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 and mature content.
Rinascere
Chapter Three
He thought quickly, schemes and plans falling in and out of favor before he finally settled on honesty - one of the more morally uniform, if not slightly underused, options in his arsenal.
"While I can assure you that he did," he began, nodding towards the limp flesh behind him, "I am afraid you have me mistaken with someone else."
He inclined his head slightly as he took them in, observing, finding himself inexplicably curious as to what would happen next. He could sense no threat from them. No malice or ill will despite their body language, which undoubtedly promised it. They were eager, on edge, yet by all appearances, had no intention of hurting him. Not in any of the more conventional ways at least.
Yet that didn't stop him from tensing when the man in the center stepped forward. He held his ground, expression unaffected. But the hand holding the scalpel twitched.
The leader only smiled, clever and warm.
"You know me as Arthur, as Artorius Castus - the last commander of Hadrian's wall," he began, his voice deadly calm, serious, as one of his men, tall and lithe with dark hair and a goatee, shifted restlessly beside him.
The man – Arthur, was a natural leader, a natural speaker. Gifted. Confident. And unlike the bald man, his accent was a mixture of old English and soft Italian. It was subtle, with only the stresses on the vowels giving his mixed heritage away, but detectable man had taste, style, breeding. From his words to his suit – which was expensive, professionally fitted and French - the man had a pedigree. Thoroughbred.
He was an intellectual with a body of a warrior – curious.
"My men, your brothers - Lancelot, Gawain, Bors and Dagonet," he continued, letting a hand sweep out to encompass the others, words stirring and passionate as he recited the names of legend. A thought rose up, veiled and uncertain. They were two short. The Circle was incomplete.
He blinked, suddenly understanding. Tristan, Welsh for 'the noise of arms' or 'the song of a sword', French for sorrow - renowned in Arthurian legend as the name of one of the Knights of the Round Table. Round, because for men to be men they must first all be equal.
If he were anyone else he might have laughed.
"We have been searching for you for a long time, brother," Arthur murmured, so sincere he wanted to carve another smile into the man's face and watch as it seeped out. Wondering, off-handedly what insanity tasted like.
"I assume, since you followed me, you know what I do. In fact, I am sure of it," he began, choosing his words carefully before continuing. Letting the moonlight filter across his face as a blanket of mist rose up around them, filtering in from the marshes to the east.
He couldn't have asked for a better stage.
"But, despite that...lack of manners, I would be happy to refer you, all of you, to a very respectable psychologist. She has just started her own practice, quite the bright young woman – a rarity in the field," he replied, tone heady with amusement, dark and bitter around the edges as he inhaled – taken aback when he realized that the scent of blood had faded, overwrought with the aroma of old leather and horse sweat.
He shook himself, trying to regain his center, but the scent remained. It was carved under his skin, ingrained – permanent.
Laughter rose up in the interim, genuine and deep. The kind unique to a group of men who'd spent the majority of their lives in each other's company – tested and strong.
"You always were the practical one, Tristan, I'll give 'ya that," Bors chuckled, running a hand across his closely shorn head as he elbowed the silent man at his side, Dragonet, companionably.
"Tristan…" The name rolled off his tongue unbidden, familiar. The group stilled, looking up at him expectantly, waiting.
And for reasons beyond him, a growl rose up in his throat.
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!
"This life is but a brief tenure, one of many perspectives a spirit must experience in the quest for eternity." ― Brian Rathbone, (From The Call of the Herald.)