epilogue
A tender breeze from the east is blowing over the Atlantic Ocean, creating long, slow waves that meet, melt and separate. Their tranquil movement is transferred onto every ship that dares to sail its seemingly endless expanse. People on such an occasional ship react differently to the heaving, rolling, pitching, or whatever motion may occur. Some enjoy its sensation and feel free, others get seasick and vow never to set foot on a ship again. But all experience the biting feeling of the salty air on their skin. Sitting on deck in the sun, they feel it burning on their wet hide.
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Here, out on the wide ocean, sounds are primarily restricted to two elements. The water rushes, flows and crashes. The wind blows, gales and torments. No sand crunching under your feet, no rocks tumbling down. No fire to run from, howling behind you. You're surrounded by these two elements only and it's a bareness not many care for, men nor animal. Not many ships around here. And we don't hear any birds, they always remain within a few miles of land.
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The Faraday Seamounts are about as far away from land as you can get crossing the ocean from France to the United States in a straight line. They are about halfway. It would be useless to turn around once you reach this point. You'll see only water all around you. Let's be honest: when you sail at a place like this, you're not thinking about turning back. You'll be looking forward. Some homeward bound, some going for a new world.
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It's the summer of 1959. A brigantine, carrying passengers of both category, sets off from France. It's New Zealand registered, christened Boyd, and bound for Provincetown in Cape Cod, Massachusetts, USA. Its two masts are beautifully rigged with new sails, bright white. The ship itself is also in excellent shape, so it's only logical for the sails to be likewise. It's a ship for the adventurous wealthy. If you have the money and the time, sailing this ship is an excellent way to pass time and distance - provided you don't mind an occasional rough ride.
On deck, we see several people. It's a calm sea and the sun is slowly nearing the horizon. We can see a few passengers sitting in a chair. Two are standing side by side at the bulwark, looking out over the sea. Seems the couple is lost in thoughts, transfixed by the seeming endlessness of the ocean.
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The captain is having a walk on the deck. He exchanges a few greetings or words here and there. He joins our couple, takes a place next to them a few feet away.
"Seeing the sun set like that never dulls," he says.
The couple turn their faces and nod.
"I hope the journey is as pleasant as anticipated?"
"Yes it is," the young lady says. "Very pleasant."
The young man next to her nods at the captain in agreement.
"Excuse me for asking, but I can see an engagement ring on your finger, Miss. And since you're sailing together, I assume you're getting married in America? A new life in the New World?"
The young lady and man laugh.
"You're very observant, captain. True, I'm wearing an engagement ring. And since we are traveling together, it would seem the right conclusion, but you did not observe he's not wearing an engagement ring. Mr. Lecter here is my traveling companion. We are merely enjoying each other's company."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I hope you don't mind?"
"Not at all, Captain," the young man spoke in a gentle voice. "Allow me to introduce ourselves. Please, meet Miss Rachel DuBarry."
The captain and Miss DuBarry shake hands.
"Good evening, Miss. I'm Captain John Thompson, but since I'm the captain, I'm sure you already knew that. Delighted to meet you," he said and took her hand shortly. Then he offered his hand to the young man.
"And I am Hannibal Lecter. Nice to meet you," the young man said.
"Nice to meet you too," the Captain spoke and looked at the pair.
A few seconds passed before Rachel continued the conversation.
"Will we arrive on time with such a gentle breeze, Captain?"
"No need to worry, Miss. Nervous we might be too late for your wedding?" the man jested.
"Only a little. And it's only me. You know, it doesn't matter to him," Rachel said and looked at Hannibal. "He graduated Summa Cum Laude, and John Hopkins Medical Centre in Baltimore contacted him to offer him a job even before he had graduated. I'm sure they'll wait for him instead of hiring someone else."
"Summa Cum Laude? That's worth a congratulation!" said the Captain and offered the young man his hand.
"Thank you. But I'm afraid Ms. DuBerry is slightly erring. My professor called Baltimore and recommended me to them."
"Nevertheless quite a feat, young man. You should not make light of such an achievement! And don't forget to thank the Lord for his gifts."
A bell rang from the bridge of the ship.
"I'm sorry, but it seems my help is needed. May I invite you both to dinner at my table this evening?"
"We'd be delighted," said Miss DuBerry and smiled at the Captain.
"Ms. DuBerry, Mr. Lecter," said the Captain, tipped his hat and left them.
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The couple remains standing at the bulwark, looking out over the ocean. The sky is turning red from the setting sun. Some people think it's the color of blood, but blood is actually much darker. No need to speak. Many days lie ahead that can be passed with conversation, or something else. They are entertaining themselves with their own thoughts right now.
Hannibal's thoughts are swift, and multiple. They are different strings in his mind. They flow the same way, sometimes alone and sometimes together, always interacting and differentiating. It's not possible for us to follow his thoughts. But we can try to understand them fragment-wise. Get hold of some shards, read them and place them in an order comprehensible to us.
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There is no more Giedraičiai Castle. And the art that was saved - though for avaricious reasons by Mr. Werth and his assistants - was now gone also. His family is dead. The people he grew up with; Nurse, Lothar, Ernst, all dead. Lithuania is no longer home for him.
Uncle Kristijonas and Aunt Rose are dead. He is the sole surviving Lecter. The château inherited by Aunt Rose's children had been sold. The heirs are still fighting over the money, challenging every aspect of the will.
The things he has brought with him, are things he needs. He has only utilitarian items in his luggage.
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It was a chance meeting that had brought him on the track of the looters. He had been given the opportunity to get even with the men who killed and ate his sister, and stole the family's art. But what had that brought him? Was it perhaps possible the result might be classified as a bathos?
Paul had died so unprepared. Hannibal could still enjoy the comparison to Dante's Inferno he made then, but true vengeance had slipped through his fingers like sand. The man met his demise without knowing why, only with a slight idea by whom. Hannibal does not indulge much in regret, but it was a shame.
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Junka. Hannibal had spent a few entertaining moment with him. Even if he was only going along with the rest, a hanger-on, he deserved to be punished. He ate his sister too. Just like Joe. Hannibal quickly visits the tableau he had created with him. Yet, steak should be rare, perhaps some like it medium rare, but never charred. This all is very disappointing.
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Mother called Mischa and put her on Licorne. Mischa walked over to her mother, who lifted her on the horse with a broad sway that brought forth a round of laughter from the little girl.
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The leader of the pack, Mr. Werth, should have lived longer. Why did the wound received at Maarat have to be fatal? Mr. Werth's liver proved to be of outstanding quality, that was luck. Nevertheless, his death had been beyond Hannibal, just like the others. It was as if revenge had been purposefully denied Hannibal. He met the men but had to watch their lives fly away from him, taking away the pleasure of being able to retaliate. Meet and greet, not bleed.
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His mother had been a devout woman. She had believed in God. She had believed in a loving and caring God. He had never heard her complain about Him, not when war came upon them and they had to leave the Castle. Not when she heard of all the horrors. Hannibal's mental capabilities are unmeasurable, yet he could not understand God.
God had not given him his revenge. He had done as He pleased, not what Hannibal had wanted. If that's what you see, you might postulate that it does not matter what you do. If God wants something done, He'll do it, no matter what. So why not do as you please?
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Hidden under the dome of his skull is Hannibal's Memory Castle. Immense in size, complex in construction. Ever since its foundation, Hannibal has added rooms to it, sometimes reconstructed whole wings. And even after all of those changes, he can find his way in there with his eyes shut. Sometimes he even does that, enjoying the sensation of not seeing, only sensing the spaces surrounding him, from time to time exploring the objects he has stored with his hands instead of with his eyes.
Now, he remembers walking in the garden with his mother and Mischa.
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"Hannibal, lead Licorne. I will walk here and hold Mischa. Let's circle around the garden."
Hannibal nodded, took the rope and started walking. Licorne gently followed, with Simonetta next to him and the Akita behind him. It was barking. The door was kicked in. Joe stepped inside and the dog broke loose and went for him. Joe was faster and shot the dog. It yelped and fell. Joe shot the dog again as it lay on the floor. The man lay face down on the path. It was a soldier. His uniform had a deep red stain. Hannibal's father checked the man's pockets. He read some papers he had taken from the man, pocketed some of them. He saw the man was named Paul Lutus, and smiled at the appropriateness of his death. He continued his search and found some delivery receipts. A collection of chemicals. The addressee was Adam Werth, the address somewhere in Florence. It was a nasty building on the inside. As Hannibal walked the hallway, his senses were on full alert. All doors were shut but one up ahead. The room slowly came into view as Hannibal neared the door. The room was full of cabinets and racks. On the table, a box. "Forced March" cocaine tablets. A stale fetor filled the corridor. Hannibal could hardly breathe and he tried to find his way back. But he lost his way. The door he opened led him straight to the oubliettes. One was filled with excrements, like a stool-pit.
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Hannibal's high-pitched cry pierced the silence. Rachel looked at him and put her hand on his shoulder. She knew this was the only support he allowed, and only from her.
At the end of our journey, I'd like to greet all my fellow passengers, and thank them for the conversations aboard. I hope you've had as pleasant a journey as I have. I would like to thank two persons specifically, since they have been very helpful in sailing this brigantine. My two masts:
Duffie, you're absolutely the first. Your proofreading has improved my writing very much, and your comment has also helped me improve the story itself, even if you think otherwise.
Your SVM fanfic is very special, and I enjoy reading it a lot. There's a specific fluency and relaxed atmosphere in your writing that I like a lot.
The mails we have been exchanging are special to me.
Demeter, you're not second, not a runner-up, but you are the second person I'd like to thank. We've been having (and looks like we'll be continuing them) wonderful conversations on all sorts of subjects, and I feel my horizon has expanded since we met. I appreciate Dalí's art more than ever.
Goedemorgen juffrouw Annie, doe mij maar koffie met vijf suiker. Maar niet te hard roeren, ik hou niet zo van zoetigheid.
A final remark: I am busy doing research for a next fanfic. Since that part of writing is essential to me, it might take some time before I start posting something new. It will be on a side-character from Hannibal (no, I won't say who now), I thought it would be interesting to see what the data we've been given in Hannibal would yield, and what we could extrapolate from it. I'm sure you all will be able to discern between these two when reading my fanfic.
God bless you all.