How swiftly the auction had been put together sent Hannibal's mind whirling. He hadn't had an inkling of a chance to come up with a plan to help his friends or himself before he had been unceremoniously ripped from his bed and dragged out into the chilled morning air.
His hands were bound with rope that cut into his wrists with how rough it was. He was certain that once he was cut free, his wrists would be rubbed raw and bloody. But for now, he found his attention far more occupied with the amount of men that had gathered in the open field by the cliffside.
Each was more put together than the last. Some wore fabrics of richness that Hannibal had never touched, even as a child. Reds, blues, greens and purples. Jewels sat on fingers and at throats with the same extravagance. Men of his equal status and men who could confront Will's own station, if Hannibal had to guess.
His friends were brought to stand beside him and guards held to their shoulders, just as one held to him. The imprudent men came to them each in turn, poking and prodding. Hannibal did his best to stand tall despite the discomfort of being touched without his consent. Several of the men demanded to see the state of his teeth and humiliation flooded through him as he opened his mouth and fought the urge to bite men's fingers that got too close.
"This one is educated," the guard explained as someone looked over one of the other men curiously. "This one can read and write." Hannibal struggled to understand how they could possibly know, unless they had a ship log and knew who each of them were, or if one of his crew had spoken out last night without knowledge of the damage they were doing. "And this one is special." Hannibal met the savage gaze of the guard who wore a toothy smirk. "He might be as well educated as the duke himself. He will cost a pretty penny more."
Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal caught a handful of coins being passed to a guard. The guard counted the coins and motioned for the man to take Thomas. Hannibal couldn't be sure that the others hadn't realized what was happening or if it had taken this long for it to sink in, but the moment Thomas' arm was seized up, the brittle morning snapped.
"Please!" he begged, fighting against the hands that now held him. "I have a wife and a daughter! I work for the king! Please!" Thomas' voice yanked at Hannibal's heart and he swallowed at the lump in his throat, his mind drawing a blank when he ordered it to find a solution to the predicament.
"The king will never hear of this.. He will not care if you are missing," the guard collecting the payment stated coldly.
Hannibal blinked and looked down at his feet. Sanford was dead. What had happened? When had it happened? Was Will alright? Was Beverly and everyone else in the castle? Had there been an attack? What about the wedding? Had Mason done something to the royal family?
Hannibal's mind raced through the millions of questions and scenarios until the jingling of a coin purse woke him from his thoughts. His attention snapped up to find the guard fingering open the bag that had been plopped into his hand and Hannibal's mouth went dry as hands snatched him up.
He could find no words. His mouth had glued itself shut. His mind stuttered as he was dragged away from his other men, men he would never see again, men he had saved from the depths of the ocean to only get them sold away. And he could do nothing. His strength failed him. His anger failed him. His mind failed him.
He was shoved back through the forest, past trees and glanced around to find other servants following after the well dressed man who kept a good few steps ahead of him. The servants kept their faces down, eyes refusing to meet him. Not even the man holding him dared to meet his gaze. Hannibal was shoved towards a clearing that gave way to a dirt road. Several carriages and carts were positioned on it, waiting for their owners and their newly bought prizes to return to them.
Hannibal sighed at the sight of more rope when they reached an uncovered cart. The rope was tied tightly around the rope already encasing his wrists and he watched as other goods were placed in the back of the cart, effectively taking up any room for Hannibal to sit. Hannibal recognized them instantly as more items from the ship. Rescued furniture and fixtures. Some glass items that had lived through the storm. Food and barrels of alcohol.
"Where are we going?" Hannibal asked under his breath as the rope around his wrists was secured to the back of the cart. The man's movements paused and he looked up with the greenest eyes Hannibal had ever seen. "Please tell me." The man shook his head and continued working. "Do you know English?"
"Very little," was whispered back to him.
"Spanish? French?" Hannibal prompted hopelessly. If they were headed somewhere he had never been before, then Hannibal was sure he was going to be in more trouble than what it was worth. If he didn't understand the language, he couldn't accomplish the tasks that would be demanded of him and he at least had to play the part until his mind decided to catch up and free him from his cage.
"Spanish."
Hannibal closed his eyes tightly, listening to more shouting behind him, more pleas from his men. He grappled with his mind to shift to the other language, cursing himself for it being so difficult after how long he had spent time in Spain.
"Adónde vamos?" (Where are we going?)
"España." (Spain.)
"Nos dirigimos a puerto y luego a un barco?" (Are we heading to the port and then on a ship?)
"Si." (Yes.)
Hannibal sighed with a nod. Perhaps that was for the best. He hoped he had strengthened the bonds between England and Spain enough that once there he could write a letter to the king and queen asking for assistance. Until then, he had to keep out of trouble.
"Quién me compró?" (Who bought me?) Hannibal inquired hurriedly as yelling and shouts filled the air.
"Marquess of Leganés, Diego Felipez de Guzmán."
The green eyes raced away from him at orders and before Hannibal had fully accepted what occurred, the carriage and the cart left down the road. Hannibal's wrists were tugged at painfully and he had to set a brisk pace to keep up with the cart and leave enough slack in the rope.
They were beside the coast. Hannibal could hear the careless dance of the waves against the shoreline. They couldn't be too far from port. He hardly loved the notion of being back on a ship so quickly, but it would be familiar. At least he would know where he was going, what to expect. He had lived in different parts of Spain for the space of several years now. He had the advantage.
No one spoke to him. No one looked at him. He sat with his back to the mast and his arms tied behind him and around the mast. The sun left his skin hot and Hannibal did his best to keep his face down so it wouldn't burn as badly as the rest of his body would.
What had started as a dull, but constant and annoying ache in his shoulders was now radiating a rare, piercing, elevated sort of pain that reached down both arms and into his spine. His legs had gone numb and he had to keep wiggling his toes to keep his feet from feeling like ants were burrowing into them.
The ship rocked and bobbed with the waves, at their mistress' complete mercy if she decided she no longer wanted to support them. The breeze that pushed them back towards Spain did little to help cool Hannibal's skin and it wasn't until he had asked several times for water that some was finally brought to him.
The same man from before with the green eyes was his savior. The man brought a cup to his lips and Hannibal gulped down the water, a good portion sloping down his chin and soaking his shirt. The water barely did anything to quince his thirst and gratefully he was offered another cup. But before he could find the words to ask the millions of questions in his head, the man left Hannibal alone once more.
A good portion of his time passed the very same way. He lost track of the boiling days and the frigid nights. There was even a storm that left him waterlogged and shivering until the sun dried him. One that sent his heart racing as the wood creaked, and the waves sloshed over the sides of the ship. As hard as he pulled at his restraints, the stronger their grip on him seemed to get and his imagination ran through all the infinite ways he would die if the ship capsized again. If it caught fire again. If he was never set free and he drowned, breathing in salt water until he was greeted by depths.
The sound of the ropes being cut was a sharp, decisive snip. The sound seemed to linger, hanging in the air for a moment before fading away, leaving behind a tangible sense of freedom.
The relief of being released was overshadowed by the overwhelming soreness that enveloped him. The pain was a slow, creeping sensation, starting as a dull ache, and intensifying with each passing moment. As the ropes loosened their grip, Hannibal's arms throbbed with a mix of numbness and prickling sensations, like a thousand needles dancing across his skin. Every movement sent waves of discomfort through his muscles, reminding him of their long captivity. It was as if his limbs had forgotten how to be free, protesting the sudden change in their state.
His hands rested on his lap, and he took in the raw state of his skin, some parts bruised, some trying to heal from the bloody cuts. His fingers flexed stiffly as he stretched them and before he had gathered up the use of his limbs, his arm was seized, and he was dragged to his feet.
Hannibal's knees trembled, weak and unsteady beneath him, as if they were unsure of their ability to support his weight. They protested the sudden change in position, but with each step they began to regain their strength and stability, slowly returning to their normal state.
The captain's quarters swam into view as Hannibal was shoved through the door. He stumbled and caught himself, looking up from his feet and to the man who had purchased him. His long, dark hair had been pulled back from his face with a ribbon and he wore a crisp white shirt with billowing sleeves and breeches of brown doe skin.
He was pouring over a pile of documents on the table before him, a hand holding up his head while the other was tapping the tip of a quill against the wood of the table, unperturbed by the ink that was beginning to pool.
The cabin was furnished with a sturdy wooden bed tucked away and surrounded by bookshelves containing all sorts of odds and ends, navigational instruments, and personal mementos.
Hannibal stood there for what felt like eternities, but he had lost track of the days, so he doubted he was a good reference for timekeeping. He waited for the man to finish scribbling down his idea before Hannibal cleared his throat.
As if surprised by his presence, the man jumped, eyes flickering up. Boredom set into his eyes in an instant. When he spoke his Spanish was so swift that it took Hannibal a long moment to process what was being told to him.
"When we arrive in Spain, you will be assigned to the stables. You will be in charge of the horses and the entirety of the maintenance. You will answer to Raçoso."
Hannibal opened his mouth and nearly kept silent at the raise of a brow, but with a hoarse voice he spoke. "Sir, I am well educated as well as trained in combat. I was a commander for King Sanford Graham of England. Would I not be better suited for another position?"
The marquess rose to his feet and tossed the quill aside. He rubbed his hands together as he stepped around his desk and Hannibal waited for an answer as his owner came to stand before him. The man took a deep breath and before Hannibal could register what had happened, a sharp sting filled his face as the back of the man's hand collided with him.
Hannibal's hand went to his face, and he wiped at the blood that dripped from his lip that had split easily thanks to the days in the sun and the lack of water and food. He was met with savage eyes, and he did his best to not jerk back as he was spit at. He cleaned the spit from his face and once more met his owner's eyes.
His face was seized up in a brutal grip that felt bruising.
"You dare speak back to me? You dare act as if you have any choice in this at all? I paid for you." The next words were harsh and sharp. "I. Own. You." Hannibal was shoved and his weakened body collapsed under itself, sending him to the floor. The marquess stepped forward, head tipping to the side. "You're fortunate I do not have you whipped and strapped back to the mast. Go enjoy the remnants of your freedom. We should reach Spain in a few days. Get out of my sight." He waved at the cabin door and Hannibal tipped over himself as he got to his feet.
The moment he was outside, and the cabin door was slammed shut, the green eyes of his only friend greeted him. His arm was taken, and he was guided below deck to the galley, where he was forced to sit down on a wooden bench and was handed some dried fruit and a cup of water.
"Thank you," he muttered as he brought the cup to his lips. He was much gentler with the water this time, making sure to keep most of it either in the cup or his mouth. He did his best to ignore the slight hint of metal from his split lip. "What is your name?"
"Fernando."
Hannibal tried to give the man a slight grin before he bit into the fruit, eyes closing in satisfaction while his stomach growled. "Hannibal," he greeted, uncaring if Fernando knew his real name or not. He wasn't going anywhere near England where someone would know the name. It had been years since his family's death. It surely had to be old and trivial news by now. "Can I have more water, please?" He held out the cup and it was filled for him once more. "How long have I been out there?"
"A week."
"Then we should reach port in three or four days, yes?"
"Careful," Fernando warned, snatching the water from Hannibal as he again tried to swallow the entirety as quickly as he could. "You'll make yourself sick."
"Three or four days?" Hannibal pressed, ignoring the caution given to him and pulling the cup back to him. He inhaled the water greedily.
"Yes." Fernando rolled his eyes in clear annoyance, but Hannibal only smiled. Once his strength was returned to him, he would need to begin preparations for his departure. "What are you happy about? You're not going home. You won't have any contact with the outside world."
"I can send a letter."
"To whom?" Fernando sat down beside Hannibal and shot the man an incredulous look.
"The Prince of England."
There was a snort and Fernando shook his head. "He will not give you a second glance, Hannibal. He does not care for people like you nor me."
"He will," Hannibal assured, finishing off the food and water that had been given him. His stomach began to churn unpleasantly, and he pushed away the thought that he should have heeded Fernando 's warnings and slown down.
"No one will send the letter for you."
"I will find a way."
Hannibal closed his eyes tightly as his stomach lurched and Fernando jumped out of the way as everything that Hannibal had hastily consumed fought its way back up.
"What did I tell you? You can't inhale your food like that." There was a deep sigh and Hannibal listened to Fernando's footsteps heading for the stairs as his body purged itself once more. His eyes watered and his body shook, hands gripping the edge of the bench he sat on so that he didn't fall to the floor. "Use this. Clean it up before the marquess finds you."
Hannibal's hands shook as he took the bucket of water that smelled strongly of the sea and dumped the contents onto the floor to dispel the sick. It took longer to clean than he would have liked, his body arguing with him the entirety of the way, as if all it wanted was to never move again.
Hannibal was given fresh clothes and shown to forecastle and once more below deck to the crew's quarters. Hammocks hung from the ceiling where they were tied with skillfully placed knots. There were several of the crew asleep and others were gathered in the corner playing cards, while the rest of the crew was on deck, working their shifts.
"You can sleep here," Fernando said, motioning to a hammock deep in the back of the room and Hannibal nodded in understanding. "I would suggest trying to get some rest. You will be cleaning the galley after this evening's meal."
Hannibal wandered his way to the space that would be his and changed into fresh clothes, grateful to once more be free of the salt hardened fabric against his skin, though the rest of him still felt grimy. He could freshen up when they hit port, he was certain. Or at the very least when they reached the marquess' estate.
He settled himself into the hammock and his whole being let out a sigh of relief at finally being at rest. There were no more odd angles for him to sit in. No more trying to change positions so his legs kept their blood flow. No more wiggling fingers to stop them from going numb. Sleep came for him so rapidly that the next thing he knew, hands were shaking him awake so he could begin the night's work.
Spain greeted him like an old flame in that he found himself grateful for something he recognized, but he rather it be anything other than what it was. He knew the land they traversed, having been here not that long ago under radically different circumstances. The remnants of battles fought months before still stained the land. Large fields burned, trees still quilled with arrows, others blown to bits from artillery, and large mass graves that were no more than hills of freshly turned dirt now. Men left forgotten to time and left to return to the earth.
Hannibal silently scolded himself. He should have guessed as much from the name as to where he was going to be taken. Leganés in Madrid. He had lived in Madrid for a time, he knew the people, knew the towns. Maybe there was more hope here than he had originally hoped for. Perhaps he would be able to find someone willing enough to send his letters for him. Maybe he could find someone to help him escape. Someone to vouch for him. Someone who he could pay back if a trade had to be struck.
The townspeople had come to accept him, even if he had been an English soldier. He had been kind and fair to them. Had warned them when the situations were becoming too dangerous for any of them to live there safely anymore. Had helped them evacuate and then return and begin life again when the battles had moved elsewhere. There had to be someone here who would recognize him.
He was once more tied to a cart, pulled through the town and the life that welcomed him brought a smile to his face. Everything had returned to normal for them. Children were racing about the streets, laughing, and playing. Women were gossiping as they hung clothing to dry or washed and cleaned produce for the market. The men traded pleasantly, laughing amongst themselves, and boasting loudly of their wares.
Hannibal caught a few odd glances, but there was nothing more than pitying. Part of him cursed the fact that now he was mostly clean shaven when he had kept himself rather unkempt during the war. He doubted anyone would recognize him now if his own Will hadn't known who he was at first sight.
It wasn't until a group of children rushed past him that he finally caught the curious eyes of one of them. The boy stopped and tilted his head to the side and Hannibal blinked at the familiar face, begging his mind to recall the boy's name.
"Commander?" the boy asked, his head tipping back the opposite way. Hannibal did his best to stay put for as long as he could, but a tug at the ropes around his wrists urged him forward. The young boy followed the cart, eyes darting ahead to make sure they weren't being watched, as if he could sense the tension in the air. "I thought you went home."
"Miguel," Hannibal said when the name finally came swimming back. The boy's face lit up with a bright grin. "I didn't make it home quite yet."
"Why are you with the marquess? Why-why are you tied to the..." Miguel trailed off, taking in the fullness of the situation. "He's done this with others."
"Other slaves?" Hannibal did his best to keep his voice low and tried to keep his head forward so that all of the other people who were stopping to stare at the conversation happening didn't capture the attention of the marquess.
"Yes. I've never seen them come back once they reach the manor."
Hannibal gave a light chuckle. "I will come back. Don't you worry about that."
"And we can play chess again?"
"I promise. But I need you to do me a favor Miguel."
"What's that commander?" Miguel had taken up skipping to keep up with the cart that was about to hit the edge of the town and onto the next expanse of open fields.
"Is there a way you can help me send a letter?"
