If you have ever witnessed the eruption of a volcano, then you know how it feels.

Hannibal held his breath, as if the outcome of the world, of his life, depended on this very moment. He held his breath just like he would before the sharp exhale that came with a death strike. Beside him, Frances was frozen, but not fearful. No. She was ecstatic, vibrating in anticipation for what was to come. And he…

He wasn't sure if that display of power mesmerised him, or terrified him. His heartbeat had increased when the lights went down, missing a beat when the deep rumble of the volcano had ceased. One, two, three…

A deep boom rumbled under his feet, as if the very mountain was about to take flight. Hannibal's breath hitched. The explosion came, violent, projecting lava all around the crater below him. Grits flew around, brightened by the breeze until, little by little, they lost their incandescent colour. He, that loved Dante's inferno so much, felt like he had stepped into hell.

It drew colours over Frances' face; her wide eyes took in the spectacle with glee. She loved the elements, loved to be reminded of her condition of tiny human upon this planet.

He did not.

The poised, unshakeable psychiatrist was, for once, totally out of his depth. He that craved control had been stripped of everything that made his life; his clothes, rugged and filled with ashes, his hair, strewn astray. His mind, educated, held no sway over the power of earth. It made him feel useless. Worse, he was humbled. For if that volcano decided to erupt properly, it would swallow them whole. No amount of intelligence could protect them, little ants huddled at the summit if the ground decided to slide down. They'd be crushed, or blown away in a heartbeat.

Granted, the probabilities were scarce. But the zero risk never existed. And Hannibal sat there, in equilibrium upon a rock that was once projected from that mouth of hell, in a sea of ashes and fire. The slope was steep; they had both dug their mountain shoes into the ground. It felt like, any moment now, they could topple over and finish into the Stromboli's bocca.

Hannibal shuddered, a deep, unsettling feeling washing over him. One he knew well, but had not experienced ever since Mischa died. Powerlessness. To be at the mercy of anything he couldn't control reminded him of his cries when, this day, the soldiers had dragged Mischa away.

Yet, he would never forget that incredible experience. One he would have safely stayed away if not for Frances. But her family loved volcanos … so there he was, taking the worst lesson of humility, and swearing he would never put himself at the mercy of the elements again. His hand reached for Frances, and she frowned immediately. For once, his fingers were cold.

The young woman stole a glance at his face, shadows outlined with red in the darkness of the night. She was … otherworldly. The lines of her face morphed from wonder to worry; he wondered what she could read, truly. Then she tugged at his hand.

"Do you want to come down?"

She had not asked what was wrong, or to explain. How subtle she was, his little woman! And in that moment of vulnerability, he couldn't worship her more. Hannibal stole one last glance at the fiery sparks, then nodded. Yes. He yearned to retreat to a controlled environment. And truth be told, he didn't know if he would be able to sleep without nightmares in this place anymore. To know, to feel what power resided under his feet…

It took them two hours to retreat, fortunately, Frances knew the way. The path was carved into the ashes – under the wind – until midway down, then meandered in a strange sea of reeds. Reeds! With their feet planted into the ashes, on a freaking mountain of fire! There probably was a subterrain source in the midst of that inferno. Then the path returned to normal, rocky ground and they both took a minute to empty their poor mountain shoes from all the ash accumulated. It felt like sand, but sticking like hell.

Hannibal was silent as they retreated, mulling over this feeling he didn't know was still there. Silent as they passed the threshold of their little house, and silent still when they both discarded their clothes to drop in the shower. He wanted that ash out of his body, out of his hair. Wanted that feeling to leave and never return.

A set of little arms circled him from behind as he stepped under the pouring water. Frances moulded against his back, skin to skin, sending waves of reassurance and love until he found the courage to turn around and meet her gaze. And when he did, a strong wave of belonging washed over him. Impervious, and violent. Hannibal attacked her lips fiercely, backing her up against the tiles.

Control. Domination. The wolf was back, confident and famished. She latched upon his frame like a starving woman. She tamed him, enhanced him, owned him in so many ways… Hannibal took her against the wall with such wild abandon that he was sure to find bruises upon her back tomorrow. But he couldn't help it. The view of her beautiful skin unleashed him until he cried out his pleasure, and sagged in her arms. Just one breath away from dissolving into tears.

Sensing the mood, Frances washed his back gently, then tucked him against her in the bed. And for once, Hannibal kept his head upon her heart, listening to the steady beats that lulled him to sleep. Her understood how it felt now, to rest in a warm embrace.

Hannibal awakened at dawn, rested, and surprised that no nightmares had permeated his sleep. She really was magic, his little fairy. He should have claimed her, in the fifth century, rather than playing the knight. At least, Tristan might have enjoyed is last fifteen days.

Frances joined him on the terrace a few hours later. Finding breakfast ready, she kissed his cheek tenderly, and settled beside him. The sea was already displaying its mesmerising dance while the ground sometimes rumbled below their feet. Just a low tone, but Hannibal could feel it plain as day. Frances dug in the food with delight, eyeing him, sometimes, to see if he was willing to elaborate on the previous night.

When she saw the he didn't plan to, she set the fork upon her plate and gave one long, last look to the sea. As if she was saying goodbye forever. Hannibal's eyes narrowed; had the Keeper of Time had a vision?

"Let us go," she said. "This place does not agree with you."

"You love it, Frances"

He knew he was playing devil's advocate, but wanted to hear her reasons.

"I feel closer to my family here."

Her features suddenly hardened, acknowledging a dilemma she had come to terms with.

"But they are gone, and so am I."

Hannibal sighed; Frances had been raised to love the outdoors. Her childhood was spent climbing trees and roaming the forests, her vacation walking in the Alps and bathing in the Mediterranean Sea, or exploring the volcanos of Italy. How could she possibly be happy with a man that enjoyed living in the city, because he could control every aspect of his life? A man that didn't mind spending two hours in traffic, because his favourite radio station played classical music?

He hated the snow which made the road slippery, she loved it with all her might. He had trouble watching the Ocean beside the beach house; she climbed the cliffs down just to feel the sea breeze. His conclusion was a difficult one to voice.

"We are thoroughly incompatible, Frances."

The young woman reached for his hand, her voice thick.

"I know. Yet, I will still love you to the end."

Would she, really? Would she love him before she had set her mind to love Tristan's reincarnation? Would she enslave herself because there wasn't anyone else for her? Her little stunt, two days ago, had answered at least one question. Frances was not afraid to die. She'd rather die than be changed…

But did she stay because he reminded her of that wild scout who shared her fondness for the outdoors? Hannibal's tongue darted over his upper lip, tasting the smoked tea he'd made for them.

"It is the memory of Tristan you love, not me."

It wasn't an attack, just a statement. And Frances gave his hand a tight squeeze.

"It may have been true. Now I have come to learn you, and love you as well. I love your classiness and your education. I love the way you dance, the fact that you speak so many languages. I love the fact that you bath more than once every second week…"

His eyes cringed at the corner in amusement. The fifth century wasn't too kind when it came to bathing facilities, and they were lucky enough to have the Roman bath house available at Hadrian's wall.

"So your love centres around my skills and smell?"

The young woman swatted his arm playfully, then circled his wrist. His bare forearm tingled when her fingers followed the scar left by the Red Dragon.

"There's much to love in you, Hannibal."

And much to hate as well, he thought. Fortunately, Frances had not heard him this time.

"I love the Opera, I love the piano, I love dancing for you and I love your cooking."

The weight upon his chest slowly started to fade, and Hannibal listened raptly as she detailed everything, she loved about him. He had become quite accustomed – addicted – to her ministrations after all. And once his heart was full, he stood and invited her to watch the sea, tucking her below his arm.

"So. Palermo? There's a church I want to show you," he suggested.

And he felt her shoulder tense at the idea to reintegrate society; she hated cities more than he had gathered. Yet, she nodded, and gave him a smile before he grazed his nose along her neck. Frances shivered at his touch, and Hannibal smirked before capturing her lips in a grateful kiss.

It was the most beautiful Miserere she'd ever heard. And that child's voice … wow. Like an angel descending on earth to grace them with a piece of heaven. Frances was no believer – she already had to deal with the Valar after all – but every time the kid hit that Top C note, she wiped a tear from her eyes. By her side, Hannibal was crying without shame. She squeezed his hand without searching his gaze; he was too far gone in the performance already.

Up above, the Christ Pantocrator, it all its golden glory, looked down upon them with benevolence. Had this man even existed? History seemed to think so … perhaps he was a highly elevated being who tried to open humanity's eyes. Perhaps … someone different altogether. What would he have thought, that bearded man, of the couple that listened Christian tunes with such rapture?

She, in love with the devil. He, playing God by her side? Would he welcome her in heaven, or throw her back down with a sneer upon his beautiful face? Was there aby absolution for a woman who had sided with a killer? Loved him, with all of her heart?

The Capella Palatina, heart of the Normand's palace of Palermo, was a work of art in the pure byzantine style. Golden tiles, mosaics of exquisite beauty, pillars or Roman style and stucco carving cohabited to create an atmosphere of pure light.

Two days from now, the Lecter couple was due to return to Baltimore. From Milazzo, Hannibal had conceded a week's stay in Cefalu where the cathedral, erected by Kings of Vikings descent, stood like a token of their existence around the world. To think that they had established themselves in Normandy first, only to take the sea again and land in Sicily. Their style might have seemed rough to the refined Italians, but Frances loved it.

Square, sturdy, yet elevated to the sky to reach the heavens. It was said that the cathedral of Cefalu had been erected in gratitude from the King Roger II who was saved from a storm by landing on its beach. Said beach, at the feet of the medieval city, saw Frances at least twice a day for a full week. She couldn't get enough of that warm water that caressed her skin. The colour came closer to green than the deep blue of Stromboli, like a Caribbean sea.

Hannibal usually stayed ashore, watching her, his Borsalino fixed upon his head. And when he managed to drag his wife out of the water, they both climbed to la Rocca, high on the calcareous outcrop that held the citadel and the remains of Greek temples – testimony of their presence before romans, muslims and Vikings alike took hold of the city.

But for his birthday, Hannibal would have nothing else than a concert in the Capella. And Frances had to admit that the palace was worth seeing – even if Palermo was such a messy place. And this concert called forth such strong emotions that she wondered if she would ever stop weeping. The high notes tore her heart without asking for permission and her mind wandered to the future.

A flash of blood assaulted her senses. Hannibal, his life fleeing through the carpet, painting it crimson. Frances started, wiping that horrible vision out of her mind. Was this a warning?

A squeeze for Hannibal's hand asked, without a word, if she was alright. Rather than explain, the young woman allowed her head to fall upon his shoulder, and her other hand to overlap the first.

She ignored people's stares – the age difference spooked them – and closed her eyes in bliss. The future would have to wait.

The plane, though, didn't.

Frances cried when she lost sight of the coast of Sicily, ten thousand feet in the air. She had just spent the best two months of her life, despite her spat with Hannibal in Venice. Well, the best two months of THAT life anyway. Was the other Frances still alive? Still doing her Keeper of Time duty? Heartbroken, because she'd lost both Legolas and Tristan? And her clone, had she found the elf? And happiness? She hoped so; she needed at least one of them to be happy.

Hannibal didn't ask her the reason of her tears; he knew she didn't want to come home. So, instead, he engulfed her in a hug as her eyes roamed the Mediterranean Sea. His smell surrounded her, his heart beating against her back and the young woman relaxed.

But she knew he was heading to his death. Someday – less than ten years from now – Hannibal would be killed by a blade in his office. And it didn't make sense, for she had not seen any bruises, any other indication of a fight. She knew what Will would say … dear Will. He would tell her Hannibal knew his killer, and had not seen it coming. Or accepted it altogether. Given her husband's survival instinct, it quite didn't add up. Given his reflexes when they fought…

Frances dragged Hannibal's arm around her middle and sighed. Perhaps she was wrong. Or perhaps Will had discovered who he was … would he take that dreadful step? Would he realise he had killed Freddie Lounds to protect the Chesapeake Ripper? How enraged, how disappointed would he be, sweet Galahad? Could he kill Hannibal, really? Would she have to protect Hannibal against Will once more? To come between two brothers in arms like she had in the past?

A shiver shook her frame, and Hannibal pulled her towards him, folding a blanket around her small form. Planes always got too cold.

"It's alright, my beautiful. I will take care of you."

She allowed the steady beats of his heart to lull her to sleep.

Hey, I hope this piece will stir your heart a little !