The place in which Hannibal had decided to house Ophelia was an antique. Once upon a time, it had been a storm-proof bunker beneath the home of one of Hannibal's old clients who had passed away due to unforeseen circumstances. The old man had written Hannibal so graciously into his will, handing over to him all of his old property just south of Baltimore. It had never been of any use until now.
He had locked her in a long concrete-walled room, which was comprised of a set of wire bunks, a desk, a speaker system, and a toilet and sink. In the corner of the room was an enormous metal box, full of odds and ends, most of which were rusty old tools that had never seen the light of day. By the end of the bed was a ceiling-high metal cabinet, shut tight with a padlock over the doorhandles. The only entrance to the bunker was a monstrously large metal door, flanked by pipes that webbed all over the rounded ceiling.
Upon entering the bunker for the first time, Hannibal threw Ophelia down onto the bottom bunk like an oversized rag doll. She watched in silence as he strode to the box of tools in the corner and pulled out a long, rusted chain after a moment of rummaging.
"I wish this could be done differently," Hannibal huffed as he wrapped the end of the chain around her ankle, "But I fear you will give me trouble if I allow you to roam freely in my home."
Ophelia winced when the chain tightened, scraping her skin, "What the hell do you want from me? If you're going to kill me, just get it over with."
"Don't be silly," he reached out to stroke her hair, but she shrank away, "I don't want to hurt you. I only wish for the old Ophelia to return. We were doing so well before Will Graham got to you. If only you hadn't seen those ridiculous little drawings. I fear all the drugs and liquor that you have indulged in have scrambled your brain, so to speak."
"One of us has a scrambled brain, alright," she spat, sliding back on the bunk.
Hannibal sighed, his fingers clenching and unclenching painfully slowly, "You can't see it now, but you will, Ophelia. You're going to be fine. We're going to be fine. I'm going to make you better."
"If I'm so sick," Ophelia was now pressed against the wall at the back of the bunk, "Then why don't you take me to the hospital?" Each word was a deliberate stab that just barely scratched at the surface of Hannibal's steely exterior.
"You can leave when you're ready," he stood, straightening the lapel of his jacket and turning toward the door, "Not before." He pushed through the metal door and stalked up the small flight of stairs to the outside world without another word, without another glance. It pained him so to see his Ophelia like this; she had been so wonderful, so promising. Part of him knew that it was his fault. But part of him still hoped that she would come back to him. If only she weren't so afraid.
Ophelia curled her legs to her chest, lodging her face between her knees. Once she was sure Hannibal was clear of the bunker, she let out an enormous, terrible scream. It shook her entire body and made her head feel light and empty, but she screamed until her throat could take no more.
In a fit of rage, she lunged across the room and threw open the box of tools. With her foot held aloft behind her, pointing back toward the door because of its painful restraint, Ophelia dug through the box, grabbing the hardest, heaviest object she could carry. Her feeble fingers gripped tightly around the base of a hammer, she turned and flung it toward the door, watching with a maniacal glint as it smashed into it at the precise spot where Hannibal's head had just been, leaving behind a minuscule dent.
"LET ME OUT!" she screamed, her voice hoarse. With a great groan, she plopped down on the cold concrete floor, her leg still outstretched. There she sat for hours upon hours, until Hannibal reappeared with a tray of food.
He did a double-take at the hammer on the floor when he reentered the bunker, but chose not to address it, "Dinner. It's not much; you didn't leave me much time to do much grocery shopping." It was clear that he was trying to make light of the situation, but it did not work in the slightest.
Ophelia stayed in her stalwart position at the opposite end of the room. Her leg, still forcibly outstretched and inches above the ground, was going numb. But she stayed put. If her chest hadn't been heaving with angry, heated breaths, Hannibal would have thought her a statue.
He set the tray down on the desk, laying the plastic fork and knife to the side as if he were setting his own table. Ophelia watched as he sprinkled a bit of salt on the mountain of vegetables that accompanied a small steak and a mound of potatoes. The portions on the plate could have fed a small village, at the rate Ophelia would have eaten.
"I need to get you eating correctly again," Hannibal said, seemingly reading her thoughts, "God knows what you've put into your body. You look skeletal, and I intend to remedy that."
"I'm not hungry," Ophelia muttered, balling her hands into fists at her sides.
"Yes you are," Hannibal dismissed her and began to cut the steak, never looking down at her, "I'll bring you a change of clothes, a bucket of water, and a bar of soap in a little while. We need to begin cleaning you up, yes?"
Ophelia said nothing, but continued to glare up at him.
"How are you feeling?" he finally looked down at her once her veritable feast had been prepared.
Silence. Contemptuous glares.
"Come over here. Please," Hannibal held his hand out to her, but did not move an inch otherwise. Through the impassive mask of his expressionless face there shone a glimmer of frustration.
The smell of the food reached Ophelia's nose, and her stomach growled. She hadn't eaten since before the night of the confrontation. As her stomach transformed into what sounded quite like a feral beast trapped in the depths of her stomach, Hannibal's face softened.
"Please," he repeated, "come eat."
Ophelia hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly hoisted herself to her feet, flinching when her joints popped in protest. She shuffled forward, kicking the chain along in front of her as she went.
Her focus was Hannibal's face as she approached the table, not the food. He seemed to be holding in an enormous, rapturous sigh, his eyes full of hopeful reverence. His mouth hung slightly open, as if words danced on his tongue, itching to escape.
Ophelia picked up the fork and stuck a piece of broccoli. Never breaking eye contact with Hannibal, she took a small bite. She relished the bit of sustenance; it was better than anything she had tasted since her last meal with Hannibal.
But she still refused to let him win. After she swallowed the small bite, she hurled the fork across the room and spat onto the plate.
What followed surprised her entirely.
Hannibal pulled his arm back at a sharp angle and then slapped his hand across her face so hard that she reeled, tumbling to the ground. As she began to scramble away, he grabbed the chain around her ankle and pulled her back to him, her stomach scraping across the concrete floor. He flipped her over, grabbing her shoulders and pinning her down where she lay.
"I thought you were dead, Ophelia," he roared, fire burning in his eyes, "I was afraid that you had been abducted. Murdered. You are the only human being who I have ever truly wanted to save. The only one I have ever cared about. I need you, Ophelia; I need you to be alright. I need you to be you again. Because I am not confident that I could forgive myself if the Ophelia I knew perished."
"I left," Ophelia hissed, all the poison she could muster tinging her words, "because I wanted to get away from you." She could feel her eye swelling and her cheek puffing.
Hannibal clasped his fists inches from her neck, then took a deep breath and stood. He straightened his suit, smoothed his hair, and looked back at the soiled plate of food.
"I'll return in a little while," he said soberly, his face a mask again. Without another word, he stalked from the room, leaving Ophelia on the floor in a crumpled heap. She stayed still for quite some time, even after he was gone.
After what seemed like an eternity, the hunger pains gnawing at Ophelia's stomach became far too much to bare. She scrambled over to the desk and, still on her knees, grabbed the steak with both her hands and bit into it ravenously. It was the most delicious things she had ever tasted, and she had devoured it within moments. Before she could even think, Ophelia had downed the potatoes and the rest of the broccoli.
Ophelia slumped back onto the wire cot, her stomach full to the bursting and her head pounding. With a sluggish heave, she pulled the chain up onto the end of the thin mattress. It had rubbed her ankle completely raw. Perhaps if she hadn't have been so horrendously nasty to Hannibal, she could have asked for a bandage to cover the wound.
Perhaps she should be kinder to Hannibal, she pondered. No progress would be made if she continued to be obstinate. But he was frightening. He had killed two men right before her eyes without as much as a bat of an eyelash. Anger boiled behind his passive mask, and she had gotten an unwarranted taste of it just moments before.
She pressed the tips of her fingers against the side of her face. The imprint of Hannibal's hand still burned red on her skin, reminding her that she was not immune to the unbridled emotion that he could usually keep so in check.
You are the only human being who I have ever truly wanted to save.
Ophelia groaned and rolled onto her side so that all she could see was the dirty concrete wall. Why did she feel such attachment to Hannibal? Surely she had to be some kind of extreme masochist. He clearly had thought of ending her life many a time. But if he had been telling the truth, he intended to keep her alive.
She could try and flee, but surely he would catch up with her again. How Hannibal had found her in London, she would never understand. Ophelia Ford had all but died, and Nora Spencer had replaced her. But somehow Hannibal had tracked her down in just over a month. A war of conflict raged in her mind, one side pleading for freedom. The other insisted that the Hannibal Lecter she had grown to love so much truly wanted to help her.
The door to the bunker creaked open behind her, but she did not move. Ophelia remained curled into a ball on her bed, her back to the rest of the room. If Hannibal wanted her to leave the cot, he would have to force her.
But it was not Hannibal who spoke, "Hello, Ophelia."
The voice was not one she had heard before. Fighting the soreness in her joints, Ophelia rolled over, the chain clanking along with her. In the doorway stood a woman. Her blonde hair shone brassy in the dim, greenish fluorescent lights, and her skin appeared almost translucent. She stood there, staring, her face stern and her posture statuesque.
"Who are you?" Ophelia inched backward on her cot until her back thumped against the wire that held it aloft.
"I don't mean to frighten you," the woman softened, holding her hands up and stepping toward the desk, "My name is Bedelia du Maurier. I am a colleague of Hannibal's." She pulled the stool out from beneath the desk and took a seat, taking care to remain a safe distance from Ophelia.
"What do you want from me?"
Bedelia shrugged, "Just for you to listen and to understand. Do you think you can do that?"
Ophelia hesitated for a moment, but nodded, her lips shut tight.
"While before I said that I am a colleague of Hannibal's, I must admit that the term 'colleague' is used rather loosely here. In truth, I am his psychiatrist and psychotherapist. Reluctantly, somewhat, but I am. He is my only patient, and for that I must be grateful."
"Why?" Ophelia snapped, "Why is he your only patient?"
Bedelia took a deep breath, as if she was mustering some kind of deep courage, "I have dealt with a number of... radical patients in my career, Ophelia. Some more than others. After one particularly violent encounter with a patient, I began to rethink the path that my career had taken. So I retired. But Hannibal insisted that we remain in contact."
"So you're his doctor," Ophelia could not see where this was going.
"In some respects, I do offer him my professional advice. But there are some things that require a more personal insight."
"Like what?"
"I think you know," Bedelia furrowed her brows, her wise eyes boring into Ophelia's.
"He's killed people."
"Yes."
"And you've covered it up?"
"It's been a point of much contention, but yes."
"Why?"
Bedelia paused for a moment, then frowned, "The answer to that is complicated."
"How so? Does he confide in you every time he kills someone?"
"Once again, it is quite complicated," Bedelia shook her head, "It would take me far too much time to explain to you everything that has transpired in my professional relationship with Hannibal. But you do need to understand this. Never before have I seen Hannibal Lecter care so deeply for a person. Many a time he has tried to manufacture emotion. And many a time it has ended in disaster. But now, in this instance, Hannibal has found the capacity to feel for another. You, Ophelia. It baffles me to no end, but the calculating, solitary Hannibal Lecter that I thought I understood so wholly has defied my expectation."
"But, the pictures-"
"Are nothing more than an outlet. Some people exercise to expel negative emotion. Some write. Some eat. And some draw. It does not matter what they draw, as long as it is a place for their negativity to hide. Like a dream journal, perhaps."
"A dream journal?"
"For a person to record their subconscious thoughts, yes. And just because you dream something, does not mean you wish it to happen. Everyone has outlandish dreams, Ophelia. Even Hannibal. They may be outlandish, but that does not mean he will act on them."
"You talk to him often."
"I do," Bedelia nodded, "His secrets don't disturb me much. Most likely because I have so many of my own. He comes to me, and I relish the opportunity to help him. I only hope to guide him in the right direction, as he hopes to do with you."
"Did you advise him on how to handle Will Graham? And Abigail Hobbs?" Ophelia's tone was unintentionally poisonous.
"What he did was not something I condoned. I encouraged him to cease his actions regarding Will Graham, but he persisted. Perhaps the outcome has forced him to reconsider my advice."
"Which is why you're here?"
"Hannibal knows not who to trust, Ophelia. It's clear that you've nearly destroyed yourself trying to escape him, and that has taken its toll on him. Are you truly frightened?"
Ophelia thought for a moment, her face scrunched into a contemplative frown, "No. Not entirely."
"But you were?"
"I was."
"Because of Will Graham."
"Because he, Alana, and Freddie were all in my head. They told me their views, and that was all I latched on to. I believed them because I was confused. And I was angry because I was confused. Everything was just so screwed up... I didn't know what or who to believe. I still don't."
"Hannibal is not innocent; that much is true."
"Who is, though?" Ophelia's voice was small. She began to feel guilty. Hannibal had saved her life countless times. If he had really wanted to kill her, he could have been through with it long ago.
"He killed your father," Bedelia stated. It was not a question; she was looking for a reaction. Validation.
"Yes."
"And how do you feel about that?"
"Relieved," Ophelia blurted immediately, "My father was a disturbed man. Clearly. Hannibal saved my life by ending his."
"Hannibal came to me while you were recovering," Bedelia leaned forward, her eyes swimming, "I have never seen a man so distraught. First he was worried that you would be frightened of him. He did, after all, brutalize your own flesh and blood. But then he was proud. He was very aware that you were alive and well. He felt empowered, like he had earned redemption."
"And then..." Ophelia's heart sank.
"And then you left. He did right by you, and then you left. At first he thought you had been abducted. But then, he put the pieces together."
Ophelia opened her mouth to respond, but no words would manifest. She could feel hot tears building in her eyes.
"It was the longest six weeks I believe he has ever endured. When he found where you had gone and who you had gone with, he found new life and drive. You are the spark, Ophelia. You are the reason Hannibal continues to function. Without you, he is not human."
"Did... something happen while I was away?" Ophelia could sense Bedelia's meaning.
She nodded, brushing a piece of blonde hair from her face, "A patient. Nearly killed him in the middle of an appointment. Hannibal resisted the urge, but it was difficult. When you were around, he was able to suppress those urges."
"What happened?"
"Hannibal had taken to carrying something of yours around wherever he went. A shirt, I believe, with the name of your sorority on it. The patient made a few lewd comments regarding the shirt and its presumed owner. You and I both know what happens when someone speaks ill of you."
Ophelia thought back to Mister Vegas, who had met a sudden death after confronting Ophelia in Cambridge, "It's not a pretty end."
"Precisely. You have to understand, Ophelia. Hannibal wants nothing more than for you to be yourself again. It was the drug-free, blonde haired, sweet Ophelia that he told me so much about, and that he desperately wants back. He loves you more than life itself. You must see this."
"As... messed up at it is, I do. I do."
"Good," Bedelia leaned back, relief flooding her tight features, "Then I have done my job." She stood and Ophelia scrambled to her feet as well. With an enormous clank, the chain fell to the floor.
"Thank you," Ophelia called after Bedelia as she began to retreat from the room, her voice cracking. She wasn't entirely sure what she was thanking Bedelia for, but it seemed appropriate.
Bedelia did not respond. The door slammed shut behind her, shaking the furniture in the bunker. Ophelia stared after her for quite some time.
He loves you more than life itself.
"Oh, God," Ophelia breathed. She turned and looked at herself in the mirror, truly seeing for the first time. Her skin had gone pale and gaunt, the bones of her face harshly visible. What had once been a luscious flame of hair had faded, and now stuck sweatily to her face like a limp, ruddy mop. She was dirty from head to toe. And the underside of her nose was red and raw.
Hannibal had not destroyed her. Her father had not destroyed her. What had nearly ended Ophelia Ford was a culmination of all the things that had changed her so permanently in the past months. And she knew, if she could survive this time of passage, it would change her for the better. She could grow. She could become stronger.
Outside the bunker, in the chilled autumn air, an owl swooped down into the nest of a sparrow. Showing no mercy, it devoured the tiny soul. It made no sound, no move to protest.
In the same tree, only a few branches above the death of the sparrow, an egg hatched in a nest. A baby owl fell from the egg, landing deftly amongst the discarded feathers of its mother owl. It rolled to its tiny feet and scrambled to the edge of the nest and watched as, below, the sparrow met its demise.