Hannibal stood at the lookout point, staring off into the distance as the waves lapped the shore. It lay north of the picturesque town of Hollingworth, a town that had fallen silent. An old church stood on a cliff of worn gray stones overgrown with moss and ivy, its steeple glistened in the morning sun like a beacon of ill omen. Tombstones trailed from it, moving downwards towards a path that led back to a gravel clearing littered with police cars, a modern addition clashing with the decaying gothic architecture of the church. Meanwhile the beach lay deserted as result of the howling wind and frostbite.
The man's fingers gripped the railing, numb to the cold as his mind whirled, a flurry of thoughts battling with one another like wolves. A dull ache groaned in his stomach, a cold metallic feeling as though he had swallowed poison. A series of faces replaced the littered coast and its jagged rocks. He scrutinized them one by one as a detective searching for the faintest clue of a man long gone, a semblance of familiarity, anything to jolt his attention: Franklin, Will, Alana, Jack, Bedelia, and so it went on. How little these faces meant to him, reminiscent of pictures in a catalogue of material pleasures, they always smiled for him, at him, through him. There was something lost in translation, an element that he could not help but miss. Hannibal clutched at his stomach from the pangs of churning pain which he identified with emotion. An exquisite bouquet, luxuriant and inescapable, that was emotion in all its shades. There was a time when he felt trapped in his own abyss and immune to its thrashes and caresses but as he aged he felt the walls crumble, himself falling into submission. A sudden screech of car tires startled him from his revels as he turned to see the glossy green vehicle belonging to Jack Crawford, followed by this entourage of somber-faced men trying to conceal the edge of their nerves. The group of men made their way to the chapel, Hannibal followed after them, his expression composed.
A yellow band was moved aside and heavy wooden doors were pushed on their rusted iron hinges to reveal a grand hall glistening with golden ornaments and sacred frescos. The only light was that which filtered through the stained glass and a set of three candles set by the icon of St. Agatha, the saint for which the church was named. The shuffling of footsteps and whispers echoed through the domed roof as black boots made their way across the marble floor to the body that waiting, its hands and feet positioned as though for a coffin awaiting it. The group arrived to see the body of a youth swathed in a white robe dappled in scarlet and embroidered at the hem with purple and gold. He lay surrounded by candles, their flames quenched, and his blond locks carefully arranged. Precious gems were strung around his neck and his slender waist, bloodied fingernails clutching a cross on a delicate silver chain. Hooks were jabbed into his arms and his chest area and genitals had been damaged by wild slashes of a blade, indicating a struggle and an urge to act quickly before one's conscience overtook the wrongdoer. In the palm of a pale hand lay a note on parchment with a careful inscription in black ink: "Cruel man, have you forgotten your mother and the breast that nourished you , that you dare to mutilate me in such a way?".
"The skin on his back showed minor burns as well," said a man in a white coat, carefully placing the note in a sealed packet with his gloved hands.
Hannibal took in the scene, imagining the sort of mind that would lay to rest such a beautiful corpse. Kneeling by the body he looked at the angel face, the skin like porcelain tainted only by a bluish hue befitting the marks of violence and macabre setting. It did not take him long to recognize his patient Adrian. He felt sympathy, pity, compassion, he listed the words in his mind. He knew that he felt all of these things, that he would feel them soon, but in the moment it was difficult to acknowledge that a life had recently come to its conclusion. The body appeared expressive , even in its extravagant symbolism. There was no doubt in his mind that it was a romanticized depiction of Saint Agatha
He was pleased to hear the murmuring voice of Will Graham in the distance echoing the name. His untouchable companion recounted the tale of the saint: a young, beautiful, wealthy woman who had devoted her life to God and died a martyr after a series of mutilations by a brutal magistrate. It seemed that the murder at once wished to recreate the essence of the saint and perhaps punish a sinner, given what Hannibal knew of the boy's background. He stood next to Will and simply listened, it seemed that while the man was in his trance of theories and explanations he could distance himself from his surroundings. Dr. Lecter could not help but wonder if in some way Will was able to feel the aura about him that made the doctor gravitate to him. His alluring strangeness.
After a few hours of scrutiny by the forensic team the body was at last carried away. Hannibal could hear excerpts of conversations as detectives talked to an assorted bunch of regulars at the church. As he eyed the priest, the man did not strike him as the sort of character to have been likely culpable of the murder, he showed his fear in such a despicably blatant way, showing a certain crudeness of character that excluded him as one to romanticize such twisted visions. A worldly man, in short, perhaps caught in the wrong profession.
Once the investigation was well underway, Hannibal felt that it was time for him to return to his car. Jack had texted him that he would be sending him some profiles to analyze of a group of identified suspects, to which Dr. Lecter complied. The drive home took him down a long winding road through a forest, the pines surrounding him reaching skyward indicating the many years that it took to create such natural towers. Dark images of the past were evoked by the route, recollections which at times caused his jaw to clench and press on the pedal of the car more forcefully than need be. Energetic classical music played on the speakers of the vehicle, exuding a melodramatic air that added to the restless mood of the man. The boy's face still flashed in his mind on occasion, his serene macabre beauty. A beauty that lay hidden when he had first met his patient, only in the garments of circumstance did he highlight himself. Hannibal began to feel something akin to mourning more strongly than before as inadvertent scenes of affection were morphed by his imagination, perhaps brought on by fatigue. He saw the Adrian as he was while he were living, a young man of twenty years, and himself at a similar stage of his life, though he could not recall ever having taken part in the freedom of youth. Dr. Lecter was never a free spirit but a restless one.
He imagined what it would have been like if the two of them had met, met in a different way than they had in the realm of reality. Hannibal knew that he would have been in a better position to truly help Adrian as one who would offer him acceptance and warmth rather than simply understanding in the detached manner of a professional. A professional offering a service can only offer the same touch of emotion as a prostitute offers with their body, a imitation of concern which both parties mutually agree to be genuineness, suspending disbelief for their own sake until a predetermined interval of time comes to its conclusion. The appointments Dr. Lecter had with the young man had been few and far between, the patient began to feel that regardless of how much progress was made it was impossible to deny that happiness could not be reached, the patient's mind was not one to search for enlightenment and to distance himself from his material body. He was too prone to carnal urges, the allures of the flesh, to deny the existence of his body. Hannibal felt a jolt of embarrassment as he remembered his patient as a male rather than a female, which was what he aspired to be with body and soul. But this was the idealization which Adrian fancied, an oddity in the state of struggle. Neither man nor woman but something more. It was the youth's incompleteness and helplessness swayed in rebellion that Hannibal admired. The more he fought the more deeply he felt his loss. The only hope of satisfaction for him would be to find at least one soul who would embrace his mirage. Hannibal cast himself in this role, as a savior in his own right, his motives uncertain save for curiosity and loneliness. The two of them had the dull ache in common, the sickness that they could not banish. How banal it felt, to dwell on such thoughts. Certainly they were meant for youth more so than for a man whose life was waning. Hannibal felt that his prospect were what they had always been, very fragile and very distorted.
In a sudden flash, through the night a figure dashed across the road. Dr. Lecter barely had time to react as he caused the car to veer to the side in a hurried motion of his hands. He could just catch a glimpse of a wide eyed figure collapse on the road, a mane of black and eyes like embers.