So … what now, uh? Same as before, a little review makes my day. French, Spanish, Italian, English, Danish, Norwegian or German, be my guest. I am not picky, just a few words. Please ? If you like, let me know what you think.

The hour was late. Dinner, alone, had left a sour taste in his mouth. Not that the food left to be desired. No matter the circumstances, Hannibal always knew how to cook a delicious dish. But it wasn't the same, to eat alone, or to share it. Especially since Frances always complimented him, searching, assessing, tasting… His exceptional love for food permeated to her, albeit to a lesser degree. Yet she always strived to learn, curious about his every move, watching intently as he cooked. Not one of his ideas went undiscussed, not one of the spices, the colours, the textures unnoticed. When had it become a welcome respite, to share the kitchen with her in the evening? He wondered.

Now, glass of wine in his hand, eyes lost in the crackling fire, Hannibal wondered what he wanted most. Her presence? It certainly put a soothing balm on his aching soul. Her touch? Her acceptance? The truth… Yes. The truth. First and foremost. For deep within his chest, something incomplete begged for him to dig further. And so, eyeing the delicious Mouton Cadet with a sigh, Hannibal plunged into the deep burgundy robe of this delicious cru. Time to man up. A smirk adorned his face; he never backed down from a challenge. And this one was very different from the trials of his life. Yet, he would face it head on. Setting the glass of wine aside, Hannibal started breathing slowly. In, and out. In, and out. The background disappeared, blurring, and he left the gentle cracking of the embers guide his thoughts.

In less than ten minutes, he attained the state of meditation that released his alpha waves. It was an effort, to let them take over, to slide into the deep state of hypnosis, to surrender control. Even to himself. A necessary evil.

The sensation that surged forth was already familiar. The droplets of tears falling upon his face, the contours of her face barely distinguishable through the haze of his pain. For he was in pain, a crippling, tremendous tear that fortunately, didn't take over his modern self; despite his high tolerance, Hannibal would have had a seizure. Still, he knew himself to be dying, his conscience sliding, inch by inch, to the darkness. He could feel the life flowing out of him, could feel her own blood pooling over his armour from the bolt piercing her collarbone. Worry seized his chest at the swarmy sight of her gruesome wound. How would she survive such a thing? She would be crippled for life, pained for years to come until death took her away. Would she ever use her arm again ? How would she survive ? He prayed to whatever God that his brothers would take care of her. That Arthur would…

Her eyes held his, daring him to close them, raising panic replacing frantic worry. "Tristan," she breathed, leaning painfully upon his broken form. It didn't matter that she pressed on painful wounds for he knew there was no surviving this. He'd been stabbed too many times, incapacitated by stronger than he. A piercing cry called his eyes to the sky. It was too bright, but very soon, a cloud of acrid smoke released the pressure of the shining sun. Two huge wings tore through it, and his mouth tried to smile. "Isolde," he breathed out before closing his eyes. Frances' frantic cries called him back to life, for one small instant. "Don't you dare," she yelled, tears pooling in her shiny eyes. "Don't you dare leaving me like this !"

For a moment, or eternity, Tristan closed his eyes once more. He was ready to welcome death, to disappear from the world and join the spirits … and tell them of the heartaches he had suffered, of the injustice of his life. Of his love for Frances, his little fairy. Even if she did not return it, for she loved another, one brighter, more beautiful than he ever would be. Then something glowed above him. Tendrils of light reached into his chest, Frances' very being sipping through his, her life force shared to raise him to consciousness once more. A desperate attempt, for he knew he was lost. Still, he basked in the strength of her love for a moment, relishing that, in this very moment, they were joined as one by the grace of her gift.

Tristan was at peace. He had protected Arthur, so that he could become the great King that the Keeper of Time predicted. He had protected her, so that she could go and find her betrothed. Mission accomplished. He could die now, knowing his life had not been lost in vain. Her energy was waning, the flow of energy she shared dimming by the second. Cold crept into his bones, chasing her warm tendrils away. It was a losing battle; he couldn't allow her to spend her energy thus. She was far too wounded to sustain it any longer, but the stubborn woman wouldn't let got. The strain was too great; her bloodloss already crippling. It was up to him to sever the link lest she killed herself trying to revive him.

His eyes opened once more, and he summoned whatever was left of his energy to caress her cheek. Her smooth, beautiful, and brutally bruised cheek. How he loved her, this fiery woman who had shared a searing kiss with him atop his faithful steed. "Don't cry little fairy," he said. "I will watch…" A cough racked his body, blood spluttering over. A punctured lung. A death sentence. "Will watch over you … from up there." His eyes locked on hers, intense, their depth unreadable, two mesmerising orbs that kept her under his spell until the very last moment. Then there was only darkness, before a bright light engulfed him, and his body fell, lifeless, on the unforgiving floor of Badon Hill.

Hannibal's amber eyes opened, shell shocked. He had tried so hard, to push the truth away, to take refuge into the meanders of his genius mind. He'd been so ready to accept Frances' schizophrenia, albeit she never showed any symptoms of it, assessing like a psychiatrist would a patient. How rude of him ! No wonder she seemed cross whenever he spoke of her mental state. For her wounds, her scars were very different than expected, and he had denied them all to escape the gruesome reality. But now there was nothing to guard him anymore, nothing between this day and the painful death, and life he had lived fifteen hundred years ago. As if he had joined the two pieces of himself. And it frightened him.

His eyes roamed the living room, wondering why he had started from his trance. There, half concealed in the shadows on his home, stood a woman with a fiery mane. A whisper passed his lips.

— "Little fairy"

Frances' features suddenly crumpled and Hannibal stood on wobbly legs. He couldn't recall the last time an event had shaken him so badly. Not a word was exchanged as he strode to her, his heart hammering, and engulfed her in the mightiest of hugs. Not the cold restrained embraces he allowed himself to give; this one was desperate, more human, more hearted than any he had given before. Tristan was rubbing on him. She didn't protest, moulding into his tall frame with relief, pressing her head in the crook of his neck; a place that had become hers now. And when his hand came to rest upon her head, caressing her silky hair, a stunned whisper passed his lips. The dreadful weight of realization. The horrible truth that Tristan had known all along; that he, Hannibal Lectern psychiatrist extraordinaire and human lie detector, had blissfully ignored until then.

— "You were not mine."

Her hold tightened further.

— "Now I am."

And he believed her; Frances never lied. To hell with the rest. Claiming her lips, Hannibal proceeded to kiss her senseless, pouring his heart into her. 'I love you,' it hammered painfully, 'I love you as much as I am broken'. His need was answered with her own, tears running down her face as she realised that he knew. Hannibal almost threw her on the couch, unable to summon his usual restraint, Tristan's need fuelling his desire to claim her. She welcomed his ministrations heartily, skirt hoisted up her thighs as they joined like a couple of teenagers, searching for patches of bare skin to sate the need for closeness. How sweet her moans and cries, how desperate as well. How wild she could be when she surrendered to the tigress within! Then, as he lay panting, kneeling in front of her – feeling every bit an animal – Hannibal gathered his wife into his arms and took her upstairs, starting anew. He bestowed lavish kisses and caresses upon her body, tasted her once more in the soft sheets of his bed, marking her his, body and soul. An apology of sort, without words, for thinking her crazy when she had never lied to him. And while he coiled in ecstasy, buried deep within her heated core, moaning her name, Hannibal wondered once more how he deserved her. His hold only tightened; he could not let go, not now, not ever.

And when both were eventually sated, Frances settled on her side, watching the amber light of the fire flicker upon his face. So handsome, with his high cheekbones and chiselled features, that her hand traced the spot where his tattoos used to mark him. There was much to be said, now that he believed her, and his first question concerned Legolas. The elf that had been her lover, and now lived happily with a clone of herself, Melenwë. Frances told him how she had struck a deal with Loki, an Asgardian alien who had created a clone of herself to send to middle earth, and should have left the original Frances on earth for her to continue being the Keeper of Time. She suspected the little grey butt – a per Jack O'Neill's own word – of having created a third one to study and discard whenever he was done. Herself. Hannibal's hands clenched and unclenched at hearing this. He wasn't so sure why, for he might have done similar things in the past. Manipulation was a second nature to him. His game, now, with Abigail, Will and Miriam Lass wasn't more brilliant, nor less controlling. Still, witnessing the heartache it could create, the repercussions on Frances' mind, the sadness buried deep within… He wanted to kiss it away, to unburden her soul with a soothing presence.

Somewhere deep within, his humanity stirred; Hannibal was starting to understand. And while Frances spoke of the past, of elves, of aliens, of the stargate program and of her travel back into the fifth century, he swallowed it whole. And he watched her beautiful features as she told him everything, and his hand caressed her cheek many times, marvelling that she was by his side. After all of this, she was here, with him, gracing his sheets with her beautiful presence, his nose with her sweet fragrance, his body with her soft touch. So when she told him of Galahad, Hannibal could only consider the resonance.

— "He told me, on your grave, how he regretted saying that you were a cold-hearted killer in your face. What he said about you … about Tristan, didn't feel right when he saw how much I grieved your passing"

There were tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away when he gathered her into the circle of his arms. Frances settled with a sigh upon his chest, her fingers grazing the chestnut hair. Then she set the palm of her hand flat on his heart, relishing in the strong and regular beat. Something she had done countless times before; he understood now. Hannibal remained silent, waiting until she was ready to share some more.

— "A part of him was right, you know. You were always taunting him, mocking him, but you saved his life probably as many times as he saved yours,"

Hannibal voiced his concerns evenly.

— "What shall we do now ?"

— "I don't want this war to rekindle, Hannibal. Not again. I don't want to be between the two of you, I couldn't stand it. I had nothing left in my life when I found you. Having the two of you back is more than I could ever wish. Don't put me in this position again. Resolve your issues, become the friends you were meant to be. Watch over him like he will watch over you. Let us be the family fate had robbed us of"

Hannibal kissed her temple gently.

— "I will endeavour to make us a family, my little fairy."

And this very night, Hannibal listened to her breathing as she slept, utterly spent. For his part, slumber eluded him as his mind ran a hundred miles a minute.

This must end.

He was willing to give it a try. But how could he make things right? Right for whom? He that had no gauge for human emotions, or righteousness, was at loss about where to start. Maybe he could ask Frances for her opinion. She was, after all, the only normal human to which he could talk, and possessed no lack of intelligence nor empathy. Together, they might devise a plan to bring closure to William. Expose the Chesapeake ripper – Miriam Lass was quite ready to be released after all. Brainwashed, she would never testify against him. This could also bring closure to Jack, who had enough of his wife dying of lung cancer. The solution slowly formed in his mind. Not that it was too difficult, mind you. Hannibal's contingency plans had contingency plans. But all loose ends must be tied lest he be discovered.

They could push Abigail Hobbs to move across the country and find another psychiatrist. What better departure in life than to leave it all behind? Hannibal sighed. He needed to let her go, because she could never replace his sister Mischa. Abigail was not meant to thrive in his shadow.

He would take Will to the neurologist, and have him treated for encephalitis. Hannibal was pretty sure the disease came from eating human brain – a lunchbox he has fed him. Incredible, how Will's body reacted unconsciously as it refused to eat human flesh.

Is this how it felt to be an empathic human being? He did not know, nor relished in it. But the smile on Frances' face, the morning after, when they devised the carefully led plans was enough to teach him that, yes, this was the right thing to do. For her, at least. For William as well. Since he couldn't kill, Hannibal needed to find a new hobby. Doing good, as per his wife's ethics, meant a radical change of point of view. Entertaining; as it used different brain paths than his usual ones; it would keep his mind busy for a while. Until…

So. I wasn't really expecting the outcome of this chapter when I wrote it. But I'm rather happy because it is the first time we revisit Tristan's death from his point of view. I'm also a little floored that this one shot is becoming more elaborate by the minute. I have to face the facts; I can't do short :D