Wind howled mercilessly, whipping through the tattered sails of the weather-beaten ship as it bobbed violently on the tempestuous sea. Hannibal awoke with a start; body being flung violently from his bed and to the floor. His senses were jarred by the deafening roar of thunder and the stinging spray of saltwater as it washed over his hands and knees.

Hannibal pushed himself to his feet, hands out to catch himself as the boat shifted to the opposite side in an instant. The movement was sharp, but Hannibal gained enough balance to leave his cabin and find the shifting stairs in the lightning flashes that left him nearly blind after they had disappeared.

The dim light of dawn struggled to pierce through the thick blanket of storm clouds that loomed overhead when he finally made it to the deck. He staggered at another jolt, hands clasping the railing and clinging to it desperately as he took in the chaos that surrounded him. The crew, weary and drenched, fought against the raging elements, their faces etched with fear and determination. The once majestic vessel, a proud carrack, now tossed and turned like a plaything of the angry sea.

Through the darkness, the jagged silhouette of a rocky coastline emerged, looming perilously closer with each passing moment. The ship, battered and broken, struggled to maintain its course against the merciless waves. Hannibal bellowed orders, his voice barely audible over the howling wind, urging the crew to brace for impact.

As the ship neared the treacherous shore, panic spread among the sailors like wildfire. Hannibal's heart pounded in his chest and his blood raced in his ears as he pulled himself towards the helm that was unmanned.

He doubted his resolve would do anything to save the ship, but his hands gripped to the wood, and he tugged as strongly as he could to the right in an attempt to straighten the Mary Rose even a fraction of an inch.

Through the haze of rain and salt spray, a distant light flickered on the horizon. A feeble glow, like a beacon struggling against the wrath of the storm. As the sailor strained his eyes to discern the source, a shape emerged from the darkness. A lighthouse, standing tall and defiant against the raging elements.

If he could just orient the ship. If he could gain a hint of control.

The tempest roared with a ferocity unmatched, waves rising like angry titans, their roiling crests reaching for the heavens. The ship pitched and tossed, yanking the helm from Hannibal's grip. His hands burned at the friction and the helm grumbled as it spun at the mercy of the storm.

Hannibal ignored the hot stickiness beginning to cover his palms and seized up the helm once more, forcing the wheel to stop its spin that sent the ship into a fit.

With a deafening crash, the ship struck the unforgiving rocks, its wooden hull groaning in agony. The impact sent shudders through the entire vessel, causing men to stumble and the mast to crack ominously. Sea spray mingled with the driving rain as the ship began to list to one side.

The crew, desperately clinging to the remnants of their ship, fought against the churning sea. Some leapt and others were flung overboard, swimming towards the rocky shore in a desperate bid for survival. Others clung to the mast; their faces contorted with fear.

The cold sea soaked through his clothes, but his gaze remained fixed on the turbulent waters that threatened to claim everything he had worked for as the deck's tilt became too steep an angle. Hannibal's bare feet slipped out from beneath his body, and he careened with the deck, pain shooting up his arm.

The ship's hull creaked under the strain of the relentless waves and pounding storm. Wood cried as it splintered to pieces and just before Hannibal was swallowed by the inky waves, he watched lightning strike the mast and the barest flicker of a fire broke out.

The water sucked him under. He didn't dare fight the current as the waves crashed on top of him. He waited, breath held tightly as the world was turned this way and that. Churning sand and foam, darkness, and bright flames.

He gasped when he finally broke the surface, only to be drug under again as if Poseidon had snatched up his ankle. His palms burned with the salt. His lungs ached with the lack of air. His eyes stung as he blinked through the mess around him.

In desperation to reach the world above him again, he grabbed onto the closest debris he could find. Fractured wood, jagged and sharp to the touch. But it did its job. It brought Hannibal to the top of the waves, and he coughed, gasping as he clasped to the wood.

Fire danced around him, being tossed about on the ocean as the Mary Rose succumbed to the sea. The mast cast enough light for the morning to be bright despite the missing sunlight.

The next way shoved Hannibal into the indomitable shoreline. The rocks snagged his skin, hungrily biting at him. The new cuts were sent alight as the sea licked at them like a treat.

Trembling limbs pulled him onto the rocks as the waves battered him. They barged and heaved like a sick game of hook pulling. They yanked his feet from their hold, threatening to toss him back into the cold darkness.

Hannibal collapsed atop the shoreline. Wherever he was, he didn't care. All that mattered was that he had made it out.

He stared towards the fragmented ship, parts of her still clutching to the rocks for dear life as the fire and sea shared her. Somewhere within the rumbling of the storm Hannibal could hear the cries for help from other men who had met Hannibal's same fate.

A piece of Hannibal begged him to stay exactly where he was. His body hurt. He couldn't catch his breath. He wanted to live. He wanted to sleep. He could. He had pulled himself far enough out of the water that he knew he would be safe for the time being, even if the rain was still falling as sharply as arrows.

He forced himself to his knees and took in the mess around him. Fingers shook as they lowered him back towards the water's edge. It welcomed him back, ravenous.

The screams were louder now. Pitched above the storm. He could help. He knew he could.

With careful movements, hands keeping a tight grip on the rocks, Hannibal maneuvered himself back towards the ship. Once he got close enough to the wreckage, he tossed himself back into the blackness, hands outstretched towards the rope floating deadly in the water.

He grasped it and used it to tug himself back to the ship, searching for something to hold to. His feet found the railing and he did his best to find a rhythm with the tempest. His hands worked as swiftly as they could, the cold sending shivers through Hannibal and causing his hands to shake uncontrollably.

He gathered up the rope and snatched up a big enough piece of wood to tie to the very end of the rope. It would hopefully float while everything else sank. With a deep breath, Hannibal ducked under the surface, looking for the end of the rope. He pulled himself closer to the ship, using the rope to guide him as the firelight dissolved above him.

The end of the rope was snagged between two somethings that Hannibal couldn't name as his fingers searched them out. But the rope had been cut, fraying, nearly severed. He leveled his feet against the ship and tugged at the rope. It held strong, defiant.

There were a few more pulls before Hannibal had to rush to the upper world once more to suck down the air there. With a few more steadying breaths, he dove again. Pulled again. Felt the fibers of the rope slowly giving way to his exertion.

He didn't have time for this. There were people dying. People who needed his help. His friends. His crew. Men he had served beside for years. Lived through countless battles with. He couldn't watch them being taken by Mother Nature when they had persisted through every other trail that man had thrown at them.

The ocean continued to push and shove him with rocking motion even with being so far beneath her. The rope continued to slowly give way as he tugged and when it was finally free, Hannibal once more had to force away the voice in the back of his head begging him to sleep. A voice sounding so much like his sister's.

Air cooled his lungs with daggers. Every piece of him gnawed at him. But he couldn't stop.

The rocky shore greeted him once more and he climbed the face of it until he could walk across the slipper stones. The screams had lessened significantly, but he could still make them out amid the storm.

A hand reached for him in the firelight and Hannibal threw the wood and rope towards it, watching the splash be swallowed up.

Birds called. Sun blistered. Waves crashed. The day was too bright, and Hannibal blinked through the blindingness as his body was manipulated in ways that he had not ordered it to be. Hands pulled at him. Muffled yelling surrounded him. The blue of the sky made love with the blue of the sea and the waves rocked him back to sleep.

Straw prickled against his skin, the world dark again. Mustiness filled his nose. The flickering of firelight painted warm golds and reds on the back of his eyelids. More voices. A language he didn't have the wherewithal to understand.

His body was forced upright, and his head lulled to the side. Fistfuls of his hair sat him up and through barely open eyes, Hannibal could see hands bringing a cup to his mouth. As soon as the fresh water touched his lips, something awoke in him.

He greedily gulped it down, the cooling sensation a heaven sent as the rest of his body felt the sting of the sun's heat against it. It sloshed down his front, but he didn't care. It tasted better than anything Hannibal could recall consuming in his life. When the cup was pulled away, he licked at his chapped lips and croakily asked for another.

It was granted to him, and he all but inhaled the liquid. The cup was set aside and before him, on an old wooden table, was placed a steaming bowl of stew of some sort. Something itched in the back of his mind, a familiar sensation akin to something from his childhood, but he pushed the red ribbon away and picked up the spoon.

As the food settled in his belly, warming him from the inside out, he slowly settled into his skin that felt far too tight. Packed in sea salt. He pushed back his hair from his face, the long strands hay like and tough. They stuck to his beard that needed a good shave.

As Hannibal's senses slowly returned one by one, he glanced around the room. Around the table were other familiar faces. Red from the sun. Beaten and battered from the storm. Bloody and bruised. Clothes torn and destroyed. But alive. Only a handful of them, but alive, nonetheless.

Each was in different states of awareness, much like Hannibal. Several were spoon deep in stew while others were getting sick over the water they had been given. Hannibal didn't blame them. His own stomach was beginning to churn from how quickly he had inhaled the food given to him.

A fire at the edge of the room provided the light to see by and Hannibal took in the other men who were joining them. They were well dressed. Guards of some sort with a coat of arms. A shield being held on either side with a golden lion and a blue dragon. A crown sat atop of the shield, though Hannibal couldn't name what family the symbol belonged to.

One of them dished up food from a pot on the flames and another was helping Hannibal's men situate themselves, but the other five or six stood near the windows and doors, blocking the exits.

As civil as they were conducting themselves, something turned Hannibal's blood cold. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he returned his gaze to the half-eaten food in front of him, appetite suddenly gone.

Hannibal listened to the whisper of snow falling around him. The dim crackle of a fire and the scent of something cooking. Phantom hunger made his stomach ache and his mouth salivate. The air in the room was as heavy as the blanketing snow. Prisoner again.

He blinked when a hand clasped his shoulder, and he looked up at one of the guards. He felt so small again. So much like a child being ripped from his parents as they lay dying. He could hear Mischa's screams ringing in his ears.

"We're going to clean you up and return you to your room if you're finished eating," the man explained, voice almost a warning. As if it were telling Hannibal that this was going to be the last meal he would have for a long while.

The soldier was not much older than Hannibal, so why did Hannibal feel so young? Why did the hand on his shoulder feel so large and imposing. Threatening. He hated it.

Hannibal nodded in understanding and absently brought the spoon back to his lips. He didn't want to eat. His jaw fought him as he chewed and the bite sat like lead in his stomach, but if this was his last meal, then he needed to make sure he ate his fill. He would need his strength for whatever was coming for him.

"Where are we?" Hannibal questioned, glancing over his shoulder and to the man who had returned to his post at one of the windows. The glass caught the dancing light from the fire and cast it across the man's shadowed face, showing deep scars down one of his cheeks. They sat familiar on his face. The flash of blue eyes brought the image of a prince to his mind. As much as Hannibal wanted to dwell on the prince, he shoved the image away. "Who are you?"

There was still no answer. Nothing from any of the guards in the room. Hannibal knew there wasn't going to be an answer either. He was going to be kept in the dark for as long as possible.

He tossed his attention back around the room and to his men who were worse for wear. None of them would be able to put up a fight. They needed rest and healing. They needed more care than he did. His men would be no help in this situation. Hannibal's best option was to comply and see if an opportunity arrived for him to find out more information or a way to escape.

The room was too dense for any other outcome to be plausible.

Hannibal bid his time for as long as he could before he was forced from the small guard house. A power stronger than his own kept him in check as he was guided towards another small building and shoved inside.

"Clean up," the guard holding him ordered, standing in the doorway to keep an eye on Hannibal.

Hannibal inhaled deeply and glanced around the room that was light with torches. In the center was a well or a spring of some sort, a bucket, and some soap. With shaky limbs, Hannibal gathered water from the well and used the frigid water to wash the salt from his skin.

Through the shivers, there was something soothing and refreshing about his body finally being cleansed. With one last bucket dumped over his head, he shook out his hair and dressed in a basic shirt and pants that were provided for him.

The guard once more grabbed his arm and drug him from the washroom where a line had formed behind him. One of his men was shoved through the door before Hannibal lost sight of them. He found himself being walked towards a group of small huts. Nothing magnificent. They sat alone at the base of a cliff face and Hannibal could hear the ocean below them and scent the salt on the breeze.

Once shown to one of the huts, he was greeted with a rather pathetic fire, a hay matt and a blanket. A stool was on the opposite side of the room where a portable station had been set up. A man stood with arms folded over his chest, expression utterly bored and inconvenienced.

Hannibal took the seat without a word and tried to ignore the harsh way his jaw was seized up and his face turned side to side. There was an agitated sigh from the man before more sudsy water was scrubbed into his beard to form a lather and a sharp blade was brought to his face to shave him clean.

He didn't fight as his head turned side to side in a firm grip and once clean, everything besides the bed, the fire, and the means to keep the fire going, was stripped from the room. The door was closed, and Hannibal listened to the lock being engaged with the turn of a key.

A sliver of moonlight poured through a pathetic cut in the wall that was meant to be a window of some sort, though Hannibal doubted he would be able to stick his arm fully outside of it.

He stoked the fire and lowered himself to the floor to lay down across the mat. The moment he attempted to allow his body to relax, the pain of everything settled deep into his bones. Every inch of him ached and his eyes squeezed shut as the ache radiated down his spine and into his limbs.

The crackling of the fire did little to help him sleep and he tossed and turned restlessly all night, thoughts wandering and far too wild for him to shut off. They raced from the shipwreck to his men and their wellbeing, to his home and the prince there as well as the state they had left everything in before his departure and then back again.

Had his letter reached Will this time? Or had they been stolen once more? Surely not. Hannibal was a completely different person this time around. His letters would have reached Will. Though curiosity tugged at him as he wondered if any response had been sent.

Hannibal had been able to work through the treaty seamlessly and effectively. He hadn't been in Spain for more than two weeks at most, though how long he had been gone now, he couldn't quite be sure.

He hadn't received any letters within that time, but it was possible that the post hadn't been able to reach him swiftly enough. It was possible that the letters would somehow reach him once he was back home in England, circling around the world in search of him. Or perhaps they wouldn't find him at all. Or the possibility remained that Will had never sent anything at all. He would have to learn of that fate when he escaped from here.

And where was here? He had been taking in as many details about his surroundings as possible, but there had been nothing more than trees and seaside bluffs. The only inkling of direction he possibly had had been the coat of arms, but as hard as he wracked his brain, he could not find the family name that belonged to the coat.

Perhaps in the morning he could ask one of the guards. Surely, they would have to bring him a meal of some sort. He would ask at that time.

He inhaled deeply, rubbing at his eyes until he saw dancing colors in front of him. He blinked them away before turning to look at the fire flickering away in the fireplace. He should have added more wood to the fire, but his body refused to obey his commands to stand. Unless he wanted to roll across the floor, he didn't perceive the fire coming back to life. So, he let it die. Watched as it faded into nothing more than glowing coals and embers and the cold of the night set in.

He shivered at the chill and finally found the strength to stoke the fire. It took time for the flames to burn brightly once again, but when they were he sat before them. He hoped that the new heat would fight away the cold that reminded him far too much of the ocean waves.

He would be happy if he never had to set sail upon the ocean again. He could feel the rocking of the waves even now. The phantom motion was churning his stomach and he regretted eating as much food as he had.

He struggled but pulled the hay mat closer to the fire before laying down on it. He closed his eyes and slowly a drowsy lethargic listless quiet sluggishness took over. The mat slowly turned soft under him, and he was nearly asleep when passing footsteps and voices woke him.

"...think the duke will sell them?" the first voice asked, though Hannibal had missed the beginning of the question in trying to bring himself back to the surface of consciousness.

"I doubt the king will have any need for them. Only five of them survived. What's another five missing soldiers?" The second voice sounded detached and uninterested in the present conversation. "The king is too swept up in the wedding right now to care anyway."

"I suppose you're right. It feels wrong though."

"It's not a place for you to say, is it?" the second snapped. "Just do as the duke says and you'll get paid a fair share like the rest of us."

"The auction is tomorrow, isn't it?"

"The quicker they're out of our hair, the faster we can put this mess behind us."