Hya there. I see this story is gathering a few more reads, probably because it is not so short anymore. For those who never left a word (hence, whose existence I cannot acknowledge at all), please leave me a review to tell me what you think. I see I have 7 people following now, so let me now who you are :) I love all my readers, and I don't bite but it is always difficult to not know what people like or dislike whenever I try to post a new chapter. To my faithful followers, you know how much I love you ! Cheers

Hannibal still had trouble wrapping his mind around the concept. But what Will wanted, the psychiatrist granted … especially since his wife was adamant that they try it. And his curiosity asked for answers. The name Galahad had even sputtered from his own mouth like a spark from his subconscious. Now was the time to challenge Frances' story; would it resist his insistent probing? Crack under pressure? Despite the hundreds of surreptitious questions he had thrown her way, he never caught her off guard. Her incredible story was consistent through and through.

Frances' presence behind him was nearly forgotten – not entirely – as his smooth voice guided Will into the deep state of hypnosis, plunging his patient to the very depth of his inner self. It was always magnificent; the way Will responded to his voice, trusting him to guide him on the way to his very core. A core he feared because of his empathy disorder. Hannibal almost sneered at the diagnostic. A disorder. How could anyone label the pure, complete bound Will could summon as a disorder? He that always kept his own empathy on a tight lid, calling it scarcely, then securing it away for fear of burning himself once more. A lifetime habit that Frances gnawed at slowly, but surely.

And before he allowed her to crawl under his skin, Hannibal needed to assess her mental health, to decide whether this woman he was willing to call wife could be a danger to him, to his tight shell. Whether he could allow his feelings to develop, or shut her out of his heart entirely. Whether the leak he was about to allow would drown him entirely.

Will's face contorted, as if in pain. His hand gripped the sides of his armchair tightly, and his breathing came more laboured. Behind him, he could feel Frances' worried glances. Will had insisted for her presence, something he was not so happy about. But she swore to remain silent, and not interfere. Thus, he could barely hear her breathing. Hannibal spoke to Will softly, telling him he wasn't alone that he was safe. Asking him to recount whatever he was seeing now. The answer was more than what he bargained for.

— "I am riding, hard, in the icy rain with twenty other men. I am young, the youngest, and the man beside me looks out for me regularly. We are not brothers, but it feels like it."

— "Describe this man to me."

— "His hair is long, tawny, with tangles. Blue eyes, a blond beard. He wears some kind or armour. So do I, but my legs are bare under the chainmail. I have a … a skirt of sort, with metal danglings. Our commander is at the front, a heavy sword in his hands"

Hannibal rested his elbows on his thighs, crossing his hand in front of his chin. Still unconvinced. But not entirely … for the image of a hawk suddenly popped in his mind, and with the magnificent bird, warmth spread in his chest. But now Will's breathing was getting more laboured, as if his lungs constricted. His voice quivered.

— "I am on a hill. My armour is heavy, my brother wears a funny-looking helmet with plates that fans around his neck. There is smoke, dark smoke, it hurts my lungs, I…"

Hannibal needed to ground him before a panic crisis took hold of his patient, and he started a mantra in a low, soothing voice.

— "Breath, Will. Remember you are safe, here. Take a moment, breathe in slowly, and out. In, and out…"

Will released a shuddering breath, his knuckles white on the armchair. But he refused to relent, and started describing again what could only be a gruesome battlefield. He was slicing though enemies, his arrows spent, his horse let loose on the battlefield to try to reach his brother who had taken a nasty blow to the side. His arms were sore, his body battered, but the rage building inside his chest kept him alert. The smoke burnt his lungs, acrid, its smell mixed with that of blood, sweat and horrid fluids. And then, he saw her. The Keeper of Time.

— "For a short moment, I can only watch them as they dance. I know I should be more cautious, I know I should be checking my surroundings. It is only a matter of time before I get hit. But I can't stray my eyes off them. She is as agile as he is; Tristan, my brother, unmatched on the battle field. He is slicing through enemies like a knife through butter. And she, she dances around him, with him, and they go back and forth like the wrath of God unleashed on the Saxons. There are no words to describe what I see, they are so attuned to each other that she sometimes hits a man that Tristan finishes, and vice versa. But I have no time, more enemies are coming, I need to fight again, I need to defend my life,"

Hannibal had stopped taking notes, his whole being suspended to Will Graham's visions. His while body was coiled, ready to spring from his seat, the atmosphere of the battle permeating through him. He, the mighty, coldest detached bastard of all humanity, couldn't prevent the stress of the battle to wash through his own body. Did it come from Will? Or within? Hannibal didn't know anymore, for he, too, was experiencing glimpses. Not visions, no, but the rush of the battle, the anxiety of protecting Frances, the cold analysis of the battlefield. And this man, the chef … the cold-hearted bastard that wanted her! That blasted Saxon!

Hannibal started. Those thoughts didn't belong to him, and he needed to keep his façade and walls in place. It was just his empathy towards Will affecting him. So when at last, Will spoke again, Hannibal though he was ready to take in whatever he was going to describe. How incredibly wrong he was, for very soon, Will started tearing up. Fascinated, the psychiatrist watched and his hands clenched and unclenched, throat constricted, until words started to drip one by one.

— "Tristan is dying … his blood keeps flowing, his arm is stabbed by a dagger. The woman had crawled by his side… A bolt protrudes through her collarbone. I feel for her, I like her, this sister. And she is so badly shattered that I want to cry. I can hardly look at it."

And Will Graham plunged once more into the recesses of his mind to paint the gruesome picture of the battle of Badon Hill, wondering all the way how he could summon such details. The smell of the fight, the clashes of swords, the cries of dying men and horses. Her contorted face, pain written plainly, collarbone a mess of bones and torn flesh, helmet discarded. And Tristan's pale face as his hand barely managed to caress her cheek. Tristan's features, tattooed cheekbones and full lips, the most typical and recognisable face he had ever seen. Hannibal's! Those traits, there were Hannibal's! He needed to tell him, tell his friend the indefectible bond he had shared with Frances. For she had been there, by his side, as he died. A true friend, the love of one's life.

— "I didn't understand Hannibal… I didn't understand why she clung to Tristan until now. Why she clung to you. But now I do … her pain…"

A sob escaped William, and he buried his face into his hands for a moment. Silence reigned supreme in the office, plush carpets and tall bookshelves the only testimonies of this difficult moment shared between friends. Tear tracks still smeared his cheeks, but Will continued nonetheless.

— "Her pain … is crippling. But her hand rests upon his heart until he dies. I see the light leave his eyes. I ache everywhere, but my heart is ripped apart. I am losing another brother, and she … she makes it all too real. She doesn't yell, doesn't scream. She only weeps, her tears fall upon his face, then she collapses from the pain or her own blood loss. I am afraid she will die too, our little Frances. She cannot die too! Her red hair falls upon both of them, it shields them in a cocoon alike to death. Then I know the battle is over, and I fall to my knees, praying to all the Gods that Frances would live to see another day"

Frozen in place, Hannibal waited for more words, but none came. Frances. And him? For a moment, he felt the tears gracing his cheeks, the sensation of salty droplets sliding through his beard – how he hated having a beard, he never sported one – his lifeforce ebbing away, pooling into the earth, and her warm blood upon his arm. Impossible. This was impossible! Plainly, and truthfully impossible. The psychiatrist needed to call his patient back before he experienced a seizure. A single glance behind him clenched his heart painfully. Frances had not moved nor made a sound, but tears ran steadily on her face, like two streams trying to drown themselves into the sea. Hands clasped together, she breathed slowly to prevent from sobbing, keeping her word to remain silent. The hurt she radiated was painful to watch, too painful. Had she reconvened her story with William? Were they lying to him? Abusing his nonexistent credulity? To what end?

Slowly, methodically, Hannibal recalled William from his trance. And when he opened his clear blue eyes to meet his, there was a different gleam than when he had closed them.

— "Hannibal. That dying man, Tristan. It was you. Your face"

— "It is not impossible that you might have plastered the face of known people onto the visions you had, Will."

His young patient harrumphed, lifting his arms to the sky at his stubbornness. But when his eyes shifted to the lone woman weeping behind him, William jumped to his feet. His arms opened, and she literally flew into him for a desperate hug. Her sobs increased tenfold, as if all the sorrows of her life were released in this very moment. Her whole form was shaking, and it crushed him to hear such pain, such raw anguish extracted from the strong woman who had saved his life. And Will Graham, the man who fled eye and physical contact altogether, crushed her into a tight embrace like he was a long-life friend. His reservations forgotten; his walls shattered.

It as a bittersweet sight for Hannibal. Until then, Frances had shown no weakness to him, taking things in stride and submitting her way of life to his very demands. Malleable, yet partially dead. But then, he just saw the spark of life rekindled, and he wasn't the one able to do it. At last, her sobs subsided, and Will took her face between his hands.

— "I am glad to see you again, Frances."

— "Galahad," she whispered. "Galahad, you have no idea how I missed you."

She had no need to tell him what he had seen; Will was quite aware that his vision was one of his past self. And for the moment, it shook his foundations so badly that he didn't even think about asking her how she remembered so much. No. Questions would arise in time, when his mind settled, and his brain took over. So when Will left this evening, badly shaken, it felt like a new world had just opened up to him. He had secured a promise from Frances, that if she didn't feel up to telling him everything she knew, that she would do the next best thing and write it.

Hannibal was satisfied with their deal, for he would be the first one to read her manuscript. Maybe it could trigger something buried deep within himself. Or maybe not. The psychiatrist was still at loss about what to believe, and when he closed the door, he wasn't expecting Frances' next words.

— "I have visions of the future, Hannibal. Dreams, sometimes, or hunches. The day you were attacked, I knew it was coming. I saw Franklin, dead and bloodied. And your hand, on the floor with this horrible wire around it… This is why I was the Keeper of Time."

— "What do you mean?"

Her gaze was intense, sparkling, as if she was just picking up something important.

— "I thought, at first, that the Valar sent me those visions so I could complete those missions. But I understand now I was wrong. It is my nature. This is why they choose me, not the other way around."

Hannibal nodded, for what could he say? This whole thing was just too crazy for his mind to wrap around it. She spoke of Gods from another planet, of aliens and prescience. This last bit, though, was the closest he could probably accept, for he had racked his brain day and night to understand how Frances had possibly gathered that Tobias would try to kill him this very night. Nothing logical had come forth, leaving him bereft … and almost ready to believe in the paranormal.

— "What William has seen in the battle of Badon Hill. Year 472. Britain. Not my first, but my last battle. I have killed more people than you have, Hannibal. Much, much more. In Interpol, as a trainee with SG1, and in the past. The last one, Tobias, because he would have killed you. And even if I am not proud of it, I won't drown in the guilt because those death were necessary to other's survival. My only regret is that I couldn't save you. I won't lose you in this life, Hannibal. I can't lose you"

A surge of jealousy suddenly tickled his usual poise, and the words were almost bitter as he said:

— "What about Will?"

Frances' eyebrows rose on her forehead, genuinely surprised by the harshness of his comment. It was too late to backtrack, and Hannibal fought tooth and nail the rage that threatened to overwhelm his common sense. Did it matter so much that she might love another? He had, after all, not declared his feelings, for he couldn't make heads or tails of it at the moment. Frances was free to go. But somehow, the single idea that she might choose another man, one more suited to her tastes, one with the sense of empathy and the will to use it, one that wasn't a cold-hearted killer … it didn't sit right by him. Truthfully, it even twisted his insides. 'Mine,' screamed his torn mind. 'Mine,' like a possessive wolf.

— "What about him?" she asked warily.

Hannibal didn't meet her eyes this time.

— "What was he to you?"

Understanding suddenly flowed her features, as if the reason of his coldness suddenly made sense. Her hand came to rest upon his forearm, her lips kissing his temple gently. Hannibal closed his eyes, awaiting the dreaded answer while his skin relished in the softness of her lingering lips. He could never admit how much he enjoyed her contact; he that only praised the betterment of the mind. He had never been one for physicality; now he realised he was becoming addicted to the comfort she provided.

— "He was a friend, a brother in arms and a son."

Silence descended, its heavy blanket swallowing his office whose only light was the flame of the fireplace. Hesitantly, the young woman climbed into his lap, her head settling on his shoulder. Hannibal tightened his hold over her slender frame, marvelling that she would choose him. For a while, all was quiet in Hannibal's office, the only noise the crackling of burnt wood and the muffled sounds of cars passing in the street. Frances' lips travelled to his neck, gently nibbling his skin as she took in his subtle scent. Her soft breath fanned upon the collar of his shirt, her hands loosely clasped around his shoulders, and for a moment, all was well in the world. Until she suddenly straightened.

— "Will smells funny. Do you think he might be sick?"

Shocked, Hannibal addressed her an impressed look.

— "I didn't expect anyone but myself to pick up on it too."

His subtle praise called colours to her cheeks, and he wasn't fooled when she only shrugged. For she wouldn't speak of Lord Elrond and Aragorn's tutelage – sometimes in the wild, smell was the only way to indicate injury – not when Hannibal had such a hard time accepting about his past life. But her latest hug with Will had given her plenty of time to wonder. Something was off.

— "Sensitive smell. I can't tell you how difficult the fifth century was in that account. Everything just stunk, from food to blankets."

— "I can only imagine"

Yes. Imagine. For he could not believe yet. Still … she had picked up on William's irregular scent, and correctly interpreted it.

— "So should we take him to the doctor? A specialist? What do you suspect?"

— "A neurologist would be the right one to go to."

There was caution and restraint in his words, some underlying meaning that made ants crawl up her spine. Slowly, but surely, Frances untangled her limbs from the psychiatrist and came to kneel before him, her long fingers intertwining with his. Hannibal's eyes were guarded, the amber more pronounced as flames danced in his eyes. Sometimes, he looked alike to a vengeful angel, bringing misery to mankind. Shaking the image off, Frances resumed her line of thinking.

— "Well, what's the procedure? Is Will aware that he might be sick?"

— "There is nothing certain as of now," came his smooth voice, carefully controlled.

— "Then we need to make sure. Don't you think his symptoms could be related to this illness?"

— "How much do you know about his symptoms, Frances?"

Could this interrogation get any colder? The young woman left Hannibal's hand, a shiver shaking her shoulders as she stood up to get closer to the fireplace.

— "Only what he told me, which is not a lot. But it might just worsen, or get better on its own depending on what you have in mind"

Silence greeted her words, and for a moment, she wondered if the psychiatrist would ever answer her implicit question.

— "Encephalitis"

— "Inflammation of the brain"

Hannibal nodded, pleased that the young woman retained some medical knowledge from her enhanced biology classes.

— "Yes. An autoimmune disease or a viral reactivation"

Some knowledge, all right, but she wasn't a doctor. And there, Frances admitted to be out of her depth. Where she could grasp the logic, she lacked the basics of medical school to be able to go further.

— "I am unfamiliar with this one. So is there any way to pinpoint the primary cause?"

— "An MRI might confirm the diagnosis. Blood tests would show an elevated number of antibodies or a response to infection."

Her deep chocolate eyes reflected the flames, the reddish strands seemingly on fire in the orange glow. Hannibal stood, the need to caress her silky hair too strong to resist. And while she frowned, thinking heavily, his long fingers buried themselves in the long strands of her fiery hair.

— "White blood count?"

— "Yes"

The psychiatrist's towering frame engulfed her slender one, hiding the light entirely as his nose rested atop her head smelling her fragrance; a very subtle womanly scent he had already committed to memory. He considered, just a moment, to kiss her senseless and make love to her. The desk or the carpet in front of the fire … the couch maybe? Would she forget about this conversation? Let him lead as he pleased? Unfortunately, Frances was a perceptive one, and she set her hands gently upon his chest, as if putting some distance between their humming bodies.

— "How long have you known?"

Her tone held just the right amount of wariness for him to know she had guessed. He should have lied to her, right there and then, and smoothed her ruffled feathers with a kiss, dinner and a glass of wine. But Hannibal was no liar, neither was she. Turning his head aside, he only provided the smallest amount of information.

— "A little while," came his detached syllables.

Frances took an unconscious step back, still in reach of his long arms, but severing the contact nonetheless.

— "Did you mean to tell him?"

— "Not now"

— "Why?" she shot back.

— "I wanted to know what would happen."

Fury, disappointment, sadness, anger. Stone-faced, she didn't let any of those emotions show on her face. But her gaze, ablaze, spoke much to a man that was used to pick up the slightest of inflections in the tone of voice, the smallest of eye movement, the most insignificant of breaths. She was starting to see him now … and she didn't like it. A killer, she could handle. But a manipulative bastard? She wasn't so sure.

Hannibal couldn't help the pang of regret that seized his heart. There went the acceptance he thought he'd found. For she loved him, this ancient version of him … of this he had no doubt. But she had overlooked so many things in his modern self. His coldness, his inability to love entirely, and his manipulative ways. Underestimated at best. Her love was only partial, for she barely saw a fraction of what he was.

Tears suddenly pooled in her eyes; an unexpected outcome, for she didn't take a swing at his head. Her voice was but a whisper, the reverence still here as she pronounced his name.

— "You care for him, Hannibal. Why would you hurt him so?"

Her words echoed in his chest like the mightiest of uppercuts. Hurt? He wasn't hurting Will, merely bringing him to the breaking point where he would recognise his inner self. Raise from the ashes of his self-inflicted pain and anguish, accept his whole beauty.

— "I will make sure he is in no danger of dying."

The young woman scoffed, her eyes wide with disbelief.

— "Death? Is that the only danger to you?"

— "Yes. What else?"

The earnest answer cut her anger down, leaving instead, a desperate plea.

— "Don't you see the scars you are carving? Don't you see the hurt, the doubt, the self-depreciation? How about discovering that the man you think your friend has lied to you? Manipulated you to think you were nuts? All this … experiment, it will all leave a mark upon him, never forgotten. I've seen his soul broken into tiny pieces already, I don't want to witness his demise again."

There was no answer, Hannibal's guarded gaze resting upon her tears strained face, for what could he say? She would never understand his motives, as he had not understood her point of view. Her very human, very normal point of view. Perhaps… Will's point of view? As he mused upon it, Frances lifted her hands in surrender.

— "I don't understand, I don't understand at all. I'm sorry, I need to go right now."

And she picked her woollen coat up, preventing him from coming at her with a shake of her head. Everywhere, anytime, he always helped her into her coat. A gentleman, through and through, with manners of another century. The manners his parents taught him, his only inheritance now. Frances always joked that even if a tidal wave came rushing, he would find the time to hold her vest's sleeves. And open the passenger door on her behalf. She usually kissed him after this, the twinkle in her eyes fading as love washed over them. But today, she wasn't smiling at his habits. Today, she just looked devastated. By him. And it hurt. So when she passed the door of his office, his only words were one of safety. His bleeding heart was too shocked to utter anything else.

— "Do you have your car, Frances?"

The last thing he wanted was for her to wander in the night.

— "I'll walk. Don't worry about me, I can take care of myself. I'm not afraid to be alone."

And she disappeared in the darkness, the last fiery strand engulfed in the night. Alone.