FOR ANNA…ALWAYS

A PROUD MAN

Hannibal woke early, watching Clarice from a chair beside the window. East-facing, the morning sunrise beamed in, illuminating his well-chiseled features. His eyes, crimson in the sunlight, sparkled as he watched her sleep. No sense waking her—she'd stir soon enough. The scents of the breakfast he'd ordered would rouse her. He treasured moments like this— watching her sleep, unaware of his admiration. It reminded him how many years she'd spent asleep to his love. He held his love for her close to his heart, clutching it to him as a starving man might grasp his last bit of food. He'd been curious about her initially, finding her delightfully innocent upon their first meeting. Intelligent, she had the cautious confidence of a women with a past. A past he wanted to know. And he taunted her— poked and prodded in a way that would shake most to their core, but she didn't flinch. Rather, she prodded him in return. She was brave even as a young cub, his Clarice. Now a mighty lioness, he was proud to call her his Love.

Still, he was shocked when awoken by that first touch—his finger brushing against her hand as he handed her Buffalo Bill's case file. His response, long dormant, was unmistakable. He wanted her, body, mind and soul. Secret love. The purity of it appealed to him for a time. There was a certain masochism in it, he thought. To burn for her, yet not admit to it? To hold this fire of passion within him until its conflagration consumed him—he relished that pain for a time. He guarded that need, cultivating it. Growing it to the point where he had no choice. There was no denying that drive any longer. He had to see her again. He had to know. Did she feel the same? If she did, he would be gifted with her love. If she did not, at the very least, he would be gifted with seeing her in the flesh once more— even if it were for the final time.

That longing was intimate in a way their lovemaking was now. A connection on the highest level. A communion between souls, he thought. Tantric. Divine. But hidden love isn't the same as unrequited love, is it? That pain is felt all too deeply. Perhaps that's why he didn't approach her for so long, preferring to watch her life through news clippings and the occasional TV report. After all, why risk the utter despair of rejection if the heart can be soothed, albeit temporarily, by sight alone?

Rejection. He'd felt that sting from his Lady. He'd given his heart so completely to her — no walls. No barriers between them. The grief when she rebuffed him cost him dearly. And though he hadn't given her a place in his thoughts for some time, he'd never fully recovered from it, he found, when she returned. He accepted her into his life again, yes. Welcomed her, in fact. But there was a hollow in his heart that he recognized had never fully healed. Until she fell ill, that is. Until she needed him. It was only then that he let his guard down and opened his heart to that love once more. It was a different kind of love, of course. He never loved anyone quite the way he loved Clarice. Lady Murasaki held his heart for a time. Clarice possessed him mind, body and soul. He could no more walk away from his love for her than he could remove his heart from his body and live.

Hannibal removed the cloche from each plate, releasing the intoxicating scents of their morning meal. Though the typical Parisian breakfast would have been croissants with an artisanal jam or butter, perhaps with tea or a variety of coffees, Hannibal opted to add fresh fruit and omelets to their morning fair. To make her smile, he asked for bacon, as well. When he lifted that cloche, he saw her head lift from the pillow.

"Bacon?" she said, voice raspy from sleep and perhaps too much wine with dinner.

"Indeed."

"You sure as hell know how to woo a woman, Hannibal Lecter." She said as she sat up in bed with a smile.

"And I will never stop. You know that, don't you, my Love."

She didn't look up, reaching for the plate of bacon without restraint.

"You'll never stop what?"

"Wooing you, Dearest…I'll never stop."

"Pinkie promise?" she asked as she extended a pinky toward him, bacon secured by the thumb and forefinger of the same hand.

"More a porkie promise, isn't it?" he teased.

Looking down at her hand and seeing the bacon, she laughed. "Not for long." She chomped the bacon, pulling it into her mouth a bite at a time as one might slurp spaghetti into one's mouth.

"Impressive, as always, Clarice."

"Talented mouth, what can I say?"

"No further defense is necessary. Trust me, I am well aware that talent speaks for itself."

Tongue in cheek, she smiled. Extending her now-baconless hand once more, she extended her pinky. "Promise, H."

He hooked his pinky around hers. "On my life, my Love. I promise."

And he meant it. On his honor. On his very life, he meant it.

They enjoyed their breakfast, then busied themselves in a whirlwind of preparations for the day. Hannibal opened a map of the city, spreading it across the table. He began by marking Popil's home. They took turns circling areas of the city where Popil was known to travel. Where he worked. The street he accosted Clarice. Two stores Clarice identified as frequented by Popil from grocery items in his kitchen. Hannibal pinpointed a chemist's shop— identified not only by the notepad left on the table beside the photographs, but by empty apothecary bottles Clarice noted in the kitchen trash.

"Did you see any evidence of a nurse or caretaker?" Clarice asked.

"No evidence I detected. No scent of another person in the flat, though it's possible the aromas could be masked. There are very distinct scent markers in the apartment. If there is a nurse, he or she must not spend very much time. What are your thoughts?"

Clarice spread her hands across the map, using the span of her fingers to measure distances. "I think he leaves her alone when he goes out. If there's a nurse coming in the visits are too infrequent to impact his habits. He seems unstable. Not grounded in reality, if you ask me."

"I am asking you." Hannibal was careful not to provide cues or lead her in any specific direction. "What leads you to that conclusion?"

"His voice is raspy. Disused. It's a familiar tone, don't you think?"

Hannibal didn't pursue that comment. He knew all too well the sound of a voice unaccustomed to speaking frequently. His own had taken on a similar rasp— the dulcet tones of the dungeon, as he'd come to call it himself.

"That might account for his being alone with her, but the infrequency of speech wouldn't necessarily denote instability. Elaborate."

She looked up at him briefly, looked down at the map once more, then back to him. He watched the twinkle in her eye as she searched her mind, advancing upon her theories much like a lioness would chase down prey.

"He goes to the pharmacy with some regularity, purchasing supplies. If she were bedridden he'd need sanitary products to tend to her needs, even if he wasn't picking up actual medication. It's seems on the surface that he's locked into an almost Munchausen-by-Proxy mindset, but won't take it that final step. I don't think that explains his pathology, though. Helping for the sake of appearances, even while doing injury doesn't make sense for him."

"You don't think he's doing it for attention?"

"Doubtful."

She'd answered quickly. She was sure of her premise.

"If not for attention, to what end?" Hannibal waited. Not in the way a teacher waits politely before calling on another child or answering themselves. He waited for her revelation. She saw things in the same way he did at times, but more often than not she came to conclusions he found not only surprising, but intriguing.

"He doesn't want the attention for himself. He wants the attention from himself. We can deduce, from his want...his need to involve you, that he's overwhelmed with her care and wants you to perform some sort of drastic intervention?"

"That's fair to say, but why me? Why not seek intervention from some other source?"

"Because you're the sexy choice, H. You're the big guns. You're "Showtime." Get it? We can extrapolate further by assuming that if he wants you involved he wants some form of really dramatic attention. He's overwhelmed, not assisting her fully, but continues to insinuate that he wants to end both their suffering. He wants it to end, but won't kill her himself. He's essentially committing suicide by contacting you, as far as he knows, yet he's not been shy about pursuing you through many different avenues."

"I've heard of suicide by cop, but suicide by serial killer would be one for the books. You said he wanted attention from himself. It's an interesting concept, but what, exactly, did you mean by that?

"His past. He was a Nazi-hunter, wasn't he?"

Hannibal nodded.

"So, that would make him a hero in the eyes of his compatriots. A man of action. A man of Justice. His station in life was not only high, it was honored."

Hannibal skimmed his right hand across the map, floating his palm lightly over the paper as if divining information from it. "I don't know that I'd say he was particularly honored, but he was well thought of at the time."

"A respected man?"

"Quite."

Clarice reached toward Hannibal's hand, floating her upturned hand just below his downturned palm. He sensed the exchange of heat— he could practically feel the ridges of her flesh bumping over his as their hands passed over one another's. "You feel that, don't you?"

"Your hand? Yes, of course I feel it."

"What else do you feel?"

He wondered what she was on about. Hannibal looked deeply into her eyes. He sought her intentions, but she revealed nothing. A closed book unless it served her, Clarice Starling had one hell of a poker face when she didn't want her thoughts known, and she was teasing him with that ability now. Not at all displeased by her mischievous game, Hannibal pressed his hand to hers, forcing them gently onto the surface of the map. He held her hand, the feel of it as familiar as it was comforting.

"I feel the tick of your pulse against my wrist. I feel the heat of your hand— blood pressure and adrenalin spiking slightly at my touch."

"Those are the physical things you can feel. What can you sense of my emotions? Beyond what your body is telling you about me, what does your mind's eye say? And further than that, what does your mind's eye tell you when you look at Popil? That's where the answers are, not in the facts, but in the spaces between them where we all live, and die."

Mind's eye? Intuition. It was her strength, Hannibal understood that about Clarice even going back as far as the dungeon where his voice rasped as he spoke. She felt more about Popil than Hannibal was capable of feeling because she wasn't blinded by the rage of their past.

"My mind's eye sees a pathetic man whose station in life has worsened with the same speed as the declination of his health. A man very soon to die, and one who is acutely aware of that fact."

"Again, H…no facts. Existential dread is a feeling. It may be based on the fact that we all die, but it's the fear of non-existence that grips us." She squeezed Hannibal's hand. "You've described a proud man who has been brought to his knees by life, haven't you?"

"Yes." She was restating the facts. Not particularly enlightening, though he knew there would be more to come by the way she spoke. Quiet. Confident.

She lifted their hands to her lips and spoke the next words even more quietly, her lips buzzed against his flesh as she whispered, "And when a proud man is brought to his knees by circumstances beyond his control, what will he attempt to do?"

A proud man? She's has me by the hand and is leading me down the stone stairs to the dungeon…

"He would improve his situation by whatever means was necessary. He would manipulate whatever he could to regain some semblance of control— whatever was in his power to control, that is." His eyes were afire, the deep magenta glowering back at her, not with anger, but from the sense memories that dungeon elicited.

"You're angry with me?"

She'd noticed.

"Not angry, Dearest."

"Provoked?"

"As was your intention."

She didn't deny it. Instead, she reached across the table and cupped the left side of Hannibal's face. "Does a proud man's heart shrink because of the restrictions placed on it? Especially if the restrictions are beyond his control? Does he feel a victim, or does he seek any means necessary to regain not only control, but some semblance of that now-lost pride? Even if it's pride felt many, many decades earlier?"

"Clarice, I'm in awe of your brilliance." He offered the formality of her Christian name— his way of commending her for her insightful observations. "In what way do you believe his pride is being attended to by this behavior?"

"He can't kill her."

"He can, but it's likely he won't."

"He's been dosing her with what basically breaks down to sugar water, and she's hanging on. Death, especially through some sort of bastardized version of mellification, would be a very long time in coming. And by his scent, he's been compromised as well. I thought I detected a distinct presence of alcohol poisoning his system, but I realize his liver was compromised attempting to break down all those natural sugars. His gut biome would die off as well, the product of honey's antibacterial properties. They're more likely to die of dysentery than starvation. I don't think he realized how long it would take to die. They're probably getting more than enough calories. They'll die of malnutrition or vitamin deficiencies before they'd starve to death."

"All likely assumptions. Still, you haven't addressed how his ego…his pride is driving or benefitting from this behavior."

She kissed Hannibal's hand, reached into his sleeve, and withdrew his Harpy. With the sweep of her thumb against the blade's edge, she opened the weapon. Clarice then placed the Harpy directly over Popil's home, circled on the map in red.

"Because if he dies protecting his wife from you, Hannibal…if he stops you from claiming the revenge you promised all those years ago, he dies a hero. He doesn't want mercy. He doesn't want revenge. He wants to die the hero he saw himself as, so many years ago. He wants you to place the cross on his tongue, Hannibal, then he wants you to cut off his proverbial head. To be murdered at the hands of an ex-foe while attempting to protect his ailing wife? That would read as heroic. Homeric, even. Restorative to his ego, his past, and his reputation." He wants to be a martyr for the cause, H, and I'll be damned if I'm allowing it. I'll kill him myself before I'll allow that bastard to exact 50 years of ego-driven revenge on you. Not on my watch."

Nearly awestruck, Hannibal held his wife's hand as she detailed her plan, vowing on her honor that she'd not only kill for him, she'd die for him.

She was magnificent, his Clarice. There would be a reckoning between Hannibal and Popil, and Hannibal vowed on his own honor that if any harm came to his wife, Popil would cry out to the god who made him and beg for a death that would come far too late, and with more suffering and savagery than any man alive had ever endured.

Until the next chapter, my friends!

L.H.