From now on, I'll use Babel Fish. The line was supposed to be:"Hannibal, il grande piano dovrebbe arrivare questo pomeriggio e vorrei insegnarlo. Gradite imparare?" (I'm pretty sure...*shifty eyes*) Special thanks to Absolut who kindly provided me the linkie. Also thanks to those who reviewed. Inspiration struck today so enjoy! Gore in next chappie: I swear!! I'm not trying to hold out on you guys! -- M
Clarice watched Hannibal stand quickly, his head, tilted to the side. Even as a child he did this, Clarice observed. She looked out the window and gathered it was almost sunset; when she had seen their mother die.
She heard men yelling from outside, though it was distanced, but gradually getting louder. She suddenly had the strong urge to help them. Clarice wanted to yell at them to run. She knew the deserters were coming.
Clarice Starling, guardian to the lambs, knew that Hannibal Lecter was a killer as an adult. She knew it well. Still, as a child he was still innocent, as was his sister. Clarice found herself wanting to lead them to safety, to hide them. Something. But her legs wouldn't move. She was frozen in place, forced to watch, helpless.
Her wish for help though, did not go unanswered.
A rather large woman, who looked stern and businesslike, entered the foyer though a door on one side of the room. She looked at Hannibal with worried eyes. A nurse, Clarice thought. Like Barney.
She walked to the piano, picked up Mischa wordlessly and carried her to a closet under the stairs. She sat her down on the floor and held the door expectantly for Hannibal. "Il soggiorno dentro là ed è calmo. Non esca per qualche cosa." She said, in a warning tone, and added, "Mantenga il suo quiet."
He walked into the closet obediently, nodded, and reached for Mischa's hand. She closed the door.
Hannibal's parents appeared at the top of the stairs. Both were dressed handsomely. The father wore a black tux and white bowtie while the mother wore the beautiful evening gown. The same dress she had died in. It appeared as if they had been planning on going out. To the opera or a party or something.
Clarice shuddered. She felt a cold wave of despair flood her. She didn't want to see their lives end. She wanted to stop the visions. Now. Before she saw them killed. Vague nausea filled her.
Clarice Starling could handle seeing dead people. She wouldn't be an FBI agent if she couldn't. Clarice saw death everyday. It was part of the job description. But seeing innocent people dieing in front of her, being powerless to stop it, was not something Clarice could handle.
"My heart bleeds for him as a child." Clarice recalled Jack Crawford telling her Will Graham had said that about the Red Dragon. Clarice thought it appropriate to remember it now.
She stood, silent and still in the foyer. Her .45 was consoling on her hip. You can't shoot ghosts, Clarice, she told herself, but felt better anyway.
She approached the stairs. She took a step and with it came another flash.
The couple hurried down the stairs to the nurse. "Madame. Signore." She said, hurriedly.
The mother touched her shoulder, wordlessly asking where her children were. The nurse pointed to the closet, arm extended fully. The mother's eyes flashed, visibly maternal instinct was setting in. She put her hand on her husband's shoulder and looked at the door.
BAM. It made Clarice jump. The front door. Silhouettes on the window. They were coming. Clarice's heart plunged. She had been dreading this.
The father looked at his wife in the eyes…those intense blue eyes meeting the deep maroon and her kissed her forehead. She stared at him pleadingly. "Vada." he
said, and pushed her and the nurse though the door to the kitchen.
The door cracked. Clarice jumped again. An axe, they were coming in with an axe. With a errie calm, Lecter, in his tux removed a small knife from his coat pocket. Clarice, at first, thought this rather conveinent. Though it made sense: perhaps Dr. Lecter had inhereted his father's providence.
Clarice recognised the knife immediatly. A harpy. She heard a tiny noise below the cracking. A door opened from below her. The closet door, she realised. She looked. Hannibal, the young boy, had opened the door a crack and was watching his father.
Lecter stood, ready for those outside by the side of the door, just beyond the window. The heavy door gave in, and a huge, rather hairy, lumbering sort of man walked in. But Lecter was ready. It was sort of graceful; like a knight slaying a dragon. He slashed, cuting the man's side wide open. The wicked blade serving it's master. A spray of blood crossed his white bowtie.
What was worse was the grin that crossed his face when the man fell. It was that unworldly calm, yet utter victory. Clarice wondered for the instant she could,
if Hannibal Lecter's father had ever murdered anyone.
But his victory was short lived. Another large man stepped over the fallen and his fist struck out, hitting Lecter in the chest, hard, throwing him against the glass window. BAM. CRASH. Clarice winced.
In one arm, the deserter held a machine gun. His smile was disgusting as he shot Lecter in the shoulder and arm. Clarice winced, closing her eyes, digging out the family onions somewhere in her mind.
The small boy Lecter came charging out of the closet. Clarice covered her mouth, watching the almost sickening choas. The boy leaped on the deserter's back. The deserter swung violently, and the boy almost flew off, but he clawed into the man's back and bit the man's ear as hard as he possibly could, tearing off a peice. The deserter howled in pain and hit the boy with his gun. Hannibal fell nearly six feet to the floor, near Clarice's feet.
Winded, he scrambled to his feet. Four more deserters entered the foyer. They grabbed Hannibal, grabbed his father who was keeping his eyes sligtly open, trying to avoid blacking out, and they grabbed Mischa, who had been sobing in the closet.
Clarice watched Hannibal's emotionless head hang, knowing he should have listened to the nurse, but not regretting. He smirked at the man who's ear he'd bitten and spit the cartilage at him as he passed, earning him a slap and a stinging cheek.
As always, reviews are appriciated – Morbid.