. He could feel the gentle resistance of bone beneath his fingertips, the soft give of flesh. His hips flared subtly, the bones lying just beneath the surface like ripe fruit waiting to be cupped, bitten. His thighs, once stronger, were slender now, each muscle drawn fine, trembling at the slightest touch.

“Do you feel hunger?” she asked. Her words echoed through the room, reverberating inside him.

(…) Your hunger shall be conquered, so that your hunger can be sated.

The book’s words whispered through his mind.

“No.”

For the next few days, Will remained dimly aware of his surroundings. Mirriam visited, assuring him everything had gone as expected. The church was elated—no one had ever successfully undergone the process before. She told him he had been unresponsive after the waters, but his body had kept functioning. Abbot Frederick, a doctor, had monitored his health closely, calling it a sacred phenomenon—how he remained well despite such prolonged fasting.

“Oh, and they found a letter from Deacon Ingram,” Mirriam mentioned casually. “Did they tell you?”

Ingram. A letter? But how—?

How could he have written anything when he was inside Will’s guts?

Will stayed silent, and Mirriam continued.

“Apparently, he’s doing missionary work abroad. He said he had sinful inclinations and needed to leave to seek God’s forgiveness on his own. Can you believe it?”

Will said nothing, but his mind sharpened. Something wasn’t right.

“When was the letter found? When did he leave?”

“You don’t remember?” Mirriam blinked. “Oh, well, I suppose that was right when you began fasting. Your mind must have been completely absorbed in sacred thought.”

She sighed. “Yes, Deacon Ingram disappeared some time ago. His belongings were gone, his room emptied, and no one could reach him. The church was working with the local police, but—well, you know how it is in a small town. But then, just yesterday, they received a letter from him.”

Will remembered making sure to clean out Ingram’s room himself.

But he didn’t remember writing a letter.

“How do they know it’s from him?”

“Oh…” Mirriam hesitated. “I don’t actually know. But Father Crawford is certain, so it must be real.”

Will wasn’t certain of anything anymore.

But he did know one thing: he needed to get a grasp on reality. And fast.

In the following days Will received visits from nearly everyone in the church. Nearly. Alana never came, and that struck him as strange, considering everything.

“Sister, how is Alana? Haven’t seen her,” Will asked as Sister Katz tended to his hygiene, pressing a warm, damp cloth along the length of his arm. The water carried the faint scent of lavender, and the heat seeped into his skin, momentarily soothing the persistent ache in his bones.

“She’s been a bit absent lately.”

“Oh? Something happen?”

“No, no.” A flicker of hesitation. A pause just a beat too long. Will’s gaze, sluggish yet sharp, caught the shift in her expression—the tightening at the corners of her lips, the way she smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle on her sleeve. “You know Alana, she works too hard. I think she’s just taking a bit of a break.”

He nodded, but the thought drifted away, slipping from his fingers before he could bother to hold onto it. His mind had been too tranquil, too lulled into a state of surrender. The night of the consecration ceremony was drawing closer—a night he had no memory of agreeing to, yet apparently, he had. He didn’t know what it would entail, and no matter how much he tried to summon concern, to prod at the fog that wrapped around his awareness, it was useless. The calm ruled him. He let it. He was more intrigued than afraid.

When the night arrived, they took him to the aisle, and he did not resist. The chapel was bathed in candlelight, flickering flames casting long, wavering shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with incense, sweet and sharp, clinging to his skin as he moved forward, barefoot against the cold floor. At the far end of the aisle, Father Crawford awaited, his hands folded before the radiant image of Saint Hannibal. The saint’s visage, painted in deep, solemn hues, seemed almost to shimmer in the shifting light.

As weak as Will was, his body conjured strength he did not expect. He sank to his knees before the image, arms falling to his sides, palms open. A trembling breath left him.

“O Saint Hannibal of Elation,” Father Crawford’s voice rang out, measured and steady, “welcome this child into your sacred heart. May he belong to the divine through your mediation—”

The words spilled from Will’s mouth before he even knew he had formed them. His throat vibrated with them, his voice steady yet unbidden:

“You have tasted the feast of souls and drank the cup of longing. You know the trembling thirst of devotion. I prostrate myself before you. Take this body, this mind, this will, and make them Yours. Empty me of hesitation, strip me of the weight of lesser callings. Let my hands be moved only by Your design, my mouth speak only the words You place upon my tongue. Lead me through the door of my own undoing. Break me, refine me, make me hunger as You hunger—so that I may know the ecstasy of surrender. By this vow, I abandon my name, my past, my self. From this hour forth, I am Yours, and Yours alone. Amen.”

The silence that followed was palpable, thick as velvet. The gathered officiants, his friends from the commune, all watched, motionless. Heads bowed. Breath stilled. Their eyes, wide and reverent, fixed upon him. Father Crawford looked pleased.

Then, the hush was shattered by a sudden noise outside the chapel. A crackling rupture, a force breaking through the fabric of stillness. Heads turned as a jagged bolt of lightning struck the stained-glass window that bore the image of the Sacratum Cor, the sacred heart. The glass trembled but did not shatter, its colors illuminated in a violent flash.

A force surged through Will’s spine, arching his back in a taut bow. His body folded backward until his head pressed against the floor, throat exposed, arms limp at his sides. His knees, bent and trembling, bore the strain of his weight as he hung in suspension between collapse and something more divine.

His voice, strained from the unnatural position, rose again, intoning with a strange speed:

“I, William Graham, unworthy and trembling, stand before the eyes of Saint Hannibal of Elation, offering all that I am upon the altar of His will. I vow to be emptied, so that I may be filled. I vow to be silent, so that His voice may speak through me. I vow to be bound, so that I may be freed. From this day forth, I renounce my former name, for I am no longer mine to name. I renounce my former path, for He has carved a new road into my flesh. I renounce my will, for I have no will but His. Let my hunger mirror His hunger. Let my devotion be as blood upon His altar. Let my soul be unmade and remade in His hands. In the presence of the elect, in the shadow of the sanctuary, I inscribe my name in the Book of Offering. May it be devoured. May I be made whole—”

The final word tore from him as a hoarse scream, echoing through the cavernous chapel, reverberating off stone and wood.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Will’s body trembled, a vessel accommodating something vast. Behind his closed lids, he saw a vision: Saint Hannibal, kneeling before him, his cock exposed. Where Will’s head lay back against the ground, the saint hovered, and in his pale hands, he held something smooth, gleaming between his legs—his cock as the alabaster. He guided it past Will’s lips, pressing it against his tongue, pushing it deeper. The cold stone filled his mouth, stretched his throat, lodged itself within him. Will felt his muscles resist, a shuddering reflex, but something slick began to seep from the alabaster, oozing past his lips, spilling down his chin.

His eyes snapped open. The vision fractured. Above him, Sister Katz was bending over, hands cradling his head, fingers firm yet gentle against his temples.

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” she murmured, voice low and steady.

Oh, that he knew.

Chapter Text

Snapped into a new way of being, a completely different reality, Will’s awareness was drawn back into his body—not as a separate, dissociated entity fighting against its own flesh, as he had always been, but as something whole, indivisible. He was no longer wrestling with the weight of his own existence; instead, his body had become a lover, something to cherish, to move with rather than against. There was a wordless intimacy between him and his physical form now, a quiet, unquestionable surrender, a merging of mind and flesh that made him feel stronger than ever before. He resumed eating after the ceremony, but food felt secondary, a mere necessity. A deeper hunger had taken root within him, insatiable and ever-present. He knew exactly how to sate it.

Alana had been a ghost in his periphery—around, yet distant. He had seen her, but she never approached him, and he had no desire to seek her out. They passed each other with polite nods, faint smiles, nothing more. Until one night.

He had spent the day tending to the chapel, arranging the altar, overseeing the processions. As he made his way home, he found her waiting on the chapel steps, illuminated by the dim glow of the courtyard lanterns.

“Good night, Alana,” he said, intending to walk past her.

“Will?”

He paused mid-step, turning back. She looked up at him, something hesitant in her expression. “Can you talk? Just for a second?”

He sighed but nodded, lowering himself onto the step beside her.

“I’m sorry I never visited you while you were preparing.”

“I didn’t mind,” he admitted. “I was barely aware of what was happening around me anyway.”

“Right. Of course. You seemed very focused on… the process.”

He only nodded in response.

“I’ve been here my whole life, you know?” she continued. “Grew up here. Walked these streets since I was a child, heard every story about Saint Hannibal. I did my first communion in this chapel.” A flicker of something—pain, regret—crossed her face.

“My whole life has been devoted to him, to God’s will.”

Will watched her, listening to the undercurrent of frustration in her voice.

“I pray in the morning, before every meal, in the evening, at midnight vigils. I have done this for years, for as long as I can remember. And I was satisfied with that. I was happy to devote my mind and heart to him.”

She paused, fingers curling against the fabric of her dress.

“But?” he prompted.

Her jaw tightened. “No ‘but.’ I just… I was hoping you could tell me how.”

“How?”

“How you did it.” She turned to face him, her eyes sharp now. “How, in such a short period of time, you were chosen for the consecration. What were your practices?”

He exhaled, already weary of the conversation. “I prayed.”

“That wasn’t all you did.”

Will raised his brows. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t know what you were doing, but I saw you leave the quarter in the middle of the night. I see you carrying that book everywhere. I know you took candles and other things from the apothecary.” Her voice was controlled, but there was a bite to it now. “You performed the rituals, didn’t you?”

His patience thinned. “What’s your point, Alana?”

“You did them, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “So what? Didn’t you say you tried them too? In secret?”

Her expression twisted in anger before she exhaled sharply. “Fine. Give it to me, then.”

“What?”

“The book. Give it to me.”

“You said it was written under delusion. That you tried them and felt nothing.”

“I tried one. That’s it. I never even read the whole thing.”

Will smirked. “And now suddenly you believe?”

Alana stood abruptly, looming over him. “You don’t deserve this! I have done everything—given everything! I surrendered my entire life to him, and he never came to me. I should be the one consecrated. I should be the one tending to his altar—”

“Fine! Stop shouting,” he hissed, grabbing her arm and pulling her down the steps. He let her go as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I want to see the book.”

“I said fine.”

She made him promise to bring it to her in the following days, but Will had no intention of doing so. She was jealous, and he was possessive of his unique connection to Saint Hannibal. The others saw his devotion, but only he knew the truth: his specialness came from the book, from the rituals, from the path that had been laid out for him alone. The book had always been there, yet none of them had found it. Only he had. That meant something. It was proof. He had sought out answers, and he had been given them. The alabaster had revealed itself to him.

Alana wasted her life on hollow prayers and false piety. She would not be granted access to the book. If Saint Hannibal wanted her, he would lead her to her own path.

The final ritual demanded a grand offering. Ingram had been easy—deserved. But this rite required the flesh of a devout virgin. Will did not tremble at the requirement. He already knew where to find the perfect one.

A few night later, as he entered his room, Alana appeared in the doorway.

“Where is it?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

“Not very godly of you to barge into someone’s private quarters.”

“Save it. You promised me the book. Where is it?”

Before he could answer, she strode past him, yanking open his drawer. He moved toward her, but she slammed it shut, causing a small velvet satchel to slip to the floor.

She reached for it, but he shoved her aside, snatching it up.

Did it break? Is it still perfect?

As he turned it over in his hands, she lunged, grabbing it from him. In the struggle, the alabaster slipped free.

It landed in Will’s palm.

“Oh my God.”

“Alana, leave. Now.”

“There’s no way.”

“I said leave.”

“How?”

Will remained silent. She stared, wide-eyed, breath shallow.

“Let me touch it.”

“No.”

“You think you can keep this to yourself? You think this is yours? You stole it—!”

“No, I didn’t!”

“I’ll tell Father Crawford—”

“Fine,” he interrupted. “Fine. You can touch it.”

He held it out, hesitantly. She reached for it, trembling. As her fingers neared, the alabaster vanished.

They both gasped. A second later, it reappeared in Will’s hand.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to touch it,” he murmured.

Alana choked on a sob and ran from the room. Will sighed in irritation. Now he would have to deal with that.

He locked his room and went after her. It wasn’t surprising to find her there—kneeling on the corner pew of the unlit chapel, head bowed into her hands, shrouded in the thick silence of the dim space.

He approached slowly, pressing a hand against her back.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I don’t even know what happened back there.”

Her shoulders trembled with silent sobs. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” he said, exhaling. Then, rolling his eyes out of her sight— “You deserve this, too.”

She lifted her head slightly. “How did you get it?” Her voice was hoarse, fragile. Then, sharper: “And tell me the truth.”

He hesitated. “I found it on a grave. The book… led me to it. In a way.”

Her expression flickered between disbelief and something else—something more unsettled. “A grave?” She looked away, her teary eyes unfocused, lost in thought. Then, with slow realization, she turned back to him. “You’re not going to give me the book, are you?”

He exhaled, a long, weary sigh. “I can’t. I—” His jaw tensed. “I gave it away. In exchange for information on the relic.”

Her breath hitched. “You…” She blinked, her red-rimmed eyes widening. “You gave it away?” Her voice rose, incredulous, each syllable laced with something between betrayal and fury. “You can’t be serious.”

“I—”

“Tell me this is a lie, Will Graham.” Her voice was shaking now, but not from sorrow. 

“Tell me you didn’t—”

“You didn’t even believe the book was real, Alana—!”

“Well, clearly I was wrong!” she snapped. “And you believed in it, so why did you give it away?”

“I have a copy of all the pages.”

She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, well, that’s just—”

“I can give them to you.” His voice was steady. “If you want.”

She stared at him, lips parted, breath uneven.

“I can guide you through the rituals, too,” he added, quieter now. “If you want.”

Her expression softened, wavering between wariness and something closer to hope. “…You would do that?”

“Of course, Alana.” His eyes held hers. “You deserve this more than anyone in this place.”

A tear slid down her cheek, but this time, she smiled.

Will smiled back.

Alana would be where she was meant to be. And in the end, everyone would be satisfied.

Chapter Text

All was well in Will Graham’s mind and body. Each night, he lay upon the white sheets, his skin anointed with sacred oil, his spirit and body open, ready. His Saint awaited him in the dark, and together, they moved behind Will’s closed lids. A golden light stirred deep within Will’s loins, rising and falling, rising and falling—until it surged upward, through his spine, reaching the crown of his head before spilling out of him in a luminous cascade. Bliss, thick, slick and uncontainable, obliterated all tension, all pain, all suffering. His back arched, his teeth sank into the pillow to stifle the cries threatening to break free and fill the house. And when the trembling overtook him, it did not cease—it rolled in waves for hours, until sleep finally took him, cradled in the arms of Saint Hannibal.

It was their sacred act, every night. And yet, it was never enough. Will longed to feel his Saint inside him at all times. It was only a matter of time before their merging became complete.

The night came when he sent word for Alana to meet him at the chapel. He was waiting, tending to the altar, hands pressed against the image of the Saint. He felt empty. So empty. So hungry.

"Will?"

Her voice echoed through the dim chapel, and Will was ready for dinner.

He led her beyond the chapel’s walls, into the woods. “You need to be outside for the first ritual,” he told her, his voice low. “No one will see us here.”

She followed.

“Stand here. In the moonlight,” he murmured, pressing a hand to her back, guiding her into position.

“What do I have to do?” she asked, nerves flickering in her voice, though she remained still.

“Just stay very still.”

She swallowed hard, and he leaned in, breath warm against her skin. “Do you love Him?”

“What—what?” She tensed under his touch.

“Saint Hannibal,” he whispered. “Do you love him, Alana?”

“I—Yes. I do.”

The moon made her skin look like porcelain, smooth and fragile. When Will slid the cool blade across her throat, the blood that spilled onto his hands looked black in the moonlight. It soaked into her white nightgown, turning the fabric translucent, clinging to her body in crimson streaks.

She fell against him, eyes rolling back, the last of her life draining into his arms. He lowered her to the earth, steady, reverent. Then he began his work.

By the time he returned to his room, after cleaning the remains and his own clothes, the ritual space was prepared—the sigils, the candles, the cup, the bowl, the dagger. All that remained was to light the flames, call the spirits, and begin. This rite required two parts. He could not consume the offering all at once. He had to preserve it, at least for a while. But not for long.

When the act was done, the strain was unbearable. Too much bliss for one body to contain. It pressed against his skull, his ribs, his loins—an ecstasy so vast it threatened to split him open. He barely made it through the final cleansing, his limbs weak, his vision flickering. The room, drenched in the evidence of his devotion, was scrubbed clean. Only then did he collapse into unconsciousness.

The silver strands whispered against his skin, weightless, like threads of moonlight. The warmth surrounding him was more than heat—it was presence, sinking into his bones, his marrow, his very being. Strong hands molded to his waist, possessive, reverent, the grip was a comfort and a claim. Will exhaled, a slow shudder, his body pliant as the Saint’s touch shaped him, as if he were clay beneath divine hands.

The bed beneath him was endless—cloud-soft sheets pooling around his hips, sheer fabric shifting with every movement, with every slow inhale and exhale between them. He could feel the weight of Him everywhere, pressing into him without force, guiding without need for command anymore. Will turned his face slightly, catching a breath of that silver hair, the scent of something ancient and clean, like candle wax and iron. A whisper of lips ghosted over his jaw, not quite a kiss, not quite a question.

Then— His voice.

"Do you feel guilt?"

Will’s breath stopped. His body tensed beneath the Saint’s hands, the weight of those words shattering the quiet in a way no dream ever had before.

He had never heard Him before. Not like this. Not as something external, something separate from himself.

He shivered. The realization unfurled in his chest, blooming and heavy—the ritual. The consecration. It had opened something between them, some threshold crossed, some lock undone. But now—now He talked. Now He asked.

Will exhaled, slow, steadying. Beneath his ribs, something deep and warm unfurled, curling around the fear, the awe.

Alana’s face flickered behind his eyelids, blood blooming beneath her like a fallen rose. The scent of it. His offering.

He let the memory settle, let it stretch out in the dark. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

“No.”

A hum of approval. The Saint’s grip flexed, dragging him closer, until their bodies molded together, warmth sinking through Will’s skin, through his very breath. One hand slid up his chest, over his collarbone, fingers curling lightly around his throat—not to hold, not to harm. To feel. To test.

"No remorse?"

Will swallowed, the movement shifting his throat beneath the Saint’s palm. He could feel the faintest pressure there, the reminder of possession, of the choice he had made. The sheets rustled as he tilted his head back, arching into the hold without hesitation, offering himself just as he had offered Alana.

“No,” he whispered again.

The Saint’s lips finally met his, slow and claiming. Not gentle. Not brutal. Like a seal being pressed into wax. Like communion.

Morning brought new burdens. The flesh he had labored to preserve sat in a cooler in his wardrobe, struggling against the relentless heat of the day. Alana’s absence did not go unnoticed—her failure to appear for prayers sent whispers through the chapel. His seemingly lack of care about that did go unnoticed as Will had been known for his spiritual preoccupations, too absorbed in divine matters to concern himself with much else.

Still, his thoughts drifted to Ingram. To the letter. Unanswered questions lingered, but they would have to wait. The final rite had yet to be completed. The offering had to be consumed before decay set in.

"By consuming them, you conquer their weakness, assimilating it into your being."

The words burned in his mind as he rushed to his room that evening. The sigils were redrawn. The incense smoldered. The flesh, prepared. Time was running out—he could already smell the change.

He moved quickly, whispering the evocations, then took the first bite.

The effect was immediate. A force surged through him, electric, euphoric. It rushed through his limbs, pulsed in his belly, his chest, his fingers, his throat, his skull—then back down, lower, lower, until his breath hitched, his body desperate to be taken, to be—

"Dear God!"

The voice shattered his trance like a stone through glass.

Will barely had time to turn before nausea overtook him, his stomach revolting against the interruption. Flesh spilled from his lips onto the floor.

“Will, what are you—oh God, oh God—!”

Sister Katz’s shriek rang out, sharp with horror.

Hands gripped his shoulders. A flurry of voices. Chaos. He tried to move, but the incompleteness of the ritual and the retching had drained him, left him too weak, too dazed. He was being pulled, dragged through the floor with his arms pulled from behind when he saw Mirriam, bent down, fingers grasping something amid the mess. A glint of gold.

Alana’s necklace.

They know.

In his rush, his ecstasy, his hunger, he had been careless.

And now, he was exposed. A failure. Unworthy of the Saint’s blessings.

“No.”

The growl tore from his throat as he willed strength into his limbs. He broke free and ran.

Ran through the corridors, his bare feet and body soundless on the stone. Out the front door. Across the yard. Through the chapel’s doors. Down the aisle, past the altar, into the apothecary—

Then through the door he had never opened, but always known.

Down the cold, winding staircase.

And there, in the depths of the chapel, they lay before him—ancient, sprawling, silent.

The catacombs.

The hidden sanctuary of San Hannibal of Elation.

His Saint had led him home at last.

Tumbling, out of breath and wounded, he crawled toward the tomb that stood before him. Like a well—waiting, ready to be opened. With trembling hands, he pushed against the stone covering it, and then he saw.

Inside, untouched by time, lay He. Intact, perfectly preserved, an angel in repose—a holy, sacred being. Sharp cheekbones, pouty lips flushed a delicate red, silver hair framing a face both serene and otherworldly. His perfect hands rested lightly on his chest, a vision of divinity. Will’s breath hitched in wonder, but he did not hesitate. He pulled himself inside, inching closer, closer.

With reverence, he moved the Saint’s robe aside, taking his cock into his trembling hands before sinking down. Warmth, safety, love—he was home. He moved with his saint inside of him, and the sensations were driving him insane with pleasure. Wrapped in the embrace of the divine, his body quaked with bliss, surrendering to the moment, to Him. He belonged here, face buried in his Sant’s neck, held within His arms. 

You are slipping between worlds, beloved.

“Oh God, my dear God!” A woman’s voice, distant, horrified.

I know. It feels like drowning, but I am not afraid.

They had found him. But it no longer mattered.

No, not drowning. You are being taken.

Will’s vision blurred, his body shaking too violently to care. He had passed the threshold. There was nothing to stop now.

Then take me. Completely. I can’t survive the separation anymore.

“Don’t get near! That’s infected!” Abbot Frederick’s voice, sharp and urgent. “He’s dying… There’s nothing we can do.”

You were mine long before this moment.

“We need to try to get him out!” another voice cried.

I can feel you inside me, filling every breath.

“No, you can’t!” The Abbot’s voice cracked with desperation. “He has sepsis! You can’t do…that to a rotten corpse! It’s full of bacteria—we shouldn’t even be breathing this air!”

There is no more breath. Only us.

“Everybody leave! Now!” Father Crawford’s command cut through the chaos. Horror, disbelief, disgust—all mirrored in their stares.

Will I disappear?

Awareness slipped from Will’s grasp, fragile as a whisper. He no longer needed it. He had everything—everything he had ever wanted. Consciousness was no longer required.

You will become.

Chapter Text

THE CULT OF SAINT HANNIBAL BY DOCTOR BEDELIA DUMARIER PH.D

(Art Work by: Ftm-will-graham)

About the Author:

Dr. Bedelia DuMarier is a distinguished scholar specializing in the historical accuracy of religious narratives. She holds a Ph.D. in Comparative Theology and Medieval History from the University of Bologna and has spent decades researching the intersection of faith, folklore, and suppressed religious movements. As a professor at the University of Ancona, she has dedicated her career to uncovering hidden truths within Church history.

Her work challenges conventional interpretations, drawing from archival research, forgotten manuscripts, and the accounts of those who have kept the past alive in whispers. The Cult of Saint Hannibal is the culmination of years spent unraveling the mysteries of a saint whose influence lingers in ways the Church never intended.

INTRODUCTION

Shadows in the Hagiography: Unraveling the Mystery of Saint Hannibal

The study of saints is, more often than not, a study in omission. Official hagiographies are curated with a precision that ensures consistency with doctrine, smoothing over the contradictions and uncertainties that inevitably accompany any human life. Saint Hannibal is no exception.

Though canonized for his supposed works of healing and charity, his story is riddled with gaps—details altered, testimonies silenced, entire chapters of his life erased. Unlike the more conventional saints whose asceticism and suffering are well-documented, Hannibal was a man of refinement. He arrived in the Marche not as a simple laborer or a shepherd turned mystic, but as a doctor, a learned man, claiming to have studied in Greece. Accounts describe him as elegant, his presence commanding, his dress impeccable. He was no impoverished hermit, no flagellant monk, but rather a man who moved with quiet opulence—humble, yes, but never austere.

Yet, within the chapel dedicated to his name, relics were taken, records destroyed, and evidence of a more complex legacy concealed. Behind the official story of the saintly physician and benefactor, whispers persist of a deeper mystery: a secret order formed around him, the Dilectissimus, whose existence was carefully excised from Church records. It is said that within this circle, Hannibal imparted teachings that strayed beyond conventional medicine—practices regarded as unorthodox, even transgressive. Some claim he possessed a knowledge that blended healing with something more arcane, a wisdom inherited from sources the Church would rather not acknowledge.

Then there is the matter of the Liber Medicae, Liber E., and Liber Veneficiorum, books attributed to him yet unaccounted for, containing teachings that suggest a philosophy far removed from mere Christian charity. And, of course, the alabaster relic—an object once housed in the chapel but now lost to time, its true purpose a matter of speculation and hushed scholarly debate.

If history is written by the victors, then hagiography is written by the institution that claims authority over the divine. But beneath the sanctioned accounts lie the shadows—the omissions, the contradictions, the strange echoes of a saint’s life that refuse to be buried. This book seeks to unravel these shadows, not to deny the existence of Saint Hannibal, but to understand what the Church chose to forget.

The Limits of Canonization: What the Church Chose to Preserve

Canonization is not merely a recognition of holiness; it is an act of curation. The Church does not declare saints—it constructs them. Their lives are not preserved in their full complexity but are instead distilled, refined, and often rewritten to align with doctrinal expectations. In the case of Saint Hannibal, this process is especially evident.

The official record presents a man of virtue, a benefactor who healed the sick and provided for the destitute. His presence in Loreto is attributed to divine calling, his medical knowledge to his Christian devotion rather than to his Greek education. He is remembered not for his opulence, but for his generosity; not for his intellectualism, but for his faith. His death is described as peaceful, his legacy as that of a man wholly given to God.

Yet what the Church chose to preserve is as telling as what it sought to obscure. No mention is made of the order that formed around him, nor of the Libers, three  manuscripts rumored to have contained knowledge of healing practices that diverged from ecclesiastical medicine. Those closest to him in life, vanish from official documentation after his death, their existence reduced to footnotes in fragmented records. And most intriguingly, the alabaster relic—an object once kept within the chapel—disappeared entirely, its description vague, its function unknown.

The gaps in Hannibal’s canonization raise questions: Was he merely a physician and benefactor, or did his knowledge extend beyond what the Church was willing to accept? Was he a saint in the conventional sense, or did his sanctity stem from something more esoteric? And if his teachings were truly in line with Church doctrine, why did so many artifacts tied to him vanish after his death?

These are not questions that canonization seeks to answer. The process of sainthood is not one of revelation, but of control—choosing which truths serve faith and which must be forgotten. But faith alone cannot erase the traces left behind. The Chapel of Saint Hannibal still stands, its relics scattered, its records incomplete, its mysteries unresolved. And within those mysteries, glimpses of a man more complex—and perhaps more powerful—than the Church dared to remember.

1. A Physician and a Saint: The Noble Origins of Hannibal

The story of Saint Hannibal does not begin in humility, nor in obscurity, but in refinement and privilege. Born in the late 13th century to a family of considerable means, Hannibal was raised among the aristocracy, his education as opulent as his surroundings. Unlike many saints whose hagiographies emphasize rural toil or monastic asceticism, Hannibal was never a man of the land. His hands bore no calluses from laboring in the fields, nor did he spend his youth in the company of shepherds or monks. Instead, he moved in circles of intellectual and artistic sophistication, receiving a classical education that took him beyond Italy’s borders.

It is said that he studied medicine in Greece, though the records of his exact whereabouts remain elusive. What little evidence remains suggests he was trained in both traditional medical practice and more esoteric methods—those that straddled the line between accepted science and the forbidden knowledge of natural philosophy. Whether his studies were purely conventional or touched upon something more arcane remains a matter of debate among scholars, but what is certain is that by the time he arrived in Loreto, he was already an accomplished physician.

Yet Hannibal’s presence in Loreto was not that of an itinerant doctor seeking patients. He did not come in rags, nor as a man desperate for purpose. He arrived with wealth and status, immediately recognized for his cultivated manner and elegant bearing. His was not the path of the typical wandering healer but of a benefactor—one who saw the suffering of the rural poor and, rather than retreating to the safety of noble privilege, chose to immerse himself in their world.

What compelled him to do so remains an enigma. There is no record of a divine vision, no documented moment of spiritual awakening that led him to abandon the life he was born into. Instead, his choice appears almost calculated, as though he had seen something in Loreto—something in the land, the people, or perhaps even the church itself—that made it the place where he would establish his legacy. Some accounts suggest he had already begun to attract followers before his arrival, that his healing abilities and enigmatic presence had drawn individuals who believed there was more to him than mere medical skill.

By the time of his death, Hannibal was known not just as a healer but as a figure of deep reverence, almost mystical in his influence. The Church would later emphasize his piety, his charity, and his service to the people. But the details of his origins—the wealth, the education, the possible affiliations with intellectual circles that dabbled in knowledge beyond scripture—would fade into the background, omitted from the formal canonization records. What remained was the image of a saint, cleansed of the complexities that made him more than just a man of God.

Hannibal’s arrival in Loreto was marked not by spectacle, but by an unmistakable presence. He was neither the penitent monk seeking refuge nor the wandering ascetic hoping for divine visions. Instead, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man accustomed to command, his fine robes—always elegant, though never ostentatious—signaling his noble origins. Those who met him spoke of his manner: composed, deliberate, and cultivated, the bearing of someone who had conversed with scholars and debated with theologians. Yet there was also something else, something intangible—an aura, perhaps, of expectation.

From the moment he stepped onto the worn stone streets of the village, whispers began. A foreign doctor, learned in the Greek tradition, arriving in a town where few had ever seen a man of his refinement. His reputation had preceded him—there were rumors that he had healed the sick without asking for payment, that he had restored sight to a man who had been blind from birth. Others murmured that he had access to texts that the Church had not sanctioned, knowledge that should not be known outside the hallowed halls of Rome.

Hannibal did not seek to join an existing order, nor did he establish a formal practice as a physician. Instead, he moved among the people, treating the ill, speaking with the devout, and in time, making generous donations to the construction and upkeep of the local chapel. The Cappella di San Hannibal, as it would later come to be known, was not built by his hands, nor did he ever claim it as his own—but it was within its stone walls that his presence became most deeply felt.

Unlike the clerics who sought conversion through doctrine, Hannibal’s faith manifested in action. He did not preach in the streets, nor did he recite scripture to the masses. Instead, he touched the afflicted, anointed them with oil, and whispered words that few could hear. Whether it was simple comfort or something more miraculous, those who received his care spoke of a warmth that lingered long after his fingers had left their skin. It was this, more than any sermon or display of charity, that made him a figure of devotion.

His connection to the Church, however, was always a point of contention. Hannibal’s piety was undeniable—he attended Mass, fasted, and funded repairs to the chapel—but he never took orders. He was neither priest nor monk, and his teachings, if they could be called that, often drifted outside the strict confines of doctrine. He spoke of the body as a vessel not only of suffering but of pleasure, of how illness could be both a curse and a path to enlightenment. Some suspected he had absorbed more than medicine from his time in Greece—that his knowledge extended into the mysteries of the ancients, those who healed not only with herbs but with forces unseen.

The Vatican records, when examined closely, are curiously silent on the matter of his studies. There is no official documentation of his time abroad, no confirmation of his education outside of what his followers have passed down. Yet, in letters preserved in private collections, references emerge—mentions of correspondences with scholars in Constantinople, discussions of texts that were, at the time, considered dangerous to those within the Church’s embrace. It is here that the first fractures between Hannibal and the institution that would later venerate him can be seen.

If Hannibal’s methods were unconventional, so too was his following. He did not found a monastic order, yet those who gathered around him behaved as though he were more than a mere physician. They recorded his words, though never in the manner of biblical scripture. They claimed his hands could do more than mend wounds. Some accounts, undoubtedly embellished over the years, speak of patients who felt his touch before he ever laid hands upon them, as if his presence alone had power.

Even in his own lifetime, the question of his sanctity was debated. To the villagers of Loreto, he was a saint long before the Church acknowledged him as one. To certain factions within the clergy, he was a man whose influence needed careful containment, a figure whose following was unsettling in its devotion.

By the time of his death, the Church had little choice but to accept his veneration. His chapel had become a site of pilgrimage, his name whispered alongside those of recognized saints. Yet the version of Hannibal that was canonized—the humble healer, the generous benefactor—was only a part of the man. The records that survived tell a different story, one that hints at something more complex, something the Church chose to obscure rather than erase.

Perhaps this is why, even centuries later, relics associated with Hannibal have vanished. The missing alabaster, the lost texts, the books that his followers claimed contained his teachings—these absences are not mere accidents of history. They are evidence of something that was meant to be forgotten. And yet, the more one looks, the more one sees that the traces remain, scattered like breadcrumbs, waiting for those who would follow them.

2. The Greek Influence: Medicine, Philosophy, and the Occult

To understand Saint Hannibal is to look beyond the narrow framework of medieval Christian sainthood. Though venerated for his healing miracles, his knowledge was not born from divine inspiration alone, nor was it confined to the teachings of the Church. Hannibal was a man of learning, a physician trained in the traditions of the Greeks, a scholar whose intellectual pursuits stretched beyond doctrine and into the realms of philosophy, alchemy, and the occult.

Hannibal’s own accounts of his early life are scarce, and the Church’s records are, at best, selective in their details. But what little remains suggests that before he ever set foot in Loreto, he had traveled extensively through Greece, where he claimed to have studied medicine under the tutelage of those who preserved the teachings of Galen and Hippocrates. This was an era in which Greek medical thought—though admired—was regarded with suspicion, particularly when it ventured beyond the acceptable boundaries of humoral theory and into what some considered dangerous experimentation.

There are indications that Hannibal's medical knowledge was more advanced than that of his contemporaries. Some accounts suggest he had access to surgical techniques that would not become widely known in Western Europe for another century. Others claim he understood the properties of plants and minerals with an alchemist’s precision, blending them into tinctures that could cure ailments beyond the reach of conventional medicine.

Yet his knowledge was not purely material. Unlike the Church-sanctioned physicians of his time, who approached healing as a balance of bodily fluids and divine intervention, Hannibal spoke of illness in symbolic and metaphysical terms. To him, sickness was not merely the affliction of the body but of the spirit, and healing required more than poultices and prayers. It required a shift in the patient’s very essence.

Among the few surviving writings attributed to Hannibal are fragments that reveal a deep engagement with Platonic and Hermetic thought. He believed in the idea of transformation—not only of the body but of the soul itself. This concept, borrowed from the mysteries of the ancient world, was considered radical in Christian theology. Hannibal’s interpretation suggested that suffering was not merely a test of faith, nor a punishment for sin, but an opportunity for spiritual evolution.

One particularly controversial text, which exists only in partial copies, describes his belief that the healer does not merely mend the sick but acts as a conduit for change. This echoes the principles of theurgy, a branch of late Neoplatonic philosophy that aimed to unite the practitioner with the divine through ritual acts. Though Hannibal never explicitly referred to his methods as theurgical, the parallels were clear.

It is here that one sees the first shadows of the occult creeping into his legacy. If Hannibal’s healing was more than medicine, if it was a process of spiritual transformation, then what, exactly, was he channeling? His critics—then and now—have suggested that his miracles were not those of a saint, but of a sorcerer.

The association between medicine and magic was not uncommon in the medieval period, but it was a dangerous one. A physician who healed through herbs and prayers was a man of God; one who healed through means not fully understood could be something else entirely. The line between miracle and heresy was razor-thin, and Hannibal walked it carefully.

Though no official accusations of heresy were ever brought against him, whispers followed him throughout his life. Some claimed he had been seen performing rites in the dead of night, invoking words not found in Christian scripture. Others said he carried with him a book of knowledge that no priest had ever laid eyes upon—one that contained secrets lost to the ages.

The most damning evidence comes from a letter written decades after his death, found among the private archives of a monastic order in Rome. It speaks of a text known as Liber Ecstasy, the "Book of the Ecstasy,” which was said to contain Hannibal’s teachings on healing, and transformation. Though its contents remain unknown, its very existence suggests that there was more to his philosophy than the Church was willing to acknowledge.

By the time the Church moved toward canonizing Hannibal, his reputation had already taken on an air of mystery. His healings were undeniable, his following too strong to suppress. Yet, his connection to Greek philosophy, his rumored interest in alchemy, and the persistent whispers of occult knowledge presented a problem. How could the Church venerate a man who strayed so close to the forbidden?

The solution was selective memory. The official hagiographies omit any mention of his Greek education beyond its usefulness as a medical background. His philosophical inquiries are reduced to reflections on suffering and faith. The more esoteric elements—his rumored texts, his belief in transformation, his supposed rituals—are left unspoken.

But history, like the body, leaves traces of what has been altered. And in the case of Hannibal, the traces remain for those who know where to look. His legacy is not merely that of a saint, but of a figure caught between two worlds: the sacred and the forbidden, the healer and the magus, the man and the mystery.

The Miracles of Healing: A Gift or a Practice?

Saint Hannibal’s legacy is often defined by his healing miracles—acts that ranged from the curing of physical ailments to the restoration of spiritual well-being. To the uninitiated, his acts seemed to be the work of divine intervention; to the devoted, they were evidence of his connection to the sacred. Yet, the question arises: were these miraculous healings truly the gifts of a saint, or were they the practiced result of a deep and arcane knowledge? It is here that the intersection of faith and medicine, the sacred and the occult, becomes most complex.

The people of Loreto were not accustomed to witnessing such wonders. Their lives, shaped by poverty and sickness, had long resigned them to the idea that healing was a matter of divine grace—something given as a reward to the faithful, or withheld as punishment for sin. But when Hannibal arrived, a different form of healing began to emerge. It was not simply the work of prayer and faith, but something more: a method that combined his knowledge of medicine with an unspoken, almost ritualistic approach to the human body.

Hannibal’s healing practices were rarely performed in public, and when they were, they were shrouded in an air of mystery. Those who came to him in search of relief found themselves treated not only for their physical ailments but also for emotional or spiritual wounds. A fever would not be addressed merely with herbs, but with a quiet conversation, a touch, a whisper of words that seemed to bring comfort beyond the body. A woman with a chronic illness might leave his presence feeling not only better in body but lighter in spirit, as if a long-held burden had been lifted.

This holistic form of healing, blending physical care with psychological and spiritual support, was unfamiliar to many. Some would have called it a miracle, but to others, it seemed to be the product of deep and deliberate practice—a synthesis of knowledge and intuition. It was whispered that Hannibal did not merely rely on the medical texts of his time; instead, he had access to forgotten wisdom, the arcane knowledge of healing traditions that existed outside the official canon of the Church. His study in Greece, which many believed involved more than just classical medicine, likely exposed him to practices that bordered on the occult. The use of certain herbs and oils, the preparation of sacred spaces, the performance of rituals—all these elements seemed to be part of his method.

Indeed, some of Hannibal’s most famous healings were far from simple. One account tells of a man who had been blind for years, unable to see the light of day. After a single touch from Hannibal, the man was able to see once more. Yet, the healing was not just physical. Those who witnessed the event described an intense, almost palpable shift in the air around them, that brought the healed man to his knees in ecstasy, as though something spiritual had occurred. There was talk of energies moving within the space, of the boundary between the material and spiritual worlds becoming thin. To the people of Loreto, such an event could only be described as a miracle.

But to those who delved deeper into Hannibal’s practices, a different interpretation arose. Many believed that Hannibal’s healing abilities were not a mere gift but the result of a profound and deliberate mastery of both the body and the spirit. His knowledge, some said, was not merely medical; it was esoteric, transcending the boundaries of traditional science. In his hands, the human body became a site of transformation.

What is perhaps most significant about Hannibal’s healing practices is the way in which they defied the expectations of the time. In an era when illness was often seen as a punishment for sin or a divine trial, Hannibal’s method was one of compassion and understanding. Rather than casting judgment on his patients, he saw their afflictions as opportunities for transformation—both for the individual and for the community. It is said that his touch not only healed the body but restored balance, reconnected the soul, and offered a glimpse of a higher state of being.

This perspective on illness as a pathway to enlightenment is where Hannibal’s approach diverged most radically from the Church’s traditional view. The Church, with its emphasis on suffering as a form of spiritual purification, found Hannibal’s methods unsettling. His refusal to view illness solely as punishment, his ability to heal not just with medicine but with touch, with ritual, with a kind of sacred energy, presented a challenge to the orthodox understanding of divine will.

In this context, the miracles attributed to Hannibal’s healing practices take on a different hue. They are not just acts of grace or divine power—they are expressions of a deeper, more hidden knowledge. Whether it was a cure for the body, the mind, or the soul, Hannibal’s healing was a practice—one honed over years of study, not just in the material sciences but in the mysteries of life, death, and transformation.

Thus, while the Church chose to present Hannibal’s miracles as divine gifts, the more esoteric followers of the saint saw them as the result of deliberate, cultivated knowledge. The truth, it seems, lies somewhere between these two interpretations. Was Hannibal a saint performing miracles, or was he a healer drawing from a well of ancient, forbidden wisdom? Perhaps the answer is not so easily found, and perhaps that is why his legacy remains so mysterious. What we are left with is a man whose healing practices transcend simple categorization, whose legacy is one of both divine intervention and the quiet mastery of knowledge hidden from the world.

The Chapel in Loreto: A Sanctuary for the Afflicted

The small, picturesque town of Loreto, nestled in the heart of the Marche region, was far from a place that one would associate with miracles. Its cobbled streets and humble houses stood in stark contrast to the stories that would later swirl around the figure of Saint Hannibal, who had come to leave an indelible mark on this seemingly quiet village. The Chapel of Saint Hannibal, a modest structure at first glance, became the focal point of his work—a sanctuary for the afflicted, a place where suffering was transformed, both in body and soul. It was here that Hannibal’s presence began to take on a near-mythical quality, and the ordinary began to merge with the extraordinary.

Upon entering the chapel, visitors could sense a subtle shift in the air—a heaviness, perhaps, or a silence that seemed too profound for a place of worship. The dim light filtering through the stained glass windows cast shifting shadows on the stone floors, and there was a strange stillness that hung in the atmosphere. It was as if the space itself had absorbed the countless prayers and pleas that had been uttered within its walls. The chapel was not large, but its significance far exceeded its physical size. It had become a refuge for those suffering from ailments that medicine could not reach, illnesses that had resisted all known treatments, both medical and spiritual.

The chapel’s walls bore witness to countless stories of the miraculous. In the years following Hannibal’s arrival, reports began to surface from both locals and travelers of people cured from ailments that had been considered incurable. A woman, bedridden for years with an affliction that left her unable to walk, was said to have risen from her bed after one of Hannibal’s visits, as if by the sheer force of his presence. Those who had suffered from chronic pain found themselves relieved, often after only a brief interaction with the man. But it was not only physical ailments that seemed to fade under his influence—there were stories of emotional and spiritual healing, as well. Many spoke of a deep sense of peace and clarity that would descend upon them after a visit from Hannibal, a peace that lingered long after he had departed.

As the word spread of these strange and miraculous occurrences, the chapel became a pilgrimage site, not only for the people of Loreto but for those from distant towns and cities. Those who had heard the stories of Saint Hannibal’s healing powers came from far and wide, seeking solace for their own suffering. The small chapel, once quiet and unassuming, was now a place of constant activity, with visitors lining up to receive a blessing or a touch from the mysterious physician.

It was here, in this sacred space, that Hannibal’s teachings began to crystallize—not in formal sermons or written doctrine, but in the interactions he had with those who came to him. His healing method was never explained in simple terms; it could not be taught in a conventional sense. There was no manual, no prescribed regimen. Instead, Hannibal guided his patients through a silent process of surrender. He never demanded faith in the traditional Christian sense, nor did he force any particular religious doctrine upon them. Instead, he seemed to work through the individual’s own energy, unlocking a hidden strength or channeling a force that transcended the material world.

This philosophy of healing went beyond the body, for Hannibal understood that true wellness required a balance between the physical, the emotional, and the spiritual. Some who came to the chapel in pain left with their bodies healed, but they also departed with a new understanding of their own existence—a profound realization that their suffering was part of a larger journey, one that encompassed not just the physical but the psychological and even the metaphysical.

The Church, however, was wary of this growing reputation. There were whispers of doubts among the clergy, especially when reports surfaced of more esoteric practices being incorporated into his methods. The use of oils and unholy rituals—strange symbols, gestures, and prayers—suggested a knowledge that strayed dangerously close to the occult. It was clear to the Vatican that Hannibal’s popularity was not based solely on his charitable acts, but rather on a more mysterious and unsettling power. The Church, ever cautious of movements it could not control, turned a blind eye to the true nature of Hannibal’s healing.

But the faithful who came to the chapel did not care for such concerns. To them, the miracles were proof enough of the power that resided within the walls of Saint Hannibal’s sanctuary. They were drawn not only by the physical healing but by the sense of reverence that pervaded the space—a reverence that went beyond simple worship and touched something far deeper. The chapel was not just a place of worship; it had become a vessel, a portal for the sacred, where the very act of healing seemed to transcend human understanding.

For those who understood the hidden truths of Hannibal’s methods—those who had witnessed the transformation of the afflicted—the Chapel of Saint Hannibal became something more than a church. It was a gateway, a threshold between the material world and something far greater. It was a place where suffering was not just alleviated but transformed into something sacred, a profound experience that was as much about spiritual awakening as it was about physical recovery.

And yet, despite its status as a place of healing, the chapel remained a place of mystery. It was never fully understood, nor was it meant to be. Those who came to the chapel did so not with a desire for understanding, but with a hunger for relief—a hunger that Saint Hannibal, with his strange wisdom and enigmatic presence, seemed to satisfy in ways that could not be explained by conventional means.

The Dilectissimus: The Most Beloved and His Inner Circle

The Dilectissimus—the "Most Beloved"—is an enigmatic presence that haunts the teachings of Saint Hannibal, a figure both revered and elusive. To the outside world, the Dilectissimus is a mystery, a name whispered in reverence but never fully understood. Even among those closest to Hannibal, the true identity of the Dilectissimus remains hidden, its revelation forever postponed, an ideal that has yet to be realized in its fullest form. The Dilectissimus is not merely a follower or an acolyte, but rather a concept woven into the very fabric of Hannibal's spiritual endeavors—a perfect match, a soul that is not separate but born from his own, destined to be incarnated in flesh when the time is right.

Hannibal spoke of the Dilectissimus with a quiet intensity, never fully revealing the nature of this being but always suggesting that this soul was integral to the completion of his life's work. In the teachings that were passed on to his inner circle, he would often speak of this elusive figure, describing the Dilectissimus as a reflection of his own soul—someone who would eventually emerge, drawn together by spiritual forces beyond understanding. "Each of us has a Dilectissimus," he would say, "a match, a counterpart that we seek throughout the great work of spiritual endeavors. But only the deepest and most sacred journeys will lead us to find them."

For those who followed him, these words carried weight, for they were an invitation into a deeper mystery—one that transcended the material world. The Dilectissimus was not a person to be found easily; its existence was not something that could be tracked with the mind or through earthly means. It was something that could only be understood through spiritual work, through the purification and elevation of the soul. To even approach the idea of the Dilectissimus was to embark on a path that required not only immense dedication but the willingness to lose oneself in pursuit of a higher truth.

Hannibal spoke of this perfect match as something deeply personal. He explained that the Dilectissimus was more than a soulmate; it was the very essence of one’s being, a counterpart that existed in parallel with one's own soul. The Dilectissimus was not simply someone who complemented him in some earthly sense—it was a being that was, in essence, a continuation of him, an incarnation of his own spirit that had separated, only to one day reunite with him in a future yet to come. The notion was almost theological—an esoteric understanding of unity and division, creation and return.

The Dilectissimus was not an isolated concept but something that every individual was meant to seek within themselves. It was a symbol of the divine partnership that lay at the core of Hannibal's spiritual vision. And yet, the mystery remained: no one knew when the Dilectissimus would appear, or who they were, or even how to recognize them when they did. For those closest to Hannibal, this created a sense of both longing and awe, as they understood that they were part of a greater design—a design that only revealed itself to those who were most prepared to receive it.

Over time, the followers of Hannibal began to speculate on the nature of the Dilectissimus. Some believed it was a figure who had already appeared, hidden among them, perhaps even present in their own lives without their knowing. Others theorized that the Dilectissimus would only manifest at a moment of great spiritual awakening, when the time had come for the soul to be reunited with its counterpart. There was no certainty, only the understanding that the search was part of the spiritual journey itself. The path to finding the Dilectissimus was one of purification, transformation, and transcendence—each follower hoping to one day recognize the figure as the completion of their own being.

The members of the inner circle, those closest to Hannibal, found themselves drawn into this mystery. They did not have the answers, but they were deeply invested in the search. For them, the concept of the Dilectissimus was not merely a theological ideal—it was an experience that was woven into their very existence. Every prayer, every meditation, every action they took was a step on the path toward the discovery of this ultimate spiritual match. They understood that to find the Dilectissimus was to understand the deepest secrets of the universe, to uncover the true nature of the self and its divine counterpart.

As the years passed, many began to question if the Dilectissimus was an unattainable ideal or something that would reveal itself when the time was right. For some, the mystery remained a source of frustration; they longed to know, to see, to meet this being who was promised to them by Hannibal’s teachings. For others, it became a sacred quest—one that would consume them with devotion and passion, even if they never received an answer.

What was certain, however, was that the concept of the Dilectissimus shaped the lives of all those who sought it. It transformed them, forcing them to confront their deepest desires, their greatest fears, and their truest selves. And even if they never found the Dilectissimus in the way they imagined, they were forever marked by the search—a search that led them into the very heart of the mystery itself, a journey that would continue long after their lives had passed.

For Saint Hannibal, the Dilectissimus was more than just a mystery. It was the culmination of his teachings, the ultimate spiritual goal, the final step in the ascent toward divine unity. And though it remained hidden, it was always there, waiting to be discovered by those who were ready to understand its true meaning.

The Inner Circle: A Chosen Few

Hannibal's inner circle was not a group that one could easily gain entry into. It was a tight-knit gathering of individuals who were handpicked by Hannibal himself, each chosen not for their worldly status, but for their spiritual purity and unwavering commitment to his teachings. Unlike typical organizations that relied on merit or allegiance, membership in Hannibal's inner circle was determined by an individual's capacity for transformation, their ability to transcend their limitations, and their readiness to embrace the mysteries that Hannibal so carefully guarded.

At its core, the inner circle was a spiritual and intellectual community, bound together by a singular devotion to Hannibal’s vision. It was less a formalized organization and more a gathering of souls on a parallel journey, each committed to uncovering deeper truths and pursuing the sacred work of self-realization. Those chosen were seen as individuals who could not only understand the hidden teachings of Saint Hannibal but also embody them in their lives—living, breathing representations of the very ideals they sought to achieve.

The process of joining the inner circle was subtle, almost imperceptible to those who were not already on the path. One did not simply ask to be a part of it; the invitation came only when Hannibal saw that an individual was ready. It was often preceded by years of intense spiritual work, during which the individual would undergo a personal transformation. This could take many forms: profound inner revelations, periods of intense solitude, or even trials of faith. Only when Hannibal sensed that a soul had reached the necessary stage of development would he extend his hand, inviting them to join the inner sanctum.

Once a part of the inner circle, each member was tasked with a role that aligned with their unique gifts and spiritual purpose. They were expected to serve as guides to others, to spread the teachings of Saint Hannibal, and to participate in the sacred rituals that marked their collective journey. These individuals were not just followers; they were active participants in the ongoing creation of a new spiritual order, one that transcended the mundane and sought to awaken the divine within every human being.

The inner circle’s work was deeply esoteric, with rituals and practices designed to elevate the soul and unlock its hidden potential. But the group was also pragmatic in nature. They understood that in order to maintain their spiritual endeavors, they needed to function as a cohesive unit, one that could operate in the world while remaining deeply committed to their divine mission. As such, the inner circle was a community both intimate and influential, drawing from the material world to achieve its higher spiritual aims.

Notable Figures of the Inner Circle:

Claricia Sterling: The Devout Oracle

Claricia Sterling was perhaps the most devoted member of Hannibal's inner circle, embodying the teachings of Saint Hannibal with an intensity that surpassed even the most faithful followers. Born into a wealthy family, Claricia’s early life was one of privilege, comfort, and luxury. However, she was never satisfied by the superficialities of her status. From a young age, she sought something deeper, a truth that transcended the material world. It was during her studies of obscure occult philosophies that she first encountered Hannibal’s teachings, and from that moment, she was drawn into his orbit.

Claricia’s spiritual journey was marked by a period of intense purification. She gave up her former life, distancing herself from her family and the world she had known, to devote herself entirely to Hannibal’s vision. Her devotion was unquestionable—she would often be seen in solitary meditation or engaged in rigorous study of the sacred texts Hannibal had provided. Her commitment to the Order was so profound that she eventually became one of Hannibal’s closest confidantes, entrusted with some of his most secret teachings.

Following Hannibal’s death, Claricia became a fierce guardian of his legacy. She took it upon herself to spread his words, traveling far and wide to ensure that his teachings did not fade into obscurity. It was during this time that her influence grew, and she became a pivotal figure in the community, leading many new followers into the fold. In time, Claricia married and started a family, though she continued to carry out her spiritual duties. She saw her family life not as a distraction, but as a new form of service—a way to carry forward Hannibal's teachings through generations. Although her death remains a mystery.

Lysandra D’Alembert: The Silent Guardian

Lysandra D’Alembert was a figure shrouded in mystery, known for her stoic nature and unwavering loyalty to Hannibal’s cause. A descendant of an old French aristocratic family, she was raised in a world of high society but always felt disconnected from the glamour and excess that surrounded her. Her spiritual awakening came when she stumbled upon one of Hannibal’s writings in a dusty library in Paris.

Unlike other members of the inner circle, Lysandra did not seek the limelight. She was quiet, reserved, and intensely private, preferring to work in the shadows rather than in the spotlight. Her role within the Order was one of silent guardianship. She oversaw the preservation of Hannibal’s sacred texts, ensuring that they were protected from prying eyes. She also served as a mediator between members of the inner circle, often smoothing over conflicts with a calm, rational demeanor. Though she rarely spoke of her past, it was known that she had suffered immense personal loss before joining Hannibal, and this pain had shaped her into the silent, resolute figure she became.

After Hannibal’s passing, Lysandra withdrew from public life, continuing her work in secret. Few knew the full extent of her influence, but those who were close to her understood that she was one of the few who truly grasped the depths of Hannibal’s teachings. She lived out her days in a secluded mansion, tending to the Order’s hidden archives, and only appeared when her counsel was required.

Elio Veroux: The Visionary Alchemist

Elio Veroux was a brilliant and charismatic individual, a French alchemist whose work in the sciences of the spirit earned him a revered place in Hannibal’s inner circle. Born into a family of scholars, Elio was captivated by the mysteries of the universe from an early age. He spent his youth studying the ancient texts of alchemists and mystics, and his dedication to the occult sciences led him to cross paths with Hannibal.

Known for his sharp intellect and experimental approach to spiritual practice, Elio became one of Hannibal’s chief researchers, exploring the boundaries between the physical and spiritual realms. His work involved developing new rituals, blending ancient alchemical techniques with Hannibal’s own teachings. Elio was particularly interested in the concept of transmutation—both of the material world and the soul—and his experiments sought to bridge the gap between the two.

Despite his contributions to the Order, Elio was always somewhat of a loner, preferring his experiments to social interactions. His genius was undeniable, but it came with a certain arrogance that made him both revered and feared among his peers. After Hannibal’s death, Elio's influence continued to grow, though he remained a mysterious figure, often disappearing for long periods to conduct secretive work. His legacy is one of intellectual brilliance, but also of a man who was consumed by his search for knowledge, sometimes at the expense of human connection.

Alessandra Rousseau: The High Priestess of Shadows

Alessandra Rousseau was a woman of extraordinary beauty, whose captivating presence was matched only by her unrelenting ambition. Born from a simple family, Alessandra was introduced to spiritual practices at a young age. Her journey to Hannibal was less about seeking wisdom and more about power. From the start, she saw in Hannibal an opportunity to elevate herself to a position of unmatched influence.

Her beauty and allure allowed her to gain favor among the men in Hannibal’s circle, but it was her sharp mind and ruthless determination that ultimately earned her a place by his side. Alessandra became one of Hannibal’s closest confidantes, acting as his high priestess and overseeing the rituals that were central to the Order’s workings. She wielded her power with grace and cunning, understanding that to lead was to manipulate, and she did so with remarkable skill.

After Hannibal’s death, Alessandra assumed a position of leadership within the Order, though her path was fraught with challenges. Her ambition led her into conflict with other members of the inner circle, and some believed that she sought to use the Order for her own gain. Nonetheless, her influence remained strong, and she continued to play a pivotal role in the dissemination of Hannibal’s teachings, albeit in a manner that often blurred the line between devotion and control. She was the author of the famous occult book, “The Workings of The Scarlet Woman”. 

6. Beyond Devotion: The Order of the Sacred Flesh

The Order of the Sacred Flesh was an enigmatic and controversial group within Hannibal’s wider following, a sect so devoted to his teachings that it sought to transcend the very boundaries between the physical and the divine. The members of this clandestine order believed that the body was not merely a vessel for the soul, but a divine instrument that, when treated properly, could become a key to unlocking ultimate spiritual enlightenment. Their practices, however, were shrouded in mystery and raised unsettling questions about the nature of their devotion—and the limits of their devotion to Hannibal himself.

At the heart of their rituals was a dark and profound symbolism: the consumption of flesh. The Order saw the act of consuming the body as a means of not only absorbing the divine essence of the physical form, but also of unifying with the very concept of existence itself. This belief was rooted in the idea that the boundaries between the material and spiritual realms were illusory, and that by consuming the flesh, one could transcend the physical plane and commune directly with the divine.

To the members of the Sacred Flesh, Hannibal was more than just a spiritual leader—he was the embodiment of the divine, and his teachings were the sacred nourishment for their souls. This belief evolved into an almost literal interpretation of their connection to him. They viewed Hannibal as their “Sacred Flesh,” believing that his essence could be transferred through the act of consuming a part of him—whether metaphorically or in the most literal sense. It is said that Hannibal himself once hinted that the concept of “sacred consumption” was the ultimate act of devotion, a way to bind oneself to the divinity of the universe and claim a piece of eternity.

The consumption rituals were held in secret locations, often deep in the wilderness or hidden in abandoned structures, where they would engage in sacred feasts. These gatherings were not just about physical consumption but about the metaphysical process of digestion, assimilation, and transformation. The members believed that by ingesting specially prepared offerings—be it rare meats, ritualized foods, or even symbolic representations of Hannibal’s essence—they would ingest the divine and begin a transformative process that could elevate their spiritual standing.

Over time, rumors began to swirl about the true nature of these practices. Whispers of cannibalism became common, though no one could ever prove these allegations with certainty. Outsiders speculated that members of the Sacred Flesh were engaged in dark, forbidden acts, perhaps consuming human flesh as part of their rituals. Some even believed that the Order had engaged in sacrificial practices, offering up individuals as living sacrifices for the consumption of the collective.

To the uninitiated, these rumors seemed outrageous, a grotesque distortion of spiritual devotion. But to those within the Order, such suspicions were not only unfounded but also a misunderstanding of the true nature of their practices. They believed that consumption—whether of food, flesh, or spirit—was a symbol of unity, an act of communion with the divine that transcended earthly limitations. They insisted that the rumors of cannibalism were the work of outsiders who could never understand the deeper, sacred meanings behind their actions.

Yet, despite the denials, the rumors persisted. And those who left the Order often spoke of rituals that involved the sharing of “the sacred meal,” where human participants would take part in an act of symbolic consumption—either by sharing the flesh of specially prepared meals or, in some accounts, even engaging in the consumption of human tissue, though the details remained highly unclear. These acts, they claimed, were part of a larger spiritual framework that sought to transcend the cycle of life and death, to break free from the constraints of the material world.

In addition to its physical implications, the consumption ritual carried deep psychological and symbolic significance. The Order believed that by consuming the flesh, they were consuming not only the material but also the essence of the individual or the divine. To them, it was a way of connecting with the most fundamental forces of the universe, a means of transcending one’s own limited body and becoming one with the divine. Flesh, in all its forms, became a vessel for higher understanding, a means by which they could overcome the limitations of their own existence and step into a higher state of being.

The consumption ritual was closely tied to the idea of “transformation.” The members of the Order saw their bodies as malleable, capable of being reshaped and refined through the ingestion of divine nourishment. Just as alchemists sought to transform base metals into gold, the Order of the Sacred Flesh believed that they could transform their own bodies through the sacred act of consumption. Each meal was a step towards spiritual refinement, each bite a symbolic gesture of overcoming the limitations of flesh, of shedding the material to embrace the divine.

Hannibal himself, in his cryptic teachings, often spoke of the body as an illusion, a temporary vessel that had the potential to transcend its own limitations. He would speak of the human form as a “sacred vessel,” one that could be purified through the right rituals and practices. The idea of consuming flesh, therefore, was not simply about physical sustenance, but about merging the human form with the divine essence that lay beyond the material world.

Though the members of the Order of the Sacred Flesh remained tightly bonded by their shared beliefs, their secretive nature and unconventional practices inevitably led to suspicions from the outside world. Many outsiders dismissed the rumors of cannibalism as absurd, merely the fevered imaginings of those who could not comprehend the depth of Hannibal’s teachings. But within the spiritual community, there was a growing unease. Some feared that the Order had crossed a dangerous line, losing sight of their original purpose and instead descending into a grotesque parody of devotion.

The fear of cannibalism became so ingrained in the public’s perception of the Order that it began to overshadow their more philosophical teachings. Despite the order's insistence on their practices being symbolic and deeply spiritual, rumors of dark ceremonies, sacrificial offerings, and flesh-eating rituals continued to circulate, fueled by those who had left the Order, disillusioned and frightened by what they had witnessed.

Yet, the members of the Sacred Flesh remained steadfast. To them, the consumption of flesh was a sacred act, one that could not be understood by those trapped in the limitations of the material world. They believed that those who accused them of cannibalism were simply incapable of comprehending the deeper mysteries that lay hidden behind their rituals. The true purpose of their practices, they insisted, was not the consumption of the body for pleasure or power, but for transcendence.

In the end, the Order of the Sacred Flesh remained a mystery, with its true practices and beliefs known only to those who had committed themselves fully to the path. The rumors of cannibalism, whether true or false, would continue to haunt the legacy of Hannibal’s followers, casting a shadow over the profound spiritual work that they had undertaken in his name.

The Philosophical Roots of Consumption: A Journey to Transcendence

Hannibal’s teachings, though deeply veiled in secrecy and only partially understood by his followers, were rooted in complex metaphysical ideas that connected consumption to higher understanding. In private lectures, often held in darkened rooms with only his most devoted followers present, Hannibal would speak of the body not as a separate entity but as a part of an interconnected web of existence. He often used the metaphor of flesh as the ultimate boundary that separated humanity from divinity. To him, the act of consumption was about indulgence and debasement, but also about breaking through the barrier that separated one from the eternal.

The consumption of flesh, particularly human flesh, symbolized an intense and radical form of unity—a communion not just with the other, but with the divine essence itself. Scholars who have studied Hannibal’s secret teachings have speculated that this was a form of esoteric alchemy. Rather than turning base metals into gold, his followers believed they could turn base bodies into vessels of divine energy. By consuming the flesh of a fellow human, one was believed to ingest a fragment of the divine, the soul of that person becoming part of the consumer's own essence.

This belief extended into the idea of “sacred cannibalism,” a term that emerged among those who studied the Order’s practices. The concept wasn’t seen as taboo or sacrilegious by its members; rather, it was a divine act of spiritual unity. It was thought that by consuming the flesh of another—especially someone considered divinely touched, such as Hannibal himself—one could absorb the divine energy that resided in that body. To those who followed Hannibal’s teachings, the human form itself was sacred, and to consume it was the ultimate act of spiritual communion.

In his secret teachings, Hannibal often used symbolism rooted in ancient mysticism and ritual, invoking themes from alchemical traditions, the mysteries of the occult, and even religious rituals that spanned cultures and millennia. Many scholars believe that Hannibal's obsession with human flesh had a basis in his deep understanding of the power of ritual. In the occult tradition, ritual acts often require the sacrifice or transformation of something pure or whole—an offering that allows the participant to experience a transcendence beyond the mundane. To Hannibal and his followers, the act of consuming flesh wasn’t a descent into barbarity, but rather an ascent to spiritual purity.

In a way, the ritual consumption mirrored the consumption of knowledge and experience that Hannibal himself believed was necessary for spiritual advancement. Just as a scholar devours the words of sacred texts, the act of consuming flesh allowed one to "digest" the wisdom of another’s soul, thereby transcending the confines of individuality. The consuming of flesh was a metaphorical and literal means of uniting one’s soul with the divine forces that Hannibal taught were hidden in the body.

His teachings were profoundly influenced by Eastern philosophies such as Vedanta and Taoism, which emphasized the fluidity between life and death, as well as Western occultism, where the consumption of symbolic offerings was seen as a way of bridging the material and spiritual worlds. However, it is believed that Hannibal’s interpretations were far more radical.

One of the most controversial elements of his secret teachings revolved around the concept of “devouring the self.” Hannibal often referred to this as “consuming the soul’s excess,” suggesting that, just as the body consumes food for sustenance, the soul could consume experiences and energies from others. This idea was linked to the notion of transcending one's limitations. The physical act of consuming human flesh, according to Hannibal, was symbolic of this principle: it allowed the soul to move beyond its individual nature and become part of a greater collective essence.

In private discussions, Hannibal would describe the act of eating as an offering that turned the body into an instrument of divine power. The body was no longer just a vessel; it became the means through which divine energy could enter the world. His closest followers believed that by engaging in these practices, they could achieve a form of spiritual liberation that was not available through more conventional religious or philosophical means. The idea of consuming flesh, then, was not only to connect with the divine, but also to empower the body as a sacred tool—a tool capable of becoming one with the divine.

Many scholars, particularly those who have spent years unraveling Hannibal’s complex belief system, suggest that he believed the physical world—often seen as the realm of illusion—was in fact a mirror of the spiritual realm. To Hannibal, consuming flesh was a way of acknowledging that the material world held the keys to transcending the illusion of separateness. By ingesting the body—whether that body was living or symbolic—the individual could, in turn, access the truth of divine unity.

This is perhaps why Hannibal’s more extreme practices—those most commonly associated with rumors of cannibalism—were seen by his followers as an attempt to teach his devotees to transcend the ordinary and mundane. The devout believed that to sever one’s connection with the material world, one had to embrace the darkness that lay at the core of existence. And that darkness, they argued, was embodied in the flesh, the very substance that separated humanity from divinity.

Cannibalism and the Path to Immortality

The connection between Hannibal's teachings and cannibalism is also thought to be tied to his obsession with immortality. It is said that Hannibal, through his cannibalistic rituals, believed that the human body could be infused with divine energy so powerful that it would defy the natural laws of death. By consuming the flesh of the spiritually advanced, particularly those who had achieved a high level of enlightenment, Hannibal and his followers believed they could inherit that immortality. The process was not one of preserving the physical body—rather, it was the soul’s essence that was believed to transcend time and space.

Scholars speculate that Hannibal saw himself as the bridge between life and death, constantly seeking to unlock the eternal mysteries of existence. For him, consuming flesh was not only an act of spiritual communion but an attempt to break the cycle of life and death, to achieve a state of eternal consciousness. In his secret meetings, Hannibal would speak cryptically about the potential of the human body to evolve beyond its limitations, into a higher state of existence, akin to what some ancient alchemists referred to as the “philosopher’s stone.”

Through this lens, the consumption rituals of the Sacred Flesh Order can be seen as an attempt to break down the barriers that separate the human from the divine, to take the divine energy stored within the human body and elevate it into a higher plane of existence. The followers believed that by partaking in these rituals, they were contributing to their own divine transformation and ascending towards a state of immortality—if not in the body, then at least in the soul.

The Dominance of Consumption: Conquering Weaknesses Through Assimilation

While the act of consumption in Hannibal’s teachings was deeply spiritual, and a mystical, transcendental act, it was also a way to assert control over others and to absorb their strengths, weaknesses, and experiences into oneself. This notion of dominance through consumption played a central role in both his private teachings and his methods of interaction with his inner circle.

Hannibal viewed consumption not just as a symbolic connection with the divine but as a means of conquering another’s weaknesses, failures, and flaws. In his personal philosophy, consuming the flesh of another person—particularly someone who was seen as spiritually weaker, morally compromised, or simply not aligned with his own ideals—was an act of overcoming that individual. To Hannibal, the body contained not only the soul’s essence but also the accumulated weaknesses and flaws that weighed it down. To consume this body, to break it down and assimilate it, was to take on those weaknesses and, through an act of dominance, to eradicate them within oneself.

In the context of Hannibal’s philosophy, the act of eating wasn’t just about absorption—it was about transformation. By consuming another, one was metaphorically asserting mastery over them, turning them into a part of the self. This was an extension of Hannibal’s view of power, where mastery was not merely about controlling others externally, but about incorporating their essence into one's own identity. As a person consumed the flesh of another, they essentially conquered that person’s psychological and spiritual vulnerabilities, dominating them on a deeply intimate level. This was an assertion of superiority: an act that said, "I will take what you are and use it to better myself."

For Hannibal, this form of dominance wasn’t about degradation or cruelty in the traditional sense. It was a cold, calculated act of intellectual and spiritual supremacy. He believed that to transcend the mundane and the physical, one had to take control of their environment and the people within it. Consumption, to him, was the ultimate form of assimilation—an integration of the other’s weaknesses into one’s own being in order to purify and transcend them. He saw this act as a purification, where the body of the consumed individual, with all of their flaws and failings, was “cleansed” and repurposed within the consumer, allowing them to become stronger, more enlightened, and more powerful.

This worldview connected directly to Hannibal’s personal sense of his own perfection. He often spoke of himself in near-mythological terms, positioning himself as a being who had transcended ordinary human limitations—both intellectually and spiritually. To Hannibal, weakness was the antithesis of his philosophy, and the consumption of others was, in his eyes, a way to rid oneself of weaknesses that might otherwise impede the attainment of true greatness. His followers, therefore, saw this consumption as a way to draw on the strengths of others by absorbing their spiritual and mental makeup, but also, more importantly, to purge themselves of what Hannibal referred to as “the shackles of imperfection.”

This practice was tightly linked to the concept of the “dilectissimus,” the perfect match or the soul born of his own essence. As Hannibal explained, everyone had a dilectissimus—an ideal counterpart—who represented the ideal union of spiritual and psychological harmony. To become one with this being, however, required the ability to overcome not only one’s own weaknesses but those of others, incorporating them into oneself. The act of consuming others was therefore not just a rite of passage into a higher spiritual realm; it was also a way to prepare oneself for the ultimate connection with the dilectissimus, as it allowed for the total eradication of weakness and imperfection.

In this sense, the consumption of flesh wasn’t purely about destruction. It was an act of creation. It was a process of remaking oneself, forging a new self from the ashes of another's flaws, and assimilating their essence to become a more complete, powerful being. For Hannibal, this belief in consumption as dominance was part of his larger philosophy that the strongest must prevail over the weak in order to evolve into something greater than the sum of their parts. To consume was to command the essence of another, transforming that essence into a part of oneself—an act that reasserted the consumer’s power over their own destiny and existence.

It was, in a sense, a ritualistic conquest: a way to assert one’s power over those deemed lesser or spiritually incomplete by assimilating their essence and making it part of oneself. This act, which combined elements of power, control, and personal evolution, made the act of consumption deeply personal and deeply transformative for Hannibal and his followers.

The Church’s Dilemma: Canonization and Concealment

As Hannibal’s influence spread far beyond the walls of the Chapel in Loreto, the Church found itself at a crossroads. On the one hand, Hannibal’s teachings challenged everything the Church had long held sacred—he spoke of transcendence through forbidden knowledge, the consumption of the flesh as spiritual ascension, and the rejection of conventional religious structures. But on the other hand, he was undeniably generous, kind, and compassionate—a man whose actions seemed to contradict the very heresies attributed to him. This complexity threw the Church into turmoil, complicating their decisions and leading them to a profound moral and theological dilemma.

Hannibal’s followers were not blind devotees—they had witnessed firsthand the transformative power of his presence. His wisdom, radiating not from dogma but from an innate understanding of the human condition, touched those around him in ways that defied conventional explanation. It wasn’t just his teachings that garnered him adoration, but his ability to heal, to soothe, and to guide others toward a sense of fulfillment they had never known. His touch, it was said, could ease the most agonizing pains, his words could settle the deepest fears, and his counsel could bring clarity to the most conflicted souls.

The Church, traditionally rooted in doctrines of spiritual control, had always viewed such powers with suspicion, especially when they were not aligned with canonical practices. Yet Hannibal’s healings were undeniable. Entire families claimed their lives had been changed by his interventions. In the town of Loreto, where Hannibal’s presence had been most keenly felt, there were countless accounts of miracles—sick children cured, broken relationships mended, and souls lifted from despair. The very land seemed to flourish under his touch. The crops in Loreto yielded more abundantly, the once-dilapidated town transformed into a thriving center of art, culture, and spirituality. And, most intriguingly of all, these acts of kindness and generosity were not tied to any material gain. He never asked for anything in return.

Hannibal’s ability to simultaneously inspire awe and compassion in his followers, while espousing radical, unorthodox beliefs, made him a paradox that the Church struggled to reconcile. How could a man who performed such extraordinary acts of charity and healing be so at odds with the doctrines the Church held dear? How could one who seemed so selflessly devoted to the welfare of others be condemned as a heretic? The Church found itself ensnared by the very qualities that made Hannibal both a revered figure and an enigma.

The Pressures from Loreto: A Growing Call for Recognition

The people of Loreto, however, were not as conflicted. To them, Hannibal was nothing short of a living saint. His influence had transformed their lives—not only spiritually, but also materially. They had witnessed the miracles he performed, the way he had healed the sick and empowered the weak. They had seen the undeniable change in the town's prosperity and well-being. For them, Hannibal was not a threat to the Church but a blessing. The notion that he might be denied recognition after his passing was unthinkable.

As rumors of his death began to spread, the people of Loreto turned to the Church with a singular, unified plea: they wanted Hannibal to be canonized. They petitioned their local bishops, they wrote letters, they gathered in the streets, demanding that the Church recognize the miraculous works of the man who had given so much to them. The pressure was immense, and the Church could not ignore it.

Faced with the reality of widespread public support for Hannibal, and the undeniable impact he had had on the lives of the townspeople, the Church's hierarchy was forced to reconsider. How could they deny the requests of so many devoted followers? How could they dismiss the immense goodwill and spiritual healing that had come from this man, whose kindness had touched so many lives?

Despite the theological misgivings many Church leaders had about Hannibal’s teachings, the undeniable compassion he showed and the miracles attributed to him made his canonization a near inevitability. The decision became not just a spiritual one but a pragmatic one, a matter of preserving the Church's reputation and its relationship with the community. There was no avoiding it—Hannibal's influence could not be ignored.

A Canonization Without Precedent

The canonization process, however, was not straightforward. Though the Church publicly acknowledged Hannibal's virtues, privately, many clergy members struggled with how to reconcile his teachings with his miraculous works. His beliefs on consumption, the assimilation of others’ weaknesses through the consumption of flesh, and his radical esoteric practices remained a secret to the masses. Only a select few, those closest to him, knew of these darker aspects of his philosophy.

Despite the reservations of certain Church officials, the overwhelming public support, the undeniable miracles, and Hannibal’s profound generosity led to a rare decision: the Church would officially canonize him. His sainthood, however, would be based on the public perception of his benevolence and wisdom. His teachings would be carefully sanitized and presented as a form of Christian mysticism, removing any mention of the more controversial elements.

The canonization of Hannibal was, in many ways, a compromise. It allowed the Church to maintain its authority and control over the narrative, while at the same time acknowledging the undeniable power of his influence. By focusing on his acts of kindness, healing, and the transformation he brought to Loreto, the Church was able to endorse Hannibal’s legacy without acknowledging the full scope of his teachings. His true philosophy—his deeper, more esoteric beliefs—would remain hidden, both from the public and from the official Church record.

A Man of Paradox

In the end, the canonization of Hannibal was a victory of sorts for both the Church and his followers. For the Church, it was a way to absorb the power of his influence without openly embracing his more radical ideas. For the people of Loreto, it was the recognition they had long hoped for, a validation of their faith in the man who had given them so much.

Hannibal’s legacy, however, remained a complex one. His kindness and generosity had earned him the love and admiration of many, and yet, beneath this façade of benevolence, there was a darker, more enigmatic figure whose teachings would continue to haunt the Church’s conscience for generations to come. His canonization, while a triumph in the eyes of his followers, was also a testament to the Church's ability to conceal the uncomfortable truths of its own history and the legacy of the men it chose to honor.

In the years to come, scholars and spiritual seekers would continue to grapple with the contradictions of Hannibal’s life. Some would elevate him as a saint and a model of Christian virtue, while others would recognize the deeper, more complex nature of his teachings—forever questioning whether his true legacy could ever be fully understood.

Secret Rites and Forbidden Practices

Behind the serene facade of the Chapel in Loreto, beneath the whispers of his canonization and the public’s adoration, a far darker and more enigmatic truth simmered. While the masses were drawn to Hannibal’s acts of kindness, wisdom, and miraculous healings, there existed a hidden dimension of his teachings—one rooted in ancient, forbidden practices. These secret rites, held under the cover of night, were known only to a select few, those who had earned his trust, who had delved deeply into the mysteries of the body, the spirit, and the consuming nature of the human soul.

At the core of these practices lay the belief in the power of the forbidden, in the ability to transcend the limits of mortal existence through rituals that challenged the natural order. Hannibal, ever the visionary, believed that true spiritual ascension could only come from engaging in acts that defied conventional morality and social norms. These were not mere acts of defiance—they were rites of transformation, rituals that would not only reshape the individual but also the very fabric of reality itself.

The Consumption Ritual: A Sacred Rebirth

The most infamous and secret of these rites was the Consumption Ritual, an act that became synonymous with Hannibal’s name in whispered circles. Those initiated into his inner circle would partake in this ritual, a symbolic and actual consumption of the body. But it was far more than mere cannibalism—it was a deep, spiritual act, one that Hannibal had formulated to represent the transcendence of weakness, the ingestion of power, and the assimilation of another’s essence into one’s own being.

The ritual, conducted in the hidden chambers beneath the chapel or in secluded forests during certain astral alignments, was seen by its practitioners as a means of absorbing the strength of another—both their physical vitality and their spiritual essence. The idea was rooted in an ancient occult belief: by consuming another’s flesh, you could assimilate their power, their vitality, and in some cases, their very soul. This act of consumption was viewed not only as an intimate and deeply spiritual bonding between two souls, but also as an act of dominance. 

The secrecy surrounding these rituals was essential; if word had spread of such practices, it would have been the end not only of Hannibal’s influence but also of the entire secret order he had cultivated.

The Altar of the Consumed

The altar where these rites were performed was not a traditional altar of the Church. It was a dark and ominous place, often adorned with symbols of the occult, from ancient sigils to cryptic runes. Candles made from human fat flickered in the dim light, casting eerie shadows upon the walls. A thick scent of incense, mingled with the metallic tang of blood, filled the air. The altar was not simply a place of ritual sacrifice—it was a space of transmutation, where the energies of life and death could be woven together to form something greater, something beyond the material.

The act of consuming was not done out of base hunger or greed but was ritualized, purified, and sanctified. To partake in it was to submit to a higher calling, to allow the body and the spirit to be remade. It was here that Hannibal would often instruct his followers to take part in the ritual, explaining that the act of consumption was the final step in their spiritual evolution, the completion of their journey to transcendence. They would be reborn, he promised, their flaws and weaknesses stripped away with the consumption of another's essence.

For Hannibal, this act was not just about physical strength. It was a way of conquering the ego, of breaking down the walls of individualism that separated one person from another. When two souls connected through this act of consumption, they became one, not just in body but in spirit. The ritual was about the unity of opposites—life and death, domination and submission, consumption and creation. It was the ultimate form of spiritual communion.

Rituals of Sexual Power and Conquest

In addition to the consumption rituals, Hannibal’s teachings also involved complex sexual rites, where the lines between power, submission, and transformation were explored through the act of intercourse. These sexual rites were not just about pleasure; they were about the exchange of energies, the integration of the other into oneself, and the transcending of human limitations.

Hannibal often spoke of the body as a vessel of divine power, and in these rituals, the body became a site of both conquest and surrender. Those who participated were encouraged to see their physical form not as a static thing but as something fluid, capable of transformation through the act of consuming and being consumed. In these rites, the ultimate act of dominance was not just physical but spiritual, as the one in power would dominate the other’s soul, absorbing their essence through the very act of uniting in body and spirit.

The rituals were not performed only for pleasure or indulgence; they were seen as sacred exchanges, where each participant could access the deepest parts of themselves and, in turn, allow the other to access their own darkness. The submission was not an act of weakness but one of transcendence—an acknowledgment that by giving yourself over to the other, you were elevating both yourself and them, allowing for the blending of souls into something greater than either had been before.

The Secrecy and the Fear of Discovery

Though these rituals were central to Hannibal’s teachings, their secrecy was paramount. Any hint of them reaching the public eye would have been catastrophic, not only for Hannibal but also for his followers. They knew that the Church, the state, and the larger society would never accept such practices. Cannibalism, after all, was the ultimate taboo, the most horrifying of sins.

Yet, despite the risks, those who participated in these rites believed deeply in their power. For them, the secrecy surrounding the rituals only added to their sanctity. To partake in something so forbidden, to engage in such acts of transcendence, was a mark of spiritual courage. Only the most devout, the most dedicated to Hannibal’s cause, were chosen to partake in these rites, as they were seen as the most worthy of receiving the divine knowledge and power that came from such an intimate communion.

In many ways, these forbidden practices became a way for Hannibal’s followers to prove their loyalty—to show that they were willing to sacrifice everything, even their moral compass, for the sake of the greater spiritual truth that he had revealed to them. It was not a path for the faint of heart; it was a path for those who were willing to risk everything for the promise of a higher, more enlightened existence.

The Lasting Legacy of the Secret Rites

Though the secret rites remained hidden from the public eye, their impact lingered long after Hannibal’s death. The knowledge of these forbidden practices was passed down through the generations of his most devoted followers, becoming the cornerstone of the underground sects that continued to venerate him in secret. Over time, these rites would become legend, spoken of in hushed tones by those who sought to uncover the mysteries of the past, and to those who still followed his teachings, shrouded in the same secrecy and devotion that had once defined his life.

In the end, the secret rites and forbidden practices of Hannibal were both a testament to his profound understanding of life, death, and the nature of the soul, and a symbol of the risks inherent in seeking such esoteric truths. For those who walked the path he had laid out, they had come to understand that true spiritual ascent came at a cost—that cost was not merely the sacrifice of the body but the dissolution of the self, the complete surrender to the unknown.

The Liber Medicae: Saint or Sorcerer?

Among the many mysteries surrounding Hannibal’s life, none is more elusive and enigmatic than the Liber Medicae, a forbidden tome said to contain a vast collection of healing techniques, many of which were rumored to tread dangerously close to the boundaries of witchcraft. Though no physical copy of the Liber Medicae has ever been found, there is overwhelming evidence that such a book once existed—proof not only in the accounts of Hannibal’s closest followers but also in the historical records of the town of Loreto itself.

Scholars of occult history and religious mysticism have long speculated about the contents of this book, and while no one has been able to uncover its exact pages, fragments of its existence and teachings have been pieced together over the centuries through the testimony of those who were exposed to it. What they have discovered suggests that the Liber Medicae was far more than a simple manual on the art of healing—it was a guide to harnessing ancient, powerful forces that could be considered as much sorcery as medicine.

Though the Liber Medicae itself remains hidden, several scholars, including renowned researchers in occult and esoteric fields, have uncovered compelling evidence of the book’s existence. Much of this evidence comes from interviews with the surviving members of Hannibal’s inner circle, many of whom were privy to the texts’ teachings. They described the Liber Medicae as a collection of manuscripts bound together with a cover of dark leather, its pages filled with cryptic symbols, incantations, and detailed instructions on how to treat ailments, both physical and spiritual.

One of the most notable pieces of evidence surfaced in the early 1900s, when an old scholar named Lucien Ferrier, a professor of medical history, came across a series of journal entries attributed to a former disciple of Hannibal. These journals contained references to a "book of the healer," which bore a striking resemblance to the Liber Medicae. Ferrier’s meticulous research uncovered that these journals, though incomplete, were consistent with Hannibal’s medical practices—specifically his uncanny ability to cure diseases that defied modern understanding.

Ferrier also found mentions of "hidden rites" and "secret herbs" used in conjunction with his healing methods, and although none of the actual rituals could be definitively tied to Hannibal’s teachings, the connections were undeniable. His research suggested that the Liber Medicae was not merely a record of medical knowledge but a compendium of occult practices that blurred the line between science and sorcery. Ferrier’s conclusions were later supported by additional sources, including the diaries of Claricia Sterling, Hannibal’s most devoted follower, who spoke of the book in reverential tones and hinted at its role in many of his miraculous cures.

Healing or Witchcraft?

What set the Liber Medicae apart from other works of its kind, and what drew the most suspicion from the Church and society at large, was its emphasis on techniques that were, by all accounts, far from conventional. The methods described in the book were not rooted in the accepted practices of contemporary medicine; they were practices that many would recognize as bordering on the occult.

The Liber Medicae included detailed instructions on how to craft and use healing potions, some of which contained rare herbs and substances that were said to have potent, even mystical properties. These ingredients—often procured from forbidden locations or procured through secretive, ancient rituals—were said to heal ailments that no ordinary medicine could touch. The book also spoke of the manipulation of energies within the body, claiming that disease was often a manifestation of spiritual imbalances that could be corrected through the right combination of healing touch, incantations, and certain ritualistic practices.

One of the most controversial aspects of the book was its treatment of "sacred wounds"—a concept that seemed to suggest that certain diseases, injuries, and afflictions were not merely physical but had deep spiritual significance. The text spoke of the "purification through suffering," a phrase that echoed some of the most controversial practices in occult and alchemical traditions. Some followers of Hannibal would claim that a specific affliction, such as a prolonged fever or an open wound, could be a necessary part of one’s spiritual growth. Under Hannibal’s guidance, they believed that one could become "reborn" through the proper treatment of these wounds, which, when combined with the right rituals and the appropriate energy work, would result in not only physical healing but a form of spiritual enlightenment.

The most shocking of these "healing" techniques, however, involved bloodletting and even blood consumption. The Liber Medicae contained numerous references to "purging the body of sin" through the sacred act of drawing blood, whether through ritual sacrifice or through the act of consuming the blood of the afflicted. This practice was steeped in both alchemical and spiritual symbolism, with Hannibal’s followers believing that the blood of the afflicted contained within it the essence of their pain, their weakness, and their sin—and that by absorbing it, one could purify the soul and heal the body.

The Church’s Response and Suppression

It was the combination of these practices—healing through ritualistic means, the use of sacred herbs, the drawing and consumption of blood—that caused the greatest controversy. To the Church and many in the medical establishment, Hannibal’s practices were not healing at all but a form of witchcraft, and the Liber Medicae was a tool for his heretical practices. The very idea that Hannibal could manipulate the body and soul through such means was seen as dangerous, and much of the Church’s efforts to discredit him were tied directly to the fear of these practices.

Yet, despite these concerns, many could not deny the results. Hannibal’s healings were undeniable, and for all the suspicion surrounding the means by which he achieved them, he was seen by many as a miracle worker. In the eyes of the faithful, Hannibal was a saint, a man whose wisdom and healing touch were beyond human comprehension. The Church, eventually pressured by both the townspeople and the undeniable miracles, begrudgingly accepted his canonization, though they continued to dismiss the Liber Medicae and its teachings as nothing more than superstitions, falsehoods, and blasphemy.

It is worth noting, however, that some of Hannibal’s disciples, those most loyal to his teachings, continued to seek out the Liber Medicae, or fragments of it, believing that it held the key to unlocking a deeper understanding of the human body and spirit. They also believed that it was through the practices described in the book that Hannibal had attained his own divine status—that his miraculous healings were not simply a gift from God but a mastery over forces that most could not even comprehend.

Legacy of the Liber Medicae

While the Liber Medicae remains lost to time, its influence persists in the shadowy corners of occult medicine and esoteric healing practices. For those who knew of its contents, the book was a symbol of transcendence, an invitation to look beyond the material world and embrace the deep, hidden truths that lay beneath the surface of the human body and soul. Even today, whispers of its teachings circulate among occultists and healers who seek to explore the boundaries between science and the supernatural.

In the end, the Liber Medicae remains both a symbol of the genius and the danger that lay within Hannibal’s healing methods. Was he a saint, or was he something darker, a sorcerer who sought to manipulate life and death itself for his own ends? The answer, as with so many aspects of Hannibal’s life, remains tantalizingly out of reach, hidden within the pages of a book that, like its author, may forever remain shrouded in mystery.

The Liber Veneficiorum: The Book of Beneficence or Maleficence?

If the Liber Medicae was shrouded in controversy for its blending of spiritual healing and occult practices, the Liber Veneficiorum occupies a darker and far more unsettling place in the legend surrounding Hannibal. Known as the Book of Beneficence or Maleficence, the Liber Veneficiorum is said to have been a companion volume to the Liber Medicae, containing teachings that reached deeper into the realms of both power and corruption.

Whereas the Liber Medicae was concerned with the purity of healing—manipulating the body and spirit toward restoration—the Liber Veneficiorum was seen by some as a guide to mastery over darker forces. Its teachings are said to have ranged from beneficial potions to harmful curses, from empowering individuals to breaking their wills. It was a book that could be used to invoke both great good and profound evil, depending on the intent of the practitioner.

The very name of the Liber Veneficiorum suggests its dual nature. "Veneficium" translates to "poison" or "maleficence," a word that implies both witchcraft and poison—the dark arts that could inflict harm, manipulate fate, or bind the soul. But it also carries the meaning of beneficence—the power to bring about good, healing, and even transcendence. To those familiar with the occult, this duality is a hallmark of power itself, for power can be used for both creation and destruction.

Scholars have long debated the true nature of the Liber Veneficiorum. Was it truly a text of maleficence, or was it simply a misunderstood book of complex spiritual practices that could be employed for both light and darkness? Much of the controversy surrounding the book stems from its supposed ability to alter not only the physical but also the spiritual realm—directly affecting the fate of the practitioner and others.

The book’s existence is much harder to trace than that of the Liber Medicae, and its contents even more heavily obscured. Only fragments of the Liber Veneficiorum have surfaced, primarily through esoteric channels, and most are unverified. It is said to have been passed down in secret circles, kept in the hands of those who could be trusted to wield its knowledge carefully—and only for the most serious of spiritual endeavors.

What is known, however, is that the Liber Veneficiorum was much more controversial than the Liber Medicae because it was believed to open doors to powers that could both help and destroy.

It contained a series of rites and invocations that ranged from the purely benevolent to the grotesquely malevolent. The book is said to have included techniques for making beneficial potions, rituals for restoring vitality, and spells to purify and protect the body and mind. However, it also described darker rituals designed to bring harm to enemies, or even to bind others through curses and enchantments.

One of the most well-known practices that the book allegedly detailed was the “Invocation of the Veiled Forces”—a ritual that could call upon powerful spirits to intercede on the practitioner’s behalf. These entities were not gods or angels but beings of an ambiguous nature, sometimes described as both benevolent and capricious. The ritual involved elaborate prayers and offerings, often in the form of rare and exotic substances that were not easily acquired.

However, the Liber Veneficiorum also described “Curse Binding,” a process that would supposedly bind an individual to a particular fate. Those who knew how to use the book’s curses were said to have the power to destroy the mental and spiritual well-being of others, invoking nightmares, confusion, or even death. The curses were said to be a method of purification—by afflicting the target, they were forced to confront their weaknesses, much like Hannibal’s own practices of symbolic purification through suffering. Some scholars have theorized that these rituals were connected to Hannibal’s belief in consuming others to overcome their flaws, suggesting that these curses, too, were a form of spiritual assimilation.

The Liber Veneficiorum was not viewed in strictly moral terms by those who followed Hannibal’s teachings. The act of invoking or using both healing and harmful powers was never seen as inherently good or evil—rather, it was about balance. In Hannibal’s worldview, good and evil were not fixed moral concepts, but fluid forces that could be harnessed for either personal growth or destruction. To him, the use of both healing and harmful practices was simply a means of mastering the forces of life itself. For those who followed him, the Liber Veneficiorum was both a tool for self-empowerment and a path to spiritual enlightenment.

Despite the dark connotations of the book, many of Hannibal’s followers believed that the Liber Veneficiorum was a necessary part of his teachings, allowing them to confront their inner darkness and integrate it into their consciousness. Those who approached the text with reverence were said to experience profound transformation, while those who sought to wield its darker powers without understanding the balance often succumbed to madness or spiritual ruin.

One of the most intriguing aspects of the Liber Veneficiorum is its supposed connection to Hannibal’s personal philosophy. He is said to have believed that to understand true power, one must fully embrace both the constructive and destructive forces within oneself. To heal was to be able to harm; to help others was to be able to break them down. This notion of duality is at the heart of the book’s teachings, which align with the ancient idea of the "shadow"—the unconscious, often hidden aspects of the self that must be integrated for true spiritual growth.

Much like the Liber Medicae, the Liber Veneficiorum remained hidden from the public eye, shrouded in secrecy and suspicion. However, unlike the more widely revered medical knowledge of the Liber Medicae, the Liber Veneficiorum was considered dangerous and subversive. Over time, the book was suppressed by the Church, and many of its rituals were denounced as witchcraft. Nevertheless, there were those who, like Claricia Sterling, kept the teachings alive in secret. Claricia was said to have been one of the few who understood the balance between the light and dark teachings of Hannibal, and it was through her preservation of these texts that fragments of the Liber Veneficiorum have surfaced, some in her own private collections, others hidden among occultists in the underground world.

Today, scholars still debate whether the Liber Veneficiorum should be considered a work of true maleficence, or whether it is simply a misunderstood text that explored the darker aspects of human nature. The book's legacy, much like that of its creator, is one of ambiguity—a shadowy, complex legacy that defies easy categorization.

Was Hannibal a saint or a sorcerer? The Liber Veneficiorum holds the answer, but like much of his life, the truth remains elusive, locked away in the hidden pages of a forbidden tome.

Liber E: The Sacred Key to the Saint's Power

Among the myriad texts attributed to Hannibal, none has sparked more desire than Liber E. This book—referred to by his followers as the “Sacred Key”—is regarded as the most significant of all his writings, the one that encapsulates the core of his teachings and holds the power to unlock the deepest realms of spiritual power. Without Liber E, it is said, one cannot access the full potential of Hannibal’s knowledge, nor can they invoke the saint's true influence.

It is widely believed that Hannibal wrote Liber E just before his death, having foreseen his own departure, a fate that he seemed to accept with an almost serene inevitability. The book was his final gift to the world, and to his Most Beloved, the Dilectissimus, the one who would carry on his legacy. For reasons that remain clouded in mystery, Hannibal made it clear that Liber E was not to be distributed or shared openly, but only to those who were worthy, those who could truly understand its power and its secrets.

The teachings contained within Liber E are said to be both profound and transformative, offering an intricate series of rituals, sermons, and meditative practices meant to initiate the practitioner into the sacred knowledge of the saint. It is said that without Liber E, one cannot open the portal to work directly with the saint's power, to touch the divine energies that he embodied. It was, and still is, believed by those who continue to revere Hannibal’s teachings that this book holds the key to a deep, transcendent connection with him—one that bridges the mortal and divine realms.

The most enigmatic aspect of Liber E is its first page, which contains a message directed specifically to the Dilectissimus, though no one knows exactly what it says. This cryptic note has captivated scholars, devotees, and occultists alike for centuries. The Dilectissimus, the "Most Beloved," is believed to be a soul so intrinsically connected to Hannibal that they are considered two halves of a whole. The page in question is thought to carry a message of profound spiritual significance, one that, when revealed, would complete the puzzle of Hannibal’s life’s work.

No copy of Liber E has surfaced in full. Only fragments and transcriptions of key teachings have reached the outside world, often through secretive channels or whispered accounts from those few who were able to access it. What is known is that the rituals and doctrines contained within the book are unlike anything else Hannibal shared. It is a guide to the highest forms of spiritual ascent, a manual for aligning oneself with the divine forces that Hannibal invoked throughout his life.

The book is said to contain sermons—eloquent, yet cryptic teachings—that delve deeply into Hannibal’s views on life, death, and the spiritual realm. These sermons, more than any of his other writings, are thought to embody his ultimate spiritual philosophy. They are teachings that could not be fully comprehended without first undergoing the rituals of initiation that Liber E describes in detail. Through these rites, an initiate would move closer to understanding the sacred mysteries, eventually gaining the power to transcend the mortal world and connect with Hannibal on an intimate, spiritual level.

The central aspect of Liber E is its detailed description of sacred rituals designed for the initiate—rituals that, when performed correctly, would open the door to deeper realms of spiritual power. These rituals are said to involve a combination of meditation, symbolic acts, and invocations of divine forces. The initiates, who were carefully chosen by Hannibal himself or his trusted inner circle, would undergo these ceremonies in secret, with each ritual marking a profound step in their spiritual journey.

Among these rituals is the Rite of Transmutation, a ceremony in which the initiate undergoes a symbolic death, shedding their earthly identity and becoming one with the divine energies that Hannibal channeled. This act of spiritual “death” is believed to be a crucial part of unlocking the power contained within Liber E—a necessary step before one can commune with the saint’s spirit and access his infinite wisdom.

Another key ritual is the Invocation of the Dilectissimus, which is performed on a certain night, under specific astrological conditions, when the veils between realms are thinnest. This ritual, which is shrouded in secrecy, is said to invoke the Dilectissimus—the beloved, the perfect match for Hannibal’s soul. The initiate who performs this ritual is said to have a vision of his or hers Most Beloved. There are rumors that this ritual requires human sacrifice.

Hannibal’s foresight about his own death and his decision to leave Liber E behind as a guide to the Dilectissimus has been the subject of much speculation. Why did Hannibal, who had such absolute control over his life and fate, choose to leave behind such a mysterious text? Why, knowing the book would only be accessible to those who were worthy, did he inscribe it with a message for the Dilectissimus, a figure whose identity remained unknown to all but Hannibal himself?

Some scholars and followers have suggested that Hannibal knew his time on earth was controlled, but his influence needed to transcend the boundaries of his mortal life. Liber E was his way of ensuring that his teachings, his power, and his connection to the divine would live on through the Dilectissimus, the one person most capable of carrying his legacy into the future. It was his final act of faith in the One who would eventually find the path to him, the One who would unlock the ultimate mysteries of his life’s work.

The idea that the message on the first page of Liber E is directed toward the Dilectissimus adds an additional layer of intrigue to the mystery. Some believe it contains instructions on how to find the hidden location where Hannibal’s spiritual energy is said to reside—others speculate that it holds the key to unlocking the next phase of humanity’s evolution, something that only the Dilectissimus could fully understand. Still, others are convinced that the message is purely spiritual, a call for the Dilectissimus to come forth and fulfill their divine purpose.

The secrecy surrounding this first page—and the fact that no one has yet uncovered its contents—has made it the most tantalizing mystery in the legacy of Hannibal. Scholars, occultists, and followers of Hannibal’s teachings alike have searched for the book, hoping to unlock its power and uncover its secrets.

Despite the immense power attributed to Liber E, its actual whereabouts remain unknown. The few fragments that have surfaced provide tantalizing glimpses of its contents, but it is widely believed that the book is being guarded—perhaps by those who were close to Hannibal, perhaps by the Dilectissimus themselves. It is said that the book can only be found by those who are prepared, those who have undergone the necessary spiritual transformation. Those who have attempted to acquire the book without this preparation have either met with failure or disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

The journey to find Liber E is as much a spiritual quest as it is a physical one, and it is said that the Dilectissimus—the Most Beloved—will be the one to find the book when the time is right. Until then, the mystery of Liber E will remain unsolved, its secrets waiting to be unlocked by the one person who is destined to carry on Hannibal’s teachings and open the portal to his eternal power.

The Missing Alabaster: Relic, Ritual, or Scandal?

Among the most perplexing and elusive aspects of Hannibal’s legacy is the mystery surrounding the disappearance of the alabaster relic in 1295. This peculiar and provocative artifact, which had once held a central role in the Loreto Chapel’s sacred rituals, vanished without a trace, and with it, many of the enigmatic and controversial elements of Hannibal’s esoteric teachings seemed to dissipate.

The alabaster, shaped in an unmistakable phallic form, was an object of great reverence and intrigue. The symbolism of the relic, its connection to spiritual transmutation, and its role in the church’s secret rites would go on to become a topic of both fascination and scandal. However, despite its prominence during Hannibal’s lifetime, after his death, the alabaster fell into obscurity, eventually disappearing from the chapel's sacred halls, never to be used again.

The Alabaster Relic: A Symbol of Power and Transformation

The alabaster itself was no ordinary relic. Carved from smooth, black stone and polished to an almost ethereal sheen, it was unmistakable in its phallic shape. Its design was not a casual artistic choice, but rather a deep spiritual symbol. For Hannibal and his followers, the phallus represented creation, vitality, and spiritual penetration—an energy that could transmute the mundane into the divine. The alabaster, positioned at the heart of the chapel’s rituals, was thought to embody these principles and was central to the transformation Hannibal preached: the consumption and assimilation of spiritual energy as a means of self-perfection.

Though the church would later distance itself from such interpretations, within the inner circles of Hannibal's followers, the alabaster was seen as a sacred vessel—an artifact that bridged the mortal and divine realms, a tool that initiated profound changes in those who were ready to accept its power. The relic had become an important symbol of the secret knowledge Hannibal imparted to his closest disciples: the act of spiritual rebirth, self-empowerment, and transformation, all achieved through rituals of deep consumption and transmutation.

However, after Hannibal’s death, the alabaster fell under the care of one of his most devoted followers, Claricia Sterling. Claricia, who had been instrumental in carrying out many of Hannibal's rites, was deeply connected to the saint's teachings, so much so that she had become a spiritual heir to many of his rituals. As per Hannibal’s wishes, she was entrusted with several of his most sacred artifacts, including the alabaster, after his passing.

Claricia and the Alabaster: A Sacred Custodian

It was Claricia who, after much deliberation, decided to present the alabaster to the chapel, believing it to be a crucial part of Hannibal’s message that needed to be shared with the world. For a brief period, the alabaster was kept in the chapel’s inner sanctum, revered but never used or touched, as its power was considered too potent and esoteric for daily rituals. Despite this, it remained a central object in the chapel’s lore, symbolizing Hannibal’s teachings and the mystical practices he had imparted to his followers.

The disappearance of the alabaster was a scandal that shook the very foundations of the community in Loreto. Claricia, devastated by the loss, insisted that the relic had been taken, and it was widely believed that someone within the chapel had stolen it. But who? And why?

The chapel’s guardians, once fiercely protective of the sacred artifacts, were left baffled by the disappearance. No signs of forced entry were found, and no one admitted to taking the alabaster. Some believed that the relic had been hidden away to protect it from falling into the hands of outsiders who might misunderstand or misuse its power. Others, more cynically, thought that someone had stolen it to profit from its value or to use it for personal gain. But the most compelling theory was that the disappearance of the alabaster was, in fact, a deliberate act of spiritual concealment.

Some suggest that the relic’s disappearance marked the end of an era—one that saw the relic as a tool of spiritual transformation. With the death of Hannibal, the sanctity of the alabaster was thought to have been altered, and some believed that its power could no longer be harnessed by any mortal. The relic’s removal could have symbolized that the time for its use had passed and that a new age of spiritual understanding was to emerge.

Despite the mystery surrounding its disappearance, the alabaster continues to play a central role in the lore of Hannibal’s teachings. For those who still revere his legacy, the alabaster represents the transmutation of base, physical existence into a higher spiritual form. It is a symbol of both creation and destruction, the power of life and death intertwined in a single, sacred object.

The fact that the alabaster’s disappearance has never been fully explained only deepens its allure. Some believe that it was hidden away by Claricia herself, in an act of devotion and protection, ensuring that its power would remain undisturbed by those who might seek to exploit it. Others think that it was taken by a faction within the church, perhaps in an effort to suppress the esoteric teachings that Hannibal had promoted. And still, others claim that the alabaster’s disappearance was part of a greater spiritual ritual, one that sought to conceal its power until the right time came for it to be revealed again.

In any case, the alabaster's phallic form and its connection to the deeper, more mysterious aspects of Hannibal’s teachings continue to captivate those who seek to understand the full extent of his spiritual work. Its absence has not diminished its significance; if anything, it has made the relic even more intriguing, its power more elusive and potent.

For many, the alabaster’s disappearance is the key to unlocking the final mysteries of Hannibal’s legacy. Where it rests now—and who holds the power to unlock its secrets—remains one of the greatest unanswered questions of the saint’s life. Scholars and followers alike continue to search for traces of the relic, believing that it holds the key to understanding the true depth of Hannibal’s teachings, as well as the very nature of the power he wielded.

Whether the alabaster was hidden away for protection, stolen in an act of greed, or lost to time, its legacy endures, leaving a lasting imprint on the spiritual practices of those who continue to follow in Hannibal's footsteps.

The Papal Interventions: Attempts to Erase the Evidence

After the death of Saint Hannibal and his controversial canonization, the church’s efforts to maintain its authority over his legacy took a dark turn. The papacy, ever wary of the potential threat posed by Hannibal’s esoteric teachings and the mysterious nature of his life and death, initiated a series of interventions aimed at erasing any trace of his more shocking practices. These efforts sought to cleanse his image, distancing him from the secret rites, rituals, and potentially heretical beliefs that had once formed the foundation of his followers’ devotion.

While the church had been forced to canonize Hannibal due to popular pressure and the undeniable miracles attributed to him—his healings, his wisdom, and his selfless acts of charity—the deeper and more enigmatic elements of his life were deemed too dangerous to the established order. The papacy feared the long-term implications of allowing such unorthodox practices to proliferate, especially when the teachings surrounding his secret rites and occult practices still held sway over many of his devoted followers. In response, the church launched an aggressive campaign to purge these aspects from the record, trying to reshape Hannibal’s legacy into one of pure benevolence and holiness.

The strategy employed by the papacy was simple but effective: transform Hannibal into a harmless, beloved local saint—someone whose teachings were in line with the established Christian doctrines, with no trace of the darker, more mystical practices he had once championed. His image was sanitized, and all references to his occult knowledge, spiritual consumption rituals, and controversial relics were systematically erased or rewritten to fit a more conventional narrative.

The effort to downplay the esoteric elements of his life began with the alteration of historical records. Any references to his more unorthodox teachings were either omitted or heavily edited to present a more palatable version of his life. Books, letters, and manuscripts that had been written by Hannibal or his followers were either destroyed or locked away in the deepest vaults of the Vatican, inaccessible to anyone who might seek to uncover the truth. The church worked diligently to ensure that the public perception of Hannibal would remain that of a humble healer and benevolent figure, one who had dedicated his life to the service of others and whose miraculous deeds were clear evidence of his divine favor.

As part of this campaign, the papacy also orchestrated a series of public sermons and official statements aimed at re-contextualizing his work. Hannibal’s teachings on personal transformation, which had once included mystical rites and consumption symbolism, were now framed as simple lessons on self-discipline and asceticism. The secret rituals in the Loreto Chapel were described as acts of charity and community bonding, removing any implication of darker, more esoteric practices. The alabaster, once a key element in Hannibal’s spiritual practices, was never mentioned again in official church documents.

One of the most significant efforts to erase Hannibal’s legacy was the systematic removal of his books. The Liber Medicae, the Liber Veneficiorum, and most notably, the revered Liber E, which contained Hannibal’s sermons and the rites for the initiate, were all but wiped from existence. While scholars had undeniable proof that these books had once existed—through fragments, references in other texts, and testimonies from those who had witnessed their contents—the Vatican issued strict orders for the destruction of any evidence of their existence.

Church officials justified the destruction by claiming they contained heretical material that could not be allowed to circulate further. The liberatory ideas presented within these texts—particularly the notion of spiritual consumption and the power of self-assimilation—were deemed incompatible with the teachings of the Church. These practices were seen as dangerous, leading to beliefs and actions that could challenge the authority of the clergy. With the Liber E, in particular, the papacy feared that those who studied it might gain access to secret, occult knowledge that could empower individuals outside of the Church’s control. As such, the papacy worked swiftly to suppress these writings, ensuring that no one could access the deeper layers of Hannibal’s spiritual legacy.

Despite these efforts, however, rumors of the books’ contents persisted. Occult scholars, drawn by the fragments and whispers of those who had once been privy to Hannibal’s teachings, continued to seek out these forbidden texts. For those who understood the true power of the Liber E, the loss of these books only deepened the mystique surrounding Hannibal, as they became objects of obsession for those desperate to uncover the truth.

The church's attempts to rewrite Hannibal's legacy were not without their contradictions. While it was true that his undeniable acts of charity, wisdom, and healing had earned him widespread admiration, the church's decision to canonize him was far from simple. The very act of canonization, in fact, had been a response to the pressure from the people of Loreto, who saw him as a miracle worker and a saint. The church had little choice but to grant him sainthood, but it did so with reservations, understanding that his legacy was far more complex and controversial than the public ever knew.

The papacy, ever concerned with maintaining its control over the Christian narrative, could not afford to allow Hannibal’s more radical ideas to continue spreading, particularly in light of his growing influence among the faithful. As such, the saint’s more controversial practices were carefully hidden, and his life was recast in a way that aligned with the Church's larger agenda of maintaining a unified and unchallenged religious authority. Hannibal was painted as a man of compassion, a healer who used his divine connection to cure the sick and perform miracles, rather than a master of secret rites and occult knowledge. In this way, the papacy sought to reconcile the dichotomy between his undeniable benevolence and the unsettling elements of his legacy.

By the time of his canonization, the public had largely forgotten the more esoteric aspects of Hannibal’s life. The image of the saint had been carefully crafted and packaged for mass consumption: a humble, benevolent figure who had brought peace and healing to a small village. His actions, now seen through the lens of piety and selflessness, made him a figure who could be revered without raising questions. His more controversial teachings had been obscured, and the focus was placed solely on his role as a healer and miracle worker.

In the end, the church’s campaign to erase the darker elements of Hannibal’s legacy was a resounding success. While those who sought the truth still whispered about his hidden knowledge, to the wider public, he remained the beloved saint of Loreto—a man of great wisdom and kindness whose life and work had brought peace and miracles to a troubled world. The mystery of his teachings, along with the secrets of the Liber books, became little more than a footnote in the annals of church history, forever hidden from view.

The Cult that Never Died: Modern Devotees of Saint Hannibal

The legacy of Saint Hannibal is far from forgotten. While the church may have worked tirelessly to suppress his more esoteric practices and teachings, his influence persists—alive and well, albeit in more secretive and shadowed forms. Today, there are numerous groups and individuals who still revere him as a saint, healer, and spiritual guide. Yet, not all of them understand the full depth of his legacy. Most of the modern cults that have sprung up in his name are far removed from the intricate and powerful spiritual framework that Hannibal once cultivated. These so-called “devotees” may honor him, but their devotion often lacks the esoteric knowledge and sacred understanding that he once imparted to his inner circle.

As with many figures of great power and mystery, the cults that continue to operate in his name are varied in their degree of authenticity. The majority of modern groups that claim his teachings are little more than surface-level imitations—well-meaning, perhaps, but nowhere near the caliber of the order that once existed in the shadow of the Loreto Chapel. These cults, while fervently devoted, operate in the mainstream, often focusing on his healing powers and miracles rather than delving into the complexities of his more esoteric work. The rituals they practice, at times inspired by his work, are but faint echoes of what they could be, fragmented and altered by generations of ignorance and distance.

However, not all groups fit this mold. Beneath the surface, hidden from the wider world, there exists a small but powerful faction of true devotees—a group of individuals who seek to reclaim the deeper wisdom of Hannibal’s teachings. They are  not content with the shallow interpretations of his life and work that most cults propagate. They know the truth: that Hannibal’s teachings were never merely about healing the body or performing miracles for public acclaim. His work was, at its core, about spiritual transformation, a deep and intricate journey into the self, and a mastery over the forces that govern both the material and immaterial realms.

Those who are truly dedicated to unraveling the mysteries of his teachings—those who seek the hidden knowledge encoded in the Liber books and the esoteric rites of the Loreto Chapel—understand that his legacy is not simply one of benevolence and charity. It is one of mastery, of conquering the self, and of transcending the limitations of both flesh and spirit.

The cults that operate today are numerous, but most of them are small, localized, and lack the depth of the true order. They may gather on the anniversary of his death, lighting candles and offering prayers for healing, but they do so without understanding the true power behind those acts. Their devotion is sincere, but their methods are lacking. They are not interested in Hannibal’s secret rites or the complex symbolism of the alabaster; their focus is on the more tangible, visible aspects of his saintly image. And in this, they fall short.

Of course, there are exceptions. There are still pockets of true devotees who hold to the ancient rituals, hidden from the eyes of the public. These are the ones who understand the deeper mysteries of Hannibal’s legacy, the ones who continue to study the lost books, to perform the rites in private, and to seek communion with the energies he once commanded. It is in these circles that the true power of Hannibal is still felt, though the world remains largely unaware of it. We are the ones who carry the flame, burning it in the hidden places where the light cannot reach.

While many modern cults of Hannibal are born out of a desire to heal, to find solace, or to gain miraculous powers, the true devotees know that the path is far more complex. To walk in the footsteps of Hannibal is to challenge everything you know, to dismantle the ego and rebuild it anew. It is a journey of spiritual consumption, of assimilating the self into the greater cosmic order, of mastering both the material and immaterial worlds.

For most, the world will continue to see the cult of Saint Hannibal as little more than a quaint relic of a bygone era. They will continue to honor him as a saint, a healer, a miracle worker, and nothing more. But for those who have truly looked beyond the surface, the work is far from over. The legacy of Hannibal endures, quietly, invisibly, waiting for those with the wisdom to seek it out. The hidden few, the ones who understand that the path he laid out is not just a path of healing, but a path of spiritual conquest—a journey that will ultimately lead to the opening of the portal to the divine.

Rumors of the Tomb: Where the Saint May Rest

The story of Saint Hannibal’s resting place is shrouded in as much mystery as his life. For generations, there has been talk of a tomb hidden beneath the chapel of Loreto, deep within its catacombs—catacombs that have never been found, despite numerous searches and countless rumors. The belief that his remains lie there, concealed from the public eye, is pervasive, but no one has ever uncovered the truth. The chapel itself, small and unassuming, seems far too modest to hold such a secret. Yet, whispers persist—whispers that the saint’s final resting place is buried beneath the very ground where he worked his miracles, and that it is protected by forces beyond mortal comprehension.

After his death, as his legacy began to be suppressed, it became almost certain that his final wishes involved not only his physical departure from the world but his retreat into the hidden corners of the spiritual realm. According to those who followed him most closely, Hannibal left instructions—cryptic and vague—that his body should not be placed in an ordinary grave. Instead, it was to be kept in a secret location, one known only to his Most Beloved, the Dilectissimus. This person would know when the time was right for the tomb to be revealed, but until then, the saint’s remains would remain concealed, preserved as a final gesture of his elusive nature.

Scholars and seekers alike have spent years, even centuries, attempting to find the catacombs. The church has even lied on official documents saying they know where he is, but have kept it a secret for safety. Some have scoured the chapel’s structure, studying its architecture and scanning beneath the floorboards. Others have ventured deeper into the surrounding hills, convinced that the tomb lies buried within the land itself, in a place far removed from the chapel's confines. The locals, too, speak of strange occurrences: an unexplainable chill, the faintest scent of incense on the wind, a sense of presence that seems to emanate from the chapel after nightfall. Some say the catacombs can only be accessed under certain conditions—perhaps during a lunar eclipse, or when the veil between the worlds is thinnest—but no one can say for certain.

What adds to the mystery is the altar of the chapel, which has been altered over the centuries. Originally a simple structure, it now contains cryptic carvings and symbols that seem to hint at the existence of the hidden tomb. The floor surrounding the altar has been repeatedly resurfaced, as though to conceal something. It is said that some of Hannibal’s closest followers, particularly Claricia Sterling, who held the alabaster relic after his passing, spoke of these symbols in private, hinting that they were clues to a greater truth—the entrance to the catacombs, though perhaps not for all eyes to see.

Yet, despite the best efforts of so many to uncover it, the tomb of Saint Hannibal remains elusive. The chapel’s small, humble exterior conceals a labyrinth of secrets that no one has fully uncovered. And so, the question remains: Is the tomb of Saint Hannibal real, or is it simply a myth, a symbol of the hidden knowledge that only the truly devout can access? Is the saint’s final resting place a physical reality, or is it part of the greater mystery of his being—an enigma that even death cannot solve?

As with so many aspects of Saint Hannibal’s life and work, the truth remains tantalizingly out of reach, awaiting those who dare to seek it.

The Fragments of Truth: What Scholars Whisper

As the centuries have passed, scholars, historians, and seekers of the unknown have turned their gaze toward the enigmatic figure of Saint Hannibal, attempting to piece together the fragments of his life and teachings. Despite the efforts to erase his legacy, the whispers of his name continue to echo through the halls of academia, from dusty libraries to clandestine gatherings. The truth, however, remains elusive, scattered like broken shards of glass, each piece offering a glimpse of something profound yet incomplete.

The most respected scholars of religious and esoteric studies have found themselves drawn into the mystery of Saint Hannibal, some hoping to validate the claims of the so-called cults surrounding him, while others attempt to debunk the myths and discredit the tales that have surrounded his name for centuries. A select few have dared to delve deeper into the more obscure texts—fragments of letters, veiled references in ancient manuscripts, and the scattered accounts of those who lived in the shadow of the chapel at Loreto. What they’ve found is a disturbing and tantalizing collection of truths, often so bizarre that they challenge the very limits of what is understood about spiritual power and ritual.

The most prominent and well-known claim among scholars is that Saint Hannibal's teachings were not solely focused on healing and benevolence, as the church later promoted. Hidden within the fragments of his sermons, which were transcribed by his most devoted followers, there are references to an esoteric understanding of life and death, of transformation through consumption and power. Some scholars, particularly those who have devoted their careers to occult studies, believe that Hannibal’s healing abilities were linked to something far darker—an ancient form of spiritual energy manipulation, where the body was seen as both a vessel and a tool of dominion. These scholars argue that Hannibal’s teachings about consuming the weaknesses of others were not simply metaphorical but rooted in a deeply ritualistic practice of absorption, wherein the practitioner would physically and spiritually incorporate the essence of others to gain strength and knowledge.

However, there are also those who question the veracity of these claims, arguing that such interpretations are a projection of modern sensibilities onto an ancient, misunderstood figure. These scholars maintain that Hannibal’s focus on the flesh and body was likely symbolic, meant to represent the soul's journey toward purity and transcendence. Yet, despite their skepticism, even these scholars acknowledge the undeniable power of Hannibal’s influence—an influence that cannot easily be explained away by conventional means.

Beyond the debates over the nature of his teachings, another question has loomed over the scholars’ investigations: the authenticity of the lost books attributed to Saint Hannibal. Among the most sought-after is the Liber E., a text said to contain the complete teachings, rituals, and secrets that could unlock the saint’s power. Although no one has ever laid eyes on it in its entirety, fragments of the book—passages quoted by Hannibal’s followers and cryptic references in other texts—suggest that it held knowledge so potent, so dangerous, that it was deliberately hidden away. Scholars are divided over whether Liber E. was truly a guide to mystical power or simply the ramblings of a madman. What is clear, however, is that Hannibal’s connection to the occult was not a superficial one, and the degree to which his disciples believed in his ability to transcend the physical world speaks to the depth of their faith—and fear.

There is also the matter of the saint's final resting place—his tomb, rumored to be hidden beneath the chapel at Loreto. Despite exhaustive attempts to locate it, scholars continue to be divided. Some believe that the tomb exists only as a symbolic representation of the saint’s enduring power, a power that resides not in his mortal remains but in the very essence of his teachings. Others claim that the tomb is real, hidden away by forces beyond ordinary human comprehension, perhaps even protected by the saint himself from those unworthy to approach.

Yet, the most compelling and chilling whisper among the scholars is the belief that Saint Hannibal may have achieved something that no one in recorded history has ever accomplished—a direct communion with the divine, a union so profound that it transcended death itself. It is said that during his final moments, Hannibal foretold the arrival of his Most Beloved—the Dilectissimus—and left behind the secret to accessing his power, hidden in the pages of Liber E. Some believe that those who are able to find the book and decipher its contents will unlock the same spiritual transformation that Hannibal himself experienced, gaining access to an otherworldly knowledge and power that has been kept hidden for centuries.

For now, the truth remains scattered like shards of broken glass, each fragment offering a glimpse into the darkness and light that surrounded Saint Hannibal’s life and death. Scholars may speculate, may search for answers, but the full story will likely never be told. The mystery of the saint endures, not just in the history of Loreto, but in the hearts and minds of those who continue to seek the elusive truths that lie hidden within his legacy.

Epilogue: Faith, Fiction, or Forbidden Knowledge? The Lasting Influence of Saint Hannibal

The chapel at Loreto stands today as both a beacon of pilgrimage and a symbol of mystery—a place where faith, history, and the occult converge. Visitors, both devoted and curious, make their way through its worn stone halls, gazing up at the faded murals that still cling to the walls, a reminder of the saint's once powerful presence. The chapel, while humble in its appearance, holds an undeniable air of reverence, as though the very ground beneath it hums with forgotten energy. Here, time seems to stand still, as if the past has embedded itself in the fabric of this sacred place.

Over the years, the chapel has evolved into a site of both spiritual reverence and cultural fascination. The devotion to Saint Hannibal has not faded, though it has certainly transformed. No longer just a local figure, his legend has grown, attracting the attention of scholars, seekers, and those with darker curiosities. The Catholic Church, now resigned to the saint’s place in the region’s history, has mostly distanced itself from the more esoteric elements of his story, allowing the chapel to exist in a liminal space—somewhere between faith, fiction, and forbidden knowledge.

While the chapel itself is still recognized as a minor site of devotion, there exists a community—one that exists largely under the radar of mainstream society. The commune surrounding the chapel, though small, has a dedicated following, known as the Domus Dilecti (House of the Beloved). This commune, hidden from the public eye, is home to the Church staff—those who still believe in the saint's teachings, and in some cases, still seek the power he left behind. But it is not only those devoted to Saint Hannibal’s esoteric teachings who find themselves drawn to this commune. The chapel and its surrounding grounds have become a refuge for what some call the lost boys and girls—individuals who have found themselves disconnected from society, castaways seeking something greater, something beyond the mundane realities of modern existence. These wanderers come from all walks of life—artists, dreamers, wanderers, and even the broken-hearted—people who find solace in the idea of belonging to something that transcends the ordinary, the established, and the known.

For them, Saint Hannibal represents not just the divine, but also the possibility of personal transformation. His teachings, while cloaked in mystery, offer a promise of spiritual transcendence that many seek but few understand. The commune, with its quiet rituals and secluded lifestyle, offers the space for these individuals to explore the hidden corners of their own souls, to reflect on the darkness and light within them, and to attempt to reconcile the parts of themselves that society has cast aside.

There are whispers that the commune has its own secret rites, rituals that continue to be practiced in the dead of night—rites that are said to bring the participant closer to the saint’s teachings, closer to unlocking the forbidden knowledge hidden in his books. Some say that these rituals allow for communion with Saint Hannibal’s spirit, while others believe they are an attempt to continue his work of spiritual transformation, a work that was interrupted by his death and the subsequent erasure of his teachings. Regardless of the truth, there is no doubt that the commune remains a place where the lines between faith and the forbidden blur, where those who seek something beyond the material world come to find meaning in the unexplained.

Yet, as the years pass, questions about Saint Hannibal’s legacy remain unanswered. Is he truly a saint—a man of divine wisdom and healing? Or is he a figure whose influence has been exaggerated, his teachings distorted by time, myth, and the desires of those who wish to wield his power for their own gain? Is he a saint in the traditional sense, or is he something else entirely—something far darker and more complex?

The chapel at Loreto, now a place of both pilgrimage and hidden knowledge, continues to stand as a testament to the mystery of Saint Hannibal. Whether you believe in his divine nature or not, his influence endures. His legacy, like the chapel itself, remains firmly entrenched in the fabric of Loreto—a quiet, haunting reminder that some mysteries are meant to be left unsolved. Whether faith, fiction, or forbidden knowledge, the story of Saint Hannibal refuses to be buried. It lives on in the shadows, in the whispers of those who seek him, and in the ongoing search for truth that will likely never come.

Appendices: Translations of Key Texts

In this section, we explore a selection of surviving documents that have been passed down through various historical channels. These texts offer some of the clearest insights into Saint Hannibal’s teachings, his influence, and the religious practices that grew around him. Although much of his personal writing is lost to time, the following pieces have been recorded by church officials, followers, and eyewitnesses to his life and work. These documents have survived largely due to their significance in shaping the official narrative of Saint Hannibal’s sainthood or the attempts to erase or obscure his more esoteric practices.

1. The Chronicle of Claricia: A Follower’s Account (1270)

Claricia, one of Saint Hannibal’s most devoted followers, is believed to have written this chronicle shortly after his death. The text is deeply personal and offers a glimpse into the more spiritual and mysterious elements of his practices, some of which were later suppressed by the Church. Claricia was one of the individuals who helped establish the community at Loreto, and her account provides insight into the private rituals and teachings that she claims Hannibal imparted.

Translation:

"I was blessed to have known him as a teacher, not only of divine things, but of those hidden truths that lie beyond the veil of ordinary sight. In his presence, the sick were made whole, the broken spirits lifted. But it was in the moments of quiet, after the miracles had been performed, that he shared with us the deeper wisdom. He spoke of the sacred fire that burns within the soul, of the power to heal not just the body but the spirit itself. And in those teachings, he spoke of consuming the darkness within to become whole. Some called it witchcraft, but I know it was his divine gift."

This account is one of the few that offers a personal perspective on the Saint’s more esoteric practices. Claricia was one of the few who witnessed his spiritual work up close and wrote down what she understood of it.

2. The Testament of Loreto (1280)

The Testament of Loreto is a document that surfaced years after Saint Hannibal’s death. It was allegedly written by one of the town's leaders and sealed by several local officials. It speaks to the lasting influence of Hannibal’s ministry and highlights how his actions were perceived by the town's community in the aftermath of his passing. While it emphasizes his charitable works, it subtly alludes to a mystical side of his healing powers, suggesting that Hannibal was privy to knowledge not of this world.

Translation:

"In the year of his passing, Saint Hannibal was laid to rest within our midst, but not before he had left behind a legacy unlike any other. His hands healed, his words inspired, and his wisdom guided us through times of suffering and fear. It is said that the ways in which he cured ailments were beyond earthly explanation. Whether through his divine communion with the Almighty, or through his possession of knowledge from the Old World, his methods are known only to those few who were closest to him. May we continue to honor his memory, though the exact nature of his gifts may remain a mystery."

This document reflects the Church's effort to maintain the narrative of Saint Hannibal as a benevolent figure while subtly acknowledging that there may have been elements of his ministry that are difficult to explain within the confines of orthodox Christianity.

3. Excerpt from the Letter of Saint Aemilia (1290)

Saint Aemilia, another follower of Hannibal, wrote this letter to her fellow nuns and clergy, recounting her personal experiences with Hannibal during his life. This text was largely lost until recent rediscovery, and in it, Aemilia briefly discusses the rituals of transmutation that were associated with Hannibal, though she frames them in the context of sanctification and spiritual ascent. Though she does not name them explicitly, her descriptions have led many to speculate about the deeper rituals he may have practiced.

Translation:

"I have witnessed Saint Hannibal perform acts of such holiness that they seemed to transmute the very air around him. When he healed, it was not simply through the touch of his hands; it was as if the very essence of his soul intertwined with the souls of those suffering. It is said that when one seeks true transformation, they must die to the self. I do not know the full meaning of this, but I know that in his presence, I, too, was transformed."

This letter hints at the deeply personal nature of Hannibal's teachings and practices, suggesting that his approach to healing was not only physical but also spiritual and transformative in a profound way.

4. The Memoir of Brother Eamon (1295)

Brother Eamon was one of the monks who accompanied Saint Hannibal during his final years. He was one of the last to witness the Saint's work before his death, and his memoirs were intended to preserve the memory of Hannibal’s teachings and actions. In this text, Eamon talks about the rituals Hannibal performed in the final days of his life, including his belief in consuming the “sacred fire” of the world to purify the body and soul.

Translation:

"In the days before his death, Saint Hannibal spoke often of the great secret fire that burns in all of us. He would say, 'To heal, one must first consume that which causes us suffering. Only by eating the fire of the world can one become free of its hold.' We, his followers, were unsure of the meaning, but we knew it was not literal. Still, there was something undeniable in the way his words had power to heal us, even when we could not fully comprehend them."

This memoir hints at a deeper, possibly mystical understanding of Hannibal’s work, alluding to the ritualistic or metaphorical "consumption" of suffering and worldly impurities to achieve spiritual and physical transformation.

Church Records and Censored Documents

While Saint Hannibal's life and deeds have largely been shaped by the Church, certain documents and records from his time have survived—many of which were heavily censored, redacted, or modified by ecclesiastical authorities to downplay aspects of his teachings that could be seen as heretical. These records reveal the Church's attempts to mold Hannibal's legacy and obscure the more controversial elements of his practices. In some cases, key details were removed or rewritten entirely in order to prevent his deeper spiritual work and esoteric practices from coming to light.

1. The Canonization Process Records (1270-1285)

The official records detailing the process of Saint Hannibal’s canonization were heavily manipulated by the Church during his beatification. The original proceedings included references to certain rituals and beliefs that were seen as too mystical or occult for mainstream Christian doctrine. Much of this content was redacted before being presented to the public, ensuring that only those aspects of Hannibal's life that aligned with orthodox Catholic values remained.

Excerpt (Censored Version):

"Saint Hannibal, through his deeds of kindness and charity, healed the sick and comforted the suffering. He was a humble servant of God, and his compassion for the poor was unmatched in the region. The true measure of his faith was seen in his tireless efforts to spread the word of Christ."

Excerpt (Original Version—Uncensored):

"Saint Hannibal, in addition to his acts of charity, was known to perform rites that some might find difficult to explain. His healing was not solely by the touch of his hands, but by the transmutation of energies, a sacred act that many of his followers claimed to have witnessed. Those close to him spoke of his deep connection to the ancient wisdom of healing and rites that sought to purify the soul through a communion of body and spirit. Some claimed he could summon the sacred fire of transformation, a practice that bordered on the forbidden."

This redacted record reflects the Church's effort to avoid any public scandal or fear that Hannibal’s more esoteric practices would conflict with the Church’s teachings.

2. The Suppressed Sermon of Saint Hannibal (1282)

This sermon, delivered by Saint Hannibal in 1282, was originally transcribed by one of his followers but was later suppressed and destroyed by the Church after his death. In this sermon, Hannibal is said to have spoken about the necessity of embracing darkness in order to transcend the material world and reach divine illumination. While these teachings were likely metaphorical, the Church feared that they would be misinterpreted as heretical.

Excerpt (Censored Version):

"Let us embrace the light of God that guides us through the darkness, for in His light we are healed and made whole. The worldly trials we face are but temporary, and with faith, we shall overcome all burdens."

Excerpt (Original Version—Uncensored):

"We must learn to embrace the darkness that surrounds us, for it is in the shadows where true illumination lies. To heal, one must first consume the suffering that plagues the body and the spirit. The power to transcend this world comes not from escaping it, but by fully immersing oneself in its trials, until we become one with the Divine Fire that burns at its heart."

This version of the sermon was likely considered dangerous by the Church, as it implied a process of spiritual purification through methods that were deemed too close to occult practices.

3. The Official Church Edict on "The Alabaster Relic" (1295)

Following the mysterious disappearance of the Alabaster relic from the chapel in 1295, the Church issued an official edict regarding its significance. This document was heavily censored to downplay the relic’s controversial, phallic nature, which could easily have been seen as an emblem of pagan or heretical practices.

Excerpt (Censored Version):

"The relic, believed to hold great spiritual significance, was a gift to the Church from the late Saint Hannibal. Its presence in the chapel is a reminder of the saint's unwavering commitment to God and His service."

Excerpt (Original Version—Uncensored):

"The alabaster, with its mysterious shape, was thought by many to represent the Sacred Masculine principle of divine power. Some whispered of its true origins—its shape and significance, tied to the ancient rites of power and fertility, rituals that the saint himself may have practiced. Though it may be misunderstood by some, it was clear that this relic, in all its mystery, represented the link between the divine and the physical, the unification of opposites."

By removing the more esoteric aspects of the relic’s symbolism, the Church was able to minimize the risk of scandal and ensure that the narrative remained in line with the accepted Christian views of saintly relics.

4. The Letter of Suppression (1301)

In 1301, a letter was issued by the local diocese to suppress certain public rituals and gatherings related to Saint Hannibal’s memory. The Church was concerned that these rituals, which sometimes involved strange rites of purification and healing, could be seen as a form of paganism or witchcraft. The letter explicitly prohibited these gatherings and demanded that any texts related to these practices be handed over for destruction.

Excerpt (Censored Version):

"It has come to the attention of the Church that some have begun to associate practices of healing and purification with the life of Saint Hannibal. We must remind the faithful that such practices are outside the bounds of the Church's teachings and are to be abandoned immediately. No one is to engage in such rites without proper ecclesiastical approval."

Excerpt (Original Version—Uncensored):

"We must also caution the faithful against engaging in the more private rites of healing and purification that some believe were taught by Saint Hannibal. These practices, involving the consumption of darkness and communion with the sacred fire, are not of God and must not be practiced. Such acts are dangerous, for they lead to the embracing of powers beyond our understanding and could lead to eternal damnation."

This letter is a clear indication of the Church’s attempt to distance itself from Hannibal’s more mystical and esoteric practices, reflecting their concerns that his following could easily grow into a movement considered heretical.

5. The Excommunication Order for the Followers of Saint Hannibal (1305)

By 1305, the Church had grown increasingly concerned with the continued devotion of Saint Hannibal’s followers, who were still meeting in secret to study his teachings. An official excommunication order was issued for anyone found engaging in activities tied to Hannibal’s cult, especially those related to his esoteric practices. This document is one of the most significant examples of the Church’s efforts to completely erase the memory of the saint’s deeper teachings.

Excerpt (Censored Version):

"Any group that continues to gather in the name of Saint Hannibal is hereby condemned. The faithful are urged to cease any association with these gatherings, for they have been deemed contrary to the teachings of Christ."

Excerpt (Original Version—Uncensored):

"Those who continue to perform the secret rites of Saint Hannibal, who seek to commune with the sacred fire and consume the darkness within, are hereby excommunicated. These practices, which were once hidden in the shadows, have now been revealed for what they truly are—acts of heresy and demonic worship. Let all who follow this path know that they are outside the Church and the grace of God."

This document represents the Church’s final attempt to extinguish the legacy of Hannibal’s mystical practices, cementing his status as a saint of charity and healing but obscuring his more controversial teachings.

Conclusion

These censored documents and Church records provide invaluable insight into the struggle between the official canonization of Saint Hannibal and the attempts by the Church to suppress or reinterpret his more mystical and occult practices. While these records offer a glimpse into the nature of the man and his teachings, they also demonstrate the lengths to which the Church went to ensure that certain aspects of his legacy remained hidden from the public eye. Through these censored records, we begin to understand the complex relationship between faith, control, and the suppression of knowledge that the Church deemed dangerous.

Chapter 16: Theories and Scholarly Debate

The life and death of Saint Hannibal have sparked centuries of scholarly intrigue, leading to numerous interpretations, theories, and debates surrounding his identity, his teachings, and the lasting influence he left behind. What began as the tale of a simple local saint has morphed into an enigma of historical and theological complexity. From his supposed role in secret rituals to the possibility of his involvement with occult knowledge, the theories surrounding Saint Hannibal have drawn a wide range of interpretations. Scholars remain divided on many aspects of his life, with some rejecting any suggestion of esoteric practices and others embracing the idea of a deeper, hidden spiritual legacy.

1. Theories of Hannibal’s Teachings: Heretic or Mystic?

One of the most significant debates among scholars revolves around the true nature of Saint Hannibal’s teachings. To the official Church, he is a saint who performed miracles of healing and charity. However, modern researchers and occult scholars suggest that Hannibal’s healing methods may have been rooted in esoteric and mystical practices that were considered heretical by the Church.

The "Mystical Healer" Hypothesis posits that Hannibal was more than just a charitable man—he was an adept practitioner of esoteric healing methods that involved the manipulation of energy and spiritual forces. Some have suggested that his work with the sick was not merely medical but involved rituals that blurred the lines between divine healing and witchcraft. This theory holds that Hannibal’s understanding of illness was not confined to the physical realm but extended into the spiritual, where the true causes of suffering were believed to be rooted.

In contrast, The "Orthodox Saint" Argument maintains that Hannibal was simply a humble healer and holy man who performed miracles through divine intervention. Proponents of this theory argue that any hints of mysticism or esotericism in his practices are either misinterpreted or exaggerated by later followers seeking to attach occult significance to his actions.

The debate over whether Hannibal was a mystic or merely a saint with unusual healing abilities continues to divide scholars. Was he a man touched by divine power, or was he a secret practitioner of ancient knowledge that, in the eyes of the Church, threatened the very fabric of Christian orthodoxy?

2. The Rituals of Saint Hannibal: Occult or Divine?

The rituals associated with Saint Hannibal, most of which are tied to his healing practices and secret teachings, have been a focal point of scholarly contention. Some researchers claim that these rituals were purely Christian in nature, designed to invoke divine healing power. Others, however, argue that certain aspects of the rites described in various texts align closely with ancient occult practices.

The "Ritualist Interpretation" argues that Saint Hannibal’s healing methods were not merely acts of charity but were intertwined with complex rituals rooted in occult traditions. Some scholars suggest that Hannibal, having access to forbidden knowledge, may have incorporated alchemical or mystical practices into his healing, including rituals of purification and energy transference. The phallic symbol of the alabaster relic is often cited as evidence of an underlying fertility cult or rites connected to pre-Christian paganism, further fueling the argument that Hannibal’s practices were not purely Christian.

On the other hand, the "Divine Medicine" Theory insists that Hannibal's rituals were not occult in nature but were rooted in the divine grace of God. This view holds that any ritualistic elements present in his practices were purely symbolic and were meant to create a deeper connection between the healer and the divine. Such rituals, it is argued, were part of a larger process of spiritual purification that ultimately aligned with Church doctrine and the healing miracles attributed to saints.

Scholars continue to debate the spiritual and symbolic significance of Hannibal’s rituals. Were they rooted in the occult, or were they purely Christian in their intent? The presence of certain symbols and practices, many of which remain obscure, continues to fuel the debate.

3. The Mysterious Disappearance of the Alabaster: Symbolism and Interpretation

The alabaster relic, which was said to have been placed in the chapel after Hannibal’s death, has remained one of the most enigmatic objects linked to the saint. Its disappearance in 1295 and subsequent failure to resurface has only deepened the mystery surrounding it. Various interpretations of its symbolism abound, with scholars divided on its true meaning.

The "Sacred Masculine" Theory suggests that the alabaster was a symbol of the divine masculine energy, representing not only the physical but also the spiritual power that Hannibal was believed to wield. In this view, the relic was a conduit for spiritual transformation, one that embodied the mystery of life, death, and rebirth. The relic’s phallic shape, often regarded with suspicion by Church authorities, is seen by some as a symbol of fertility, transformation, and divine power.

Conversely, the "Pagan Influences" Hypothesis argues that the alabaster’s symbolism is rooted in pre-Christian fertility rites. In this interpretation, the relic is not a symbol of divine masculinity but a remnant of a forgotten pagan practice, one that the Church sought to suppress by removing or concealing the object. The debate centers on whether the relic was truly a Christian artifact or whether it was an object that held esoteric or even pagan significance.

4. The Search for the Tomb: Theories of Saint Hannibal’s Final Resting Place

Perhaps the most tantalizing question in the ongoing scholarly debate is the true location of Saint Hannibal’s tomb. The chapel, which has long been the focal point of the saint’s cult, houses what is believed to be his final resting place—though this has never been confirmed. Despite numerous searches over the years, no one has ever found the catacombs that supposedly hold his remains.

The "Hidden Tomb" Theory suggests that Saint Hannibal's body was deliberately hidden by his followers to protect his legacy. According to this theory, the catacombs, which are rumored to exist beneath the chapel, were sealed off to keep his remains hidden from the authorities and to ensure that his teachings would not be lost to history.

In contrast, the "Symbolic Tomb" Hypothesis posits that the tomb is not meant to be a literal place of burial but a symbolic resting place that reflects the saint’s spiritual journey. The catacombs may exist metaphorically, representing the hidden and often inaccessible wisdom that Hannibal left behind. According to this interpretation, the search for the tomb is a fruitless endeavor, for the true “resting place” of the saint’s teachings lies within the hearts and minds of those who seek his knowledge.

5. The Legacy of Saint Hannibal: A Study of Modern Devotion

In the modern era, the legacy of Saint Hannibal continues to inspire both devout followers and curious scholars. Despite the Church’s efforts to suppress his teachings, small, clandestine groups persist in their study of his life and works. Some of these groups claim to have access to hidden texts or fragments of Hannibal’s teachings that have been passed down through generations.

Scholars who study these modern devotees often view them with skepticism, arguing that many of the groups are merely practicing a distorted version of Saint Hannibal’s teachings. However, there are a few who argue that these groups may be in possession of a more authentic understanding of his work, one that the Church worked hard to suppress.

The "Restorationist Movement" Theory holds that the modern followers of Saint Hannibal are striving to restore the original teachings of the saint, including his more mystical and esoteric practices. This movement seeks to resurrect the ancient wisdom that was hidden by the Church and passed down through secret channels, continuing the work that Hannibal began before his death.

Conclusion: A Legacy Unresolved

The debate surrounding Saint Hannibal’s life, teachings, and legacy is far from settled. Scholars continue to examine the fragmented historical record, attempting to decipher the true nature of the man and the meaning of his work. While some may view him as a saint of divine healing and charity, others insist that he was much more—an enigmatic figure whose practices were rooted in ancient knowledge that the Church was determined to erase.

As the search for the truth continues, one thing is clear: the mystery of Saint Hannibal’s legacy will endure, sparking further debate, inquiry, and fascination for generations to come.

Other books by The Author:

Saintly Devotion: The Duality of Hannibal as Saint and Lover

The Cult of Ecstasy: Saint Hannibal and the Rites of Sacred Pleasure

The Red Chapel: The Capella de San Hannibal—Sacred Sanctuary or Profane Temple?

The Beloved: Theories of Divine Love and the Soulmate in Hannibal’s Legacy