So, Freddie Lounds will be planning her revenge... what did Will think of this ?
The drive back was tenser, to say the least, than the inbound journey. For miles, Will ground his teeth, mulling over the altercation with Freddie Lounds. He just didn't know if he should broach the subject or remain silent for the little lady by his side seemed to be boiling. Still … as a FBI consultant, he couldn't let it pass.
Beside him, Frances was shaking now. It wasn't the cold, although her trousers were soaked through up to the knees. No. Now that her adrenalin was crashing down, so were her thoughts. And when Will eventually voiced his opinion, she very nearly burst into tears. Nearly, but not quite.
— "I didn't think you'd be so vicious, but I think you've made your case, you know."
Vicious. Frances released a heavy breath, trying to keep her cool as she ground out.
— "I hope so. I never want to see that woman again."
— "With Freddie, you never know…"
The young woman suddenly straightened in her seat, turning to Will furiously. How could she explain without selling Hannibal out? If Freddie continued digging stuff about them, she might very well lead to a catastrophe. She felt it in her bones, hated her with all her might. Freddie was a fucking ticking bomb! A danger to them all.
— "This woman, she is dangerous. She is going to create… I don't know."
— "I'm not saying you're wrong, Frances…"
Will held no love for the journalist; everything she wrote was hateful at best. Still…
— "I have such a bad feeling about her. And I'm sorry, sorry about my behaviour but I can't bring myself to regret it. I am afraid, Will."
This heartfelt admittance caught his attention.
— "What are you afraid of?"
Her body was shaking so badly now that she hugged her knees, the seatbelt digging into her hips. She couldn't make heads or tails of this hatred for the journalist. Prescience or fear? Everything mingled in her mind. Her inability to tell Will about the Chesapeake Ripper, her guilt, her crushed duty to the world by living with a serial killer … and this dream. This fucking recurring dream that threatened to break her heart again.
How could she breach the subject?
— "I had this dream … in the fifth century, when we were camping in that horribly cold forest on our way to the wall. Tristan was absent from the round table, and none of you remembered him,"
Will paused, his eyes still strained on the road. Night was falling now, coating the landscape in darkness. It made is easier for Frances; she felt less exposed to his scrutiny.
— "Perhaps you were just afraid that it would happen?"
The young woman shook her head vehemently.
— "No. I knew. That day, when I woke up, I knew he was going to die and I would be powerless to save him. The Keeper of Time's sad tale"
— "How were you so sure?" he asked, genuinely interested.
Frances huffed, trying to recall the mixed emotions that had swarmed her mind as she linked her existence to Tristan at the time. Remembering how she knew that every step closer would only expose her to heartache, no matter how she denied the truth. As if becoming his friend could have saved him. As if fate could be changed. But even riding behind him in battle had failed. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she eventually answered.
— "I denied it at first. But deep down, I always watched out for him because I felt it. My heart and my soul knew, my mind just refused to accept it"
Will pursed his lips. Who better than him to understand the battle between guts and rationality? He that could penetrate into a killer's mind and lay out his intentions, dismantle the most obscure of behaviour in less than a minute?
— "All right. What does it have to do with Freddie Lounds?"
— "I see death when I see her."
— "Isn't it a little extreme?"
Frances scoffed, squeezing his arm tight as she pressed her case. Her emotions were all over the place, fuelled by fear and distress. How stable was she, compared to himself? Was Freddie Lounds so far from the truth when she accused them of … whatever?
— "I had this recurring dream about Hannibal dying, lying in a pool of blood in his office. What if they are linked? What if he dies because of her?"
Will mulled over his answer; he certainly didn't want to face Frances' wrath and was sensible enough to know he was walking a fine line.
— "Maybe they are not linked, right? Did you talk to Hannibal?"
Her hands jumped to the roof in exasperation.
— "No! Of course not. How would you take it if I dreamt of your death?"
— "I would want to know."
Silence ensued during which Frances nibbled at her lip thoroughly. Her absence of response caused his stomach to churn until she eventually told him.
— "Duly noted."
No reassurance, barely an acknowledgment. The only sound was the purr of the motor as it protested against the motorway's speed.
— "You haven't dreamt of my death, have you?"
This time, she was quick to dismiss his concerns.
— "No, don't worry. But you know how Hannibal is, right? He'll dismiss it, tell me it is post-traumatic stress disorder."
Will considered his words carefully before trying to steer her in another direction. He knew the young woman to be highly volatile when it came to protecting her loved ones. Hell, she even killed a psychopath, a man far stronger than she was.
— "Yeah. Probably. But have you considered …?"
The empath never finished his sentence, grateful that she found space in her mind to acknowledge his opinion and not rub his betrayal in his face.
— "That I have PSTD? I know I have. It's not like I can talk to a psychiatrist, and Hannibal is out of the question. He's my husband, not my shrink."
— "You have me"
His lopsided smile wasn't lost on the young woman despite the dimming light.
— "You're sweet, and it helps. You're still not a professional, but it does. Still, this is not the question. Mark my words. This dream … it's going to come true, one way or another. And I will lose him again. And when I do, this time, I will not bother to outlive him."
And something cold settled in the pit of Will's stomach. Something certain, as if he knew, too, that the Keeper of Time had resurfaced. If Hannibal died … so would she. She certainly didn't lack the courage. A surge of panic suddenly gripped his heart, and Will looked for the most obvious explanation to calm his racing heart. Tearing his eyes from the road, the empath stared at his friend, eyebrows climbing into his hairline.
— "Perhaps … perhaps you're just relieving his death again."
His distress didn't go unnoticed and Frances settled a reassuring hand upon his arm.
— "Perhaps … perhaps my intuition goes haywire. And I have assaulted this sorry woman for nothing."
But deep down, she knew it wasn't the case. No. It was worse than that. She had remarked the changes in Hannibal; he was more open with her, trying to stick to her ethics, to be more friendly and less calculating. Being more human because of her. And she relished in it, loving him a little more every day as she watched his eyes twinkle and the additional warmth he now displayed towards people.
In her pride, she had failed to acknowledge that she, too was changing. As Hannibal made a step towards her, she was making her own towards him. Her character, too, was evolving to fit him. More ruthless, harsher, less empathetic, more manipulative, more violent. Damn it! Little by little, Hannibal's ways corrupted her mind. The humanity he displayed was taken from her, like two vases leaking through each other, aiming at finding an equilibrium point.
Was it on purpose, or solely the effect of two souls trying to please each other? Frances didn't understand it, yet the evidence was there. Her behaviour towards Freddie Lounds was unacceptable. Never before had her temper got the best of her this way. The Keeper of Time had always found a way to keep composed and respect her peers. This little display of domination, or pure anger and hatred was undignified.
— "What are you thinking?"
Frances sighed. Hannibal would have said 'a penny for your thoughts' and she would have smiled at him. But here, now, she didn't feel like smiling anymore. Still, Will was innocent in all of this, and the words left her mouth before she realised what they meant.
— "You haven't changed, you know. You hated killing back then. Tristan just accepted it as the greater good, but you never did."
And the conversation closed at that, because she couldn't tell him that nothing had changed. Will still recoiled from murder while Hannibal killed with refined pleasure. Just like Tristan did. The dreaded Chesapeake Ripper.
Frances breathed in slowly, the various smells of Hannibal's basement registering in her brain. Humidity, but very little mould. Coldness of concrete, the sharp tinge of metal in a corner and the slight remains of chlorine – bleach. Under their feet, the wide expense of polished concrete had been covered with traditional Japanese mats, allowing the skin of her feet to touch and feel. Toes free from bonds, bokken in hand, hair tightly braided, Frances was ready to face her worst enemy. She lifted her gaze to meet his hazel, their hues greying in the artificial light of the basement. His beardless chin startled her for an instant before she remembered he had never sported a beard. The straight nose and high cheekbones, though, were a dead giveaway.
A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth; Hannibal was obviously enjoying this. Or mocking her, who knew. The meanderings of his mind were so difficult to follow, it made her crazy! And it was the exact reason of their presence here.
After the debacle with Freddie Lounds, her cunning husband had suggested they go fencing … to work out her frustrations. The 'about me' hung in the air, never spoken, but he knew how difficult it was, for her, to accept his ways. How could he not? How difficult to have a man who could read and decrypt her every emotion as easily as he read a book, no matter how closed off she was. A master of the human mind, especially since he wasn't subjected to the same emotions. The ever-exterior observer, the perfect psychiatrist. Except for his motives, of course.
So they went to fence in a club, encased in the restraining protective suit, and played with the needle people called swords for a little while before Frances forfeited. More than fifteen times, she'd been stopped by the club officials, claiming her moves were 'forbidden' as per the fencing code. Too many rules, not enough freedom, and her husband's face not even visible for her to release her frustration. The frustration of being loyal, and very much in love with that man. The biggest failure ever, and Frances left the club with more steam accumulated then released. 'Mild,' she had called that sport … avoiding insults, of course. There had been no pleasure, no muscle memory while waving this tiny piece of needle around.
So when Hannibal suggested Kendo – which he has studied, of course, in his youth – Frances agreed to give it a try. And it worked so much better. The wooden sword accommodated her elvish training much nicer, and she suspected Hannibal to prefer it because it also resembled his old Dao. Well, Tristan's Dao.
Today, there would be no traditional protection – all blows to the face controlled – and just a little padding to outer limbs and chest. A self-constructed outfit of leather that Frances had recreated to mimic her elvish armour. She had sewn Hannibal's as well, choosing a minimalist design to preserve ease of movement and flexibility. Now, they were ready to spar properly. No rules except for love and respect. No restraints and absolute freedom.
And so, this is how Frances inclined her sword to the side, creating an opening for Hannibal to attack. And attack he did. His blow was deflected nearly absentmindedly as Frances stepped aside, surprised by his speed. She shouldn't, really. Sleeping with a man taught you much about his abilities, and she knew he was packed with long, lean muscles. Not the ones from the movies where actors build up vanity muscles. No. Hannibal was a bundle of nerves and long, fatless fibres. The ones that gave speed and explosive strength. The perfect anatomy to surprise and prevail. One swift turn upon her left leg and she was facing him again, her sword brushing his in warning.
His assessing gaze seemed to shine with newfound respect. Their brush in at the fencing club had been fruitless, Frances fumbling with the needle-like sword she'd broken too many times. Here, in her element with a sword that suited her fighting style, her body moved on its own. Training with an elf and a man raised by elves – Estel – had been demanding; her speed and reflexes almost came from muscle memory. And so, the dance began as their bokken clashed. At first, hesitantly, both assessing their partner's strength and weaknesses so as to avoid injury. Needless to say that despite the absence of an edge, the wooden weapon could break bones, create a concussion or even kill someone if used in the right way.
Once both felt confident enough in their opponent's skills, swords started clashing with more force, more speed. And while Frances called forth her past training, recalling moves taught by her illustrious friends, Hannibal started to deviate from traditional kendo. Unbeknownst to him, Tristan's old moves permeated in his fighting style, his feet dancing upon the mat like a skilled artist. He became less predictable, more focused in his blows, the ruthlessness of the knight of old channelled through his rigid mind. A bead of sweat ran through Frances' spine as she deviated the tip of his bokken at the last moment. Damn! She'd left her right side open once more. Aragorn would have had her head for that!
Her counterattack was swift and relentless but Hannibal wasn't caught off guard. His sword brushed her away with graceful strokes, long limbs coiled and graceful, feet dancing with quiet woosh upon the mats. His face kept intense focus, but a few droplets of sweat started running at the back of his skull. Frances took a step back, panting heavily as he lifted his bokken with a smirk. If he was influenced by Tristan's fighting style, he could only outmatch her technique. His aim reached further, his height giving him a fair advantage. Unless…
Unless she fought dirty.
The first blow to his ribs surprised him. Her sword was still locked with his, but her left shoulder had greeted his side rather forcefully. Taking a step back, Hannibal stood tall, watching her like a hawk.
— "Is that how it is little fairy?" he asked, strangely curious.
The nickname only confirmed her suspicions; when fighting, Hannibal used his old soul. There was no anger nor betrayal in his gaze, his head cocked aside, high cheekbones on display as a strand of hair stuck to his temple. The perfect image of Tristan when he faced a worthy opponent in battle. Frances nodded, slightly out of breath. Until now, they had clashed swords only; he probably wouldn't dare laying his hand upon her unless she gave him permission. But this rehearsal still didn't feel true enough. If Frances wanted to work her frustrations out, she needed to see him as the enemy. Which meant winning, at all costs.
This wasn't sparring anymore. This was blind rage, with only a tiny trail of sanity. The anger against herself to have accepted a cold-hearted husband, a killer, the frustration of lying to everyone and remain isolated. The grief of Tristan's loss, the irony of finding him again only to be the Chesapeake Ripper, Il mostro di Firenze.
— "Helmets on, then," he ordered.
How did he do it? To pinpoint the exact moment her control slipped? Without a word, the young woman reached for the kendo helmet to strap it upon her head. How ironic, she thought, when Tristan was the one to fetch a helmet for her before Badon Hill. Another pang in her heart, another reason for it to crumble. How much could it take before it exploded altogether?
The fight resumed, turning instantly into something much more vicious. It took only a few blows for Hannibal to retaliate and Frances was not sorry for the padding. His fists were strong, his strikes as commanding as his presence. Her ribs, hip and back were bruised now, sending waves of pain through her frame; it only fuelled her ire and Frances just grunted, rolling back to reassess her position. Now, it was a fight to the death. A fight with orcs or men alike, a fight with Saxons. The enemy was stronger, and reached further. But her training taught her many moves.
Soon, Frances was but a blur, feigning right, striking left, disappearing in a swift turn and attacking again. That stupid helmet restrained her vision, but she didn't let the limitation deter her. Relentless, unafraid of hurting her opponent as she unleashed upon him the immensity of her angst. Her feet were flying, and somewhere during the fight her mind informed her that she wanted to go back to skating. Dancing! This single moment of distraction earned her a blow behind the knee, sending her sprawling on the ground. Her cheekbone hit the hilt of her own bokken and she cried out. Damn, it hurt!
The pain electrized her, and she rolled away, avoiding the wooden sword by inches. He was upon her the very next second, raining blows that she blocked with an enraged parry. Frustrated, she realised she couldn't pass his defence – his arm was just too long – and threw herself forward. Caught off guard, Hannibal retreated too slowly as she deflected his sword and threw her elbow in his plexus. The psychiatrist staggered back with a hoof and she jumped upon him, tackling him to the ground. He landed with a heavy thud, her own knees scraping harshly on the mat as she pressed the wooden sword to his throat. Time stood still for a moment.
There! The lioness had won. Damn, her body ached all over!
Hannibal tapped on the mattress twice to indicate surrender. Panting, Frances stood, discarding the horrible helmet that prevented her from breathing properly and see from all sides. How she hated the limitation of her field of vision! Passing a weary hand through her sweaty strands, she suddenly felt a familiar tug in the pit of her stomach. Danger! Realising that she had presented her back to a serial killer, she whirled around. Too late.
His bulky form crashed into her body, pinning against the concrete wall. His pupils were dilated, his face an inch from hers, his heavy breath fanning upon her lips, his gaze trapping her. Intimidating, domineering, the alpha male, his blood fuelled with adrenalin and testosterone.
— "So you're the kind of wife that beats her husband now?" he growled.
Frances' heart was beating so wildly that it hurt, her mind in disarray. But the feel of his body close to hers… Danger and longing mingled, like water and flames burning in her veins and she couldn't even recall who she was nor what she wanted.
He choose for her, crashing his lips upon hers in a searing kiss while he lifted her arms above her head. Frances didn't resist, her anger spent as she let him use his superior strength to submit her to his will. He so ever scarcely he took advantage of being stronger. Today, she needed to feel that he could break her, dominate and protect her like nobody could.
Protections, padding and sweaty clothes were discarded in a hurry, Hannibal taking her roughly against the wall as she cried his name in both pain and ecstasy. Bodies intertwined, his hands holding hers fiercely as she bit his shoulder, movements frenetic as they both worked towards their own pleasure. Like the yin and the yang rolling in circles until it turned grey, unable to think in their frantic lovemaking until the peak swept her off her feet entirely.
Spent, Frances collapsed in his strong arms. Hannibal didn't bother to dress as he picked her up and climbed the stairs, plunging them both in a bath, the warm water soothing aches they had inflicted upon each other in this very intense training session.
But despite the aches, Hannibal was pretty satisfied. For the first time since Tobias, he had witnessed her potential fully. He anger was such a drive, so powerful… A mighty woman. And when she waived around him in bed – pretexting the sheets were cold – he had a hard time reconciling between the woman cuddled so cutely and the merciless warrior he had just fought. Should they fight to the death one day … he didn't think he would win. She, just as much as he, wore a mask dutifully crafted and hardly penetrable. The Keeper of Time indeed.
Rubbing her back gently, Hannibal relished in the softness of her curves. One of her legs – long for her stature – , overlapped his, her thigh warm and inviting around his. The perfect sheath for an unyielding man. He'd witnessed, firsthand, the pain it caused her to love him. Still, she was loyal to a fault. Her breath fanned upon his chest, her nose buried in the chestnut curls where she loved to take a whiff of his scent. Little did she know that he did she same with her hair.
When a shiver ran down Frances's spine, Hannibal tightened his grip.
— "You suffer from lack of substance upon your frame, my beautiful."
— "You mean I need insulation?" she said, her words muffled as her nose stay buried in his chest.
Hannibal hummed his assent, amused by the image. Frances had yet to gain a few pounds back after her lung infection; a fact that vexed him for he had cooked more desserts in the past weeks.
— "It's not only for the warmth, you know," she whispered to his neck.
— "I am glad, else you will definitely hate me in summer."
Frances chuckled, her amusement making his chest rumble.
— "It is true that you are my central heating, there's only so much energy a man can summon. As for summer, it doesn't matter, I'll take cold showers in between."
— "In between what?" was his playful retort.
The young woman shifted around, laying her hand upon his chest to rest her lovely chin upon them. Her warm chocolate eyes twinkled and she raised an eyebrow. Hannibal couldn't help it, his lips quirked at her mischievous expression. Did she know how beautiful she was without adornments? Naked, offered, free of artifices and make-up, hair in disarray and rosy lips inviting?
— "So it is for the sex," he deadpanned.
She laughed then.
— "Neither. Although you definitely are amazing in bed."
Hannibal felt warmth spread in his chest; from the heartfelt compliment of a beautiful woman. His hand caressed the side of her face, tracing a slight bruise from an accidental blow.
— "I am glad to hear it."
Frances stretched, her body moulding around his sensually as she reached for his lips, her thighs now pressing in a very sensitive place that begged to be awakened anew. After several months, Hannibal was still surprised about the eagerness of his body regarding her contact. Never before had he found so much pleasure in love making. Satisfaction, yes, but she awakened in him something much deeper. Her kiss sent tingles through his spine, his hands winding of their own accord across her back.
— "Like you didn't know it," she whispered, lips hoovering over his. "I'm moaning your name every day."
— "I've heard more calls to God than to me."
A gentle slap landed on his shoulder as she settled against his chest anew; her favourite spot.
— "Don't get your hopes up, I'm ready for the husband, not for a god in my bed."
— "Nonsense, you are ready for anything if this sparring session is witness. But the sentiment is mutual."
Her eyebrows scrunched together as she lifted her face to him, forgoing his first meaning for the second.
— "Uh?"
— "You are amazing in bed, my wife."
Colour rose to her cheeks almost immediately as she hid in his shoulder, her hand tightening over his chest. Her shyness was cute, betraying her young age whenever sex was involved. Could she ignore how blissful their joining was to him as well?
— "Don't jest. You surely had much better women."
— "I've had many women, Frances, but never enjoyed a presence like I enjoy yours."
Her face disappeared entirely, cheeks flushed and he caressed her fiery hair slowly, wondering how he could explain his meaning. Delving into his mind, Hannibal searched for emotions and sensations, calling them forth with a mighty pull, enhancing them to characterise until he found the way to translate them into words. Then, his accented words sung her praise, long fingers burying into the fiery mane he had come to adore.
— "It is not about technique, Frances. It is about sensuality, the way you are cuddled around me right now, the way your body moves like a dancer even when you are not aware of it. It is about abandon, the moment my name passes your lips when you let go and your whole core tightens around me. About feelings, when your eyes tell me I am the most precious thing in the world."
And he surprised even himself with this bit of poetry, scoffing internally because he had never been such a romantic. What a woman could do to a man! The slight whimper from said woman, the accused, caused him to chuckle until at last, she lifted her lovely eyes to meet him. The swirl of emotion hidden behind her warm chocolate caught him off guard.
— "You are just right for me," she murmured.
Hannibal frowned slightly, a strange sense of belonging washing over him unexpectedly. His heart speaking above his mind. Unsettling. So much that he slightly fumbled with is words.
— "I've never been accepted like this. I have never allowed myself to lose control either. You make me feel both, and for that, I thank you."
Frances smiled, then kissed him anew. A soft, chaste kiss before she lay her head in the crook of his neck.
— "So this is what it was about in the first place. Nor warmth, nor sex. Just… I love you."
Hannibal hummed, kissing her brow. And while she fell asleep in the safety on his arms, his mind wandered many paths; some unsettling, some familiar and some … unknown. And before he succumbed to exhaustion, an idea clear a day popped in his mind; he needed to make an appointment to the courthouse.
So, do you see what's coming ?
I hope you enjoyed this moment of sword fighting and the chaos that ensued. Tough moment for Frances to realise she is not uncorruptible, right ?
As usual, please leave me a review, it would make my day !