Hannibal Lecter stood on the outskirts of an enormous crowd that nearly completely filled a wide room made of marble. He stood quite still; the room was such a massive thing to take in. It was circular, with majestic columns and painted glass windows alternating all around. How the windows managed to fit into a curved wall, he would never comprehend. Into the columns were carved ornate floral designs, as if roses and lilies had grown into the stone and perished there, leaving a print behind. The ceiling was an equally ornate dome, lit with thousands of what appeared to be crystal constellations. Elaborately painted scenes surrounded the lit crystals, creating stories within the constellations.
The inhabitants of the room, though, were in stark contrast to the beauty of the room. From where Hannibal stood, clothed entirely in black, he watched the crowd undulate and buzz like a mass of feeding animals. They were all people, that was certain. But they were all cloaked in unappealing browns and grays. Their faces, where eyes, noses, and mouths should have resided, were entirely blank. They were all blank slates of flesh. It was a wonder to Hannibal how they were communicating amongst themselves, as they seemed to be.
Hannibal wrinkled his nose, skirting the group. He stayed as close to the marble as he could, for fear of being sucked into the faceless rabble. They were like animals. Rude and uncivilized.
But then he caught a glimpse of white through the mass of dirt brown. His eyes locked onto it as it disappeared and reappeared again behind the faceless masses. At first he could not discern who this white speck of light was, but then it was all too obvious.
His Ophelia stood at the opposite end of the room, seemingly just as taken with her surroundings as he was. She was draped in a white cloth that seemed akin to mist, fluttering over her delicate frame. Hannibal's stone heart shifted at the sight of her. Ophelia's eyes were trained on the crowd before her, fingers winding absentmindedly at her hair. It was as if the air around her glowed; she was surely a welcome sight.
Hannibal opened his mouth to call to her, but suddenly music struck up from somewhere in the room. The brown sea froze at the sound of the first chord, and Ophelia furrowed her brows, taking a small step back. Seeing this as an opportunity, Hannibal began to weave through the edge of the crowd toward her. But the music started again, and the faceless browns began to dance. They all danced in pairs, a waltz-like step that they all seemed to innately know.
Across the room, Ophelia was pulled into the dance by one of the faceless. She fell into stride immediately, as if she had been born with the knowledge of this dance. Hannibal was wholly confused; he seemed to be the only one not dancing. Nevertheless, he continued to make every attempt to reach Ophelia, who had not seen him. He proved unsuccessful, though, for every step he took toward her seemed to put him further on the outskirts of the dancing sea of faceless men and women. Hannibal could only watch as Ophelia was tossed from partner to partner as the music swelled. She twirled and dipped and spun, her face flushed and her eyes alight. Hannibal was tempted to simply watch her dance. He had never gotten the opportunity to witness Ophelia doing what she loved, and it was a sight to behold. She quite resembled a bird, flying from one partner to the next.
But then it stopped quite abruptly, and the faceless browns froze. Their arms held aloft and their legs pointed in deep lunges, they froze. All except Ophelia, who jumped away from her partner as if she had been shocked. Eyes wide, she turned in circles, looking for an explanation as to why all but she had turned to stone. And, finally, she saw Hannibal. She stopped, realizing that she was not alone in the sea of the faceless statues.
Relief flooded his body when their eyes met. Her face melted into a smile, and in a flurry of white she bounded toward him, weaving around frozen torsos and hopping over outstretched legs.
"Ophelia," Hannibal sighed warmly, ducking beneath a frozen arm, "I was-"
But the music began again, and Ophelia was wrenched away from his line of sight by a faceless man. He, also, was pulled into the dance this time, for he had joined the ranks of the group. Hannibal did not want to be in the clutches of this woman, though. He needed to find his Ophelia, and take her away from the man who had a hold on her. Across the room from him, Ophelia struggled to break free as well. But every time she took a step toward Hannibal, she was pulled away again.
They danced from person to person, obeying the flow of the room, using it to their advantage. If they obeyed, they both figured, they would reach each other eventually. Hannibal craned his neck as the sea of dancers moved in a circular motion around the room. Every so often, he would catch a glimpse of Ophelia, and he would switch partners, moving a step closer to the center. She would do the same. Their eyes constantly searched for one another.
Suddenly, as the music slowed abruptly, they found themselves face to face in the center of the group. All around them, the faceless rocked slowly to the markedly different tune. Black and white were now an island, isolated in the sea of brown.
But Hannibal noticed nothing but Ophelia. He swept a stray curl out of her eyes and ran the tips of his fingers down the side of her face. She leaned her head into his hand ever so slightly, and his stone heart shifted again.
"May I have this dance?" he muttered, bowing theatrically. She giggled and curtsied, her cheeks flaming red.
They fell immediately into a simple waltz step, their bodies pressed close together, and their faces inches apart. For a moment, they simply relished each other's company, their steps small and far from impassioned. But as the music began to swell again, they came alive. Hannibal had never fancied himself much of a dancer, but with Ophelia it was as if it was what he had been born to do. He actually found himself laughing and smiling more genuinely than he had in quite some time as he lifted her into the air in time with a grand crescendo.
But, suddenly, as they fell back into hold, Ophelia jolted to a stop abruptly, along with the music. She stopped as if her back had rammed into something solid, though they remained in the empty center of the dance floor. Her face went pale, and her mouth fell open, her eyes wide and full of shock. The sea around them froze.
Before Hannibal had a chance to ask her what was the matter, great black prongs shot outward from her chest and through her stomach. Blood spattered from her mouth as she was impaled by the massive spikes. Her mouth hung open, a gasp of surprise hanging on her lips. Hannibal stumbled back as crimson soaked her white torso and her head lolled forward. His hands clutched at his hair in desperation. Shock froze a scream in his throat.
He spun away from her skewered body, only to find a faceless man standing next to Ophelia, very much alive. Hannibal stopped, his hands still held aloft.
"Ophelia?" Hannibal spluttered. She had just been skewered like a rack of lamb directly before his eyes, and yet here she stood. Unstained with her own blood, she gazed icily at him as he started toward her.
Before she could respond, the faceless man grabbed Ophelia around the waist and pulled her away from Hannibal. He lunged forward, but before he could reach them, the man pulled a butcher knife from out of thin air and slashed Ophelia's throat. Hannibal let out a wordless bellow as Ophelia crumpled on the floor and the faceless man stepped away, disappearing into the darkness that had descended upon the room. She coughed and spluttered on the floor below him.
He stumbled backward again, once again turning to face a third Ophelia and a third faceless figure. This time, Ophelia's neck was snapped in one fell motion, and Hannibal wheeled away as she fell to the floor, dead.
All around him, Ophelias were perishing. A fourth was bludgeoned with a blunt figurine. A fifth was set ablaze. A sixth, seventh, and eighth were mutilated beyond recognition. Everywhere he turned, Ophelia died. And it seemed as if there was no escape from them. When he thought he has come full circle, Hannibal was only met with an impaled, lifeless Ophelia, hanging from the antlers like decorations on a rack.
Hannibal fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands. All he could hear was the sound of Ophelia's screams, each cut off with a snap, thump, or slice.Sometimes they were cut off immediately, but more often than not they were long and agonizing. It was the most horrible, horrendous thing he had ever heard, and he wanted nothing more than silence. He covered his head with his arms and howled wordlessly, willing it all to stop.
And it did. When he looked up again, the only Ophelia that was left was the one that was held aloft by antlers. Only now, she stared up at him, her eyes aware and her bloodstained lips hanging slightly open. Her skin was pale and her breathing was pained. But she was alive.
Hannibal scrambled forward. He knelt so that he could be face to face with his dying Ophelia. His hands fluttered around the prongs that protruded from her torso, but he knew not what to do for her.
"You made me this way," Ophelia muttered, her voice no more than a husky whisper.
"Ophelia," Hannibal took her face in his hands, "I had not intended for this to be your fate."
"It's okay," Ophelia's lips curled into a weak smile, her eyes fluttering as she struggled to stay conscious, "I love you anyway." She coughed and a bit of black blood splattered onto the front of Hannibal's shirt. And then her head went limp in his hands. The antlers dissolved and she fell into his lap, blood no longer pooling beneath her. Hannibal pulled her into his arms. He cradled her body against his chest. All around him, the faceless sea grew closer, looming over him. Watching.
Hannibal's eyes flew open, his pupils dilating and shrinking wildly. He was drenched in sweat, the sheets nearly entirely thrown from the bed. As his racing heartbeat slowed, he cast a glance around the room. Slowly he remembered where he truly was, and what had truly transpired the night before. He let his face fall into his hands. It had been a dream and nothing more. Ophelia was here, and she was very much alive.
He patted the empty bed next to him, expecting to find her sleeping there. But the dark room was entirely devoid of her presence.
"An early riser for once," Hannibal chuckled, sliding from bed and fumbling around for clothes, ignoring the disastrous state of his bed. Cleanliness was not his primary concern this morning.
His primary concern was Ophelia. His Ophelia. The bond that he had known they shared had been sealed, and they were bound. Hannibal had never expected to find such kinship, such companionship, but he had. The mere thought of Ophelia made his icy demeanor soften.
He emerged from his dark, cave-like room and stretched, his joints popping and an involuntary moan escaping his lips. He sighed and hurried down the stairs, eager to greet his Ophelia.
But she was not in the sitting room. Nor was she in the kitchen or the dining room. Hannibal frowned, unsettled at the silence that met him in every room. He hastened back upstairs, peeking again into his room, just to make sure he hadn't overlooked her in the mass of his sheets. He then knocked at the bathroom door, but was met with no cheerful response.
"Ophelia?" he burst into her bedroom, hoping ever so desperately to find her at the foot of her bed, doing her hair into a braid as she so often did.
But there was no trace of his Ophelia in that room. The bed was made and the curtains were pulled neatly open. The closet door was ajar, and the racks were empty. Her bags were absent from their usual pile in the corner of the room.
Hannibal turned and ran from the room, "Ophelia!" he called, "Ophelia!" He nearly threw himself down the stairs. He called her name over and over, but there was no cheerful reply or smiling face to greet him as he dashed through the foyer.
Out onto the sidewalk he ran. His hair askew, and his pajamas twisted around his torso, he spun around. Her name froze on his lips.
She was gone.