As
she entered the room, Clarice noted no immediate difference in his
appearance. Still, even now, he
remained the picture of strength, and she wasn't sure if she liked it that
way. It somehow made things more
difficult. She felt awkward mourning,
for in the dismal state of reality, he had not lost a thing. He was still Hannibal Lecter, genius,
artist, musician, cannibal, and most certainly the keeper of her heart.
For
the past few days, the routine had been the same. Scheduled visits, in and out to change the forms of medication he
assigned himself, making sure the dosage was accurate, perhaps exchanging a few
lines of dialogue, nothing personal.
Clarice dreaded each call for the usual fears, and likewise felt the
fingers of self-disgust at her unwillingness to speak.
Silence
could drive a person insane.
In those hours of stillness, waiting for the end,
she found herself conflicted with memories, some bittersweet, others that drew
tears to her eyes. Tears that she kept
inside, tears that she paid for over and over again. While the years they had together were precious, they had both
known time would not permit them eternal bliss. Now that the day was nearing, Clarice reflected it with a sort of
indifference. Years of preparation had
no affect on how she felt, and the wealth of emotions swirling inside could not
be rivaled by any pain, exasperation, or confusion she had endured in the past.
And yet it was here, and there was nothing she could
do about it. Standing to the side,
unable to prevent anything from happening.
Out of every foe she had faced, of every dark time she encountered,
every this and that, in the end, life still had the last laugh.
Death did not scare Clarice Starling. Not at all.
It was just another fact of life.
Even the prospect of what occurred once others died didn't scare her. She knew she could cope, she could
survive. The years she had with him
were the most stimulating and fulfilled that she could imagine a person having,
and because of this, she knew any amount of time offered by fate would never be
enough.
Thus bringing her to the heart of her
confusion. While pain gripped her at
every fiber, tore at her, clung to her, she also felt peace. Clarice knew, sitting in the parlor of their
residence in Florence, that the time they were granted was more than either
could anticipate. Their life together
was complete, and she knew there was nothing either would take back.
She was glad they had moved back to Florence. In these times, she knew it was best for him
to be home. And this was certainly
home. Clarice knew, on a level, that it
would be her resting place as well. As
Lecter had promised long ago, she fell in love with the beauty of the town,
enticed with charm and intrigue. Though
she was faced with the empty years of the future, she didn't shy from the
implication of being alone.
Clarice reflected this, because having him in her
life at all meant that she would never be alone again. In their seven years apart, a time window
that seemed so trivial now, she had carried him with her through every task,
every assignment, every date with a man she understandably had no future
with. The prospect did not scare
her. Every conversation she ever had
with him was safely lodged in her own complete memory palace. Every intimacy, every laugh, every shared
insult, every mock fight, every this and that.
Once, long ago, he told her that his own palace had acted suitably when
he knew the gamble of spending his life without her was concrete, there, almost
as though he could taste it. With the
memories they spent building together with her, Clarice knew she would never
want for anything.
And yet, beyond every rationality, it still hurt.
It still hurt.
Perhaps she had lived with him for too long, finding
expressions of emotion terribly trite.
After all, what were tears? Just
exterior confirmation that you were breaking from the inside? What good would it do either of them?
Clarice was very careful. Though she had never cried much in the past, it took years to
coax her womanly senses into not extending to hyper action. She was strong, and she knew this. It wasn't the importance of emotional
survival; it was the need for life.
Today, the routine was no different. Lecter had only been bedridden for a week or
so. In entering and exiting to deliver
his medication, Clarice recalled the conversation that introduced her to this,
that forced her to make these revelations with herself. It was nothing climactic, and nothing he
prepared her for. They were so beyond
that in their relationship. Everyday
bluntness was customary, and it didn't surprise her to receive his discovery
without preamble.
He told her a few things then, concerning his
future. Some of his inward battles and
post-outcomes surprised her. Already,
without even alerting her to the matter, he had decided to let life progress,
to leave this earth as naturally as he came.
It was admirable, for she knew he could not tolerate weakness.
Now, in the final stages of this, Clarice
understood. He would not allow life to
take him without battle, for as he quoted to her, "Man can be destroyed but not
defeated."
This hadn't defeated him, or even destroyed
him. In these past few days, Clarice
had witnessed a Hannibal Lecter stronger than any she knew in the past, and for
that courage, she loved him all the more.
Inside, Clarice performed no task differently. She denied herself a moment of solitude to
watch over her beloved, even as he slept.
To see such peace in this man was liberating, but also felt like
invasion of privacy. Even with the
numerous reassurances he had given her in the past that she was the initiator
of his inward serenity, she felt there were certain things she had to leave to
him.
However, as she moved to the door, Clarice couldn't
help her gaze from wandering in his direction.
As if on cue, her eyes overflowed with tears, tears that would not be
shed, and a general relief washed over her.
Even now, she acknowledged she would kill for that man. His strength had not abandoned him, even as
his life threatened to. The relief was
perhaps a reflex of vanity, perhaps not.
It circulated on her intense gratitude that she was here, here to share
these last minutes with him. With as
painful as they promised to be, she ached a thousand times more to think he
might have died alone.
And then she remembered herself, and her promise to
allow him privacy. Grasping the
doorknob, she turned and started the solemn walk outdoors, to her haven, here
she would reflect and remember. Every
memory was received with a smile, every minute of their time together brought
joy to her heart.
There was no place she would rather be.
However, when she was halfway out the door, a voice
from behind beckoned her to turn around.
"Clarice."
The saying of her name was no different than any
other time it rolled off his tongue, whether in discussion, play, or pleasure.
Neither a question nor calling, he stated it as though she was a proposal to a
committee, and she found this terribly endearing. Sickness could not alter him anymore than it would her. It was simply another phase of their life,
something they had to conquer.
Death was not the great conqueror. Though it would claim him in the end, by no
means did it seize victory.
Whether or not she believed in any deity, Clarice
had no doubt he would remain with her long after his physical presence
departed. It was not a question of
religion, rather knowledge and understanding.
Releasing a quivering breath, she turned to face
him, unsurprised when she found herself trapped in his powerful maroon
gaze. At that minute, someone could
have placed her in Baltimore as a naïve FBI trainee, or back at Chesapeake in
the aftermath of their special dinner, or in a variety of thousands of blissful
memories, and she would not know the difference for his eyes were always the
same.
Answering her name was unimportant. She responded with her gaze, just as he
called her with his. Some might find
this cold, but it was habit for them.
It had been for years now. To
alter inclination because of untimely events was far more dangerous than any
illness could ever be.
"Come here, Clarice." Lecter sat up, and it took him a minute. Once situated, he extended a hand to
illustrate his request.
Biting her lower lip, she moved forward without
hesitation. Once at his side, she took
his hand in hers, and nearly trembled with the warmth he radiated. For a minute, they caressed each other with
their eyes, and she allowed herself to enjoy the strokes his skin offered hers.
These intimacies were going to be the most difficult
to live without. Not the conversations,
not the threat of what would never again be, but for the simple pleasure of
holding his hand, sharing his gaze, nestling to his warmth at night.
At that, Clarice bit back a shuddering breath,
shunning the tears that she would not shed.
He smiled at her, and the simple poise of his
features did more harm than good. "You
are very brave," he whispered. "Never
doubt your courage, Clarice." Slowly,
he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. "There are things we need to discuss."
"Later. You
need to rest."
"No. Now."
The demand in his voice startled her, and it was all
she could do to nod her agreement.
Obviously, he was becoming more aware of time. They both were.
For a minute, there was nothing. This was not uncommon. They often conversed without speaking,
saying things neither of them could put into words for means of pride, for the
lack of text available in any language to convey thoughts. These discussions were explored a deeper
level of both memory palaces.
Finally, he spoke.
His voice carried nothing of significant conversation, however, having
lived with him for several decades, Clarice knew better without
instruction. "The summer grows longer,
doesn't it?" he asked. "Tell me…how old
are you these days, Clarice?"
He knew. Why
this was relevant, she didn't know.
"As old as I was yesterday." She smiled at him, knowing he would hate it,
should she lose her spunk.
Indeed, he chuckled richly. "Hmmm…touché. We've had many good years together, haven't we?"
At that, she had to swallow before nodding, and the
lump to digest was hard. "Yes…" An
instinctive plea arose in her throat, and she couldn't stop it from erupting
from her lips. "And we'll have many
more."
Again, he laughed, reaching with his other hand to
pat hers reassuringly. "How domestic of
you," he observed. "And very…"
"Original?"
"I was going to say endearing, but I suppose it fits
both criteria." His smile
broadened. "You have terrific moxy,
Clarice. I've always admired that."
The silence that followed was companionable yet
brief. Lecter drew in a deep breath, as
though it were crucial, and locked eyes with her again. "There are some things you need to know…some
things I must tell you." A breath. "Clarice, there's nothing that I value more
than our time together. We've lived
richly, selfishly, absorbed with earthly pleasures, and I've enjoyed every
minute of it. Our personal relationship
cannot be defined in mere words and sentences.
We've shared more than any two people should be allowed to share. And I regret nothing. Do you hear me, Clarice?" When she responded with a nod, emotion
forbidding her to more, he smiled his pleasure, and his voice soothed. "I wonder at times only how I've kept you
this long. I thought surely you would
realize one of these days that I was unworthy of you. Always unworthy."
Clarice's tears that she would not shed were nearing
dangerously to the edge. Her endurance
pressed her, and she had to clinch her teeth to keep her wits. "Hannibal—"
"Please. Let
me finish."
Drawing in a deep breath, Clarice held his eyes, and
nodded. "All right."
Nodding his thanks, Lecter rested a few beats,
studying her with the most infatuated gaze.
"There are some things I know about you, things you might deny, things
you might anger to hear. I know you
have no formal ties to religion, not any longer. However, there are ambitions for piety that you may never rid of,
simply for your childhood ties. Tell
me, Clarice, do you, looking at me now, fear for my soul?"
Though the allegation seemed ridiculous, completely
ill-gotten for their open and shared views on religion, she didn't frown at the
question, or deny its validity. In the
past few days, she had revisited dead ethics, morals long since buried deep in
the layers of her subconscious. She had
considered, should there be a Heaven and Hell after all, where she might meet
him. In all their years of living in
so-called blasphemy from the Lord, she doubted either of them chanced well in
the gateways of the Kingdom.
Likewise, Clarice had long since resolved within
herself, that truly good people could never be shunned. And while Lecter's crimes were undoubtedly
as notorious in the above as they were on this earth, she picked away at the
exterior and stereotypical assumptions.
However, there was nothing either of them could
possibly know now. And in truth, she
didn't care where his soul went, as long as she followed in its footsteps when
her own time arrived. Should they be
cast into the lake of fire, at least they would be together. After facing the hell on earth, whatever
waited in the beyond did little to frighten her, or challenge her stamina.
"No," she said firmly, knowing her eyes reflected
her conviction.
He grinned.
"I'm glad." Then, likewise, the
smile dissipated and he took another breath, but not in a struggle to possess
air. "What I ask you now, I ask you to
consider. Should the answer be anything
but no, I'm not sure I can rest well in the after years of this life. However, I don't want you to give me
anything but honesty." Again he paused,
but more for affect, the grip on her hand tightening. "Clarice, I've taken so much from you. Your youth, your ambitions, your career, your freedom…your
life. I robbed you of this blindly, and
while I always allowed a window of escape, I know you smelled the implication
of what such leave would mean. So now
that we're here…that you see yourself for what I've made of you, what you've
made of yourself…Clarice, do you regret any of it? Do you regret our time together, what you forfeited for the
promise of what could be as opposed to what was? Tell me, truly…"
The tears that she would not shed were back again,
pushing against her skin in a foray of inward cries that demanded release. However, Clarice stabled herself, drawing in
a sharp breath as she went to her knees, if only to be nearer to him. Hesitantly, she drew her free hand from her
side, running her curled knuckles softly over his skin. With a muffled sob, she shook her head,
harder than she intended. "No," she
said firmly. "No, never. Never ever.
I've never reconsidered, and I won't ever. Don't you see? You didn't
steal my life…you gave it back to me. I
live now because I know I'm alive. I
didn't before. I didn't for a long
time. I—"
"Do you promise me, Clarice?"
"Yes! Of
course…I—"
"Thank you."
As he had so many years ago, Lecter looked truly at peace, there, under
her caresses, holding her hand close to his chest. Slowly, he released the grip of one hand, reaching to stroke her
face, and seeming to find simple pleasure in her skin. He kept her enclosed hand above his heart,
and she reveled in the strength of it, even now under such conditions. A thousand nights flashed before her eyes,
nights feeling that heart beat in perfect syncopation with her own, against her
own, and Clarice nearly buckled at impact.
"There are so many things," he mused a minute later,
"that I wish I could tell you. Speaking
in the higher levels of human vulnerability has never been a strong suit with
either of us, I know. There are things
that must be said, and things that can never be said. Allow me this very contemptible attempt…" His eyes held her, and
she felt numb all over, losing herself in his voice, in the strokes against her
face, soaking everything up and filing it in her memory palace, where she would
cherish it until she joined him. "You,
Clarice, are my rose. My song. Scorned with thorns and tattered through a
long, trying life. But you've never
shied, and I know you will never will.
Even when the winds threaten to knock you over, you always fight to your
feet and stand with pride and grace. I
know you always will."
Once more, Clarice had to choke back her tears,
those she couldn't shed. Moisture
damped her eyes, yet none escaped. Through
it all, his smile remained simple, as though discussing the weather, his eyes
kind, and his voice unchanged.
Maintaining his hold on her face, Lecter slowly
brought the hand at his chest to his mouth once more, and the kiss there made
her skin burn in fury of these events.
At last, her outrage rumbled and escaped, and she found herself shrouded
in a series of demands. Why? Why her?
Why now?
These things could not be stopped.
"Would it be redundant," he questioned a minute
later, "to quote Shakespeare? I think
not." And Clarice knew. She knew her
emotion could not swell inside forever.
It pounded in liberation, and yet she denied it access. Not now.
He needn't see her broken, confused, angered. Such would do neither of them any good.
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" He whispered, and something inside
jolted. "Thou art more lovely and more
temperate. Rough winds do shake, the
darling buds of May.
"And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
and often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime
declines. By chance, nor nature's
changing course, untrimm'd.
"But thy eternal summer shall not fade. Nor lose possession of that fair thou
ow'st. Nor shall Death brag thou
wand'rest in his shade.
"When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe or eyes can
see. So long lives this, and this gives
life to thee."
Clarice closed her eyes, and the tears that she
could not shed were kept at bay. Inside, she was sobbing, bleeding, hurting in ways no human should
hurt. But to know his life was
fulfilled, that he had lived each day, for each day, even in those eight lost
years of incarceration, in those seven wasted years of being apart, was self-invigorating. And she knew then, she knew she had never
known a better man. Not her father, who
squandered his life for not understanding its importance. Not John Brigham, a face long dead to her,
she wondered why she should call upon it now.
Even Jack Crawford, deceased in the many years prior to this, he who
brought them together. Who brought her
here. Never before this man, before
this love of her life, had she known anyone better.
And this gave her peace.
When she opened her eyes, outlined in a red rim even
if she hadn't cried, she registered immediately the proximity of the end, and
it took her breath away. Coaxing her
sob away, Clarice leaned forward and touched her lips to his, one last time,
and held them there for sweet seconds.
She took the taste of him, unchanged with age, into her mouth, and
pulled away to see his eyes.
Life was fading.
And she knew.
She knew she had to say it.
"I love you, Hannibal. I always have."
Then, with a small smile, he nodded languidly. "I know," he replied. "And you know…you know…"
"Yes, I know."
Lecter's smile broadened as it could, and he again
brought her hand to his mouth. There it
held until the grip around her wrist drained of strength, and the hand that
remained steadfast at her face, lowered to the mattress.
And then he was gone.
Gone.
Similarly, the tears that she could not shed burst
through, and Clarice lurched forward, wrapping her arms around him, held in the
still quiet of their home, sobbing onto him.
Her cries were uninhibited, held back with nothing, as the grasp of
reality took her and shook hard.
Reality that she was prepared for.
Reality that she must face.
She didn't know how long she remained with him, but
when she finally summoned the courage to trust her legs, she wobbled to a
stance, and left. Remnants of tears
crusted on her face, and the sounds of her sobs echoed in the hall.
But she wouldn't cry anymore. After all, this was only one of those summer
days, and she had many ahead.
Not just she.
They.
They had many ahead, still. In that place where she kept him, in that
forbidden structure that was the deepest part of herself. She would carry him to forever, until her
chapter in this life closed, and they were reunited in the end.
FIN