Chapter Text
CHAPTER I: "MATCH"
"No greater love hath man than to lay down his life for a friend."
("The Wrath of the Dragon," 3.13).
"I PLUCKED a honeysuckle where
The hedge on high is quick with thorn,
And climbing for the prize, was torn,
And fouled my feet in quag-water;
And by the thorns and by the wind
The blossom that I took was thinn'd,
And yet I found it sweet and fair.
Thence to a richer growth I came,
Where, nursed in mellow intercourse,
The honeysuckles sprang by scores,
Not harried like my single stem,
All virgin lamps of scent and dew.
So from my hand that first I threw,
Yet plucked not any more of them."
(The Honeysuckle, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti).
TEASER
EXT. THE CASTLE LECTER GROUNDS, GARDEN, SUMMER — DAY.
A FIGURE stands beneath a tree among the flora of a well-kept garden. It is a Japanese GIRL, young, with steel-eyes, looking expressionlessly down at her legs.
Her knees are scraped. Dirt smudges with RED. She is not particularly concerned about the pain, nor the fact her hands are covered in blood. She walks towards the castle in the distance.
In the foreground, a BOY snaps his head up as the girl approaches. This is HANNIBAL, handsome, thin, and severe.
He’s got a STONE in one hand and it's splattered with color. The same as the girl’s knees. On the trimmed grass is what is left of a bird: spread out, flattened, dead.
They stare at each other.
The boy expects the girl to scream.
His hand drips. Her knee stings.
In a language Hannibal cannot understand, she says:
CHIYOH
We match.
END OF TEASER
You hear the intruders before anyone else does. The animal instinct to strike simmers underneath your unprepared frame.
The immediate family is tucked away into their rooms, swallowed by corridors, just far enough for you to take the time to grab your rifle.
The groundskeeper has been teaching you to shoot because of a lost bet, and you are thankful for it now.
You cannot defend the castle dead. So you do not face them head on, one girl against an ambush of men. You strain your ears: ten at least. Fifteen at the most.
Instead, you slip out of your room —- two floors below the Lecters’ —- and take the servants’ stairway up. Two steps at a time, leg stretched as far as it can go, until you reach the family suite. You do not ring any alarms. You are a ghost among shadows, only made alive by the urgent knocking of four tones on mahogany —- the number of death.
Young Master Hannibal’s room is the first you get to. It’s the closest one. You knock four times, firm and unquestionable, and barely land the fourth before you’re onto the next door.
The men have gotten in, roaring with anticipatory glee at their bounty. Your hearing is as keen as Hannibal’s sense of smell; you do not linger on how you know that. They’re faint, only just made it into the main ground floor. The servants are all starting to wake now, and begin to stir by the commotion. You hope the kind groundskeeper makes it out. You didn't even know his name.
Young Hannibal is the first to come out of his room, followed by Lady Simonetta and Master Hannibal. They see you, your icy expression, your shotgun, and bolt back in for their own weapons.
You make eye contact with Young Master Hannibal when he springs back out. You share a nod at each other and break into motion simultaneously. Hannibal to his parent’s room, you to Mischa’s.
She’s just slipping down from her cot when you get to her.
Noise is breaking out. Just barely noticeable from this vantage. But if the sound is coming through stone walls, it will soon be a song of massacre. Screams will paint the halls, prayers be damned, and the sinners will prevail. The babe trembles and doesn't know why. This, too, is an animal instinct.
You take up Lady Mischa by her underarms and run for the primary bedroom.
The door slams shut behind you right as someone shouts. A servant serving warning. They would’ve been too late. Lady Simonetta bolts the doors, slides a plank into place. It would not stop any army nor any hoard of men desperate enough. But it would do. She takes Lady Mischa’s face in hand, and gives her a firm kiss. A final seal.
“Be brave, mažė.” She says. She is steel, your mistress. Lady Simonetta does not cry. She pulls Hannibal in, barely tall enough to graze her shoulders, and holds him. One second, then two. “Live well, Sūnelis. You are stronger than you know.” He looks as if he has just learned the expression of grief. Maybe he has.
Then she turns to you. Master Hannibal stands in front of the door. Doesn’t make to leave his post as guard — ornamental sword at the ready — but looks longingly at Mischa who whimpers in your arms, and Hannibal who looks faintly sick.
Lady Simonetta does not give you soft kisses nor warm embraces. She pulls herself together, more warrior than mother, the woman you’ve always known her as, and tells you absolute, in your mother tongue: “Protect them, Chiyoh. No matter what.” She’s got her own sword, matching. This feels like a knighthood. You nod. And turn away. Lady Simonetta shoves her son in your direction.
Mischa tries to reach for her mother. You persist, managing a hold on both her and the shotgun, to find the slip of space where the emergency exit is.
You do not look back. Between the dresser and wall, a panel of wallpaper opens. You tuck Mischa in first, and help Hannibal after. You hand him the strap of your rifle, and finally get in yourself. The bolts of the main door begin to rattle. You hear Master Hannibal shout.
You do not stay to hear the spray of blood, the gurgle of death. But you know regardless, Lady Simonetta does not cry. Master Hannibal does not beg.
They go down fighting. A worthy death.
You drag the Lecter siblings deeper and deeper in and out of the maze of the castle. The pathway is narrow, crushing your shoulders in as you drag your bodies down and down. With your pace, Mischa has no choice but to sprint on her little legs to avoid the both of you toppling over her. Hannibal has to half carry her to get her along; he would’ve stumbled without you keeping a crushing grip on the fabric of his nightshirt. You guard the rear, half pushing, half guiding. When the space opens up to the basement, the air is not a relief. Nothing is. Quickly, you usher the siblings into the cellar, where excess gardening supplies are hidden from view. It is close enough to the outdoor pantry sheltering dried supplies for the winter months, but also near the tunnel exit. Extra contingencies, if you ever make it out.
The cellar contains as a trap door. When you get to it, you have to let both of them go to open it. It takes you and Hannibal heaving in unison to get it open. Again, Mischa gets folded in first, then Hannibal. Something shrill crows into the night. It shakes you into action. As the ending piece, you slip in, and slam the door shut.
The closing it makes is a crackling whip. Mischa flinches, and you cannot protect her from her losses.
Darkness swallows all of you.
***
You spend almost two full days in that hole. The hours are hard to tell, but you trust your gut. Your body only sleeps twice, thus it must only be the third morning. In that time, Mischa has wept a whole day away. Hannibal has been trying to placate her in whispering tones. Beyond that, they’re not making noise. Even the youngest, a baby by your approximation, sheds tears in silence. You haven’t spoken for the entirety of it. Too much to worry about.
Defend the home. Protect the heirs. An oath made broken by this land's Christian God.
You’ve brought no water skins, no dried meat. No blankets, no matches. If the invaders do not kill you before you kill them, then your own bodies will. Starvation, dehydration, pressure ulcers. Food, water, and hygiene.
You try to remember how the sun looks on Mischa’s skin. There has to be life outside of this. There has to be.
You’ve also left your extra cartridge. At most, you’ve got seven bullets. But you’re slight. Without the groundskeeper to brace you, the recoil would snap your collarbone in pieces. You cannot defend anyone broken in two.
Winter is also setting in. The ambush was timed perfectly. They’ll take the castle, plunder it and be gone by the time snow freezes all the entrances shut. They’ll even have time to spare to desecrate the halls, slash all the portraits. They’ll loot the treasury but maybe not the pantry. The chance is shallow, though. If they’re wanting no survivors, they’ve guaranteed it. But they did not calculate you.
You’ll skin them for meat if you have to. Whatever it takes.
In the cellar, you can see nothing in the kind of dark this is. It is the abyss, and no matter how hard you try to make out the shade of blonde in the young lady’s hair, there is emptiness. Blank nothing. Void nothing. It stares back and takes inhales as you exhale. It is by touch alone that you are reassured. Mischa is tucked against your front and you do not dare break away; for however tight the space is, you are more scared the darkness would whisk her away if you are no longer in contact. You cradle her close, even when she soils herself.
With the young master, the illusion of distance is worse. For he makes no sound, not even for the mechanics of breathing. He rarely shifts in place, even to alleviate the cramping of keeping in place for too long. Whatever he is made of, it is of the same cloth you are.
To reassure yourself, you hold his hand. Those spindly, classical instruments. You've only heard him making music in passing. Neither of you have even held a conversation before this instance. And for a moment, a memory flashes of that hand: illuminated, cradling a rock covered in blood. Between one inconsequential blink to the next --- black against black --- the image is gone.
Hannibal is cold, like a dead man.
His grip is so bruising and you cannot even feel if you are gripping back.
On the fourth day, just after your third sleep, you whisper to the young master that you will go out. Your voice cracks, and by the twitch of Hannibal’s clutch, he wasn’t expecting it. You can tell though, that he wasn't asleep. You're not sure he has at all. He doesn’t let you go, however. Gently, in broken Lithuanian, you plead. “I go. Stay. You.” You try to shake him off.
He doesn’t budge. He hisses, “No!” Then something else urgent. You do not comprehend. So you shift, displacing Lady Mischa, and get her to blanket the young master instead. You try to reach for him with your free hand, managing somewhere on his shoulder and squeeze. “Stay.”
He pulls you back. You’re ready to tear yourself away when he thrusts something at you. Something with a smooth handle, leather covering. A dagger. It nearly stabbed you in the chin.
You cannot see it, but you recognize its shape. You take it.
When you open the cellar door, the fresh air that rushes in reminds you of death. Renewed by the fact the world has already moved on. You don't dawdle. You crawl out, blade in hand, barely letting the light touch the siblings, before you close it again.
You do not look back.
***
You kill a man for the first time.
You are sure it will not be the last.
You are too quick, too quiet, too small for him to have noticed.
There he was: digging through the shelves, well-fed and fat along the sides, leisurely claiming food. Food that was yours. Lady Mischa is flower-wilted and breakable, newly three years of age. Hannibal is lanky, his wrists are as thin as yours. How easy it would be, not to take what isn’t yours. What someone else needs more. Yet, he covets. Greedy, insufferable pig.
You kill him. The choice is easy. You are only skin and bone, but you’re made of vengeance where you're all hollowed out. Girl-shaped and vicious. Whatever God this man worships could only hope to beg for your forgiveness. You’ve got none to give by now.
The gun would’ve been too loud anyway. You do not know who could be listening in. A waste of a bullet, too. You are glad you left it with Hannibal.
So you take Hannibal’s dagger, unsheathe it to reveal its pretty face. Your own stares back in the reflection. This face, you’re just getting used to.
You slice into his achilles tendons first. Once, twice, and a third until the blade can cut no further into the marrow. He squeals like a pig. And sprays like one too. When he topples, you carve into the back of his knees. Hannibal’s knife is preternaturally sharp. His skin flays like silk underneath its edge.
When the man sees your face, he chokes on his own tongue. The pure, unfiltered terror on his visage makes you recoil in repulsion. Who is he to deserve to be afraid. You wonder which is more frightening: a child committing evil, or the person that pushed her to do it. Which is more unforgivable?
The noise must rouse Hannibal. You do not turn when you hear him approach. He comes out of the hidden cellar and to the shed as silently as he went into it. That is why you don’t turn. He comes up beside you, watching the man writhe. He holds garden shears — snipping them once in question. You shake your head for no.
You do not know the words to stop him if he did decide to help. He did not bring Mischa out, so you would allow it anyways.
The man crumbled like wet paper. He’s heavier than the two of you combined, yet he is weak in mind, in spirit, in everything that matters. He’s in so much pain that he has forgotten how to scream.
He urinates all over himself, crying for mercy. Hannibal looks on, expression ravenous. The only one among your group capable of salvation is tucked away in a cellar.
You could leave him there, rolling around in his own blood. But he's disturbing the peace. You realign your hold on the dagger and come up behind him.
Hannibal watches the man and watches you lift his weapon.
He doesn’t stop you, and you do not seek his permission. You can taste his approval anyway.
He is a bystander as you slit the pig’s throat, ear to ear. Quiet comes quickly. A balm on your nerves. The vermilion only spurts at first. The wider the cut becomes, the more it just pours out, seemingly endless. You are glad it isn’t as tedious of an affair as was made out to be. After these past few days, every noise has been overbearing. It would scare Lady Mischa, too.
Hannibal says something to you then. It almost sounds sweet, his tone. Like gratitude, like sincerity. The sentiment is returned.
You cup his elbow briefly and thank him for the dagger.
He mimics the gesture.
The sentiment is returned.
***
The two of you drag the man across the short span of space to the compost. Him at the head, you at the foot. You put the pig where the slop goes.
You let Hannibal finish the job of pushing the thing over the bin as you go to fetch Lady Mischa. She stops crying as soon as she sees you, the darling girl, and reaches for you without reservation. You press a kiss to her forehead, ignoring the smell of the both of you.
You’ve found a bottle of vinegar and brought the softest cloth bag you could find. With holes cut to make room for legs, you change Mischa into them. You wipe her down with a rag doused in vinegar. It was the closest thing to water you could find without going into the main castle. It would have to do.
She brightens as you lift her up, your star child. Even sunken at the cheeks, she’s just happy to be included. You coo at her in Japanese, telling her how good she is. You tug the strap of the rifle over one shoulder. The glass bottle tucked under another.
Hannibal rounds the corner as you climb out of the cellar. He pets his knuckle over his sister's eyelid, and takes the rifle from you. You let him, still armed with the dagger tucked in your waistband. You readjust, letting Mischa hold the bottle so she can teethe on the cork.
Hannibal’s pockets are as stuffed as yours: potatoes, beets, carrots, all raw and hard to bite into.
The lot of you must look pathetic. Weighed down by vegetables. Carrying the stench of death.
Hannibal, Mischa, you: war orphans, baptized by blood.
***
The Earth still rotates. Time still passes. You would curse its indifferent nature if it were not indifferent to everyone.
The present moves on, with or without you.
You look over at Hannibal, wonders what his face would look like twisted in remorse.
You do not regret what you did. Only regret getting the stains on Mischa.
Lady Simonetta would forgive you. Is that not what family means? Forgiveness in any form?
***
The Lecter hunting lodge should just be a day’s walk out. You do not look back when the castle is but a foggy picture in the distance. You catch Hannibal turning, split second, and back again. Mischa dozes on your shoulder. She is too young to know what goodbye means.
You think about the future. About the inevitability of more goodbyes.
Being maudlin does not feed stomachs. You shake those thoughts to the horizon ahead.
The list continues: Food, water, hygiene, shelter. Whatever it takes to survive.
You’ll have to learn how to hunt.
*
Notes:
Approximate ages:
Hannibal: 8
Mischa: 3
Chiyoh: 5Chiyoh is kind of heavily implied as a self-insert/omniscient character in this. You can think of her as a transmigrator or time traveler or whatever floats your boat. I'm not keen on explaining that specific beast though.
The important bits: Chiyoh somehow went on to serve Lady Simonetta instead of Lady Murasaki. She is taken to Lithuania instead of Paris.
Kind of childhood friends au! Except no childhood part bc they’re war orphans now.I'm probably going to first establish short stories/chapters just to flesh out what I am going for before incorporating actual substantial plot. Don't trust me, trust the process.
Chapter 2: BONE
Summary:
Nothing hurts more than healing does.
Notes:
Warning for violence. Graphic descriptions and implications of child kidnapping, abuse, assault, and death. Inappropriate language included.
Please skip if you’re not comfortable.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER II: "BONE"
TEASER
SNOW
A raven in the distance CROAKS. A dissonant note amongst the ambiance of the forest.
Its wings FLAP. Once. Twice.
To its beat, SPOTS OF BLOOD appear. They spread and form into HOOF PRINTS. Two perfect sets, stark against the careful whiteness of the ground.
CUT TO:
EXT. THE WOODS OF LITHUANIA - DAY
Chiyoh’s head snaps up at the call of the bird. Beside her, Hannibal pauses in his motions of chopping firewood.
In the stillness, a creature BELLOWS in mourning.
CHIYOH
Do you hear that?
HANNIBAL
What is it?
He tilts his face up, scenting the air for danger.
CHIYOH
Something is dying out there.
She looks down at her hands, terribly small like the rest of her.
HANNIBAL
Better it than us.
They both look towards the lodge. A lone window is alight with a soft glow.
A gentle voice of a young GIRL comes from within, inviting them inside.
Hannibal and Chiyoh look back at each other. Something unspoken passes between them
CHIYOH
(nodding)
So it is.
END OF TEASER
Two years pass in the hunting lodge.
You learn how to hunt.
Your trio learns to survive and adapt to life amongst the wild.
It isn’t all so bad in the broad strokes. There’s a spring near the lodge and a handful of supplies: pots, plows, hatchets, animal furs, a set of adult’s boots, and even playing cards. It is more than you could have anticipated for.
With your hearing and Hannibal’s olfactory senses, you’re an impressively adept pair of hunters. Both a little too animal, too at home with the wolves, it seems. Well, the learning curve is certainly easier to navigate when survival is on the line, and with Mischa’s tiny hand clinging onto yours.
So you learn how to hunt. And how to skin, carve, and make all of your bounty last.
You also learn Lithuanian, but that part is admittedly harder.
Hannibal teaches, being the best educated, by writing letters in the dirt for you and Mischa. He’s meticulous about lessons; you’re sure he has entire curriculums planned in that head of his. You would be endeared if that didn’t mean he insisted on Lithuanian in the morning, Italian at noon, and French to finish off the day’s work. The Latin letters bounce around in your head, so very different from the round curves and angular strokes you’re used to.
When he’s not keen on making sure Mischa knows her mythologies and arithmetics, he ventures into the thicket and always comes home victorious. The two of you take turns making daily journeys out to gather food; there is always one person watching Mischa.
Sometimes you get squirrels. Or pheasants if you’re really lucky. Reptiles are rare but not uncommon. Doesn’t taste as elastic as you'd expect either. Hannibal prefers the hard kills though. He makes traps and checks on them regularly. The first time he had caught a rabbit he came back beaming with pride for hours.
Both you and Mischa made sure to praise him plenty for that, if only to watch his shoulders widen and his smile linger.
By the time you survive your first winter, you’re determined to return some semblance of normalcy back to the siblings. You start a garden. You take up gathering mud and meticulously picking out its sticks and rocks. You make clay and mold them into tablets. For writing tools, you smooth down twigs fit for a child’s hold and into points. The flat-headed ones are for Mischa and the fine-tipped ones are for Hannibal. When the clay dries, it’s Mischa’s job to soak them so that they can be recycled for the next day’s subjects.
You learn to stuff the leaky roof with foliage and leave out buckets for rain water.
You fix what you cannot build.
Mischa grows older but not taller. But she’s free-spirited and bright-eyed. She asks Hannibal questions that make him pause, and guards your garden like a princess-dragon over her hoard. You learn to still be a person only by her influence. With Hannibal, you feel as a shadow does sometimes. Less living and more existing. Mischa, though, she laughs and cries, reminding you that you’re capable of the same emotions; the light that cleanses, your girl.
You teach her how to pluck birds and grind the bones into glue. How to find north, how to dry meat, how to grow half eaten-root plants. Mischa isn’t much for hunting, but she learns how to clean the carcasses despite her soft heart. For Hannibal, who delights in challenges, you also indulge in sharing your own language with him. He’s fascinated by the characters, each writing system, and is fluent by the time you are in Lithuanian.
The two of you share riddles and codes, trade secrets for the other to decipher.
Hannibal keeps you sharp.
Mischa keeps you human.
You keep them alive.
***
“Wha’ts for dinner today?” Mischa’s wild tufts of hair tickle at your elbow. Her ‘ t ’s are especially sibilant since she’s lost her first tooth. It makes a whistling sound whenever she sings.
You bump her with your hip. “Pheasant.”
She pouts theatrically. The only things on the menu are caught game, wild berries, non-ripe roots, weeds, and various acorns.
Mischa snaps her teeth in jest, as she’d seen Hannibal do at times. She looks as frightening as a flower.
“Wha’ts for dessert?”
Like always you say, “Chocolate cake, of course,” and tweak her little nose. A running joke amongst you. You hope to buy her mountains of it one day, only the finest quality.
You wonder if it is cruel to get her hopes up. You shake your head. It wouldn’t be cruel if you made sure she did get it, one day.
She giggles. You want to bottle the sound.
“Please set the table, dandelion. And call Hannibal for supper.”
“Hanni! Dinner!” She takes off, storm in girl form, in search of her brother.
Can you keep this?
Can you?
CAN YOU?
***
You try.
That is, until the third winter.
Mischa’s down with another fever. She gets one every time this year around, but you’re especially concerned for this one. She insisted on playing in the puddles, and like tender fools, you and Hannibal let her.
It’s been three days and she still flushes between shivers and sweat. She cries for you, for Lady Simonetta. Hannibal skips his routine of teacher to be a nurse. He guards her fervently, only leaving to succumb to the demands of his body.
You’re sitting by her today too. There’s much to be done. This year’s harvest is poorer than the last, and you need to be out there, but — “—- Yoh, Hanni, it hurts. May I have some water please?” She’s been coughing up pink tinged phlegm.
You pet at Mischa’s crown, disentangling the sweaty clumps that gather. “Of course, dandelion. Have some more,” you tip the cup further, into her cracked lips. Hannibal wipes the corner of her mouth with a rag.
You wish you could bear the weight of her pain, step onto the scale in exchange.
Her eyes bat repeatedly. It is high noon. “Are you tired, Mischa?” Hannibal asks. His concern is ill-hidden, and it occurs to you how bad this could possibly get.
She nods. “Yeah, brolis. So tired.” Her head lolls. Your gut drops.
You meet Hannibal’s eyes over Mischa’s bed. You look to the door. He nods.
Gently, you brush a kiss over her temple. You ignore how wet her breathing sounds.
Hannibal does the same and you go outside.
“I have to go to the village,” you say. “They’ll have something for her fever.” Hannibal concedes. The village is an hour west, just a smattering of a couple homes and a farm.
“Take the ax, at least.” He steps out of his shoes. His is the only pair without fissures in the sole.
“I will. Take care.” You slip them on. The hope is that you’ll be back by sundown. You cross a rucksack over your chest and tug a sheathed dagger into your waistband as you depart. It doesn’t help that your gait is slowed.
You have to move fast.
You try not to look back.
You shouldn’t have left.
Indeed, it could get bad. And worse than.
You return running.
In the distance, a thousand meters out, something is not right with the house. The door is opened. The light is blown out.
Men, four to five, surround the entrance. You’re displaced to two years ago, the corridors of Castle Lecter, rehashing the same tidal wave of emotion washing over you. The bite of fear nips at your heels.
You make a break for it, pumping your legs as hard as they can go.
With both hands on the ax, you bring in down the knob of the closest man’s back. He’s big, burly, and not keen on the injury. He’s quick, too. He slams you onto the ground. Something pops. Hannibal screams your name.
“Chiyoh! Run!”
There it is, that expression of grief again.
One of them jeers. “Would you look at that? This one’s feisty.”
He holds you by the neck as you thrash.
Hannibal is dragged out by the hair, clawing and biting as he goes.
Another carries Mischa out and puts her up in the air by her arms. He shakes her. She’s sobbing through pocket-gasps.
You tear your throat out screaming for her. “Put her down! Release her!”
Behind you, Hannibal is beaten for his resistance. You’re caught too now. And you do not know who to try to get to first. You sink everything in, teeth, nails, skin, ripping flesh away from an arm.
He backhands you with the full-force hatred of a grown man.
The darkness returns.
***
They take the three of you to a camp. But not without pillaging everything from the lodge first, Hannibal reports. They tear apart the garden, the bedroom, the tables and chairs, and everything ever worth having a name.
They eat your hard-earned bounties. The meat you dried in preparation for winter.
They pissed on Mischa's pampered berry shrubs.
They spat on your honor and your oath.
But nothing is worse than this: shackled like beasts and kept apart for entertainment.
The leader of this group is called Vladis Grutas. He is a man that thrives on humiliation and pain inflicted in any form; manic in his glee to beat you, taunt you, starve you. You watched him shoot another taken child through the head; you watched the child’s mother throw herself onto his body only to be shot next.
You vow to kill Vladis Grutas. To disfigure him so badly that the devil may not recognize his face when he passes through hell.
Hannibal is kept across the camp at another post, just within seeing distance. Since Mischa is so young, they keep the two of you chained together. That is the only silver lining. But she grows sicker with each passing moment. You sleep with your back against the frozen dirt to shield Mischa against your chest. Your ribs rattle in unison whenever she is wrought with another coughing fit.
You are not allowed to speak to her, to sing to her, or else Vladis will stomp to you from his tent, and hold his knife up to Mischa’s neck. The two of you learn to trace words on each other’s skin. Skin that is slowly losing feeling with each passing day.
It barely takes a week before Mischa grows limp. The only color to her is the blood around her mouth. Like vultures, the men gather around in anticipation.
You beg, “please. Please let me save her. She needs medicine. Water, anything.” You tugs at your shackles. “I'll do anything.” The men sneer at you, at your body.
One of them — Dieter — goes: “Not much for fucking Chinese dogs,” and your stomach splits as the herd of men cackle. Acid sloshes. They won’t take you in exchange for Mischa. They would rather pick her.
But Vladis. He’s interested. He prows closer.
What bile left in you rises in your throat. You’re not sure you’ve got anymore to give. You’re scared, dear god. You are.
He goes for the fire at the center of the camp. Its flames are burning high. You can hear it crackling despite being bereft of all warmth.
He takes a log straight from the pit. You roll Mischa off and shove her behind you, crushing her beneath your weight. You’d cut yourself open to place her inside the cellar of your heart. It is empty enough. You'd sooner surrender yourself than let anyone touch her.
She wheezes and paws at your sides, unable to breathe. You hope this kills her instead, so that she doesn’t have to live to see anymore cruelty. Mothers do that, don't they? Kill their young when they are too weak to sustain, a death-like kiss goodnight.
Vladis comes close with the smoldering log. The end is blazing orange red, glowing with promise. Hannibal is too far. He can only watch as you try, try your damndest to protect his sister. He howls. You’ve never heard him make that noise before.
You don’t look at him. Keeping your hate solely on Vladis.
His eyes bulge with sadistic glee. The man licks his lips. He raises the burning piece of wood, and you refuse to cower. Let him burn your face. You’ll cut his eyes out. Chop his hands off.
His arm rises. He’s going to hit you with it. Right over the cheek. The arc of it is a flash of movement.
"CHIYOH!”
It only takes the smallest allowance of contact.
Last minute, he swerves to brand the side of your neck. Raw heat on your bare skin. You cry —— curdling and echoing —— there’s red coming out of you. Your pulse beats against the gaping wound.
It lasts only for a second. It lasts forever.
The sear and the scrape. The flaring contact of your own cells cooking.
It's too much: the smell of burnt flesh and illness. You can hear screaming still, and it’s yours.
You reach for Mischa. Despite everything, the hurt is nothing. For her.
You reach for Mischa. Stretching your hand out for one that is always already halfway reaching back.
There is nothing there.
Nothing but a body that looks like her.
Mischa is blue. The thought is outrageous. She’s dandelion yellow and golden citrus. She’s sweet chocolate melting on the tongue. She cannot be dead.
“Kamisama,” you say emphatically, pulling at your hair. “I’ll beg. Please, I’ll beg. Don’t do this to me.”
You cannot fix this.
You hope she is where flowers go when they are plucked. Somewhere safe and warm and kind. A stacked plate with a full table; mother and father on either side.
You hope her spirit never comes back. You hope it is sealed in the afterlife, unburdened and free. There is nothing here for her.
You hope she never sees what you will do to Vladis Grutas.
For what he has done to your family, nothing could come close to the song of your wrath.
It crows. It demands to be sated.
You awaken.
You cannot tell how many days it has been. It is morning. Eternal grey now that the sun has died.
Hannibal has been moved to your side of the camp. His presence would be a comfort, but neither of you can muster up the strength to embrace the other. You'd be siphoning warmth from someone who has none of it to give. Hunger gnaws at the mind. It makes you lethargic. You can only manage to blink between states of consciousness. Hannibal is awake each time you are. At least, this is familiar enough.
Nevertheless, nothing can ever be the same again.
Hannibal is changed beyond words.
He’s not normal. He’s never been. Too astute for his own good, too callous for someone his age. You’re not exactly right either. Like you're both too tight into the suit of your bodies. Zipped up all wrong. Capable of profundity but not much empathy. Always in a state of preemptive jadedness about the temporary beauty of the world.
When you tell him about Mischa, he looks like you’ve ripped his heart out of his chest. The bloody, raw truth of what it means to feel everything all at once.
You black out again, his expression imprinted behind your eyelids as you do.
***
When you stir again, there is a buzzing in the air. Excitement in the camp. They’re serving stew.
You startle upright; the vertigo is nearly too much.
Hannibal is cross-legged and hunched over a bowl. His bony hands white-knuckle over the rim of the bowl, half pouring, half lapping it into his gaping jaw.
Salt stings your eyes. The burn on your neck flames as you stretch your hands out.
“Hannibal. Put the bowl down. I’m begging you.”
His eyes are blank. Lifeless. He looks at you like he doesn’t know you. There's broth staining his shirt.
He looks down at the stew.
Blinks.
Look back up at you. Pupils blown wide.
A fleeting hiccup. Then another.
His mouth opens. There’s a bit of Mischa on the side of his lip. “Chiyoh?” The loss in his voice shreds you. It feels like dying. “What’s in this?”
You cannot answer. You whine, pitched with madness, at the sight of his face. The despondent horror.
“This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.” He whispers.
There’s a bone in the soup.
This, you can reach for. You cradle it. Your sunshine girl, treasure of your heart.
Then you peel Hannibal’s hands away from the bowl and place it there on his palm. Curl his fingers over it. You watch him float there for a while.
You can do nothing else.
Hannibal begins to shake. A child in distress. It’s the most normal thing you’ve seen him do. It is beyond your comprehension. Steady-handed, tempered, battle-honed Hannibal cannot keep his body still.
“Oh,” he breathes. The sound is punched out of him.
He folds into his clenched hand. Hunches in on himself. Back to the world, kneeling at an empty altar.
“Oh,” he sobs, “Mischa.” And says nothing else.
There is nothing you can do, besides lay on top of his back, blanket him, and shatter alongside him.
***
You bury it.
The bone. The bowl.
The ground is cold. The hard dirt cuts into the bed of your nails. When you can dig no longer past the numbness of your fingers, Hannibal takes over.
You cannot imagine digging so deep for anyone else.
A small grave for a small girl.
Neither of you speak.
It will be a while before either of you do.
*
Notes:
I think apologies are in order.
Did you cry? I'm not sure how handy I am at evoking emotions. English is hard to write.
Approximate ages:
Hannibal: 10
Mischa: 5
Chiyoh: 7
I’m also not sure how much to get into the revenge arc. I’m bad at logistics :((((
Chapter 3: DREAM
Summary:
life in the orphanage is not unlike a zoo.
tenderness only takes place between like animals. the rest, well, they're prey.
Notes:
warning for descriptions of ptsd: prevailing images, flashbacks
warning for descriptions of aftereffects of starvation/food trauma: defensive eating, food hoarding
warning for a kid using a slur/language
warning for description of violence against a kid (by a kid)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER III: "DREAM"
"I've been staring at afterimages of places you haven't been in years."
("Dolce," 3.06).
TEASER
EXT. OUTDOORS, HILLTOP, SUMMER - DAY
Every color is saturated, radiant to the point of strain.
BLURRY FIGURES sit at the pinnacle of a large hill, where a solitary TREE stands as a centerpiece over a scenery of lush, open land. Idyllic, fantastical.
A young GIRL runs through a meadow of wildflowers, a crown of golden daisies highlighting the glint of her hair, towards that hill. She wears a dress of pale blue, decorated with detailed embroidery. She’s healthy and looks like a girl her age ought to.
She’s waving excitedly up at the people awaiting her.
For a moment: she turns, looks straight at US.
Her eyes are startlingly maroon, and her smile is full despite a missing baby tooth.
Her voice is melodic and echoing:
MISCHA
Chiyoh? Hannibal? Are you coming?
She doesn’t pause for long. Mischa turns back towards the hill, where Lady Simonetta opens her arms.
A beat.
Her voice turns scornful, biting:
MISCHA
(CONT’D)
Aren’t you coming?
A hand comes on screen, reaching for her. Grasping at air. Mischa is too far away, unknowing.
She never turns around.
It is a dream.
END OF TEASER
The dream goes out as abruptly as it came. A gunshot tear of sudden consciousness forces you to wake. You cry, and it pulls at skin. Ant bite burns of pain spread all over the side of your neck. You’re blood and bone, stacked on top of one another, teetering.
Several sets of hands push down on your shoulders, shushing you.
Tipping,
tipping.
You fight it. Sway away, sinew and marrow strung together, away from the faint impression that you’re missing something vital.
Someone’s saying your name. A familiar weight. Your precarious balance settles into a tentative halt.
Chiyoh. A name for a broken girl. Chiyoh, a bell chime, rung once for clarity.
Sleep comes in the same form of darkness the cellar was.
***
They’ve abandoned the camp. Vladis, Dieter, the others whose names you do not know but whose faces you do. They’ve left the you and Hannibal to die.
You don’t. Die that is.
Let it be said that it certainly came close.
Soviet soldiers get to you before death does. Though, she surely had her claws already dug into you by then. They take you and Hannibal to a hospital tent, where they were just shy of sure the two of you were already lost to the world.
The impression of these events are glassy — hazed by the bite of flaring inflection that spreads through the burn on the side of your throat.
You do remember one thing for certain: Hannibal screamed when the nurses tried to separate you. Screamed. A shrill, haunted pitch that you chorused. They didn’t try again.
The rest is blank. It probably took two weeks of bedrest before the soldiers had to drop the two of you off at an orphanage. The chains come off. One of them writes you a note, and wishes you a farewell. You're familiar with goodbyes.
You should’ve been paying more attention, cataloging the events leading up to that: the Soviet soldiers, their desperate cajoling; the orphanage matron taking you two in, frightened by the state you must have looked. The hospital couldn’t fix everything. Faded around the edges, a film not developed right. You haven’t grown in two years. You look over at Hannibal, unsurprised by the jut of his cheekbones, nor the clothes that hang off of him. He’s the same height of when you met him.
Alas, you are alive. It is only you and Hannibal, hands clasped, one pair of shoes between the two of you, who make it to the orphanage doorstep. The soldiers could only accompany you so far.
The matron, Agata, takes one look at the two of you and shakes her head in pity. She’s the one who reads the soldier’s message. She bends down and asks something in Lithuanian with a heavy dialect. It sounds as familiar as it was two years ago, multiple scars ago. Her accent is grating, too throaty. You’ve only heard the language from Hannibal’s smooth cadence. They might as well be speaking in a completely separate language. You do not pretend to understand her. Hannibal stopped speaking after Mischa, and you let him have this. You’ve been conversing to him in Japanese to make up for his lack, between sparse utterances and skin written notes. However, that means reintegration into socializing with other people is more strenuous than it ever was. You doubt it would’ve been easy anyways.
You watch the other children, ranging in ages of four to fourteen, gather around her apron, and gawk.
Another woman, Marija, the help, asks questions, slowly and agonizingly patronizing. Her accent is a quicker study in parsing, passable by your ears. She’s prompt to discern the matter of your muteness.
For Hannibal, she chalks his condition up to trauma. It’s an easy assumption to make based on the state of the two of you. He says nothing, shows nothing. His eyes are slow-blinking, intelligent, but overall absent. There are strips of skin healing one the line of his throat and wrists; he wears them fully.
For you, the matter is presumed from the start.
On sight, Marija takes the liberty of assuming that you do not speak the language and tells Agata so. Her gaze glosses over your black eyes, black hair, and stops short at the thick bandages that peek through your collar. She looks away right after. Makes a swiping motion with her hand. There is no possible way you could understand her. You do not correct her faulty judgment.
The women leave you with the rest of the children to become acquainted. They’re all boys, snot-nosed, and piling over one another like excitable puppies. Where you’ve discovered sorrow, you’ve also discovered resentment. Simply for being alive when Mischa isn’t, they are deemed insignificant from the start, less than the dirt underneath your feet; no better seen than unseen.
Like Hannibal, you keep your face impassive but open, a moon reflecting only what it is given. Twins of separate wombs.
Not only are you the only girl at the orphanage, you’re also the only foreigner. That’s the nicest word Agata used. The others though, they’re not so courteous.
You exact what Hannibal’s feeling for the children as you feel yours. It is twofold, the feeling of disdain.
One of the older boys sneers at the sight of you. Turns his nose up at the two of you clutching to each other.
He calls you something nasty. You didn’t know that word before. Then he asks if you’re a mix-breed, a slave, and where you’re ‘imported’ from. When you do not deign to reply, simply blinking, he scowls. Bullies live for attention and reaction. An impassive victim is a boring one.
Another pipes up, probably around Hannibal’s age, trying his hand at poking the new runt of the litter. He asks if you’re a geisha, and from just the way he says is indication enough that he doesn’t know what it means.
Hannibal fumes beside you. The same bruising grip, never having been outgrown. His anger stems from being stored for so long. Outwardly, his body reads passive. He is a shadow of your shadow. All the same, the temperature drops. The others retreat a little at the frozen-fire glare he cuts at them.
You trace the word, ‘mask’ on his palm. The air regains its breathability.
Agata calls for mealtime.
You tug Hannibal along, and don’t look back.
***
The two of you don’t eat with the rest of the children.
Instead, while the rest of them settle around the table, Marija shows you to your rooms. She’s younger than Agata, who is sporting more white hairs than gray, but no less insular. She walks too fast to keep up on muscle-deficient legs and doesn’t care to look back to track your progress.
As the only girl, she’s set up a place in the attic for you. She shows you to a lone mattress without sheets and gestures to it. It is dusty, decrepit, and most importantly, private. Hannibal is not so lucky. His room is a bed shoved in a corner, alongside two others. He’s not pleased. You squeeze his hand. You’ll figure something out.
There is only a single faucet between two bathrooms, a playroom, and a kitchen with a table enclosed. The yard is ill-kept but wide, and accompanied by a nostalgic view of expansive trees that can be seen from the windows. There is one such window in the attic, though it is more used for ventilation than sightseeing. The attic is only a stair’s case away from direct access to the kitchen, probably first fashioned as a storage. It serves you all the same.
By the time your tour is closed, the children have scattered, doing their own respective routines. You’re both expected to do chores once you’ve settled. Neither you or Hannibal react outwardly to what the woman is saying.
Marija herds you into the kitchen. The stove is still on. Agata is there, preparing what could be dinner and tomorrow’s too.
Your stomach turns. You’ve gotten used to swallowing your heartbeat.
Your eyes do not leave the flame that is turned high, licking up the sides of a stock pot. Bubbles force their way out of the lid and spill over. There are dried, dark stains encrusted onto the metal lip. It looks like something else.
Agata speaks distantly to Hannibal.
Neither of you look her way.
“--- child? Are you listening? Sit and eat, you look ghastly.” Marija nudges an empty bowl towards Hannibal.
Hannibal doesn’t move, feet planted into place.
“Child?” The matron turns.
Agata’s offering reanimates you. Dread will not keep you from eating. It will not keep you from surviving.
You step close, taking the bowl. She blinks in surprise, but otherwise smiles with a pinched look. Marija leaves to watch the other children. You do not watch her go.
Agata reaches for the lid. You try not to shake.
She lifts it. Steam curls the flat lid, around her weathered skin. You blink rapidly to displace another image.
She scoops and pours with a ladle to stir the mixture. Once. Twice. Chunks of oranges and yellows greet you. The breath that pushes out of you is too great to be called relief.
You’ve lost the taste for meat at this point. Between the starvation, the beatings, and Mischa’s demise, you cannot even fathom having to digest meat. You try to think of working your teeth through it, biting down on something hard. It would surely shrivel up in your throat and strangle you.
Hannibal is similarly conscious of what the woman is serving. Hawk’s eyes on a hunt. He can’t seem to trust himself to monitor what he eats either. If there were a bone in there, what would he do? Swallow? Apologize? An instinct borne from irrational fear.
What if his sister is in his next bite?
If Mischa's name were a boulder, the two of you would have worn in down to dust by now. Hundred, thousands of times, unfathomable times has her name passed through your minds, your lips --- accompanied by countless scenarios of what if. You try to imagine it. Her, living.
It is out of reach. A dream.
The first meal the matron serves is watery potato soup. When Agata readies a portion, you only hold up one bowl. She ladles once into your bowl, pauses, and goes for another. She says something that sounds like a question.
The words scrape together in strange noises to you. Her tone is low, abrasive.
“Go sit,” You tell Hannibal in Japanese, not taking your eyes from the soup. Agata twitches, thinking you are addressing her.
With a sniff, you snatch the bowl away as soon as she is done with the second scoop, ignore the sting of overflowing spill over your hands — and her cry at that — and present the bowl to Hannibal.
He stares at it. It is more water than soup, with dots of oil swimming on the surface, and he can see his own gaunt reflection. A different person. He doesn’t reach for a spoon. Though he does look back up at you, blank. All his carefully hidden anxiety and fear is as plain to you as it has always been.
You reach for the spoon. Slowly, under his supervision, lift a chunk of sad carrot and eat it. You count to ten as you chew and drink a bit of the broth to wash it down. It tastes of nothing. You are grateful.
You open your mouth and show him the back of your teeth. Then you scoop up another portion and offer it to him.
His eyes dart to the matron, there and back. Agata’s watching with unconcealed apprehension. Even in his state, she recognizes a tiger when she sees one. Even starved, a wild animal is still such. You only have eyes for Hannibal. After a long pause, he leans in and takes the bite. You make sure his throat swallows. You give him the spoon, and he accepts the bowl.
You turn back to Agata, with your own bowl this time. She ladles it in hesitantly. Sedately this time, mannered as if you’d learn in a past life, you dip your chin at the woman in thanks.
Hannibal doesn’t start eating again until you’ve gotten your own. You sit, poised on the edge of an uncushioned chair, and nod at him. He only ever eats after each bite you take, a delayed mirror reflecting back.
It wouldn’t do to throw everything back up. You take it slow. He matches your pace.
Each clatter of the spoon meeting the bowl takes a count.
The two of you eat in silence, utterly thin, worn, and alive despite everything.
***
When you’re allowed to use the bathroom, the only one with the functioning faucet, you do not hesitate to fill a bucket. The water is tepid at best, and the soap is difficult to lather. It’s the first time in weeks, years you’ve gotten to clean yourself.
You strip and unbandage, occasionally darting your gaze to the door. It is closed. An allowance. But an empty one. It provides no true safety.
Hannibal is just outside, guarding.
It’s the first time he’s been out of your sight since the camp.
For that alone, you consider the notion of cracking the door just slightly. But this is a new prison. You’ll have to get used to this.
The feeling is unsettling — like phantom pain coupled with actual pain of the tentative layer of skin just growing over the side of your throat. He’s there. Yet, you cannot see him. The image of the pot flashes.
You scrub harder with a rag, only gentling when you have to do your face and neck.
Pale sallow turns pink. There is still dirt underneath your nails.
The rag goes into the water again, turning browner each time you rinse it.
By your third wipe-down, you feel renewed. You tip the bucket into the drain, ignoring the sludge that goes.
You redraw the bucket with water, putting the lye soap under the stream to get bubbles.
Then, you call out. “Hannibal. Come in, please.” He opens the door, peeks, and enters.
Hannibal approaches; you imagine what he sees. He’s narrowed in on the puckered, molted patch of stitched flesh over your neck. You appreciate that he doesn’t avoid looking at it. Other people do. They will.
Gently, you hold out the rag to him. He lets you clean his hands, his palms, between the webbings. You wring it out, pass it to him.
“I will be right outside. I will not leave. Call for me, if you need.” He nods, trails behind you as you close the door on the way out. The door has no lock. The both of you would keep vigilance for each other regardless.
You listen to the sound of him undressing in what little physical layers he has. Subdued splashing. The careful economy of every movement.
You sigh, heavy with it.
Your first night in an actual bed after years. The prospect chills you more than you know. It was better back then, just three bodies piled by the furnace.
Then there were only two.
What does the future hold? You think back to your list: Food, water, shelter, hunting. You scratch the last one out.
Food, water, shelter, safety.
That’s better.
You think about Mischa, the preserved visage of her smiling face.
Food, water, shelter, safety, happiness.
Irrelevant.
But monumental. Makes a world of difference for a person caught between boredom and suffering.
You lean back against the door. Contemplative.
It’s gone silent.
With a tremor you’ll ever deny leaking in your voice, you call out. “Hannibal?”
An immediate knock answers you.
You exhale.
Whatever comes, you’ll figure it out.
happiness?
The sleeping situation seems to figure itself out. By itself, you mean Hannibal. He’s never met a problem he couldn’t bullhead his way through. While he is known for his careful execution and thoughtfulness, he’s also prone to flights from high depths.
He doesn’t speak, but he certainly knows how to scream. Wailing, horrible cries that shake the thin enough wall as it is.
The first time it happens, the first night the two of you arrive, he only stops gasping for more breath to yell when you appear. You scramble to him, having heard him even from a floor above, paper-thin socks tearing down at impressive speed, pushing the two boys who room with him to the side without a thought.
His eyes scream your name. Scream Mischa’s. He doesn’t say a word. You try to soothe him, regardless, reassurances from familiar songs. He doesn’t even try to cringe away. His vulnerability cuts at you.
You can’t stand other people seeing him in this way.
The matron, Agata, arrives at the commotion, with the boys filling her in. You don’t spare her a glance as you tug Hannibal to the kitchen and up the stairs of the attic. She doesn’t stop you.
The rest of the nights follow that routine. Until, eventually, Hannibal just goes straight to your room by nightfall. Agata says nothing about it, Marija says too much.
Marija whispers about how inappropriate it is, a boy and a girl sharing a room. Gripes about promiscuity and conduct. Despite being war-leaden and bone-thin, she insists on some sort of salacious ulterior motive between the two of you. The corridors of her mind must be such a narrow space, barely room to fit all the talk she insists on doing. Adult expectations imposed on children’s minds. Proprietary over security.
She promptly strikes the two of you from her favor.
It ostracizes you further from the rest of the children. The younger, timid ones avoid you at every turn, more put off by your appearance than anything else. But the older ones, just learned enough to gain the hatred of the world, do their best to inflict humiliation in spoken and tangible forms.
Reckless, the lot of them.
They aren’t and will never be the worst you’ve ever seen.
The new year arrives without major incident.
Hannibal’s birthday comes and passes. January 20th. You only know because he’s looking at the paper calendar hung up in the kitchen, tracing the number one and the number two absently on your shoulder.
You blink.
You’re younger than Hannibal. You’re now the age he was when his parents died. While yes, you’re physically smaller, it has never occurred to you that he was older. Above all else, the both of you have accepted without agreement that the two of you are matched. Age seems trivial, though you suppose your culture does put much stock in seniority.
It was like you woke up one day and accepted that you were in a child’s body. That certainly does not mean you ever were or have been a child in a long, long time. The memory is foggy now, from here to Lecter Castle, of the person you were before everything. It doesn’t even seem to matter.
Exhaustion is bone deep. What child feels like this? Hannibal looks double his age while a quarter of the size.
You care for each other separate from that of caretaking. There is no leverage about it. It is reciprocity between two life forms who have learned to coexist.
Regardless of age, anyone would bend to the will of need and fear.
You scavenge the kitchen under the cover of the dark, memorizing the anatomy of creaky steps to bypass detection. Peels of onions, scrap potatoes, leftover sourdough, broken off just so that it looks like a critter got to it. What Hannibal doesn’t eat, you savor and save, ignoring the ever-prevalent cramping hunger within. But he knows your game, and eases the insecurity of never knowing when the next meal is coming by fending for himself similarly.
A distant part of your brain that recognizes the unnaturalness of everything around you, a prevailing hindbrain voice, says that you’re being irrational. They feed you during mealtime, usually breakfast and dinner are always included. The portions are satisfactory. Seconds are allowed.
Yet, the moment Hannibal sees an unclaimed loaf, he snatches it up. Tucks in underneath his shirt and storms up the steps before anyone can get to him. Always split it into equal portions. Your own quick hands have always been subtle and nondiscriminatory. Food, pins, chalks, utensils. You’ve fashioned a fork into a jam lock to the door of your room. Even taken a candle, though you’ve got nothing to light it with just yet.
You think about the rose pin you found in the crevice of the attic.
Hannibal’s on yard work duty today.
You head to the kitchen.
***
Agata is there, back turned, apron fastened. For however unwelcome you feel about accepting this place as home, you do appreciate the consistency it offers.
There are are box of matches on the counter. You do not linger on that.
With wide eyes, you approach Agata. Crows' feet deepen as you close the distance. You stop just short of the heat radiating off of the appliances. She watches you, recognizes the inquisitiveness there. She’s wary. You return the sentiment.
Following the slope of her dress, your eyes stop just short of her hips.
“Maybe I have it please?” Agata startles, not expecting the perfunctory accent of her mother tongue on yours. Your Lithuanian is textbook perfect; Hannibal’s made sure of it. Her wooden spoon clatters onto the floor.
“What?”
You retrieve the fallen utensil and point to her apron.
Her hand flies to cover her side, despite nothing outwardly showing.
“Please. May I have it?” The matron looks on you like how one looks at a wounded beast. She shakes her head.
“Child. Even your first words are strange,” she doesn’t deny anything. Just reaches in and puts her closed fist out. You cup both hands underneath hers. “This is for special occasions.” She has not yet released it to you. “I won’t have you telling the other boys. They’ll come barging in and begging too.”
You bob your head in a nod. “It is. Special occasion.” The both of you know you won’t be telling anyone else.
Her hand opens. A golden wrapped cube falls out. It is slightly melted.
You give a small bow, just a dip of your head. A soft, “Thank you.”
In exchange, you put the rose pin on the counter next to her. An offering. Agata stares at it, not reaching for it.
When you turn away, she says, “strange child,” once more to herself, dazed from the interaction.
The box of matches is not missed.
***
That night, just before midnight by your estimate, you reveal your bounty to Hannibal.
He’s leaning back against the support of the wall against the mattress, reading a recipe magazine he’d borrowed from the cupboard.
He looks up when you shift, as he is wont to do.
You smile, putting your fist out to him.
Hannibal’s head tilts, a clever mind presented with a trick.
“Hold out your hand.” He does, immediately. But you let it hang for a moment.
Looking at him firmly in the eyes, maroon meeting steel, you say in Lithuanian: “Happy Birthday, Hannibal.”
He blinks. You drop the chocolate onto his open palm.
He stares at it. Puzzled. Undone.
You do not break the moment by laughing, though the amusement is creeping up. A prickle of easy affection passing through.
With much ado caution, he unwraps it. It is barely the size of his finger. He peels corner by corner of the golden paper, treating it kindly.
When the brown sweet rests uncovered, he looks up at you. You raise your eyebrows at him encouragingly. He holds his hand out.
You take it and break it into two. You give him the bigger piece.
Hannibal puts it in his mouth. The two of you leave it to rest on your tongues. Letting it melt away, sweetness in increments. Side by side, you savor the taste of chocolate, feeling the time suspend —- and it doesn’t hurt.
Happiness. Maybe it won’t be so hard.
Hannibal is most tolerant of kitchen duty.
While Agata did mostly have you assigned to cooking, probably of some antiquated notion that you’d be most well adjusted there, it does not please you anymore than weeding or laundry does. You do what you’re told and you do it well. You also tend to turn your back to the open fire while constantly stealing glances at it; she is not so old as to not notice this.
But Hannibal does seem to enjoy it there best. He must like the assurdedness of it; knowing exactly everything going into and out of a pot. He’ll wrap your assigned apron around his waist, and get to work without prompting. He’s gained enough strength to lift the industrial pots and reach the shelves with the spices. Agata favors his quick hands in the mornings when she has to batch out the day’s meals.
You take up yard work as a tradeoff. It’s warmer outdoors now, Mid-May. You shrug when he writes if you're alright with that. You’re pleased that he cares enough to ask.
- Sure? His traces tickle your arm.
- Yes. You write back on his back. Safe?
- Yes. He leaves with that on the back of your hand.
So you go outside, grab the handheld shovel and pretend as if the other boys do not exist.
The oldest one is Matis. Freshly fifteen and gangly. He is the most openly hostile, given his age and physique. He’s been at the orphanage the longest, besides his brother, Tomas, and favors himself to be the leader of his pack.
“Hey, foreigner. Where’s the freak?” Matis asks, always ignorant of the fact that your lack of reply isn’t by muteness but your utter disregard for his existence. “I’m talking to you!”
You make sure to get under the shrubs. That’s where most of the weeds begin to grow as a parasite on the nutrients of its roots.
“Hey! ” You hear him coming before you feel it. You strike at his aborted grab with the shovel before it can even brush your shirt. He squawks.
Marija shouts from across the yard, watching the younger children. “What’s goin’ on?”
“She hit me!”
You say nothing. Spade in hand, you go right back to the weeds. Marija would rather dismiss you than have anything to do with your undisciplined disposition for gathering boys’ attention apparently.
“Leave her. Go inside and help with the washing.” She huffs at Matis. Then she goes back inside to her younger charges, matter settled.
Matis shakes in place like a particularly disproportionate version of one of those trembly dogs. Tomas tries to placate his brother.
You get up and brush your knees off. Time to find a different patch of grass. This does remind you of gardening back at the lodge, maybe one day, you’ll—--
Matis is yammers on.
--- Grow vegetables, definitely. You hope to plant hyacinths and wisteria too, for their symbolism. Maybe even get to keep a greenhouse for the more volatile plants —-
“--you don’t get to ignore me! You’re just a– a–” Finally, you face Matis. The boy’s shoulders are pulled taunt up to his ears. Tomas looks close to exasperated tears, little brother trying to reign in big brother.
“An- an Asian bitch!” You blink, reeling from the sudden escalation. Matis scowls deep. He usually only reserves that look for… Then you whip around, where Hannibal is stepping down from the entrance, removing his apron with jerky motions. Poking at a weakness then, Matis is.
Hannibal’s impassive face finally cracks to reveal his cool rage. Smoke seems to curl around him, darkening and sharpening into antlers around his angular face. Clearly, he’s fuming and it's unconfined now. Anger polished to a knife point. Hannibal tramples right up and to the older boy’s reddening face. Tomas steps back. Matis doesn't. Outrageous when it is the younger ones that always have the better common sense.
“Yeah? Finally got something to say, freak?” Hannibal, in reply, takes no reservation in hooking his fist and punching him upwards in the stomach. Snake-quick. Matis folds forward with a satisfying oof.
Before he can even recover, Hannibal grabs him by the shirt collar and shoves him down. A completed descent. You go to stand beside Hannibal.
Matis lands fully on the lawn, curled up against himself, and spitting with affront. Tomas turns tail and runs, probably for backup.
You fold your arms to your chest, looking down at Matis from under your nose.
That seems to be too much for him, being looked down on by a girl. He pushes himself off the ground, lunges. You side step his clumsy attempt. He trips on his own overbalance, and Hannibal gently maneuvers you behind him. Something tightens in your chest. Dual emotions fighting for dominance. Annoyance for one. Bemusement is another.
How has this stupid boy lived for this long? Does he not see two prowling, hungry beasts ready for the slightest indication of fresh blood?
The trap is set. Hannibal has always been the better catcher out of the two of you.
Matis yells, frustration making him sloppy, coupled with his outrage at the lack of reaction. He looks like a drunkard, stumbling, blubbering.
Tomas and the other boys begin to congregate. Their dark little heads remind you of crows.
You can hear Marija shout, "stop this at once!" and make her way down the steps, gathering that something is amiss.
Matis scrambles upright, back turned against the crowd, tuned in enough not to underestimate Hannibal. He winds up. Your muscles tighten in anticipation.
Now with a worthy audience, Hannibal clenches his teeth and turns his face following the path Matis’s incoming fist takes. The horde of boys gasp out, varying cheers of horror and intrigue. Though the punch isn’t much of one, it still cracks Hannibal’s nose at an angle. Red spills. Marija bellows -- vein bursting.
Matis springs backwards. Even he is surprised by the turn of events. He doesn’t get far having fallen on his ass by the draw back. You narrow in. Right before Marija reaches the lot of you, storming closer, having witnessed a sliver of the brawl and the injury, you strike.
Hannibal may be adept at catching, but you're an expert at delivering the finishing blow.
Matis never saw you coming. It’s easy to miss a shadow in the light of day. With the sun overhead, you are undetectable by mortal eyes. A splintering of glass into fragments --- you are an inkling in every piece, undetectable in the full picture --- until it is too late.
You slink forward, ducking low, and seize the hand he used to harm Hannibal. Bracing your weight, feet planted, you take his swollen knuckles and bend them backwards with a crack. You feel the oxygen in his joint pop and split the skin.
Matis howls. Tomas runs forward, and goes to take his brother's crooked fingers. The bones protrude out in a comical caricature.
You back away right as Marija drops on her knees beside the boys. Matis begins to weep like a toddler. Consuming, great, heaving sobs that bark in agony.
Marija speaks at rapid speed, ripping off a strip of her skirt to bind Matis's skewed digits. She grows green as each one is bent back into place. The pain is renewed for each finger they save.
All the kids pack around Agata at the doorstep. The matron's face is ashen white, clutching at the closest ones to her. The wounded animal is no longer wounded, but keen to play. You spare her only a glance before looking up at Hannibal. He’s already looking back.
Hannibal grins at you, boyish, blood dripping down his chin. He's reset his nose, though he does nothing to stem the flow. He smiles, and he likes the taste of it. You swipe his cupid's bow, unconsciously mirroring how satisfied he is at the thrill he feels.
Red droplets are a study of complementary colors on the greenery.
It's beautiful, in the way that frightening things will always remain to be.
His own fingers, unbroken and classical, trace a word on the back of your hand.
- Good?
It does feel good. The sentiment of it doesn't shock you as much as it should.
- Yes. You reply. What does it taste like?
Hannibal looks back over at Matis, who is rocking back and forth with his mangled hand cradled against himself. Marija is too busy consoling him to reign in the children who gather around. Tomas has thrown up in a nearby bush. The air is sour with unease. Agata has left to call for the town's doctor. When his attention returns to you, he is beaming with pride and not bothering to hide it.
- Sweet. He writes. His traces are warm.
Maybe happiness could mean this too.
*
Notes:
Tentative ages:
Hannibal 11/12
Chiyoh 8/9They're 11 and 8 respectively when they're found at the camps.
Hannibal's birthday is in January, so he turns 12 in this chapter at the orphanage. Chiyoh's birthday is sometime in August, so she's still around 8 ish.
I originally planned to over a wider span of time in this chapter: the orphanage to adoption stage. As you can see, it did not quite go to plan.
Also, note: The timeline I am following is based off of some wiki info I found on Hannibal Lecter which is adjacently based off of the books. Unfortunately, I haven't read those so Hannibal the show is my foundation for most of my inspiration, and I just look up the rest to whatever fits my perspective.
Also, also, note: It is very important to me that Hannibal and Chiyoh are equals in this. No superiority and lording god complexes over one another. I will do something to overcome the master/servant relationship that is first seen in this story since servitude to Lady Simonetta was something inherently valuable to Chiyoh.
- My goal: Since Hannibal doesn't have to go through his trauma all alone, I hope this makes him less of a pretentious bastard. At least marginally. Chiyoh first and foremost understands him. That is all he has ever wanted.
Last note bc this is serious overkill: There will be NO romance between Hannibal and Chiyoh. They are PLATONIC. Just so platonic it borders soulmates, okay?