Hey ! So this chapter comes rather soon after the last one but I've been inspired. In fact, I've just ment a gap between two pieces of the plot (some of the later chapters are written already, for too far off in the future). So I'm happy. As usual, let me know what you think ! Cheers.

Mid February 2007

Will knocked upon the French doors – a habit, rather than using the front one – several times before letting himself in. The silence in the house was deafening. Stepping in, the empath checked for anything misplaced. Where the hell was Frances?

Dread pooled at the bottom of his stomach and he fished his handgun from the holster. What if the Red Dragon had decided to take revenge on Hannibal and found her? What if the agents in charge of the Lecter's couple safety had screwed up? Hannibal's subtle pushing of his wife to the beach house had anything to do with him reducing her time at home; the psychiatrist refused to talk to her about the threat, and Will had eventually relented. If Frances knew about it, she'd go frantic and try to keep both of them safe. Who knew what would happen then? In the meantime, it was getting more and more difficult to hide the current case from her. Frances was far too perceptive for her own good.

Treading through the house, feet silent, Will eventually heard a faint noise. He stopped in the stairs, listening. Sobs. And music, polyphonic stuff. The empath covered the rest of the way, gun at the ready, until he pushed the door to the master bedroom open. The music filtered, louder. So did the sobs. A quick peek was all it took for him to dismiss a threat. For once, Frances had not even noticed him, and he hid his gun at once. It left him standing, uneasy, on the threshold. He had never seen her so distressed, so despaired. Angry at Freddie, yes. Sad, and distant, just as well. But to see Frances cry her heart out… It was plain disturbing.

Hannibal had briefed him on her activities; after the discussion with Alana, Frances had taken refuge at the beach house to read the three volumes of the Lord of the Rings. She didn't want to do it in their house, not within a ten-foot radius of her husband. "Guilt," he had said. Guilt over loving another one that him in the first place. If Hannibal was jealous, he didn't show it, pushing the empath to join Frances when he felt she needed it. Aware that Will's presence would allow her to speak and lessen the guilt rather than enhance it. Sometimes, Hannibal's understanding felt otherworldly, for he was able to step out of his wife's life only to give her space to heal. It was… not a human reaction. And yet, the best one, for Frances was now crying her pain in private, somewhere her husband couldn't loom. Her pain, though, felt so raw that it broke Will's heart.

Difficult weeks for the three of them.

At last, the young woman lifted her tear-stained face to him, and he saw her swallow at once. She hid her face in her hands, ashamed, while he took a step back.

— "I'll be by the Ocean. Take your time"

Will didn't offer to hug her; he knew that would feel awkward. Neither he nor Frances needed to touch to communicate. And she never let her guard down with him, Hannibal was the only that could reach for her, the only one that she allowed to relinquish control to. Giving her space was the best thing he could do. Coward; perhaps he was fleeing as well, feeling too inadequate to understand what exorcism Frances was performing under the guidance of those voices.

And as he settled by the sea, buttoning his jacket up to fend off the cold wind, Will's mind eventually found peace. The Red Dragon case was making him crazy, especially now they had established it used to be one of Hannibal's former patients. The angry crashing of the Ocean below helped clear his mind, and at last Frances joined him on the rocks. He didn't grant her a look, knowing her eyes would be red rimmed and puffy. His heart went out to her, and he crossed the fingers of his left hand, out of sight. Let it be known that he would do the impossible to protect them. He refused to see Frances suffer more than she already had.

At last, they settled side by side, and a long moment went without a word exchanged. Until Frances asked him how he was, and Will spoke, at length, of Alana and his dogs. Tension slowly left her body, her shoulders slumping.

— "I've brought some fish. Won't be a fancy dish, but if you want I can cook it for you."

— "You know I love it when you cook fish. It's simple and tasty. Hey, do you remember that one you made at Arthur's wedding?"

Will smiled, amused. Yes, indeed, he did now remember the huge fish they had caught and grilled over a spike just before the nuptials.

Frances found a bottle of Chardonnay in Hannibal's reserves, and they both enjoyed a fine lunch of very plain fish before the young woman settled on the piano. Will listened to her playing, noticing that there were fewer mistakes than a month ago. The pieces seemed to giver her a second wind as she eventually turned to him.

— "That song I was listening when you came in. It is called Durin's song. After a poem in…"

— "The Lord of the Rings?"

Her shoulders slumped, sadness shining in her gaze.

— "Yeah. Alana said many people were inspired by this man's works. But it just seems that the whole world actually leaked through this one"

Will's eyebrows rose into his mane of unruly hair.

— "What do you mean?"

— "I have sung that song on the road with Gimli. Heard it performed in the hall of fire…"

— "Hall of fire?"

Frances sighed; Will's notions about middle earth were the short versions of the movies. Needless to say, that they were scarce. At least, it was nice to be able to speak about elves without feeling guilty.

— "Sorry, I forgot you're not a fan. In Lord Elrond's home, in Rivendell. The hall of fire is where elves gather to hear the lores. And before the fellowship took off, on the 25th of December, no less, they sang the son of Durin in honour of the dwarves, and for Bilbo as well."

— "Wait, wait. You're losing me there."

The young woman bit her lip. Perhaps it was for the best to have someone who knew nothing about elves, dwarves and the rings. It would allow her to explain, and dwell on the notions at lengh.

— "Sorry. I went to a group of people that wanted to learn elvish. I think some of them spoke Sindarin better than I do. Anyway… I forget you don't bathe in middle earth like those people do. And you know the worst of it? They are next to no inconsistencies in Tolkien's work. A few discrepancies, at best, for everything is so detailed and so true. I don't understand how it is possible."

Will's hand scrubbed at his face, trying to understand what Frances meant. So far, he knew that Tolkien's work was thorough, but to hear that it corresponded so strongly to reality… well. Once more, the nagging feeling that Frances might have dreamt it all in her coma resurfaced. No. She wasn't insane. She had proved it when he started remembering his past life as a knight. At last, Will sighed.

— "I have no idea. The very notion of you being there in the first place…"

Frances huffed, reclining against the sofa she had settled in.

— "Yeah, I don't understand how Loki dropped me off in an alternate reality. And to think that a man wrote about a world that exists thousands of light years from now, that's weird"

— "That's… I'm sorry. I understand serial killers and the human mind, but this. It is too far-fetched for me."

A smirk bloomed upon Frances' lips; talk about horrendous crimes and Will was your guy, but speak of little grey men and the empath went cowering below his bed. Still, his never assuming mind allowed her to unburden hers.

— "So anyway. I realised I had to let go, and this song just called all those emotions. I nearly finished the third book, you know. And to read of what my friends did after my disappearance well … it takes a lot. I'm happy for them, even thrilled because I thought Sam and Frodo were dead, and I bore this guilt for years. But to know that they went on, and probably mourned me…"

— "But you returned? That other clone, she returned to middle-earth, right ?"

Frances frowned. It irked her, to be able to read every single little action her friends had taken after her "death", but to be ignorant of her own part. And to think that Eowyn and Faramir ended together! Lucky them. What about her? What about her clone? Had she found Legolas anew?

— "Yeah. If Loki didn't mess up, I did. I just hope I returned before he sailed…"

She couldn't bring herself to pronounce Legolas' name; a habit she'd taken home. It was too difficult to watch Hannibal's eyes when she said that name out loud. The way his pupils darkened and his jaw clenched. "You were not mine," he had said after his trance. Yes. She had not been his in the fifth century.

— "Hey Frances. How come you're not in the book?"

Will's sudden exclamation called her back to reality.

— "I … this is an alternate reality, remember? The Keeper of Time does not exist here. Or wasn't sent. They never needed me… Damn, the fellowship of the ring, they never needed me. And Legolas wasn't fucked up by my presence. Oh !"

Ouch, the very notion hurt. Will's clear eyes conveyed only confusion, and she sighed, lifting her hands in defeat.

— "I don't know, Will. I clearly am not informed. I just don't understand how Tolkien got his either. Dreams? Visions? He's dead now, I can never ask."

— "You should write it. Your own version. It would be fun to compare."

Frances cringed at that, vetoing the idea immediately. There was a very sound reason why she had not done so already.

— "No. I don't want Hannibal to read about me falling in love with another person."

— "He's a big boy, you know. And a psychiatrist, we all have an ex, or more"

If Hannibal could handle crazy people trying to kill him and working with the FBI, watching guts and gore, he could probably handle his wife's former love, right ? He was always so composed, what was the worst that could happen, really ? He would tut and frown, and increase his coldness factor for a few days. Nothing quite out of the ordinary for the aloof psychiatrist. Sometimes, he didn't quite understand why she coddled him so much.

— "He's not indestructible, Will"

Frances gaze was so intense that Will had to turn back to the Ocean. Sometimes, big sister was a little scary. And to think that there were three of her … well, way to get a headache!

— "Right. Erm. So you don't know what happened to those other you's."

— "No. And technically, I'm one of the clones. I guess I will never know."

Will shifted in his seat, his head cocked aside. He had trouble imagining what having a clone meant.

— "Like they probably don't know what happened to you."

— "Yeah."

A momentary silence filled the room, slightly tainted by the crashing of the angry waves over the cliff shore. How she loved that house, lost in the face of the Ocean with nothing to disturb them for miles and miles.

— "Alana thinks I'm crazy now, uh?"

Will lowered his head, a sheepish smile twisting his lips.

— "Maaaaybe? Well, she thinks you were rather drunk,"

Frances smiled; a good thing she never was. Tipsy might happen, but never drunk. The young woman couldn't possibly accept not to be in control. Much like Hannibal. But Alana didn't know that, and it probably was for the best.

— "I'm sorry you have to hide it from her. On the other hand, I doubt she would believe you…"

Will's eyes lifted to the ceiling as he slouched backwards.

— "Not a chance. Not now, at least. Maybe later"

— "Yeah. Now, let's use that bow of yours."

March.

Amber eyes watched intently as the string was pulled and released, the arrow hitting dead centre. Sunrays lit Frances' hair on fire, her eyes squinted in concentration, posture straight, arms taut. Every bit the little warrior as Will took his place beside her. The empath notched one of his arrows –made by hand – and pulled the string. Frances watched, her gaze serious, as he released it and marked brilliantly. A bright smile was exchanged, the empath's gaze meeting hers without flinching. How incredible, when he knew Will still struggled to make eye contact with anyone other than Alana. But such was the power of his wife.

Frances' birthday had come and gone, and Hannibal was proud that he had been able to take her to the opera without her seeing the security details. And the way she'd been welcomed amongst his peers had improved greatly, especially as many curious members wanted to meet and congratulate her. Her manners and wit had quickly won the few stragglers. His present – a necklace with a Tahiti pearl –had adorned her collarbone beautifully, exposed for all to see. He knew by now that anything that reminded Frances of the sea would please her.

Twenty-five years old. She was twenty-five years old. Hannibal had trouble wrapping his mind around it, he that was twice her age. Every bit the sugar daddy he despised in others… Expect that his wife could match him in skill, and was as far from a sugar baby as a dragon was. Anyway…

Watching her take a few steps backwards, he had trouble believing her age as she aimed, and fired in rapid succession. In those moments, it was the Keeper of Time he saw. All arrows found the target, some more centred than others. Hannibal wondered, for a moment, if he should as well play the archery game. Frances had told him that Tristan was the most skilled of the knights. With bow and sword alike. Hannibal had no trouble believing it; his character had always pushed him to practise until excellence. Nothing less than perfection suited him, in this life or the previous one. Still, he didn't feel compelled to prove himself with a bow. He had enough skills, today, not to resort to such a primitive game. Surgery, psychiatry, cooking, drawing, playing the harpsichord… killing.

Will was building confidence. Given the path he had chosen to lead him – to be a healthy friend – Hannibal could only praise his wife, or curse her, for helping him in his task. Had she not been there, things would have been mightily different. He wondered, for a moment, how this relationship would have ended.

Hannibal drank the scene greedily, watching the interaction between Will and Frances. They acted like siblings, and the irony wasn't lost on him. He stood in the opposite position than on Christmas Day, with him watching and they sharing a moment of common passion. Instead of dancing in Hannibal's arms, she was mending her wounds in Will's company. And he … was alone. Ever since Mischa's death, Hannibal had resolved himself to be lonely. No family left. Perhaps he should leave now, and forever. What good could he bring to Frances' life anyway? His very presence was a blow to her well-being.

The Red Dragon was out there, a possible threat, yet, for the moment, not intent on harming him. He wondered if Dolarhyde would snap, somehow. For the moment, the serial killer seemed rather content to be the man he shaped him into. One of his greatest triumph! Where did Frances fit in here? The answer was simple; she didn't. It was the reason why he had pushed her to spend more time at the beach house, why he asked Will to join her as often as possible. He didn't trust security to keep her safe, even if they saw no reason to worry. Not yet. Fortunately, Jack had accepted to grant some men to protect her – after quite some insistence from both him and Will. Guns were too unpredictable for Frances to see anything coming. If the Red Dragon decided to attack her, she would be powerless to stop him before he put that fateful bullet in her head.

Hannibal circled the house, walking to the front door quietly to drop his cooler into the kitchen. Will and Frances' voices rose on the terrace in between loud "thuds" on the straw target. Hearing his name caused his ears to perk up, and he silently approached the French doors.

— "We'll be by your side, Frances. Me and Alana… When Hannibal isn't here anymore, we will support you."

His death, this is what Will meant. Frances snorted then.

— "Ah don't worry about that, we'll be long gone when…"

The sentence was left unfinished, and Hannibal wondered what kind of look those two were exchanging. The silence meant that Frances had just realised the enormity of her words. Had the Keeper of Time had another vision, or was it just a hunch? Needless to say, that it unsettled his heart. A loud thud indicated that one of them had resumed shooting, and Hannibal grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter, prowling through the slight opening. He was careful not to fix his gaze upon Frances' back; she always felt it. Fortunately, she was shooting right now, Will watching the target intently.

He sent the knife twirling with a flick of his wrist; the blade landed dead centre, nicking the arrow that rested but an inch away. Will and Frances whirled around, ready to strike. Hannibal couldn't help but bristle – if Dolarhyde had been there, they would both be dead by now. But when she caught his gaze, his wife's smile shone like a thousand suns. Her eyes twinkled with warmth, her expression so hopeful, so happy that he wondered how in the world he might have imagined getting away from her. The love shining in her eyes, the gentle swell of her chest, the light radiating upon her features… No, he couldn't leave her. Not now, not ever.

Frances nearly ran to him, kissing him soundly as her arms embraced him. Such a heartfelt welcome! And Hannibal left his sombre mood behind, relishing in the softness of her touch and the hopeful glint in her eyes.

The Red Dragon would have to die, for he wasn't about to let him have him.

An hour passed on the terrace until the weather took a turn for the worse and chased them inside. Hannibal unpacked the cooler in front of a smug Frances – she knew he'd come with food. Will, for his part, only took a peek at the huge piece of cheese.

— "So, Mac and cheese this evening?"

Will's casual dismissal of his cooking skill only sent a smirk to his lips.

— "Hardly. Today is home-made pasta with basilic sauce and parmiggioano Reggiano. And now, the wine !"

The psychiatrist disappeared in the cellar as Frances turned to Will.

— "What the hell is Mac and Cheese, by the way?"

The empath proceeded to explain a recipe where macaroni and poor grated cheese seemed to have a central part, causing Frances to purse her lips greatly.

— "Caro William," she sighed. "Non si puo avere salsa di pomodoro senza…"

The young woman paused in her Italian tirade there, searching for the proper word, and failing.

— "Damn. I don't remember," she smiled.

— "What did you say?" Will asked, amused by her rant.

Albeit he had to admit that she nailed the Italian accent rather nicely. Frances walked about in the kitchen, preparing utensils to start the tomato sauce.

— "That there couldn't be tomato sauce without a 'roux'."

Will laughed then, ignorant of the thing she called a "roux", especially since it was a pure French notion, hence said with a hard "r". Yet, it reminded him so much of his first dinner with Dr Lecter, and the countless times he told him the name of the dishes he'd prepared.

— "You're turning into Hannibal."

Frances froze at this, her spatula hanging mid-air. Damn, Will was right! For the second time in too little time, she realised that her behaviour matched her husband's. It wasn't good news … if his ways oozed into her, how could she keep being their moral compass? Her eyes, wide with fear, met Hannibal's. Bottle of wine in hand, the psychiatrist was eyeing her, his brown orbs thunderous. Frances forced her lips into a smile, but it was too late. The damage was done already; written plainly upon his face. Yet, not a muscle twitched, but so much hurt oozed from his eyes. She felt like yelling to the heavens! Damn it, what an idiot she was! Just a misplaced look, a tiny reaction of fear… why couldn't he be ignorant, for once ?

Hannibal passed her casually and Frances' heart missed a beat. He was furious, but turned to Will pleasantly.

— "Don't rile up a woman of Italian descent, Will."

Frances attempted to reach for her husband, hoping to mend the gash she had unwillingly torn between them.

— "What's the name of the roux, my darling?"

The psychiatrist turned to her, features pleasant, and gaze burning. His smooth voice washed over her like a death sentence.

— "Nunca idea, amore mia"

Dinner was torture. A perfect moment, when both Will and Hannibal spoke to her warmly, with delicious dishes and wine that complimented the pasta nicely. An Italian brew from Sicilia. But everything tasted like ashes because of Hannibal's seething anger. How he managed to keep it at bay, to hide it so well as a mystery to her. For he felt it keenly, it oozed from him to her so strongly that her chest hurt. The furious rain that tapped on the huge windows seemed to match the mood until it settled to light, interrupted rain. Eventually, Will left for bed – too drunk to drive home in this weather – and so did Frances and Hannibal.

Not a foot into the master bedroom, Hannibal whirled around to face her.

— "Am I so despicable to you that you would die rather than resemble me?"

His tone was cold, hurt hidden behind anger, and Frances cringed.

— "No! I wouldn't…"

— "Think your words carefully, wife."

There was such reminiscence from Tristan's anger, in this moment, to the way he spat the word "wife" that Frances' eyes misted over. The knight had called her "woman" a few times, sometimes in anger, others with affection. She wondered if the fifth century knight would have suited her more than Hannibal. Which one of them was more broken? Frances breathed in slowly, trying to loosen the ache in her chest.

— "I am sorry, Hannibal. I am afraid."

Her confession didn't abate his anger as he watched her, detached. Then, there, she was facing Hannibal the cold-blooded killer. And despite everything they had shared, she didn't doubt he could push a knife in her gut if need be. His voice was clinical, devoid of emotion as he adorned his psychiatrist persona.

— "What are you afraid of, Frances?"

The young woman bit her lip, her hand extending to him, then retracting.

— "Myself. I am the moral compass in this couple. If I lose my way, who is going to pull us back?"

Hannibal's upper lip curled in distaste, his eyes boring holes into her.

— "Will. You have asked of me to take care of him, and so I have done. He is more than able to set your compass right, should it drift away"

Defeated, Frances nodded. She couldn't face his disappointment, couldn't handle his anger anymore. The ache in her chest was becoming a gaping hole, and she left the room. Grabbing her coat, she pulled the hood over her head and made her way outside. The rain had subsided to a drizzle, and for a long moment, she found solace in the waves crashing against the cliff. The Ocean's song, strong and sturdy, caused her mind to drift away in other times, other realities where Tristan was not the broken man she loved.

Frances remained outside a long time, losing track of time, listening to the waves in the darkness. Inside, a faint light indicated that Hannibal was still awake, but the rest of the world slept.

Suddenly, her wandering mind seemed to focus on the cliff side. Her eyes opened, unseeing, taking in two silhouettes in the darkness. Hannibal! Hannibal was standing above the Ocean, bloodied and bruised, a crimson flow pooling from a gut wound. A mop of black curls clung to him, a smaller silhouette no less bloody. Will! Frances' mouth opened in a silent cry, her heart missing a beat as Will embraced Hannibal… The psychiatrist panted, then closed his eyes in pure bliss. He didn't even struggle when Will pushed them over the cliff, sending both of them tumbling into the Ocean.

Frances jumped to her feet, her heart frantic, eyes wide open. The rain was heavier now, the wind whipping her face. And … there was nothing there. No Hannibal, no Will. Had she seen the future? Another possibility? Panicked beyond measure, the young woman darted inside, terrified. The French door banged upon her entrance as she rushed inside. Hannibal lifted his head. Sad, angry, frustrated, he was sketching something at the bottom of the stairs. Frances deflated, falling on her knees in the middle of the living room. Thank God, he was alive and well!

Tears leaked from her eyes, and she wiped them angrily, her gaze returning to her husband. That man would be her end, she was sure of it. As husband and wife stared at each other, Frances breathed out and stood. Married, passionate, allies and enemies. A relationship laden with love and antagonism. She had chosen her fate, after all. Shedding her coat, the young woman took a few steps forward and extended her hand in a gesture of peace. Hannibal watched her for a moment, his eyes guarded, until he set his supplies aside. She barely had time to take a peek at the drawing, but it was easy to recognise herself. Sleeping soundly. Slowly, her husband stood, unfolding his long limbs purposefully, gracefully. Displaying his power even in this simple movement.

Stoned faced, Hannibal extended his own hand, his long fingers reaching for hers. They never touched. A flash of bright light blinded them both, and when Hannibal opened his eyes, Frances had disappeared.