...
Will wakes up and it is raining.
Grey. The world is bathed in a swamp of grey. The greens of the grass, the yellow-golds of autumn leaves, the blue-purple-pinks of the sunset (sunrise?) peeking through the trees, all washed out in the growing mists, the darkened twilight. His feet are bare and bathed in grey, muddy waters, a puddle forming amidst trampled yellowed grass. Behind him is a trail of footprints: clear indentations in the mud, tall grass pushed aside to leave a path.
My name is Will Graham. It is sunrise (or sunset), and I am... somewhere.
At least he is fully clothed. Jeans, flannel shirt, a jacket, even, though all soaked through it is poor protection from the cold. No shoes, but his feet are numb. His glasses, he hopes, are somewhere he will find them, though he keeps his eyes on the path as he turns to follow it back.
This is how he almost misses the crow.
...
It sits, proud creature, on the crudely snapped stump of a tree felled in a recent storm. Its form is darkness, even in the dimming light, like an oil spill is dark in the deepest oceans. It's wing juts out at an awkward angle, disturbing it's perfect form.
It caws when his hand gets too close.
Easy, there. He reaches out again, for the creature's slick underbelly. It watches him warily, but lets him run his fingers down along the feathers. Easy.
The wing is broken. With the cover of the drizzling rain night is fast approaching, and he can't tell the extent of the damage. He leans to one side to get a better look. The crow does not appreciate the shift. It caws irritably.
Easy.
He normally deals with dogs, rabbits, the occasional coyote, a deer, once. Crows are smart creatures, but they are also hostile. He doubts it would let him attempt to carry it back to his home—wherever that is, though he hopes not far. Will looks around for some hint of what to do. Leave it, the easier path, and the one that would ensure he does not lose his way in the dark. A thick branch, just barely attached to the felled section of the tree, makes up his mind. He snaps it off and peels away some of the smaller branches so he can get a good grip, then presents the thicker end to the crow.
Come on. Nice and easy.
It takes a bit of nudging to get the beast to move.
With the crow precariously perched on the stick out in front of him and the ground now thoroughly slick from the rain, the going in slow. He has been sure-footed in the wilderness since he was a boy in Louisiana, wandering around the wilderness when his younger mind had grown restless in fishing. He walks for some time before he finds himself out of the swamp. In the distance he can see the lights of his house. A boat on the water.
He sits, gingerly lowering the branch to the ground. The crow squawks indignantly, but Will's arms are tired. He searches his pockets and is relieved to find his cell phone, but the battery dies as soon as he attempts to power the screen. Now it really is just him out here, him and the crow.
...
William?
He starts badly when the voice comes and turns to find a flashlight on his face. It is quickly lowered.
Dr. Lecter? Only Hannibal Lecter, psychiatrist unconventional, refers to him as William.
Are you alright, William? The man rarely answers Will's questions, though he expects answers to his. Will expects that means something to him, but it is cold and he is tired and doesn't care to place the feeling. He steps closer to Will, his features becoming sharper. Will shivers.
I think. He gestures to the bird. He's got a broken wing.
The doctor raises an eyebrow, but turns the flashlight beam towards crow, which caws in its constant indignation. The beam slides back towards Will, but lands on his feet. Where are your shoes, William?
I don't know. He thinks back, for the first time, on coming home from the crime scene. He must have kicked them off when he settled onto the couch, and fallen asleep, and from there... What time is it?
Hannibal checks his watch. Eight forty three. Eight forty? But he couldn't have walked more than ten, twenty minutes with the crow, and the sun just set. Hannibal steps a bit closer, slowly, like he thinks Will is the injured creature, and makes a show of slowly raising his hand to press against Will's forehead. Are you losing time again, Will?
It unsettles him to think of it. Sleepwalking, I think. The lighter admission. Hannibal's hand pulls away, but he says nothing, so there must not be a fever. Will could have told him that. He's too cold for there to be a fever. Why—how did you find me, Dr.?
The man, of course, does not answer so easily. He is taking off his heavy overcoat. Your jacket is soaked, William. Please, take mine.
I'll be fine. It'll be ruined if I wear it.
I insist.
Will gives in (he always gives in) and removes his jacket, heavy in its thorough soaking, and accepts Hannibal's. He feels awkward in the long coat, probably hand-tailored to the psychiatrist's broader frame, but he is grateful for the warmth. Hannibal takes the jacket Will holds, folding it automatically, and speaks before Will can register the action to protest. Satisfied to get his way.
If you haven't forgotten, William, you had an appointment this evening.
Will blinks. I was at a scene today—I should have called.
Uncle Jack did that for you. As such, I was worried, more so when I could not get ahold of you. I must admit I acted on the assumption that you would not be opposed to some supper after today's ordeals, and so was equipped with a reason to check in on you. He nods slowly, gesturing to Will and his current condition. I will say I am glad I came.
Will sighs. He wants to tell Hannibal off for bringing him food, again, like he is some sort of child who cannot take care of himself, but he cannot do so without coming off as incredibly rude, especially when the doctor has trudged out over the field to find him. Instead Will turns back to the branch. He has to roll up the sleeves a bit.
Could you not just carry the creature directly?
Crows have a tendency to bite.
And what do you intend to do with it? Take it to a rescue center?
Will shakes his head. He starts in the direction of the house, and Hannibal is quick to cast the flashlight out in front of him, for a better step. If I can even get him past the dogs, I'll tape up the wing until it is healed.
Now that he can see the trail more clearly, it is easy to tell that Will was not in his waking, conscious mind when he laid the path. The imprints, toe to toe, are much longer than his usual stride length, and much more heavily pronounced in the front section of the foot where he standardly steps flat-footed. Hannibal keeps the light on the path and they make good time; still it takes twenty minutes to reach the house.
Will gives Hannibal the branch, to the older man's evident chagrin, and enters his house through the kitchen. The dogs are all awake and swarm around him, making his movement through the kitchen like swimming through a school of fish and sideways to a current. He coerces the pack into the living room with a handful of treats, and orders them sit, wait before blocking off the kitchen with a sheet of plywood he keeps leaned up against the wall for this very purpose. He tosses the treats and uses there distraction to block off the other doorway in a similar fashion. A lab-pitbull-boxer mix, Zoe, rests her head on the first boarding and whines at him, tail thumping against the floor, but he just scratches her head and goes to let Hannibal in.
They put the crow on the table, where it shuffles off the branch and caws mightily at Zoe. The dog starts with a growl, and Will cringes, anticipating the other dogs' alert to the intruder to their home to trigger an agitated chorus. But it never comes. Zoe backs down and goes to join the other dogs, settling in to her usual place at the far end of the couch.
...
Hannibal goes out to his car and comes back with a large brown bag. Our dinner. He takes out a smaller bag of ice, and, from within that, a tupperware container. I had hoped you would not be adverse to my finishing here. Liver always tastes best freshly cooked.
He seems to have no trouble with offering up a small strip of the meat to the crow, and Will does not feel he has the stomach for liver tonight, so he watches in silence as the bird swallows the strip whole. When Hannibal moves, cautiously, to stroke the creature's proud chest, it nibbles at his fingers, so he quickly pulls back. Perhaps gloves are in order?
Will finds a few pairs of gardening gloves under the sink, and hunts around until he finds the first aid kit and brings it back to the table. Hannibal is offering the creature more of the meat, and, as before, it swallows it hungrily. Will offers Hannibal the gloves, but he rejects them in favor of a pair of latexes from the kit. You have a way with animals, I have medical practice, William. I propose that you keep the creature still and calm, and I will bind the wing.
It is a reasonable plan, so Will offers the man the roll of tape. Not too tight. It'll break his feathers, or suffocate him. The man nods. Will puts on the garden gloves and strokes the creature's chest until it settles some, then gestures. We have to tape it in front of the legs, under the other wing. It will need it to balance.
He takes a strip of the meat in his gloved fingers, earning the bird's instant attention. Ready?
Hannibal nods.
...
As soon as his head touches the pillow, the world blinks out of focus and fades away. He wouldn't say it is sleeping, per say, as his thoughts about the crow and the man and the dogs downstairs do not stop, but it is not the waking world that he finds himself in. As in the world of dreams, he does not notice anything wrong for some time, laying there in the total darkness.
Wings beat all around him, an entire flock taking off, and Will sits up.
Well, well. The voice is reedy and strained, like an old smoker or a man with a bad cold. Will peers around in the darkness, but sees no further than his own hands tangled in grey sheets. What have we here?
A figure comes out of the darkness, though it itself is a whole new layer of darkness, seeping forward onto the bed. Will found himself unable to move, like his blood had frozen over in his veins and his heart filled with lead. The creature is half crawling onto the bed, graceless motion that does not fail to bring it closer, closer. It's night-black feathers are falling away, leaving a dark trail across his sheets and in the air. They peel off of pieces of the face, of one of the arms, most of the torso.
Who are you? Will knows it is not one of his nightmares. He cannot speak, in his nightmares—not as himself. The figure lets out a rasping laugh.
I am the Raven King. They look down on Will with the scorn of a god. And I am come to take a new body.
Will frowns. You have a body already.
They scowl, and around them, in the darkness, there is another beating of wings, until they hold up a hand and the darkness falls silent. Slowly they raise their other arm, the one still covered in black feathers. It has, Will realizes, an extra joint; bent harshly outwards halfway down the forearm.
This body is old and feeble. Glittering black eyes roll down over Will, and he wishes, for a moment, he could move to hide himself beneath the covers. The body of the Raven King must be young and strong. I will possess you.
Will laughs. You do not want me. These are damaged goods. A broken brain.
They laugh again, then the human arm darts out to grab Will's. He cannot move, or he would pull back, tug free of the vice-like grip. Their nails dig into his skin as they pull away the bandage, revealing a gash where the crow had lashed out at him, once Hannibal had bound the wing.
You cannot fight me. They press their long nails into the mark, sending pain like fire up his arm and Will is unable to move, to escape the burn. They let the arm fall, satisfied, and lick the blood off their fingertips. You are able. Like me, you eat the flesh of man. The transition will be easy.
Will feels a bubble of sickness rising in his gut. That was not me. That was Hobbs.
The laughter rises from all around him like a gurgling in a massive throat, and even the Raven King smiles a wretched smile. You cannot fight me, William. They lean forward until their face is inches from Will's, their breath like rancid meat to his nose. I am the Raven King, and I claim your body as my own.
Their foreheads knock and all at once the vision of the Raven King slips away, replaced with images in fast motion. Some he recognizes, but they flip through too quickly for him to place. Black and white, bursts of color, it all speeds by like the crank of an old film has been caught up in a hurricane. Macabre beauty, ornate and grotesque. Memories of someone else's life. Then at once he is taking a big gasp of breath and he is back to himself, the Raven King at the end of the bed, watching, watching.
There are too many minds in that head of yours. It sniffs with disdain. I do not like to have to fight to claim what is rightfully mine.
Then don't. Will's voice is a gasp, breath of wind on a still night. Find someone else.
The laughter rises up around him, first the shuffling in the dark, then the beating of wings, then a cacophony of cawing.
I claim your body as my own, William Graham. The new host to the soul of the Raven King.
...
William?
…
…
…
I know a new fic in a new fandom is the last thing ya'll want to hear from me, but…
This was written as break from an unofficial NaNoWriMo-type writing sprint I'm working on. It is longer still, but we'll see when (if ever) I continue it on, and if I do, it will most likely be after my sprint is completed (mid-august).
After, of course, I finally wrap up OW&I.
Comments, Critique, and Criticism always welcome!