Disclaimer: I don't own NBC's "Hannibal" or Jerry Bruckheimer's "King Arthur," wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is an AU/reincarnation fiction involving "Hannibal" and the movie "King Arthur," specially revolving around a romantic relationship between Hannibal (who is the reincarnation of Tristan) and Will Graham (who is the reincarnation of Galahad). This story was made possible by a prompt on the Hannibal kinkmeme. Please see original chapter for complete information regarding the specifics of this prompt.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for the movie, and just to be safe, all of Hannibal, season one, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore, murder, emotional manipulation, implied cannibalism, brief mention of pedophilia (for this chapter) and mature content.
Rinascere
Chapter Two
"Jesus Tristan, I hope he at least deserved it."
It had been ten years since that moment, and he still remembered everything about it. He remembered its complexities and hidden pauses, the richness of his surprise and the cadence of his uncertainty. Even now, nearly a decade later, it still proved to be one of the most titillating bouquets of memory he'd ever had the fortune of experiencing. The mere elegance of it was still enough to send scores of heat arrowing down his spine, creating pleasure from the mundane - a performance out of sensation.
If he had to equate it to something, he would probably say that it reminded him of the first sip of a particularly exquisite bottle of dry Chianti. Bold and sweet against the tongue.
He recalled the pull of his shirt against his shoulders, the texture of the expensive silk as it sunk into the grooves of his spine - every muscle in his body suddenly pulling tight. The light breeze ghosted across his skin, flirting with the muted scents of stale urine and fresh vomit that were still issuing from the limp body underneath him - spread-eagled across a naturally flat stone in the center of a secluded clearing.
It had been an irresistible stage, well worth the effort of an extended chase. The only thing it needed was actors. That was where Ronald came in.
Mr. Ronald K. Jefferson was, according to the law, a fine, upstanding American citizen. He had no outstanding warrants, a single speeding ticket in over four decades of driving and had never once failed to file his taxes. Medically speaking, he was in the best shape of his life and was a regular donor of blood and plasma at his local blood bank. Off paper, he was supporting a young mistress in an expensive condo in Los Angeles while his wife of twenty years was often left alone with three boys for weeks at a time as her hard working husband 'traveled across country for business trips.' But perhaps more pointedly, Mr. Jefferson was an undocumented pedophile with a penchant for little girls, most recently five year old Jessica Stanton. A tiny, leggy little thing with dark curls and a gap toothed smile – already buried in a shallow grave just five miles from her parent's townhouse. The case was still making headlines across the state. No one had found the body – yet.
He also had a rather unfortunately habit of talking loudly on his cell phone while attending the cinema. But he supposed that in light of the man's other crimes, that was neither here nor there.
Now, Mr. Ronald K. Jefferson was naked, stripped and arranged to mimic Leonardo da Vinci's Vitruvian Man – his arms stretched out to represent the square depicted in the famous sketch while the severed arms of Mrs. Elizabeth Swanson, who unfortunately could not join them for their festivities that evening, represented the circle. Her legs, fleshy and pallid, already superimposed between his to complete this version of the renowned piece.
The scene was set, perfect, despite the fact that they were sixty miles away from any inhabited areas and three from the nearest road. He'd wanted to take his time with Mr. Jefferson. He'd wanted to enjoy him. And he had. He'd stolen the weight of the man's last breath and claimed it as his own. His hand wrapped firmly around Jefferson's still beating heart as he'd stroked him from the inside out, in a parody of a cardio vascular massage. The way each rib had spread underneath his hands, blood slick and heaving, had been a near hedonistic experience.
Natural design, geometry, ideal human proportions – humanity at its most basic, the metallic tang of blood on his tongue – was their anything better?
Even when the man had lost the ability to scream, he'd never once looked away. His eyes, hazel and blood-shot, refused to leave his attacker's face. Riveted, even as his own blood had speckled across their cheeks. And while it wasn't necessary, he'd certainly appreciated the sentiment.
He remembered the way he'd stopped breathing, pulse hitching, jumping for a few discomforting seconds before it smoothed - like a falcon ruffling its feathers, graceful and calm. He remembered the hiss of air he'd sucked in, the sound starkly contrasted against the chuckles that had echoed through the clearing at his back.
…Interrupted, sexual tension unrealized, rude…
He remembered the irritation he'd felt at being interrupted, his hackles up – threatening. The surprise of being discovered melding together with the sensation of warm blood trickling between his fingers, slicking the grip of his scalpel as his spine stiffened. He kept his back to them on principal, his body a canvas of hard lines as he closed his eyes - letting his senses tell him what he was facing before he turned.
It was only when he faced them that irritation and uncertainty morphed into idle curiosity. His expression showed nothing of his thoughts as an inner smile tipped the scales – with the possibility of a new game, a new amusement, a new challenge being enough to catch his interest.
A different kind of prey.
A group of five had ringed around him, coming completely out of the shadows as he turned, scalpel glinting at his side, blood splattered and smeared. His hair was feathered across his temples, shadowing his eyes, but he resisted the urge to smooth it back. It was the first time anyone had ever taken him by surprise. He hadn't even heard them.
The man who had spoken was tall, bald and barrel chested. His voice deep, raspy and British, accompanied by a dark little chuckle that immediately set his teeth on edge. He knew that laugh.
He inclined his head slightly. There was no fear, anger, surprise, or disgust there. In fact, the man's tone was almost appreciative, like killing was a spectator sport and they were the encore. The thought alone was alluring.
The blood dripping off the flat stone behind him became a stream, a river, trickling and red. It was rhythmic – yet cacophonous, unique, beautiful, better.
His audience approved.
He observed the others critically. They were all roughly the same age, Caucasian, well dressed, capable, fit, each a touch exotic in their own way. He sized them up, mapping out their intricacies as they stood in uniform, winged out two strong on either side of a tall man with dark curls and a roman nose.
Because the man who'd first spoken was not the leader, that much was obvious. Each of the five was capable of it, of course, of greatness, but they deferred to the man that crowned the center of their half circle all the same. There was history there, loyalty and love that ran deeper than anything else he'd ever experienced. Discomfort itched, rare and unwelcome between his shoulder blades.
He was missing something.
His suspicions were only confirmed when the man himself stepped forward - smiling, his expression wry and anticipatory as he took him in unabashedly. Like the man knew something he did not.
"It's been a long time my friend."
His fingers tightened around the scalpel.
A/N #2: Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up soon!
"Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form." ― Rumi