Where Hannibal is at its worst. I hope you'll enjoy the visit to Eolian Islands. It is one of the best places I've been to.

Mid-October, and the sun was as bright as ever. For once, the breeze had died, allowing the plume of the volcano to rise straight to the sky. Isole Eolie, the Eolian islands, without a single gust of wind. How peculiar, given they were named after the Master of winds.

Frances had been there for a week, pondering about her next move. Lounging in the terrace of her rental, her eyes scanned the wide expanse of blue that surrounded her. The sea, here, was a surrealist colour. She'd never seen this vibrant blue anywhere else. She had very fond memories of vacations spent with her parents and grandparents.

She remembered the steep climb to the Volcano with her older brother and her father, the ashes swirling around her head, painting her hair grey. The incredible show when, after nine hundred metres of a difficult walk, they had witnessed firsthand the Stromboli's eruptions. Steady like a clock, every twenty-second minute. She remembered that deep silence, right before it exploded in hues of red and dark, painting the steep slopes with pieces of grits. The slow, fading of the fire as those volcanic bombs disappeared in the night.

The experience of her life, knowing her own mother was watching the show from a boat, clutching her 6-year-old brother in her arms.

Memories … she had a lot. And now, she didn't know what the future was made of. With a sigh, Frances sat on the whitewashed wall, her eyes taking in the late flowers that came before winter. It was a solid twenty-three degrees still, who knew what winter could be like here? She doubted the plants would fade, their vibrant green so incredible upon the black volcanic soil.

For a moment, she considered staying. She'd need to find a job, what could she do in such a tight little village to earn her living?

How would she live, without Hannibal's presence by her side?

She missed him so much that her heart stuttered.

I can't live, with or without you.

Had U2 written this song for her?

The ghost of his hand landed at her nape, and Frances closed her eyes. Her mind had been playing tricks on her for days, and for once, she didn't want to let go of that peace. Warmth and solace. How could a killer bring such beauty?

The hand moved, then. Frances smiled.

He was there. Hannibal had found her.

Would he choke her to death, and be done with his wayward wife? His nimble fingers gathered her hair at her nape, careful and tender. Then she felt him separate it into three strands, and start braiding it. For a moment, there was only silence. The sea was too far down to be heard, but the smell still reached her; she had no doubt Hannibal could smell it too. Lulled by the small sounds of the diminutive village, Frances sighed.

When her husband eventually finished his task, she asked.

— "How did you find me?"

— "Charm, skill and intuition."

The young woman nodded, pulling on the braid. Hannibal released its tip, foregoing to tie it up; he knew his wife would lose the elastic band in a matter of minutes. She never constrained her hair, letting the ringlets secure it with their movement. A strange habit, but it worked.

Hannibal circled his wife with his arms, his body moulding around her back as he dropped a wet kiss in her neck. She didn't want to open her eyes; his presence felt so good, right now, that reality could only be bleaker. She was still angry … so angry after his stunt in Venice. Honeymoon spoilt by his bloodlust.

So she reclined against him instead, and allowed her body to feel its hum, allowed her husband to engulf her entirely. His nose grazed her cheek, his sensual lips, once more, kissing her skin. Frances took a deep breath, the fragrance of the sea mingling with his. Peace.

How she loved him.

Something landed in her hands, and Frances eventually opened her eyes. Two passports, French. She browsed the first one, finding a "Hector Duclos". He'd kept the 'H' of his name, and chosen a very common surname, yet with the catch of the particle 'du' which hinted at ancient noble origins. Frances smirked; very well done indeed. The second one sported her face. Hélène, born 3rd of October 1981. This answered her previous questions; Hannibal's contingency plan included her.

— "Hélène ?", she questioned.

A hum rumbled in his chest.

— "She was the most beautiful woman in Greece, after all. Wars happened on her behalf, and I will be your champion."

She as flattered, but couldn't ignore the strength of that reference; Hélène had been captured by Pâris, only to be kept within Troyes to witness the destruction her abduction had caused. Hélène and Hector Duclos. HD and HD.

— "But will that champion let Hélène go if she so wishes? To avoid the fall of Troyes?"

The warm body grew taut behind her, all muscles seizing. At once, Hannibal had turned from engulfing reassurance to outright threat. Frances turned, then, for the first time since he had found her, and looked into the storm of his eyes. He was wearing a borsalino to hide from the sun, but the smouldering ambers reminded her of the girt spluttered by the volcano. His jaw, clenched, was the only answer she needed.

— "You won't let me walk away from you, will you?"

Hannibal bent over, just a few inches, but enough to cause her breath to catch.

— "No. I have lived fifty years without you, and find that I do not want to resume doing so."

There was a promise there, a promise that resembled a threat and yet … wasn't. Frances realised that she was trapped, just as much as he was. Trapped by her heart that demanded his presence… What of their agreement, then? Her demand that he did not kill? Biting her lips, the young woman mustered her courage and asked:

— "But you know of my rules."

A gleam of anger passed in Hannibal's eyes, and she recoiled slightly.

— "Your rules bind me, Frances. How can you claim loving me when your affection is conditional?"

Ah. It had been awhile Hannibal had tried to manipulate her. The fact that his attempt was feeble, and easily discernible told her she'd struck a chord.

— "You very well know my love is not conditional. I love you, no matter what. But my presence is."

The psychiatrist stood, his beige linen shirt loose around his well-defined body and she longed to drag him to bed. A week without feeling him inside of her had certainly not helped her mood. The Borsalino complimented his features rather nicely; so handsome. Nothing quite original there.

— "What is righteous, Frances?" he eventually asked.

Darn. That discussion didn't have a place on that beautiful terrace, overlooking the sea. At once, she saw him in his three-piece suit, messing up with his patient's mind. But she owed it to him, right? She had married him, after all.

— "Not harming others."

And she hated how tentative her voice was, how ineloquent she sounded. Hannibal had a way with words, she didn't. Any debate was bound to be won, hands up, by her educated husband. His intelligence would crush her, and she keenly felt the twenty-five years that separated them in those moments.

— "On what grounds? Who decides what harms them, or not?"

— "I believe in free will," Frances retorted stubbornly.

Hannibal walked up to her, but didn't sit again. Dominant, as his eyes roamed the wide expense of the Mediterranean Sea.

— "My patients have free will to embrace their inner self."

A smirk adorned Frances' lips.

— "No, you push them around without them knowing, using your superior knowledge and intelligence. It is not free will. I know it firsthand."

— "What a woman beaten by her husband?"

The change of direction told her she'd won that round. Surprising; there was something up his sleeve. Something he was stirring to, and it worried her.

— "What of it?"

Short answers, with the least amount of information was the best defence against a manipulator. It would push Hannibal to reveal his hand in the sparring match.

— "If she accepts it, if she wants it, why try to push her away from this toxic relationship? Where is right and wrong? Kill the husband? Push the woman away?"

Frances shook her head, standing to be level with her husband.

— "There is no right answer to that, Hannibal. You will push the woman to kill. You push people to embrace their darkness. This approach is…"

— "Go on, say it," he challenged.

And Frances turned sideways, facing the man she loved with all her heart. Facing someone who took pleasure in dismantling people, and rebuilding them in his image.

— "It is evil," she whispered, her hand reaching for his cheek.

Hannibal circled her waist possessively, his breath fanning over her face. The rim of his hat shielded them from the sun, and she gasped. It felt that, under the shadows of his Borsalino, she could see him clearly for the first time. He was…

— "I am the devil in your eyes?

The truth settled in her chest, heavy, uneasy.

— "Yes," she whispered, her fingers travelling along his cheekbone.

Yes, he was. Corrupting, charming, convincing. His words, honeyed and without fault, should win her to his cause. There was no failure in his logic, and he was the most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes upon. Yet…

— "So you love the devil."

There was no hesitation, this time, when she answered. Her hands splayed upon his chest, she admitted willingly.

— "Yes, I am coming to terms with that."

Satisfied, Hannibal dipped to claim her lips, a possessive kiss where his tongue thrust into her mouth, asking for surrender. For a moment, all was forgotten; the deep rumble of the volcano beneath their feet, the sweet fragrance of the sea, and the dull sounds of the villagers living in the area. Frances relished in his touch, in the slick moist of his mouth, the dominating hands keeping her close. The wolf, claiming his mate once more.

The searing kiss left them both panting for more. A full week… They had never gone that long without finding themselves, stark naked, in a bed. When the psychiatrist released her, he whispered in her ear.

— "It is your own darkness that you unravel and love."

The young woman gasped at his gall; he had lowered her defences, made her feel safe, only to go straight for the heart.

— "Are you sure, Hannibal? Or is that wistful thinking?"

A gleam of admiration passed in his eyes; she'd fended off his attack with one of her own. But he wasn't about to admit defeat.

— "Don't we search ourselves in your loved ones?"

— "Perhaps the opposite?"

From the outside, it might have seemed an inconsequential sparring match. But to them, something much more dangerous was actually happening. Hannibal sought to wound; he needed to cripple her sense of self-worth to enforce his desires. This is why, after landing another peck on her mouth, he deadpanned:

— "A woman researches her parents, in truth. So perhaps they were not as kind as you make them out to be."

Frances' blood boiled, and she took a step back. A child would have lashed out, but she didn't, mulling over his words. But Hannibal wasn't done, and she listened raptly, refusing to let that anger overwhelm her.

— "If they were the ones that set up your moral compass, then maybe it is time to question it."

— "Oh, they would certainly disagree with my choices," she responded airily.

— "Would they?"

He was goading her, trying to push her to detach from her education. If he managed to separate Frances from her principles, he would become her only reference. Fortunately, the young woman could sense danger a hundred miles away. She deflected, once more, trying to call him on his bluff.

— "What happened to trusting me for moral compass?" she cheekily asked.

Hannibal mentally swore; she wasn't ploying under his superior mind and experience. An annoyance, even if he admired her for it. Perhaps it was time to top the game. So he pinned her in his gaze, and leant over her, using his towering height to intimidate.

— "I try to understand how you come to decisions. Just like a naïve child, right and wrong come from your parents."

Hurt. Her features turned to annoyance, but he had not missed that flash of pain in her gaze. He didn't enjoy it, but there was no other way. To recreate people took time, patience, and lots of pain. He was ready to suffer the consequences, no matter what. Didn't she see how difficult it was, for him, to bring her to that point? How he had missed her that past week?

— "What about yours? Did they teach you that killing was all right?"

Hannibal's jaw tightened; she had no right to bring his parents into this! The spear landed directly in his heart, crippling, and he let the impassive mask fall over his face. It was very well done indeed, a worthwhile opponent.

— "You killed to protect me."

A bait … to rile her up.

— "You didn't answer my question."

She was calling him on his bluff, shutting down the possibilities to mislead her. Hannibal bounced on the balls of his feet, adrenalin flooding his veins. It wasn't so different from their fights in the basement, except that Frances was defending her mind rather than her body.

Why could he not subdue her? Corrupt her? Her black and white world had turned to grey by his side, and still … she remained unmovable. Perhaps he could give her a little slack, like Will's trouts, before luring her in again.

— "No. My parents would never have killed. And so, they were the ones who died. But you, my little fairy, you killed for me."

— "I accept to kill in self-defence and defence of others."

Of course, she had thought this over. After all, the Keeper of Time had gone to war, seen battlefield he had not caught a glimpse of in his nightmares.

— "But you didn't have to kill Tobias, you killed to keep me from jail."

He wasn't about to point that Tobias, and that man he'd killed last week were both killers. This would give her the justification she needed.

— "Yes, I am not proud of it."

Damn. He wasn't expecting her to relent, and he was now left with only tiny wires to grasp on, instead of that mighty cable he had been pulling.

— "An act of love and protection…"

Her face brightened to hear him confirm her thoughts; poor little fairy. Did she really think he was done with her? He had not expected such rage when she didn't return; whomever caused his wrath needed to pay. Even her … especially her. Her absence had shown him his dependence, it was unacceptable. A willing dependence, at that! He loved her – to the best of his abilities – possessed her. Frances was his.

— "So who decides when killing is right or wrong?" he asked airily.

The young woman turned to the sea, drawing strength from its blue depths.

— "I trust my guts. I was chosen as the Keeper of Time to act upon my instinct."

Yes, she was. And so far, given that little grey alien, she'd done wonderfully. He was not surprised, but he needed that other side of her. That darkness, created by years of trauma. Would he be stronger than her Gods, the mighty Valar?

— "Would you sacrifice some for the lives of many?"

— "Not without their consent."

— "You couldn't have been a surgeon, to take the decision when a patient is unconscious. Nor a general of armies."

She didn't even turn to him, shrugging instead.

— "No, I couldn't. Aragorn was, Legolas, perhaps. Arthur as well. But it wasn't my role."

Damn her humility! Then, she rotated slowly, and looked at him.

— "Are you trying to back off our deal, Hannibal. Have you had enough?"

The psychiatrist locked eyes with his wife anew, finding fierce determination in her chocolate gaze. She had him, here. Why, how, when? When had Frances become so attuned to his moods, his inner musings to guess exactly where he was going?

He couldn't possibly respond to that, and decided to lay his cards on the table.

— "What makes my urges less important, less legitimate than yours? I have helped you embrace yours, to shed the shame of your sexual desires."

Her cheeks reddened; the memory of that kitchen tryst causing his blood to run south. For sure, he would never tell her how incredible it felt, to have her totally unleashed, dependent upon him. He'd loved that experience as much as she did, and intended to repeat it … as often as possible.

— "My urges don't hurt people."

There, the perfect opportunity. And Hannibal, like the master swordsman he was, lunged for the kill.

— "They hurt me."

Frances blanched; the blow landed true. Would she yield, out of concern for him? The young woman swallowed, and he watched the distress spread upon her fair features.

— "I am sorry, Hannibal. You are more versed in theology and philosophy than I am. I couldn't possibly demonstrate how my moral compass switches, I just know in my guts when it swings the wrong way."

Anger, red, hot, and vibrant spread in his veins at her refusal. Damn that woman for standing her ground; she was the first, after Lady Murasaki, to resist him. A fitting woman to the fearful Dr Lecter indeed. He loved her, and hated her for it.

— "You are either very clairvoyant or very naïve."

Frances didn't take the bait, how far she'd come from the idealist he had met a year ago!

— "Maybe both."

Time to enclose her into clutches she couldn't escape from. Hannibal's hand landed on her shoulder as he stepped closer. Her body naturally leant into touch, seeking comfort.

— "You see the darkness in me, but ignore it in your closest friend."

Count from 3 … 2…

— "What do you mean?" she frowned, worried.

Hannibal prepared to drop that bomb at her feet, studying her micro expression to know, exactly, how to do the most damage.

— "Will is not exempt of it, and neither are you."

— "I've accepted mine, but Willl… What are you talking about?"

She was ready, already, her heart beat beneath his palm.

— "I don't think you are ready to hear it," Hannibal chanced airily.

As if it wasn't important.

— "Then don't tell me."

Frances shrugged his hand, and circled him to retreat to her room. The same room where he had shed, already, his suitcase. Nailed at his own game, Hannibal lost all caution and called out for her.

— "Will has killed for you. For us. Freddie Lounds died by his hand."

Frances' jaw dropped.

Checkmate.

He was so angry … furious. Fire coursed in his blood when he broke the door to Freddie Lounds' apartment. The rightful wrath of a friend whose brothers in arms were nearly killed, because of her. Her kept seeing them, Frances and Tristan, bleeding on the swimming pool tiles. The same heart wrenching image he'd witnessed, fifteen hundred years ago; Frances and Tristan's blood mingling in the ground as he died.

He didn't want to go through that sadness again.

All because of that stupid journalist.

The bouncing curls made him see red. Freddie Lounds never knew what hit her … the conversation didn't last. As if in a trance, Will lifted his gun and shot. One bullet, straight into the head.

He awoke half an hour after the deed, watching Freddie's blood mingle with her red curls. It wasn't difficult to stage it for the Red Dragon to take the blame.

And when, the next day, Will came back to the place to recount his version, he found some measure of peace to know that that despicable woman was eventually dead. She would never threaten his friends again, Hannibal was safe. So was his sister, Frances. And Alana, and all the future victims of her blog. Dead. And unlike them, he just hoped she would never come back.

His recollection to the FBI, spoken in the usual febrile state, covered his tracks nicely. Even if they found some of his hair; he'd been there as an investigator. There was nothing to incriminate him. It wasn't too difficult to recount how Francis came here, enraged, and shot Freddie Lounds in a fit of anger. Easy, even; he barely had to switch the names.

"This is my design"

— "I thought it wasn't your secret to tell," Frances spat.

She was trembling now, from head to toe despite the warming sun. The truth was just too much to bear. Hannibal took a step forward, she recoiled, simmering in anger. Her scowl rooted him to the spot.

— "You can keep it, just as much as you kept mine. The three of us are not so different, Frances. He did it out of love for us."

— "…"

Hannibal wasn't proud to have caused such distress, but she was vulnerable right now. Perhaps he would manage to sway her, a bit. He just hoped he had not broken her too badly … would she listen to him, now? Allow him to rebuild her differently?

— "Blaming me is the easy way out, Frances. Be honest with yourself."

She gave him one last, disgusted look.

— "I'll be at the beach. I can't even look at you right now."

And despite his detachment, Hannibal had to admit that the pure loathing he saw in her eyes hurt him. Badly.

And once more, he watched her leave his life.

So now we know why Will has been so distant. I hope I've planted enough clues to keep you guessing. Please, if you enjoyed it, leave a review! Just let me know … pretty please?