I have to admit that I am rather depressed. 38 people read the last chapter in the span of a day, and no one, literally NO ONE even bothered to review. Out of 38 people and 13 followers. I don't understand, really. It takes a lot of effort and time to write, correct and makes things realistic. I just wonder why people don't bother to drop a line. Seeing that other stories gather 3 to 4 reviews per chapter minimum in the same category, I can only conclude that there is something in the quality of my writing. It really is disheartening:'((for my 3 faithful reviewers who will recognise themselves, this is not addressed to you of course)

Anyway. Since I'm off for 10 days to the family, I thought I'd leave you a Christmas present. So there we go. Cheers and happy holidays!

A day passed without Dr Lecter trying to bite his head off. Then another. Jack's hands were tied; Bella had told him to shove it off. Literally. Either he shed his job and spent 24/7 with her, either he accepted that she had made friends with Dr Lecter's wife. Discrete investigation gave him nothing, nothing at all. And he wasn't about to bypass national security protocols to sniff into the air force's top secret base of Cheyenne Mountain. So Jack had no choice but to let it go.

Obviously, he had underestimated the woman. Her threat kept him on his toes; he wondered when she would talk to her husband. The fact that she had not – yet – left him bereft. Or perhaps she had, and Doctor Lecter didn't care about it. Who knew? The man was so cold, so unemotional that he might let it go altogether. What a weird couple… Anyway. He had other things on his plate, such as the latest inventive killer. Will and Alana were currently reporting their findings when his empathic profiler fished his cell phone out of his pocket, his eyebrows raising to his hairline as he read.

— "Are we bothering you, Will?" he patronised.

To his greatest surprise, the young man launched the device on his table.

— "Anything I should know about?"

Alana approached to read the text over his shoulder.

'Stay clear from Jack's office today – Frances.'

Alana's brows furrowed.

— "Do you have any idea what she means, Jack?"

Then a set of determined footsteps echoed in the corridor, and the FBI director groaned as Hannibal Lecter stormed in. Three-piece suit impeccably cut, dark red tie and midnight shirt, his eyes were smouldering ambers that threatened to spill their fire. Jack didn't bulge from his seat, attempting to appeal to Lecter's legendary politeness.

— "Excuse me Dr, we were in the middle of a meeting."

The man straightened, standing to his full height.

— "And I couldn't care less, agent Crawford. Now, I am here to warn you that the next time you feel the need to insult my wife, there will be retribution."

— "Are you threatening me, Dr Lecter?"

Will blinked, taking in the two men facing each other. For the very first time, Hannibal's anger seemed ready to burst forth, his body so coiled that he wondered if he was still breathing. And suddenly, he saw Tristan, unsheathing his sword. One move, one enemy on the ground. Cold and methodic, his anger channelled into the blade as he lay waste over a swarm of bodies. So many memories now assaulted him ever since Frances had opened the door. They shared some over lunch regularly, getting to know each other, discovering how well they worked together.

Hearing that Jack had insulted Frances caused his fists to tighten; he knew the heart of the woman now. But to Tristan, this was a declaration of war. The warrior of old would have slaughtered the man in a heartbeat… He loved her, protected her, just as she protected him. Like a pair of wolf mates.

But Jack seemed unaware of Hannibal's abilities, unafraid, persuaded that his training and strength would give him the upper hand against a psychiatrist too busy picking his wardrobe. Will knew better. Why was Jack not afraid? He should be afraid. Hannibal Lecter may be a polite and restrained man in this life, but he'd been the terror of his enemies in the past. And this anger, this primitive need to protect one's mate, the animalistic side just simmered below the surface. But then, Hannibal's eyes slightly squinted as he seemed to regain some composure. The vibes of aggression diminished as he answered in a clipped tone.

— "With a lawsuit, yes I am."

— "Why did you say, Jack?" asked Alana, dumbfounded by the reaction of her ever collected former mentor.

Hannibal spared her a furtive glance before focusing to Jack again. Never lose your enemy from sight else he'll lunge at you without warning. No wonder he loved cooking so much; Tristan had been dedicated to his knives.

— "He said…"

Then his tongue passed over his upper lip in a sneer, giving a little room to the deafening silence.

— "Jack accused Frances of being a gold-digger taking advantage of an old man's lust."

Alana gasped while Will remained thunderously silent. His adrenalin, though, was flowing freely through his veins. He understood, and shared Hannibal's wrath now, while Alana exclaimed her rightful indignation over a fellow female being treated unfairly.

— "Jack you couldn't!"

— "Be thankful my wife is protecting you," Dr Lecter ground out. "I know she retains some information to quell my anger."

Jack's poker face didn't flinch, but he inwardly sighed. He had to give credit to the woman, he'd never seen Hannibal in such a state of agitation, and wondered what would happen had she relayed his accusation that she also slept with Will. So … not just a pretty face. The incredible intensity of Dr Lecter's reaction – a man nothing could disturb – told him of his genuine affection. Did she share it, though?

The FBI agent stood up to be level with Dr Lecter; now he had said his piece, perhaps he would let him explain his reasons.

— "I was trying to rile her up to get information. I am trying to protect you both here."

Will butted in, his own anger piking at the insinuation.

— "Protect us from what?"

— "From her! That woman has secrets, she is dangerous."

— "Yes!" they both exclaimed at the same time.

— "But not to us," Will added.

Jack started. Hannibal and Will were now standing shoulder to shoulder, presenting a united front with a very mismatched style. Pissed, he pointed his hand at them like a school director scolding his students.

— "Look at you. That woman pops up, and you both act like you've been brainwashed. Don't you see?"

Alana's eyes suddenly squinted, giving Will an intense stare, then considered her mentor. A slight smirk adorned Hannibal's lips, a predatory gleam barely suppressed behind the poise. Jack couldn't make heads or tails of what caused this unsettling expression to bloom on the psychiatrist's face. The FBI agent couldn't imagine, for the life of him, that the famous Dr Lecter was amused to hear him issue warning about the dangerousness of his wife when she was the one repressing his killings … trying to protect them from the Chesapeake Ripper. No, he couldn't … and he would not find out for years.

Still, something clicked in Jack's brain.

— "You both know something I don't."

— "Yes," responded Hannibal. "My wife and I have no secrets."

And he was the only one in this room who could understand the depth of this statement. For no one except her knew he was the Chesapeake Ripper, and none save for him that she was the Keeper of Time. Not even Will at this point; he still thought she was a reincarnation like them.

— "What does the airforce want with her?" Jack asked Hannibal squarely.

Will frowned, unaware of this development.

— "What does the air force has to do with it, Jack?"

— "You tell me! When she woke up in hospital, the air force delegated a top secret group to interrogate her."

The young empath turned to Hannibal then, bold enough to meet his eyes for just a second.

— "Ask her, Will," he simply murmured.

— "Damn it, you are all siding up against me! Even my wife! Can you believe it?"

It was Alana who decided to bring this tense discussion to a close.

— "Is this an FBI case, Jack?"

— "No, there were no charges."

— "Then let it go."

The tall man slumped into his chair, accepting defeat; there was no way out of this but to wait and hope for the best. Dr Lecter, though, took a step forward and lay his hands on the desk, invading his personal space with his unsettling presence. Damn, the man knew how to be intimidating when he wanted.

— "I expect an apology to be made, else this collaboration ends."

A staring match ensued until Jack eventually nodded, and Lecter turned on his heels.

— "Friday, 4 pm, Will. Until then"

And the infamous Dr Lecter disappeared like a gust of wind, the sole of his very expensive shoes echoing in the corridor. Alana whistled slightly; she'd never seen him so riled up. In the meantime, Will picked up his phone.

'Too late. Shouting match just ended. Hannibal put up a great show – Will.'

Pale as a ghost, Frances left her cell phone on the sofa. Her throat constricted, and even the mouthful of tea refused to go down peacefully. A spasm shook her slender frame, then another. How she hoped that Hannibal had not exposed himself by her fault! The young woman slapped herself mentally; Dr Lecter has been fooling the FBI for years, he knew better than anyone to hide in plain sight. Hell, Tristan could hide anywhere. Scout one day, scout forever. But she couldn't help it. Worrying for him was a second nature. No one but her could look out for him, or protect him. Not one but her ever would.

The familiar constriction now wrapped her whole chest, and she started breathing very slowly, refusing to give in to the panic attack. It happened, sometimes, when anxiety managed to pass the solid walls of her minds. And this recurring nightmare just wouldn't leave her. Again and again, she dreamt of Hannibal, his blood pooling on the plush carpet of his office as he took his last breath, a letter opener embedded in his heart. There was a smile on his face, and love in his golden eyes. But his hot sticky blood wouldn't stop flowing … pooling on the battlefield once more, and she was powerless to stop it. She felt like a herald of doom, like the witness of an inescapable event.

— "Frances?" came Bella's concerned voice.

A new spasm shook her. She couldn't speak, could hardly breathe such was the tightening in her throat. The hot liquid still sat there, caught in the middle of her oesophagus, threatening to spill over in her lungs should her body fail at rerouting.

— "Frances, are you all right?"

This time, the beautiful woman tried to sit up. Frances held up her hand to temporise her, breathing slowly, evenly, until her throat slightly relaxed and the mouthful of tea descended in its rightful tube.

— "I'm good" she rasped. "It happens sometimes, stress symptoms."

Bella reclined on the pile of cushions that he become her second home, her pale features sinking a little.

— "Are you sure?"

— "Yes. Crisis averted. Now where were we?"

Bella seemed to ponder her answer before she blurted:

— "Will you tell me about it?"

— "About what?"

— "The reasons why you have panic attacks?"

Frances sighed. How could she refuse the truth to a dying woman? Well, not all truths, for the main hobby of Hannibal Lecter would never be shared. The rest, though … maybe it could serve a purpose.

— "You know what …? Maybe I might. But before that, I would have to tell you plenty of stories."

— "Well… I'm obviously not going anywhere. And I'm always motivated for a good story so, why not. Just let me see your work first,"

Smiling, the young woman unpacked the silken cloth she had bought to make a waistcoat for Hannibal's birthday – she had stolen the pattern from one of his favourite ones to get the size right. The perfect silver taffeta, found on the internet, held enough rigidity to allow a full-scale embroidery. Bella's long fingers caressed the cloth and she hummed her appreciation.

— "Sober and classy. The perfect combination for your husband"

— "Yes. I remember the museum of clothes I saw with my parents in Venice; they had plenty of waistcoats with lots of embroideries. It puzzled me at the time, but now I've seen how Hannibal pulls of a suit…."

A mischievous smile only greeted this statement; Bella, too, found Hannibal rather handsome. It was incredible, how she shipped them as a couple. A silent support, stating that no one should ever judge before seeing them together. To Bella, Frances and Hannibal were made for each other. Age difference be damned! So it amused her to see how her young friend was flustered by Dr Lecter's elegance and perfect body.

— "Yes. That man certainly can wear one."

— "Uh, uh. Anyway… Doing something with my hands if by far the only thing that he probably can't afford by himself. I just hope I'm not going to ruin it."

She had copied one of his drawings of Florence, and reproduced it on silk paper to try to embroider the image on the left part of the waistcoat. After many tries of placement and size of the image, simulated on her computer, she was satisfied with the result. Now remained to see if she could reproduce his charcoal drawing with white thread. Bella sent her a reassuring smile.

— "As long as you take your time, there's no reason. This is going to be a masterpiece, Frances. I doubt he will expect such a gift."

— "That's the whole point. I'm just afraid I'll ruin it. And then I'll have to sew it properly, with the lining and all. Hannibal is very meticulous with his clothing if the stitching is not right he'll never wear it."

— "Time to exercise your legendary composure. Jack will never tell you, but he was impressed that you didn't crumble at his feet"

Frances released a shuddering breath.

— "Right. Once you know all my dirty little secrets, you'll know how I can keep a level head facing your pissed husband. Until now, let's get to work."

And while Frances started stitching, thread by thread, the beautiful embroidery, she also started recounting the tale of the Keeper of time.

— "Once upon a time…"

— "In a land far, far away?"

Frances smiled; Bella couldn't be closer to the truth. This alternate reality, too, had Star Wars. It wasn't so different from hers, except for the absence of her parents, her friends and the sheer non-existence of a freaking Stargate!

— "Yes. Sort of. So, in my land far, far away, there was this young woman who came in possession of a magical necklace. The Keeper of Time created to regulate the little mishaps of history in the past, present and future, and on other worlds and alternate reality"

Bella snorted, which caused her to cough violently. The increasing intensity of her fits caused Frances to frown, but there was nothing she could do expect giving a little energy, and dosing her on the morphine the doctors gave her. At last, the beautiful woman regained her composure.

— "That's a big job," she said, an eyebrow lifted.

— "You have no idea," Frances chuckled before continuing her story. "One day, the Keeper of Time was called to land in a forest. There she met a man, a scout from the fifth century. A knight of the round table. Tall knight, long leather vest that had seen better days, recurve bow of Sarmatian design and a mane of shaggy hair with braids inside."

Bella giggled at her description; her laugh was infectious and Frances smiled at the memory of her arrival in the fifth century.

— "What a man!" she eventually said.

— "What a man indeed. His name was Tristan…"

Little by little, day by day, the embroidery took form, the white silky thread enlightening the silver piece with its light rather than the dark charcoal. The perfect counterpart to Hannibal's darkening of a pristine sheet. Stitch by stitch, Frances created light. And her story unfolded just the same way, her words painting the adventure of a young woman lost in the fifth century where knights of old seemed so alive that Bella was enraptured. It was easy to recall every single detail; she had just finished writing it for Will. And so the tale went on; The mighty story of King Arthur's knights at they fought, lived and died for Briton. Of Galahad, the young pup who hated killing, but could shoot a man a hundred feet away on his galloping horse. The Tale of Arthur's stand upon Badon Hill, of Dagonet's near demise on an icy lake, of Guinevere, the woad woman. The tale of The Keeper of Time and Tristan as they were separated on the battlefield, of his blood soaking the ground as she tried to save him with by giving her own life force, and failing.

As Frances recounted the last moments of Tristan's life, she had to set her work aside to refrain from tainting it with her tears. Even if she had found him anew under the traits of Hannibal, the traumatic even still left a gaping wound in her heart.

And that day, Bella understood Frances' secret, and the reason why she had panic attacks and post-traumatic stress disorder. She should have her committed, really. Magic and such didn't exist… Right?

— "That woman. The Keeper of Time. It was you?" she breathed.

Frances turned to Bella, her hazel eyes diving into the older woman's gaze to assess whether she was ready to accept the truth. And for sure, her death seemed to bring her a new state of clairvoyance, for she had already drawn the conclusion by herself.

— "Aye. Me, and not me at the same time. I was cloned, and dumped in this world by error."

— "Cloned? A mistake from whom?"

Damn, she couldn't delve too much into the details of her cloning and of middle earth. It would be too much to take in at once.

— "That's another long story I'll tell you about."

— "So this is why you appeared out of nowhere with no identity."

— "Yes. I wasn't born in this reality."

For a moment, Frances pondered how to bring forth the subject of reincarnation. For it had been her goal all along, to tell her dying friend that death wasn't the end.

— "Bella, listen to me. I had nothing left in this world, it is not mine. My parents never existed there, my friends are not my friends because I never existed. I was quite ready to lose it, really. But I found Tristan again, under the traits of Hannibal."

Bella gasped, watching her with wide eyes.

— "Are you saying …?"

— "Yes. And Will… I knew him as Galahad. They found each other as well, but were unaware of it. Still, they felt it in their core. That bond can never be erased. Kindred souls that chose to come back and meet again, to side in the face of adversity."

Her friend's head turned left and right, incredulous as the news sank.

— "Are you speaking reincarnation?"

— "Yes. So now you find me crazy?"

Silence stretched a little, and Frances gathered her threads and needles. The embroidery was close to completion, and it looked even better than she had imagined. Now came the worst part; cut the cloth to sew it into a waistcoat without ruining the design. Lost in her contemplation, she almost didn't hear Bella's sharp intake of breath beside her.

— "I should, really. But this explains a lot."

Frances' attention returned to Bella, a new-found respect rising from the woman's ability to adapt to such a crazy notion. God knew Hannibal has resisted … until memories had flooded him mercilessly.

— "Yes. This is why Jack is suspicious. He has every reason to. He may not have handled it with a lot of politeness, but he's right, somehow. Except that he mistakes my motives. I would never hurt you, or Hannibal. I am a protector, always have, always will, even if I am no more the Keeper of Time"

Had her lungs been in better shape, Bella would have whistled. Her deep, rich voice only conveyed her surprise.

— "Wow. I have trouble wrapping my mind around it."

Frances gave her a lopsided smile; an expression loaded with memories, good and bad alike.

— "It took me a while as well. Imagine my face the first time I landed in ancient Roma, at sixteen, with nothing but the clothes on my back. Modern student clothes at that"

The image caused Bella to chuckle.

— "I can barely fathom. How many missions have you completed?"

— "Three. King Arthur's reign was the last."

— "I guess you've seen some pretty gruesome things in the fifth century."

Frances grimaced at that.

— "Believe me, they were not the worst. But yeah. I've aged. PTSD and all. But it taught me a lot. How to handle pressure, and charismatic individuals"

— "No shit! I understand how you can stand up to Jack now."

The young woman quirked an eyebrow mockingly.

— "Well, you do."

— "He's my husband. Of course I do"

Her easy dismissal earned a respectful nod from Frances. Husband or not, Bella stood her ground admirably against the force of nature that was agent Crawford.

— "Tristan was downright terrifying when pissed… And I do not mention Lord Elrond. Anyway. The reason I told you all this, Bella, is because you might find Jack again someday, like I found Tristan."

This time, the older woman snorted as she crashed against the cushions.

— "What, fifteen hundred years from now?"

Frances cringed. Was it wishful thinking?

— "Maybe. I don't know, I'm sorry. I just discovered this year that our soul survives, and we can descend again and met the ones we love again. It is a new concept for me as well."

The silence wasn't heavy as both women considered the implications of soul recycling, lost in their own thoughts. It was incredible, how Hannibal resembled Tristan – physically – even if the material came from different parents. As if the soul moulded the body to fit its inner desires. Even the golden pecks into his amber eyes were the same. And Galahad … same hair, same features, same inner beauty, same outward shyness and wounds.

Bella's slight movement caught her gaze, and Frances found herself staring into the older woman's soul. Her pain, bared for her to see, constricted her heart painfully.

— "I am afraid Frances. I don't know what Jack will do when I'm gone."

— "I know…"

— "Well, Keeper of Time. It seems that neither of us can escape the future."

Bella's words caused Frances' heart to miss a beat, her nightmare coming full front. Hannibal's blood as he smiled, the soaked carpet of his office… The eventually of his death hurt so badly that she had to struggle to take a breath.

— "Did you resent Tristan for attacking that Saxon?"

Frances frowned, taken aback by the question.

— "I hated him at first, for choosing to leave me. But then I realised he chose an honourable death. I just missed him so much."

— "Sometimes I think Jack hates me."

Understanding dawned upon Frances; the parallel between Bella's choice not to take chemo, and Tristan's honourable end making its way into her mind.

— "He is not ready to lose you like I was not ready to lose Tristan."

And Frances hated herself for her wavering voice.

— "We are never ready. I am not. But I accept it now. Just like Tristan had accepted his death before you even knew it."

— "What do you mean?" the young woman breathed.

— "He said not to save him, right? When you dreamt of the round table, and he was absent. He told you not to save him. He knew."

A lone tear escaped Frances' eyes, and she wiped it away. Bella's too thin hand landed on hers, squeezing tight.

— "You deserve your happiness now. Seize it, and make the most of it with the man you love. God knows time is too short."

Frances nodded, biting her lip. If only she knew that beautiful woman, the shreds of Tristan's soul that made Hannibal today. How he'd been torn apart, and built all wrong again. That she sucked every single minute of his presence because tomorrow, it could all crumble to dust. Perhaps she was meant to learn this new way of embracing life; like every moment was the last. How she loved her man, even broken and lustful for blood. Was there even a future for them?

— "Thank you, Frances. It gives me hope."

— "Hope is sometimes all we have", she sighed, channeling one of Aragorn's – Estel, hope – lines.

— "Could you do something for me, a gift for Jack when I'm gone?"

— "Anything Bella"

— "Well, I have this idea…"

This very evening, Frances clung to Hannibal as if he would dissolve in her arms. And as they moved in unison, locked into a lover's embrace, her eyes took in every single detail that made him the man she once knew, and the man he was today. She couldn't get enough of him, even though, at this very moment, every single part of her skin was in contact with his, even though she engulfed him entirely and felt him inside her, straddling him in the silky soft sheets. The wave that swept her away was so powerful that she cried out, one of her arms pulling at his shoulders, the other locked upon his head, tousling his hair. Her body shook from its intensity, instinctively tightening around his.

And Hannibal couldn't understand why her gaze never left his, why she regarded him like a miracle, like he was the only beacon of light in the darkness. But her eyes were so earnest, her soul bared for him to fathom the immensity of her love, that he did not question it. It was like a blow from a war hammer, so strong, so impossibly powerful that it fuelled his veins with purpose. That woman loved him more than her own life.

Let her believe that the strength of their bond could fix him somehow. For now, her affection fed him enough that he would dedicate his life to her. For now…

Three weeks later

Bella died in her garden, lying in a layer of fresh snow. Frances was by her side when she took the remaining pills of morphine, by her side still when Jack rushed in, alarmed by his wife's request that he came, fast. The former Keeper of Time cried her friend's death more than her husband did, for Jack Crawford was a tough, controlled man. But when he found the handkerchief in her hand – her last present – embroidered with a portrait of her, smiling at him, tears leaked down his face.

The special agent didn't find it in him to punch the redhead, nor to thank her. He didn't quite know where his feelings lay regarding her part in Bella's death. It would take years for him to close the gaping wound in his chest. By then, perhaps he would open his mind anew, and realise what Frances' presence had brought his wife in the end. But not now … not now.

So, there are a lot of discussions about Frances' mission to King Arthur's world. For those interested, it is called 'All Hail to the King' and can be found in the King Arthur section. You will find Tristan (Mads Mikkelsen) and Galahad (Hugh Dancy) there