A/N: This has been so much fun for me to write. I greatly appreciate everyone who's read and reviewed. Thanks again!

Chapter 24:

Her eyes were so heavy she could barely pry them open. Darkness swirled around her head and then a flickering light followed by a muffled, distant voice that sent shivers throughout her body. She couldn't understand the words, but she felt his hand on her face, prying her jaw open as something metal was pushed into her mouth and then water. She nearly gagged as he forced her to swallow it down her throat. Not wanting to choke, she opened her throat as if swallowing a large pill and gulped it down.

Tears filled her eyes as she tried to move by couldn't. Her hands and legs had been restrained by metal. That was all she could feel was metal. It was wrapped around her wrists and ankles. And then it was against her face. She jerked it fear as she felt metal against the skin of her face, over her forehead, her cheeks and chin.

Then pain filled her mouth, making her scream out as the tears fell from her eyes. Something was in her mouth, pinning her tongue down and it was sharp. Saliva started to fill her throat as she started to salivate from not being about to move her tongue or open her mouth.

He spoke to her again, saying, "Ask yourself as you lay here in the dark, ask yourself, 'can I forgive him?'. Your dear Gilbert, can you look at him the same way if he killed me for you?"

There was a pool of blood. Her mother, next to him, crying with the bloody knife still in her hand. Shock was the best description for what she'd been in, staring down at the lifeless body of her father.

"I saw them. I saw them. In his eyes. In his eyes, they went on for miles." Her words were lost in a jumbled mess of illogical nonsense. Then she said, "I did it for you."

Those words pierced her right in the heart and shattered it into pieces.

Blinking back against the tears, she heard her mom say again, "I did it for you."

He left her there alone in the dark with nothing but the pain and her fear. A tear broke free from her eyes as she thought of Gil. She hoped she'd be able to see again. She hoped when she did, he looked like the same man that she'd fallen in love with. She hoped he didn't look like a murderer.

Could she forgive him? Yes, Sara thought, she could.

Before he got on the jet, he stood out on the tarmac and used Agent Culpepper's cell phone to call Brass back. He had an idea. The moment Brass answered the phone, he asked, "There were explosives in the barn?"

"Yeah."

"Are you still at the scene?"

"Been out here all night, why?"

He glanced over at Culpepper who was watching him and getting highly impatient. Jack was sitting on the ground beside him, also but waiting patiently. "Detonate it."

Brass laughed a little and said, "You want us to—"

"Yeah, I do," he cut him off. "And get the press out there. Take as many pictures as you can and release it to the National Tattler—"

"That sleazy tabloid news blog you hate?"

"The very one. Say that, uh…Say that there were some casualties; I was one of them."

Culpepper eyed him as Brass said, "You want me to lie to the press?"

"We can claim misinformation later, after we get Lecter. I want the news to travel as fast as it possibly can all the way to France."

Culpepper finally smirked as he gestured for another agent to walk over. He whispered something to the agent who nodded before getting on the jet.

Brass said into his ear, "Will do. That's it?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"What about Kevin's condition?"

He shook his head as he told Brass, "I didn't bring my cell phone. I don't want any distractions. Besides, he's a fighter. He'll be fine." He ended the call and asked Culpepper as he handed him back his cell, "Got a problem with lying to the press?"

Culpepper shook his head as he pocketed his cell phone, "None at all, Dr. Grissom. Got my PR man on it now."

Gripping Jack's leash, he headed up the steps to the jet. Once they were in the air, enroute to France, he isolated himself from the rest of the FBI agents as he lost himself in thought. He had to do something he never wanted to do again and that was to hunt down Hannibal Lecter. In order to do that, he had to give himself over to his internal instincts completely. He could no longer block off the part of himself he called "Will". This was no time for Grissom.

The forensics got him there, but the rest was a lot more primitive because Lecter, despite his act of being human, was primitive. They were both hunters as well as the hunted. Once the plane landed, he opened his eyes and let out all his fear. Lecter would be able to smell that a mile away, much like bees and dogs.

"Grissom," Agent Culpepper called out from the command center at the back of the jet. "We have the list of properties and property owners. Come have a look."

Getting up out of his seat, he headed to the back of the jet and into the small command center that reminded him of President John Kennedy's Air Force One that he'd seen on display at the National Air Force and Space Museum in Dayton, Ohio, except upgraded with the newest technology. On each side of the aisles were tables with four seats, two on each side, facing each other with telephones on each table. There were laptops on several of the tables as well. A computer and printer were built into a wall with monitors. A map of the United States on the back of one aisle wall with a radar map of all the countries on the back of the other aisle. It was an FBI command post in the air.

"Interpol finally came through," Culpepper was telling him. "We have access to the property maps and blueprints and owner information. Now all we have to do is sort them all. We don't even know where in France he's living. Where do we start? Paris?"

He shook his head as he sat down in an empty seat beside the young agent who had the laptop situated in front of him on the table. "Agent…?"

"Sankhavarem," the young agent said, before saying, "Most people just call me by my first name. Vijay."

He smirked slightly as he said, "Agent Sankhavarem, can you bring up the most recent purchases going back a year, please."

Agent Sankhavaram brought up the listings on the monitor in front of him. There were five. One in Nice, two in Paris, and one in Bordeaux, and one in Marseille. He studied the names as he worked out any connections to Lecter. In his mind a running database of everything he knew of Lecter, including his interests.

Nabil Belleson, Salvador Cassano, Lester Arduini, Earl Bach Linnet—

"Lester Arduini could be him—"

"Is Earl a title?" Gil asked Agent Sankhavarem, cutting Culpepper off.

"I believe so," Sankhavaram said as he pulled up the owner's information.

Reading the information on the screen of the title of Earl before the name Bach Linnet. Grabbing a pen and piece of paper off the table across the aisle, he wrote out the name Earl Bach Linnet. Then while he rearranged the letters, voiced his inner thoughts. "Lecter had lived with his uncle, Count Robert, after the death of his parents. The title of Earl is equivalent to the title of Count. Bach is Lecter's favorite composer, having written and performed his favorite musical composition "The Goldberg Variations". And Linnet is the name of a species of bird. Lecter loves bird watching," he said as a different name stared back up at him.

Culpepper asked, "Birds? What does any of that have to do with anything?"

Showing it to Culpepper, he said, "I don't know, you tell me." The letters in Earl Bach Linnet rearranged had spelt out Hannibal Lecter. "He's in Bordeaux."

Culpepper stared at the name on the paper as his face went red. He gave a nod before saying, "Vijay, bring up all property records—"

"I'm already on it," Sankhavaram said as images of the schematics and blueprints of the château appeared on screen.

Behind him, he heard someone on the phone and the next thing he knew the aerial view of the route from the airport to the château appeared on the wall monitor along with the aerial view of the property. Agent Sankhavarem had printed out the blueprints and handed him a copy before passing the rest around to the other agents on the plane.

As Culpepper and the rest of the FBI debated on course of action, he memorized the property map and blueprints.

Once the jet landed in Bordeaux, and Culpepper laid out his plan to rush through the city, surround the château, and negotiate with Lecter to surrender, he told him, "If that's your plan, Lecter will be long gone before you ever make it across the city. Hannibal Lecter isn't the type to not have an escape plan."

"He's not some supernatural entity, or had superhuman instincts," Culpepper said, "He's tucked away in that big castle, not knowing what's going on outside."

"You're wrong. He's very intuitive, much like me. If something doesn't feel right, then it isn't. On top of that, his sense of smell is uniquely refined and highly accurate. Any scent out of the norm will get his attention and set him off. Stay back, no one advances on that property until I make the call. And…I'm walking."

Culpepper eyes him like he'd lost his damn mind. "From the airport."

He gave a nod and said "Yeah. It'll take some time, but it's what I have to do. Why do you think I brought the dog?"

"Emotional support animal? You are a little crazy."

He almost smirked at the joke before saying, "He's going to track me the whole way. It's my call—"

"No, it's mine." Culpepper had that look.

The one he'd been seeing for decades. He was either brilliant or insane. What he really was, was a hunter. And today, he was hunting the worst of humanity.

"Fine," Culpepper said, agreeing. "But don't you two get lost."

He smirked as he unbundled the leash from Jack's collar. "We won't."

It was noon when he set out from Aeroport de Bordeaux, and it would be after eight in the evening when he arrived on location to Lecter's château. He took his time.

He bought second-hand clothes and shoes from a street vendor, got a hotel room for one day, showered and changed. There wouldn't be any lingering smell of Las Vegas, or the plane and FBI agents on him. He wanted himself and the dog to smell of Bordeaux. He wore no cologne, no deodorant or aftershave. Jack was waiting for him as he walked out of the hotel. Good dog.

He bought lunch from a café on the River Garonne, sat at an outdoor table, and took in the scenery. Jack found his table, laid down under it in the shade, and waited. As he crossed over the Pont de Pierre bridge, he thought how beautiful it would have been to share with Sara. They would have to make a trip to France one day. While he walked, Jack stalked behind him.

It was hot and he was sweaty, and hungry, as he neared the Château Font-Merlet. As the sun was setting, he stopped in and bought a bottle of red wine. Sitting outside under the linden tree was Jack. Two hours later, the night air feeling cool on his face, he cleared the curve in the paved road with no lines, no lights along the path, but there was a gate on the left-hand side of the road. Beyond the gate was the château and then the river Dordogne. He kept walking.

The map of the region was in his head. He saw it perfectly. Up ahead two hundred yards were more trees and a stream. He headed into the trees and followed the stream towards the river. Behind him, he heard Jack lapping up the water before following, splashing as he trotted along. There was no collar on the dog and by the time he stopped, eyes on the windows of the château and seeing the lights and lit candles, Jack was next to him, panting, hungry, wet and eager to find food.

Jack was muddy, and no longer appeared owned. He looked to be a stray on the loose and roaming the countryside. With one word he ordered Jack to go find food while gesturing towards the château. As Jack put his nose to the ground and started sniffing out something to eat, he stood in the trees, watched, and waited.

Beside him, Will felt the Dragon Slayer doing the same.

Secluded along the Dordogne River stood a stone château on a hill long since thought abandoned until bought by a mysterious wealthy man from out west. The path still made of dirt wounded around a well, a garden with parterres bordered by yew hedges, boxwood trees clipped into cone shapes, flowers adorning the cobblestone pathways, and an English-style park full of trees: oak, cider, linden, hornbeam and copper beech. Crossing over an old moat, up the stone steps to the doors where chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling.

At the end of the long, candle lit corridor with Versailles parquet flooring, past the slitted windows where the candles sat, was the library. Another chandelier hung from the coffered ceiling as a fire burned in the marble fireplace while the sun started to set behind the hill. Seated at the desk, a glass of wine abandoned for a pen, Hannibal Lecter sat. The only sound was the scratching of the pen across the parchment paper as he created a picture. In his mind he painted a picture made of blood and longing. Torturous prolonged agony.

Though a castle, it wasn't nearly as grand as the memory palace that he's maintained since he was a child, but it resonated with him none-the-less for the history it kept and stirrings it brought forth. There was a warmth of the château that filled the aching of the one where his aunt, Lady Murasaki, and he had lived while in Paris. The cool dark corridors and lavish rooms that reminded him of the Lecter Castle in Lithuania where he grew up.

On top of the desk, beside an old music box, sat newspapers along with a laptop, which was the only piece of modern technology in the entire château. He'd read and seen the news footage on The Tattler news website, about the explosion of a barn in Montana where many people had died, including that of his amendable foe Will Graham, aka, Gil Grissom and his disappointing heir Kevin Collins, along with his dear Clarice Starling. Others had expired in the explosion and subsequent fire that would take dental records to identify.

It was done, he thought as he reached for the wine glass and then gave a toast to the dead. Though he had hoped to be wrong in wanting Graham to forgo his instincts and come after him instead, it was a fitting end to Will Graham, the hunter of monsters. Just in case Graham surprised him, because he was well aware that the elements of epiphany had been present in the lawman's head, he had set the trap. One he knew that the tamed and neutered lawman would fall right into.

Graham had proven himself time and time again that he had an unmistakable gift of foresight. That at any moment his thoughts, bouncing around in his mind, could have landed on him, there, in the château. What had given him worry was how Graham had been too busy being ruled by a woman's heart to see clearly. Her empathy trapped him. But alas, his worry was all for nothing. Graham died in Montana.

The cruelest part for him was that Graham had died first and now Sara would have to die alone. Fifty feet beneath the monster's chair, in the pitch-black cavern would be where the blood and muffled, anguish screams of the woman—the one who held the heart of the man who had imprisoned him—would reside forever; even after her death. No one was coming to save her after all.

Pity.

Lecter took a sip of the red wine and went back to his drawing when the pop of the fire mixed with a crack out the Porte-fenêtre that separated the library from the patio. Beyond the patio the old moat, now a dirt path, and then the garden and the trees. A twig had been snapped and the pen stopped in his hand.

On the air he smelt the lead from his pencil, the vellum paper, the oak wood in the fireplace, the aromatic red fruits, cedar and herbs of the red wine and out the doors, the oily fish smell of a dog. It smelt wet and of the city of Bordeaux. Water dog: Labrador. Opening the drawer to the desk, he retrieved his knife and slipped it into his pocket as he stood. There was a kerosene lamp on the fireplace mantle. He lit the lamp with a match.

There were no other sounds in the night air. Taking a breath, the lingering odor of smoke from the fire was the only other scent in the room. Peering out the windows in the door, he watched as the dirty, hungry dog passed the library and stalked along the dirt path. His eyes watched it in the night as he grabbed the lamp and headed out of the library and around the maze of candle lit corridors towards the foyer.

Through the slitted windows he stalked the dog's path, wondering where it was headed. If it had an owner, the owner would come looking for it. The last thing he wanted were snooping eyes coming around—

Lecter knew by the time he smelt the natural husky scent in the air that it was too late. A presence was behind him. No aftershave this time; nor whiskey or cigarette smoke. It must have taken its shoes off to have been able to sneak up behind him. There was no warning to put his hands in the air. Only the breath he felt on the back of his neck daring him to reach for the knife.

Lecter nearly smiled, in fact, he thought he did. The explosion in Montana hadn't taken Graham's life, or anyone else's. It'd been a ruse for his benefit. The dog had also been a distraction. Getting him away from the library in order for Graham to slip through the door from the outside. Very good, he thought.

Then he heard music. He stilled as the music box he's had since childhood played the musical piano notes of the children's song that filled his head. Closing his eyes, he drifted into his mind as the music continued to play.

Stepping into his memory palace, the towering arches of the corridors, the tapestries of memories that hung on the walls, he entered the study. It appeared much like the psychiatrist's office he had in Baltimore, Maryland. Walls of books, big windows, and his desk. A man stood at his desk in his memory palace, holding the music box that played the music.

"That is the only remaining heirloom I have from my childhood."

Graham glanced over his shoulder at him and he saw the investigative mind behind the sharp blue eyes. They tried piercing through his skin to uncover what was inside, but that was one thing he couldn't afford to reveal. For what his skin was covering was the thing that wanted to rip open the investigators chest and feast upon his innards.

"You're here early," he said as he stepped further in the psychiatrist's office and closed the door.

Graham blinked and looked away, back down at the music box in his hand. "It's German. You're not German."

"No," he said as he neared Graham who was trespassing into his private space. That was very rude of him to do. And as he's said before, rudeness was an epidemic. "Although, I have seen American kids dancing around in circles while singing a rhyme about the black plague."

Graham smirked as he continued listening to the song.

Singing the words to the song as he also listened to the music, he spoke them in English for Graham's benefit, "A little man stands in the forest completely still and quiet…He wears a little, pure purple cloak…Who can that little man be, who stands there alone in the forest, with the little crimson cloak?...The little man stands in the forest on one leg, and has on his head a little, black cap…Who can that little man be, who stands there alone in the forest, with the little black cap?...The little man out there on one leg, with his little, red cloak, and his little, black cap…Can only be the rose hip."

He slid up beside Graham, so close he could smell his atrocious aftershave, and took the music box from his hand. Staring down at the painted picture on top of the circular music box, he almost smiled.

Sitting side-by-side on a wooden fence, a lamb at their feet, were a boy and girl. The boy, who by height alone appeared older, was playing a flute as the little sat beside him clutching a bouquet of yellow flowers. The picture, along with the music box itself, had been specialty made as a Christmas for his sister Mischa. The last Christmas they had before the war took his heart away.

Graham didn't step away like most humans did if someone got up close and personal. He knew that Graham was also breathing in his scent. They were like two dogs trying to feel each other out to determine who was the alpha. They smelt the same. He wondered whose bite would be bigger. He already knew whose bite was deadliest.

"I want to continue our discussion on our shared use of memory palaces—"

"You said your was vast, even by medieval standards," Graham said as he glanced around the office. "What else is there to discuss?"

Placing the music box back down on the desk, he told Graham, "How to invite someone inside. Creating a visual memory but in the mind and not in reality."

Graham didn't move, barely breathed, for exactly five taps from the metronome before he tilted his head and said while looking right into his eyes, "Like now."

He blinked again and stepped away, venturing further around the office as, in the blink of an eye, appeared much older. He was no longer the young, strapping FBI agent, but a much older, past his prime, CSI. His fingers did as they always did and touched every thing he passed and saw as he encircled him.

"Folie à deux? A shared delusion. Shared memories, dreams, is a two-way street. We aren't really here, but we are, because we imagine ourselves to be. Based on past evidence, past conversations, we can then infer the future actions and conversations of ourselves, thus, creating—" He stopped and gestured around. "This. At this very moment, we're both remembering our time in your office discussing the music box. We're both, in our memories, having this very conversation." He gripped the back of his desk chair and leaned on it, smiled at him, and said, "Neat, huh?"

Graham never ceased to impress him. The man truly was his own reflection, but flipped around had he ever had a heart. Their minds were equal, making them equal in every way.

The investigator's eyes roamed over the desk and then the chair and the rug on the floor under it. Graham's mind was the creator of ideas. "Imagination," he said, "was what sent astronauts to the moon."

"Imagination fuels creation."

"For cops and for criminals," Graham said.

"Is this another one of your "consequences is fate" epiphanies you're experiencing?"

"You murder to teach lessons. It's a part of who you are, Hannibal. You can't help it. You have to prove, time and time again, how much smarter than me you are."

"Only because you think you're smarter than me."

Graham smirked as his eyes twinkled in amusement. "Have you heard of the Château de Brézé? It's one of the oldest castles in the Loire Valley of France, and underneath it, there is a labyrinth of old tunnels that spread out for almost 2 miles."

"Not uncommon. Most castles and châteaus had such tunnels incorporated into the designs prior to being built. How else were the aristocrats supposed to escape from their enemies? They were also used for smuggling all sorts of illegal contraband. Or, just an easier way to store their barrels of wine in the cellar. Perfect place to set a trap, too, don't you think?"

"Beware of setting traps, Hannibal, you might become trapped yourself."

"Is that what you intend to do, Will? Trap me?" He picked up his envelope opener and saw the reflection of his maroon tinted eyes in the blade before asking, "You took my freedom once, but…I had this place to keep me company."

"In your mind is where you run free when physically you can't." Graham tapped his fingers on top of the chair in time with the metronome.

"Come to take my freedom from me once again, have you?"

"No," Graham said with a slight shake of his head. "I want to take more than your freedom."

"My life then?"

"Your reason—"

The music stopped. "...to be," the voice said in the candle-lit corridor of the château.

His reason to be could only mean his reason to want to live; to exist. Lecter's mind was filled with thoughts of the worst thing that could ever happen to him. His own nightmare of being so restricted that he couldn't move, couldn't speak, and couldn't do anything that brought him pleasure. All he would be left with were his memories. His only retreat would be to the memory palace.

"I knew you'd come for her. Are you going to torture me into spilling my guts out to find out where I've hidden your dear, sweet Sara?"

"Wouldn't do me any good," the voice spoke behind him. "You'd just give me a riddle to solve. Besides, I already know where she is. You would want her near you; so close…" He took a deep breath in, "That you can smell her fear of monsters. Of you."

And Dr. Hannibal Lecter was a monster. There was no consensus in the psychiatric community on what he actually was, but one thing was certain that they could all agree on: he shouldn't be termed a man. He was something else entirely. He was Other. Conveniently, Lecter was termed "monster".

"I used to think of you as something entirely unhuman. A monster, or something more animalistic. A shark. No concept of good and bad, or right and wrong. Insane people have no concept of morality. That's what makes them insane. But I was wrong about you, Hannibal. You're not any of those things. You're just a man. And as a man, you're not as smart as you think you are."

There was something different in the tone. Suddenly, he didn't know who he was speaking to. It would be highly beneficial to him if he did. "Who are you right now?" From the detachment in the voice, he wondered if the man behind him had any idea who he was at the moment. "Are you Will Graham or are you Gil Grissom?"

He wanted to know because by learning who he was would give him the advantage. Graham got emotional. Grissom got cerebral. Lecter's tactic to try to gain the upper hand rested solely on who was speaking to him with that cool, detached voice. Still, either Graham or Grissom, the stench of fear—

That had been what was missing. The reason why he hadn't smelt him coming down the corridor. There was no stench of fear.

"I'm the Dragon," the voice said right before the barrel of the gun was pressed against the C4 vertebrae of his spinal cord.

Neither not Graham nor Grissom. For once Lecter thought himself at a disadvantage. Then he smiled slightly. Graham could be categorized as Other as well. At the moment, there were two monsters in the château.

"Rounds of ammunition are made up of four parts: primer, propellant, casing, and projectile," the Dragon told him. "The grain weight system is used to measure the mass of the ammunition. Measuring the mass of the cartridge projectile, which is the part that is propelled forward from the firearm, helps determine the correct size of ammo to use for specific shooting purposes…A hunter wants something with heavier weight grain. Slower velocity, more energy, and less likely to pass through the body. Immediate stop."

Lecter's voice was equally as cold as he said, "You've come all this way, I hope you're not a disappointment. I'm still waiting on you to kill someone. I suspect it's going to be me."

The barrel left Lecter's body. He became intrigued by the turn of events. Caught off guard twice in one night was something he wasn't used to happening. "I am the only monster you have yet to kill."

He heard it smirk. "You don't fear death, in fact you want it. A rational society would either kill you…or give you what you want. I'm not going to do either, Hannibal."

"What then? Imprisonment?"

"The worst kind—"

His hand that held the kerosene lamp darted out and knocked a candle holder. The lamp crashed to the floor as a gunshot rang out.

The second it took him to realize he'd been shot, he hit the floor as his legs disappeared out from under him. There was numbness in his body, in his back, as he stared up at the vaulted wooden ceiling as the tapestries caught fire. He watched the fire spread up to the wooden beams of the ceiling.

Instinct was to reach for his knife and to attack back against his assailant. He thought about the knife in his right pocket. His brain told him to grab it. His hand wouldn't move. Neither would his shoulder, or his fingers or his legs. The only thing he could move were his eyes.

Blinking, he moved his eyes and saw walking into his line of sight the monster that hid underneath Graham's exterior. In the flaming corridor, he saw a mythological creature staring down at him that was half man, half dragon with wings protruding out of its back. Crooked fanged teeth smiled and he saw red blood in its mouth. There was black blood covering the bare body and hands. And he knew that its feet would be hoofs. All of Graham's demons made up the Dragon, who was a slayer of monsters.

"Spatchcock," the Dragon told him. Lecter's eyes rose in surprise. "You cut the spines out of your victims. So, I took yours by paralyzing you."

It took his mind a couple of seconds to understand what had happened. The bullet only had enough power to impact his body, break through the bones and nerves of his spine, and then stop inside of his chest cavity leaving him…"I can't feel a…thing," Lecter's unemotional, metallic voice whispered.

The eyes of the Dragon blinked and in its place was Will Graham. Graham winced at the sight before him, remained silent, and then holstered the gun. Unclipping a radio from his belt, he turned it on and made a call.

"All clear. Lecter is down. I repeat, Hannibal Lecter is down." Graham returned the radio to his belt as it crackled with the voices of the responding FBI SWAT team and Interpol, French police, as the château was surrounded. "You know, Lecter, I really am tired of you crazy sons-of-bitches."

He went to step away but stopped himself before kneeling down. A hand grabbed his throat, squeezing hard, as he leaned down so close to him that they were eye-to-eye. There was no fear in Graham's eyes because the threat was gone. The shark no longer had any bite.

"I bought a bottle of red wine from the Château Font-Merlet. When we get home, I'm going to share it with Sara, and never think of you again. Think about that while you're sipping food through a straw in a prison hospital, cursing my name every time you can't lift a finger." He removed a pocket knife from his pants pocket and flicked it open then stared into his reflection.

He knew what the lawman was seeing reflected back. The demon that he'd shackled deep inside of him. Graham had put a very short leash on it, but that didn't mean that he couldn't let it off the hook every once in a while. It nearly made Lecter smile to think he was the one that caused Graham to get his hands bloody.

"Almost forgot, we wouldn't want you to accidentally swallow your own tongue."

Lecter felt the pain and sensation as Graham cut his tongue out of his mouth and then rolled him onto his side so as not to choke on his own blood. Graham tossed the tongue aside as he stood and repocketed the knife. On his face was a smile as the painting hanging on the wall beside them lit up in flames.

He felt the heat from the fire but didn't feel the warmth that spread out beneath him as he laid on the floor, eyes blinking into the dark corridor that swarmed with flashlights. As the FBI descended upon him, he couldn't do anything except lie there in a pool of blood. Imprisoned again. This time trapped inside his own body, where he would remain confined until his dying day.

Unless the smoke and fire killed him first.

Gil heard the shouting from the FBI agents as they swarmed the rooms in search of Hannibal Lecter. He didn't have much time to get to Sara before the whole palace went up in flames. With the blueprints fresh in his mind, he ran through the corridors as the fire raced after him. The entire interior of the château was made to burn from the wood beams to the furnishings, the paintings and tapestries that hung on the walls, along with the long curtains on the windows. It'd only take a matter of minutes before the fire was too big to contain. It'd take hours to put out, if they didn't just let it all burn to the ground.

In front of him, down the long candle lit corridor that led to the cellar, he saw the Dragon. He ran right towards it as the furnishings along the wall burst into flames. Beyond the Dragon was a door that he reached for and yanked open before turning to see the roaring fire headed his way as he slammed the door shut. Through the top edge of the door, he saw the billowing black smoke creep along the ceiling.

He turned around on the landing and searched in the darkness for a light switch or chain. There wasn't one. Looking down into the dark dungeon that awaited him, he saw a flickering light. The wooden steps creaked as he descended into the cellar. Soon it too would be engulfed as the flames—which seemed very much alive—searched out for more fuel.

Stepping off the last step, he walked between the lit candles on the stone walls that illuminate the chamber he'd entered. As he walked further into the room, a metal table appeared and then her legs, body, and head. He froze at the sight. It was Sara.

Tears welled in his eyes as he saw her. Partly covering her face was a Scold's Bridle mask. The mask had been used as a form of punishment and public humiliation. It was an iron muzzle in an iron framework that enclosed the head. A bridle-bit was slid into the mouth and pressed down on top of the tongue, often with a spike on the tongue, as a compress. Its function was to silence the wearer from speaking entirely.

Her eyes were full of tears from the pain and fear but the moment she spotted him they lit up as the tears started to fall. She squirmed against the iron shackles that strapped her down to the metal table.

"Don't move. You don't want to hurt yourself. Just stay still," he told her as he stepped closer.

He grabbed one of the candles and brought the light around the table to get a better look. It wasn't a table at all. He'd seen something similar in Lecter's basement in Baltimore. It was a torture table, a rack. On a table next to the rack was an old medieval Executioner's mask, a torture device called a thumbscrew, and a scalpel. In the corner he saw a sledgehammer and winced at its use.

"I'm going to search around for an exit, okay. Be right back," he told her.

He searched the entire dungeon. Further away from the rack, and on the walls, were chains, more torture masks hanging off nails along with other torture tools and a whip for lashing. Then he saw the casket. The lambskin casket was on a table in front of a wooden door that was chained and locked. The casket was blocking the only way out. He could choose to take it and live or try to save Sara and possibly kill her in the process. It was a catch-22. No-win scenario. He had an exit, a way out, but he wouldn't be able to leave with Sara.

Inside of the casket he saw two rings. Wedding bands. Picking one up, he read the inscription. "May you rest here for eternity." That was it. Nothing else. It was just a long, rectangular torture dungeon. A final resting place.

A tomb.

Returning to Sara, he sat the candle holder down on the table as he told Sara, "Hey, darling. I'm going to get this mask off you, okay." She nodded as her tears kept falling. It broke his heart. The mask should be easy to get off, it latched at the back. Turning her head to the side, he saw the latch, and a lock. "Son-of-a-bitch. There's a lock. I have to find the key—"

His eyes left hers and saw her tears as they flicked downwards. His eyes followed her, traveling down her chest, and stopped at her abdomen. His heart dropped down into his own stomach. Clarity hit him as he realized that the key to unlock all the locks was in her stomach. Flicking his eyes back over to the scalpel and Executioner's mask on the table beside the rack, he knew what it was for. His nightmare flashed in front of his eyes.

His hand covered in Sara's blood, chest sliced open under him—Shaking his head, he fought back the images as he took a deep breath. There had to be another way.

He couldn't go up and get a key from the FBI because of the fire that was engulfing the castle. Through the long corridor, towards the cellar door, he saw the black billowing smoke headed their way. Behind the smoke was fire.

He had to think. His eyes searched around the dark dungeon as he whispered the words, "Let me…" As his eyes landed on the scalpel, he got an idea.

Picking up the scalpel, he turned to the iron mask covering Sara's head and fitted the handle between the two ends held together by the thin pinlock and then twisted It around. He felt the blade slice into his skin but kept a strong grip and twisted it, prying the two ends apart until the lock snapped.

Sara nearly let out a scream of relief as he removed it from around her head, sliding the bridle bit out of her mouth, and let it drop to the floor. She tried to speak but her tongue was so sore and swollen that her words were muffled.

"Shh," he told her right before he kissed her hard on the lips. Ending the kiss, he told her, "Now the shackles."

Ignoring the pain and the blood oozing out of his palm, he tried several different ways to use the scalpel to get the shackles off, but nothing worked. He couldn't pick the locks, the blade was too wide and thick, as well as too short. He couldn't get the end of it between the ratchet and shackle to shimming it off either. He needed a thin piece of metal to fit between teeth of the ratchet and—

"The mask," he said as he looked back over at the Executioner's mask. The bottom was made of thin metal, and it was flat. If he could break a long, thin piece off he'd be able to slide it into the small thin openings of the shackles. As he picked it up, he asked, "Did you know that the first mention of wrist restraints was in Greek mythology? In 70 BC, the poet Virgil wrote about preventing Proteus from shapeshifting by the use of—" He felt the falling embers on his head and shoulders. Looking up, he saw that the wooden beams of the ceiling were on fire. "It's not important."

Ignoring the falling embers, he placed the bottom flat edge of the mask under the thumbscrew and then started tightening it until it clasped the edge of the mask as tightly as he could get it. Grabbing the sledgehammer, he took a breath and hoped like hell this work as he swung it up and around before slamming it down onto the mask. It broke where he'd clasped it.

Dropping the sledgehammer to the floor, he unscrewed the thumbscrew and saw the thin sliver of metal that had been broken off the mask. Picking it up, he told her, "Most handcuffs made after 1865 were produced by John Tower's. And they all have one thing in common. Springs. They latch on due to springs catching…"

He walked over to Sara as he started to feel the heat from the flames that burned through the corridor, the ceiling, dropping burnt pieces of wood down on top of them. The smoke was getting thicker as it was getting hard to breathe.

Shimming the thin pieces of metal into the opening between the teeth of the ratchet and the shackle. "The only thing about trying to open it this way is that I have to tighten the cuff as I move the metal pieces between the ratchet and—If it doesn't work," he said as he stared up into her fearful eyes, "I'll cut of the circulation to your hand."

He saw the casket catch fire as the fire spread out all around them. Her eyes were focused on him, and he knew her response. She was as good as dead anyway if he didn't try. He felt his hand tighten the teeth of the ratchet as he slid the metal piece further inside until he saw the cuff pressed firmly into Sara's skin and muscle; her face flinched with pain. He stopped and then prayed as he kept his thumb on the thin sliver of metal as he moved the ratchet away from her wrist.

It moved. Sliding its teeth along the metal piece backwards, he slid the iron cuff open until her hand was free. Sara moaned a breath of relief until her left arm caught against the other shackle. He rounded the rack and did the same procedure with that shackle. Her left arm was free within seconds. As he started on her ankles, he heard wood buckling. That wasn't a good sound. Wiping the sweat out of his eyes, he quickly removed the shackles from her ankles.

It was time to get the hell out of there. Pulling his jacket off, he used it to cover his hands and arms as he knocked the burning casket out of the way of the door. He kicked the burning pieces of casket off the sledgehammer, grabbed it up into his bloody hand, and pounded against the lock until it broke. Pulling the door open, he started down into the darkness of the tunnel and dropped the sledgehammer back to the floor.

Pulling Sara up into his arms, they headed into the tunnel. After about two hundred feet, he felt it start to incline. There was burning in his lungs, his legs, as they kept going up the tunnel to another wooden door that opened up and out of the ground and into the forest that surrounded the burning château. They made it. They were out, away from the flames and smoke in the fresh night air.

He felt Sara's legs give out and she collapsed. Catching her in his arms, he hugged her so tightly he never wanted to let go as the smoke bellowed out of the tunnel behind them. They clung to each other as she cried. He held her for a very long time, rubbing her back with his good hand as his other dripped blood. Once her tears dried, and she stopped shaking, he helped her to her feet as they walked along the tree line. Up ahead, he heard barking.

He let out a whistle for Jack before telling Sara, "Château de Brézé." He felt her chuckle against him. "You're wondering how I knew about the tunnel. The Château de Brézé is one of the oldest castles in the Loire Valley of France and underneath—" She turned his head, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and kissed him so hard it made his head spin. His hand cupped her face as he ended the kiss, thumbing her hot tears away, as he told her, "Let's go home."

Sara clasped her hand tightly onto his as they started walking towards the swirling red, blue, and white emergency lights that cut through the trees.

TBC…Epilogue.

PS: If you Google "Ein männlein im walde music boxes", there is actually a music box that looks exactly like the one I mentioned. It blew my mind when I saw how perfect it looked for this story.