He was early this time, but satisfied enough about the last cancellation. What would have thrown him into a fit nary three years ago was now seen as an opportunity. How she had changed him in so little time ! Even now, her voice drifted from Elina's room upstairs.
"Le soleil a rendez-vous avec la lune,
Mais la lune n'est pas là et le soleil l'attend…"
It was but a child's song – a memory of his childhood in France -, one where the sun and the moon chased each other all day long, only to fail at appearing at the same time. Strangely, he wondered which astra his wife felt like; the moon, or the sun ? Even though he strived in the shadows, she was the one eclipsed by his greater power. In appearance. For deep down, he knew she was stronger than he was. For keeping his secret from being uncovered, even though it rattled all her principles…
And yet, Frances wasn't crippled yet. She sang all the time; Celt tunes, Ave Maria, pop songs. This was one of her many talents, the ability to make him FEEL through her singing. Because damn, she certainly used her voice with as much skill as her sword. And the timbre was so pure; goosebumps ran upon his forearms.
Hannibal left his bag in the living room and shed his shoes, guided upstairs by the laugher of the little girl who now called her 'Tatie Frog'. A nickname coming, in direct line, from Will's teasing. Frances took it in stride; yes, she was proud of her heritage, especially the frogs since she once lived in the country of thousand lakes. To the outside world, she was the leisurely foreign wife of a rich man.
No one but he and Will knew she'd been the Keeper of Time. No one could possibly think she'd been to war, travelled time, been cloned and walked among the stars. None but them, who had witnessed her scarred soul. Hannibal was the one who held her as when she cried in her sleep, woke her up when the nightmares overwhelmed her. He was the recipient of her elvish words in slumber. She whispered his name in the dead of the night. Tristan's. Or Maximus, or many others. But those nightmares about him, he never asked. Sometime she remained in a daze for days. Worried.
He had read, avidly and with much jealousy, the tales of her adventures. And beneath the seething anger of knowing she had loved others, he still contemplated, with awe, the idea that such a woman had chosen to attach herself to HIM.
Hannibal had come to care about Frances. Was it love? He wondered, very often, what love was. He cooked for her, offered presents, took her out on vacation, and enjoyed to see her laugh. He loved it when she played the harpsichord, when she danced, when she sang. He loved her hair, her crooked smile, and the pride in her eyes whenever she went out on his arm. He made love to her, and touched her whenever she craved it. Kissed her when his own desires flared. He followed her lead into human emotions, studying it like he would study a beast… the beast. Still there, still hidden, still ready to lash out.
Unlike her, he didn't want to sever his ties with the FBI. He was but a modest replacement for Will, but it kept him in the loop. Sometimes, he couldn't help but involve himself a bit, to give a hand to nature. That man making murals out of bodies had certainly impressed him. It staved off the hunger, for a bit… As long a Jack didn't realise he'd been there beforehand, and helped a psychopath pass into the realm of death.
Those were little allowances Frances would make for him. Some of them, she would never know. Her love for him knew no bounds, he couldn't fathom how one could be dedicated so deeply to another's well-being. He knew a part of her stayed secret; she listened to preposterous music, did things that bordered on ridiculous. In his absence. Frances took care not to crumble the pillars upon which he'd built himself anew after…. after all.
They were like two dolls, attached by a string. A broken pair. Yet a functional one. Two lost souls at sea, having grabbed the other's arm, awaiting from the Ocean to swallow them whole.
The wave was building.
But in the meantime, he listened to her voice. She had switched to 'A la claire Fontaine', and Elina listened, enraptured by words she barely understood. Dark hair, the most mesmerising blue eyes, the girl had inherited the beauty of both her parents.
"Uncle Hanni !" she exclaimed the moment he passed the threshold.
The psychiatrist scooped Elina in his arms, blowing a raspberry in the soft flesh of her neck. Shrieks of laughter escaped her as she wiggled away. Hannibal found Frances' amused gaze. He set the girl down to kiss his wife, words of greetings drowned by the chatter of a two years old who wanted to show him the brick castle they had just built in the afternoon.
Hannibal sat in seiza – old habits die hard – his eyes set upon Elina as she showed him the towers and the large moat they had created. For a princess's castle, it certainly displayed proudly its military defences. As the toddler tried to form sentences, Frances' hands worked at loosening his tie. She dropped a kiss upon his jaw when the soft silk swished away from his throat. Then, she unbuttoned his waistcoat. Slowly. One at a time.
Hannibal's attention seemed all consumed by Elina's explanations, but he didn't hear a word of it. His sensations were turned to the nimble fingers that now slid the waistcoat from his broad shoulders, warmth sliding down his forearm where her hands lingered. The psychiatrist took a deep breath and refrained from closing his eyes in bliss; Elina was offering him a playmobil to populate her castle.
Since when do we have playmobil ?
The last straw came when his collar was unfastened, lithe fingers leaving a caress at the hollow of his throat. This time, Hannibal growled.
"Tu ne perds rien pour attendre." (Just you wait)
Frances grinned.
"Promise ?"
The fire in his eyes seemed answer enough for she backed away. That woman was attuned to his needs. Needs he was only discovering. And the contact of her lips at his nape, hidden from young eyes, certainly triggered some of them.
Will couldn't come soon enough to pick up his little monster.
Another Christmas was coming, and Frances was roaming her brain to find out what present she could possibly offer Hannibal this year. Try as she might, nothing seemed good enough for his tastes. She huffed, sinking into the sofa in front of the fireplace. Harsh winds rattled the windows; her garden looked pitiful now that tomato plants were uprooted. Mayhap with some snow, the outside world would look a little more endearing.
In the meantime, her head ached. That last trip to the shopping mall had been crowded, and utterly inefficient; she was looking in the wrong place if she hoped to find a present for her demanding husband. Lips pursing, she decided to indulge in a glass of wine, hoping the alcohol would broaden her perspective. Or, at least, lessen her ire. Unfortunately, rather than liberating her brain cells, the flames lulled her and she found herself dozing off.
It was but a few seconds, but enough for the haunting image of Hannibal lying in a pool of his blood to assault her brain. Frances gasped, her heart rate spiking at the sight of her beloved husband vanquished upon the carpet of his office. The distinctive noise of a glass shattering echoed in the distance. Frances started, finding herself back in the living room, her wine seeping into the polished wooden floor.
She swore under her breath, ready to spring into action when she spotted a familiar figure out of the corner of her eye. There she was, ethereal and beautiful, sitting casually beside her on the not so comfortable Louis XV sofa. Frances gaped, rattled by both her nightmare and this apparition. Was she going crazy ?
"Bella ?" she whispered.
The older woman smiled, her dark eyes reflecting an ocean of sadness. Frances extended a hand in hopes of touching the only true friend she had made in this reality. Her hand didn't meet anything solid, but the tingle that ran up her arm caused her to shiver.
"Am I dreaming ?"
"You wish," Bella answered with a characteristic rise of a neat eyebrow.
Frances laughed this time, and the beautiful woman joined her in her mirth. A few precious seconds before she sobered.
"I'm here to protect Jack. Something is brewing. He is in danger."
Frances' voice wavered.
"Hannibal ?"
Bella's nod confirmed her worst fears and the young woman sighed in defeat.
"I am sorry, Frances."
The young woman gave her friend a watery smile.
Time is up.
"My love is not enough. I have learnt that it cannot cure psychosis."
Bella tried to reach out for her; the tingling pressure settled upon Frances' hands.
"I am sorry you have to make the same choice again."
The same choice. Reality suddenly crashed upon her shoulders with the intensity of a battering ram. There was no escape; it kept going round and round, no matter the reality, no matter the time. Tristan or Lancelot. Hannibal or Jack. Heart clenching, Frances forced her panic deep in the recessed of her belly and asked:
"Why can I see you?"
"Your soul still lingers between worlds. So does mine."
A nod. Yes, she had never felt complete here. For years, she'd surmised it was the loss of her family and friends and the lack of true love. But she knew better; that third clone had borrowed a piece of soul, and it simply was not enough to sustain her in the long term.
The fire cracked, and her gaze lingered upon the licking flames. The smell of wine tainting the floor rose to her nostrils. Hannibal would be livid, but it didn't matter anymore. Resolve set in, infusing her core with renewed energy.
"I wonder where I'll go when I die."
Bella pursed her lips; she wasn't happy at the prospect.
"In time, you will return to mingle with your original soul. You'll be complete."
Complete, at last.
Suddenly, the hazy recognition of her life became clearer. As if the veils were lifted from her eyes, the ropes that kept her complacent wringing and snapping. Frances took a deep breath. She had lost her purpose, living and loving a killer. Betrayed her mission. She had failed, utterly failed at saving him, at saving the world. Pride had fuelled the stupid hope that her love would heal Hannibal. Even though he'd said so himself, even though every psychology book agreed on it; a fool's hope. How long had she known ? Years, perhaps.
Frances' gaze lingered upon Bella, tendrils of energy pulling at her friend. Her image was shimmering in the low lights. This woman had greeted death with dignity and Frances wondered when she had lost her courage.
When did she surrender her nature to desperation ? Deny her incredible, stubborn will of saving lives no matter what ? Had she really saved anyone, in the past, by choosing Lancelot instead of Tristan ? In every life, and every universe, was his death is the only means to preserve life ?
Resolve set in as understanding shed light upon the path she had sworn not to take. It all made sense, now. This nightmare, this alternate world, her presence here.
"I understand."
Bella was already gone when she emerged from her musings. She couldn't remain. Would her soul return to the Keeper of Time?
She certainly hoped so.