Disclaimer: I don't own NBC's "Hannibal" or Jerry Bruckheimer's "King Arthur," wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is an AU/reincarnation fiction involving "Hannibal" and the movie "King Arthur," specially revolving around a romantic relationship between Hannibal (who is the reincarnation of Tristan) and Will Graham (who is the reincarnation of Galahad). This story was made possible by a prompt on the Hannibal kinkmeme. Please see original chapter for complete information regarding the specifics of this prompt.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for the movie, and just to be safe, all of Hannibal, season one, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore, murder, emotional manipulation, implied cannibalism and mature content.
Rinascere
Chapter Twelve
"Your name is Tristan, plains born. You are a Sarmatian by birth and blood, a knight, a warrior," Arthur rasped, wiping his hand across his mouth like an afterthought, smearing his chin with red as they circled one another.
War paint.
He tried to ignore the words, focusing instead on the man's movements. His hands were curled into fists, his left hand up, protecting his face like a boxer in the ring, the main competitor of a prize fight. The man's shoulders were straight, settled, the scalpel forgotten in the soft earth somewhere between them.
"You were my best scout, my best strategist. You saved my life a hundred times over. We grew up together, killed together; I owe you my life, brother," Arthur insisted, lurching forward to grip him by the shoulders the same moment he tried to lash out, holding him fast in a tense arm lock that he returned. His fingers sunk deep into the man's flesh as they stared at each other, faces just millimeters apart as something, deep-seated and visceral, scored across his mind's eye.
And suddenly he was back there, back in a moment where he was scrabbling against the man in the muck. He felt every sensation like it was his own, the way his bare feet sunk deep into the slick, the warmth of the sun on his naked back, the taste of grit in his mouth as they sparred, even the dull throb of recent hits pulsed just underneath his skin as he struggled to catch his breath.
But despite the similarities, what was happening in the memory was different from what was happening in real-time. This was infantile, adolescent, training. This was two boys, leggy and unbalanced, tussling in the mud on the training yard as the swords they'd been using, wooden and heavy, were tossed aside in favor of fists and bare skin.
They were being egged on by a ring of spectators, mostly gangly boys sporting that thin, pinched look that comes part and parcel with that first real growth spurt, a hallmark of a child's impending manhood.
It was a proving ground, a contest. And both of them were evenly matched.
The sound of his breathing, breathless and harried, was loud in the close space.
His vision crossed, almost losing himself in the emotional backwash until the sensation of Arthur's fingers breaking skin finally registered. The pain was grounding. Real. Enough to bring him catapulting back to the present as every muscle in his body seemed to bristle.
"I don't know you," he hissed, rage coursing through him as a trickle of fear lit up his senses like fire nearing an unlit fuse. His accent thickened in his distraction as he tried to center himself, shoring himself up even as the foundations upon which he'd built his innermost shields quivered. The emotion was unfamiliar and dank as he forced himself to shake it off, suddenly feeling more like prey than ever before as he hissed in a breath, shoring up his upper body as he tried to put some distance between them, but failed.
The man held fast.
But he'd had enough.
He whirled in place, taking their arms above their heads, spinning around to jab the man's spine in a last ditch effort that had never failed him. Only somehow the man knew, he knew before he'd even completed the motion, and caught him in mid-turn, absorbing his energy and using it against him as he flipped him over his shoulder. They grunted, almost in unison, as they hit the dirt, sliding across the ground as a shower of pebbles and grit scored across his cheek.
He turned over, one hand fisting into the long grass, welcoming the leverage as Arthur caught his gaze from behind the untidy sheath of his hair. The man was still flat on his back, shirt dirt-smeared and ripped, but when he caught his stare, split lower lip and all, the man's smile was almost fond.
"Tristan, really, I got wise to that move before we graduated to long bows."
He just panted, wordless.
A/N #2: Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up soon!
"Consciousness is endless, from one incarnation to the next. It simply will and does manifest in other places and times, regardless of what becomes of the human race." ― Zeena Schreck, (from Beatdom #11: The Nature Issue)