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 and mental manipulation, implied cannibalism and mature content.
Rinascere
Chapter Four
"Are you familiar with the concept of reincarnation, Doctor Lecter?" the man called Arthur asked. His hands were posed behind his back, the picture of ease and confidence as he caught his eye through the gloom.
The use of his true name was not lost on him; it was an attempt to sooth, placate and distract. It was a classic, if not blatant tactic, something done to give the subject the illusion of equality and equal footing. Something more suited to gentling a wild animal or consoling a half-feral child than a fully grown man. But he didn't react, content to let the man believe he'd begun to win him over.
"Who is not?" he countered, politely curious despite the fact that just underneath his skin, separated by a few millimeters of spider-thin tendons and living flesh, his blood seethed.
"We have been brought back, all of us, for a final mission. Something preordained by God and-" Arthur began, only to be cut off by the dark haired man at his side - all harried impatience and well-meant frustration as Lancelot rolled his eyes into the mist.
"I don't know why you even bother with this bit, Arthur," Lancelot interjected. "It makes us sound like a bunch of mentals no matter how many fancy words you decide to stick in or how delicate you try to put it," mirroring his thoughts exactly as Lancelot shook his head. There was no heat to the man's words however, only humor and a good natured sort of ribbing that was so familiar it hurt.
Gawain snorted out a laugh, crooked fingers running through his long brown hair as he tied it back into a thin pony tail – his expression alive with mirth and careful patience.
"They never believe it anyway," Lancelot continued, earning himself a round of nods from the others and a knowing look from his leader.
"Let Arthur say his piece," Dagonet interjected. "If the man is to come back to us, it must be on his own terms."
"It was my duty to protect you, to defend and value your lives above my own. And if you did perish, it was my duty to live my life gloriously in battle, in honor of your memory. I failed in part of that duty and for that I am sorry. Your love for me, your loyalty, as well as Lancelot's and Dagonet's, led to your death – taken from us in the heat of battle - on the very eve of your long awaited freedom," Arthur explained, expression inexplicably softening as he met his gaze, eyes distant – like he was watching something play out in his mind's eye.
And perhaps the madness was catching because suddenly he was there, perhaps not in the same memory, but one so similar that it very well could have been. His spine stiffened, nerves tingling just underneath the skin as his body remembered the sting of steel as it had slipping through his skin – teasing his exposed flesh as the cries of his brothers rose up in the distance. He remembered the soft sound that had issued from his lips – his mouth lax with surprise as the cry had rolled out, deep and breathy as his heartbeat slowed. Somewhere close by a horse was screaming, whinnying as blood feathered across his face. There was a man standing in front of him, wild and painted – a warrior out of time – the wildling raised his sword and then – darkness.
He rocked back on his heels, catching himself before the emotions racing through him could make it to his face. It was the analytical portion of his brain that saved him then, too intent on classifying the psychosis to spare any thought for the images still flashing behind his closed lids. Memories that were not memories, they couldn't be.
This was a Folie à deux, madness shared by two - or in his case, seven - a Folie à plusieurs, a 'madness of many'. It was a shared psychosis, nothing more, a psychiatric syndrome where the symptoms of a delusional belief are transmitted by the primary inducer – the Folie imposée – to others, known as the Folie simultanée. For the secondary subject the treatment was often simple, anti-psychotics and immediate separation from the original patient. But for the Folie imposée, his eyes automatically flicked over to Arthur, the treatment was usually far more…severe.
"I owe you a debt my friend, one I intend to repay," Arthur intoned. The words were so firm, so sure, that a damning shiver trickled up his spine, finding it odd that regardless of how ridiculous the man sounded, he didn't doubt him in the least.
The silence grew still, stagnant – uncomfortable. But he refused to give the man the satisfaction he craved. The satisfaction of having to ask what he meant. It was a stalemate.
Bors made a bored sound in the back of his throat. "Christ, I'm going to be old and grey by the time you lot get through with him. Just tell him and be done with it. It can't be any worse than what happened when you came for me," the big man snorted, huffing out a laugh that was at odds with his words.
He raised a brow, sensing a story there. Bors just grinned. He didn't have to say a word.
"Apparently the world can't take a piss unless one of us is holding its unmentionables – we're basically reincarnated nursemaids, bloody fantastic and all that," Bors continued, words riddled through with sarcasm and a rather unhealthy measure of self-importance as he made to continue.
"I came after them with a drainage pipe, when they found me. Knocked my arse clean out then tossed me right in the moor," Bors explained, tone almost conversational, like he'd told this story a dozen times before and now found it no more remarkable than a recitation of the day's weather. "We made so much ruckus that someone rang Scotland Yard. By the time the coppers found us –" gesturing off towards Arthur, Lancelot and Gawain, "we were hip-deep in muck and shit trying to strangle the daylights out of each other."
"It wasn't until they'd found Dagonet and decided to try again that everything fell into place. No jail time required, the bloody idiots," he grinned, slapping Dagonet on the back, expression undeniably fond as the corners of Arthur's lips twitched, his dark eyes smiling.
He stamped down on the urge to return the gesture, uncertain of where the emotion came from in the first place. Already mentally back stepping as the others chimed in.
"You always were a bit thick," Gawain laughed, ducking the man's playful smack just in time as even Dagonet finally cracked a smile.
Something tickled, niggling and squirming on the edge of his awareness, something that told him that this was familiar – right. Something that told him that he knew this, them – and that this moment had played out a thousand times before, wreathed in the haze of wood smoke and ancient sweat.
But that was impossible. He knew it was impossible, and yet-
Reality stuttered. He breathed, shocky and ill-timed. But rationality – logic, was quick to push it away. It was a flaw in the design, an imp in the engine, a ghost in the machine, nothing more.
He was letting himself get distracted.
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!
"And only the enlightened can recall their former lives; for the rest of us, the memories of past existences are but glints of light, twinges of longing, passing shadows, disturbingly familiar, that are gone before they can be grasped, like the passage of that silver bird on Dhaulagiri." ― Peter Matthiessen, (from The Snow Leopard)