Chapter Text
Will closed the door to Mischa’s room and leaned his back against it. There were all these roads that lay in front of him, all these paths that led to various outcomes. Each one would take him in wildly different directions. He pondered for a moment, wondering if he could take two at the very same time.
He tried to take a step down the hallway, but his feet felt glued to the floorboards. He fought against the seemingly magnetic pull to the ground, and could swear he felt the arms of an invisible beast wrapped around his chest. He looked down to see nothing in reality chaining him to place, but he struggled to free himself anyways. The dried blood that coated his body in various places itched and tugged when he shook his shoulders back and forth. For one terrifying second, he thought it was Mischa’s soul trying to stop him from enacting this hastily formed plan of revenge.
“Let me go!” He whispered to the ghost he could not see.
The invisible arms relented and he was suddenly freed, falling forward onto his hands and knees. He quickly looked behind him, still not convinced he was entirely alone up here. Though it left a strange feeling in his mind, he tried to ignore it for now, and began to crawl towards the top of the stairs. He peeked down through the banisters and listened for any movement. There was no telling what time it was now, only that it was either very late in the night or very early in the next morning. The house was, for better or worse, completely silent despite the evil creatures lurking within.
Will knew all the places on the wooden stairs that would creak, and avoided them. Plenty of times, he would sneak down here, against his parent’s wishes and rummage through books he was not yet allowed to read, or sip at the leftover wine from supper. He wished away the throbbing between his eyes, shoving the constant shivering to a corner of his mind to be dealt with later.
He couldn’t help but peer into the study first, noticing two defectors passed out on the floor in front of a dying fire, empty glass bottles surrounding them. The embers glowed weakly and without purpose, still a crackle and pop set his very nerves on edge. He tried not to think of Mischa. From here, he made his rounds, checking each room, taking inventory of all the traitors who resided in his home. It was his now, wasn’t it? Every inch of this house, every acre of the land outside, was his by rights. These were unwelcome guests, trespassers, and he had the right to defend himself and his land by law.
Will had to be smart about this. Wake one, and the rest could overtake him. He was not a particularly strong young man, but he had his wits, and what did he have to lose now? His parents were gone, his sister, gone. His home had been irreparably ravaged and the longer he spent looking around, the more he noticed what was missing.
Family heirlooms gone from their places on the shelves, paintings that once hung on the walls left only the mark of their outlines on the wall. His eyes fell on the hand-carved chess table that once sat proudly against the far wall. All the pieces were missing, once carved from marble and jade. He felt his eye twitch, there was a connection in his brain that fought the urge to scream. How dare they!
Instead, he backed out of the room, with its sleeping inhabitants and tip toed back to his father’s study. Two in here, another five in the others, but the man he bit, Ed, was unaccounted for. Will opened the drawer on the large desk, anticipated the squeak that would come, and paused when he heard it. He kept one eye on the men snoring on the floor, and one on what he was doing. The drawer had clearly been searched, with any spare coins taken, but what remained was invaluable to him. He wrapped his fingers around a letter opener, one that his mother gifted to his father on his birthday a few years ago. Their family name was inscribed on one side, and a message from his mother on the other.
“For when the paper bites first.”
Will ran his thumb along the words and smiled, remembering how his parents shared a laugh and knowing looks between them. The way his father chuckled when he read it for the first time. He gripped the handle and locked eyes with his first target.
The man’s collar was open, his sweat-stained undershirt yellowed from days without a hot bath or change of clothes. He had light hair and a patchy blonde beard. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old, possibly older but clearly stunted in growth. Skinny all over and underweight in the places it mattered. He had long, deep breaths, the kind of sleep only alcohol grants you. Will climbed on top of him, straddling his chest with knees on either side of his body. The man didn’t even register the danger he was in, which only slightly angered Will, wishing he could feel the fear before the pain.
The sharp tip of the makeshift blade was already pointed at his throat, as he guided it to the area he saw throbbing the most. In and out. It was quick, and surprised both of them. The man gasped awake, immediately clutching at his throat, his eyes were frenzied and confused, unaware of what was truly happening. Will smiled down at him.
The man tried to get up, maybe reflexively or instinctually, to get away from the threat. Will bore down, covering the man’s mouth with both hands to stop the gasping sounds. He didn’t want to wake the man sleeping next to them. The blood was coming out quickly, much more quickly than he imagined. It was pooling under his body, soaking the carpet under them and in his state of panic, the man’s heart was only pumping it out faster. The dim light of dying embers faintly lit the room, so everything appeared much darker than he thought it would. Something you don’t think very much about when someone bleeds this much is the smell. It was overwhelming in such a fascinating way, the metallic taste pooled under Will’s tongue and his mouth watered.
As the man’s fluttering eyes looked to the heavens for a God that would not save him, he mumbled something under Will’s hand. He leaned over the man and whispered into his ear.
“Whatever you wish to say to Him, it will go unheard. Unspoken. You do not deserve peace, nor your last rites.” Will pressed his head to the unknown man’s temple and continued to speak quietly into his ear. “You are a traitor to your people, with no name. No one will know, nor care, that you are dead. No one will mourn your loss.” Will sat back up, the spark in the man’s eye was mostly gone, his arms were heavy on the floor at his side and the wound was no longer surging blood, but rather oozing its last few drops.
“Only the devil will be happy to greet you at his gates.”
Will picked up the letter opener and cut a piece of fabric from his shirt before crawling over to the soldier’s drinking companion. They looked nothing alike, for everywhere one man had white blonde hair, this man had a coat of black ones. Darker hair, darker skin, and presumably darker eyes. He also appeared taller, and a little older. Maybe they were friends once, or maybe circumstance forced them to share the same destiny. Either way, it did not matter, for they were about to meet again in a life beyond this one.
This time, Will prepared a little better by having some cloth ready to stuff into his mouth when he inevitably opened it. He held the little knife at the same point on this man's neck, watching his vein pulse safely behind its skin barrier. It was mesmerising, the little thump-thump, thump-thump against the metal tip, he traced the pulse, pressing only slightly into the flesh with a satisfied smirk on his face. He held the power over this man’s life. If he died now, or if he died in a few minutes was entirely up to his choosing. He could be swift about it, or not. He could walk away and leave him to live his life, waking up next to his dead comrade’s blood.
He imagined every scenario in vast detail, not realising he was mimicking the sleeping man’s slow and steady breath. This time, it was not in and out. It was not quick for either of them. He pushed the blade in as slowly as one could, and when the man cried out, he shoved the blood-soaked material down his throat to shut him up. This man was stronger, and almost pushed him off, but Will used all his leverage and weight to drop onto the man’s chest, still holding the letter opener that penetrated his throat to the hilt.
This man, in his sudden and rude awakening, seemed to realise more quickly what was happening. He tried to spit the cloth out, gagging on the taste, he fought to grab Will’s wrist and succeeded. Will stopped fighting against him, and let his wrist be pulled away and with it the sharp plug that was holding this man’s life together.
By now, the scent of blood stained every breath he inhaled and he hardly noticed it. Some of it, from whom it did not matter, had coated his knees and soaked into his already bloodied clothes. How long since he had blinked? Since he had taken his eyes off the light fading from another man’s eyes. This one had more strength, pushing Will off his body as he scrambled backwards, into the corner. He held out his hand as if to stop the boy from following him, he finally spit the cloth away and choked on his words. When he tried to speak, his lips and mouth were coated in slimy red bubbles, spattering down his chin.
Will slowly crawled towards him, transfixed on the sight. The light-headed dizziness from the pressures of the hell he was enduring, eased a little. It was entirely tolerable, this thing he did. There was no guilt, there was no wondering whether or not he was doing the right thing. This was the price of war, was it not? Some people lived, and others died, who was to say which side had God in their corner and which were the ones banished to some netherworld.
A sudden crackle from the fire stole his attention away and he watched as a piece of ash floated up into the room. It crossed between himself and the dying man, eventually landing on the edge of his laced boot. There was one more, laboured exhale that came from the depths of his useless lungs before his face fell and his shoulder slumped inward. His arms fell to his side, and he was gone. What once existed, now ceased to do so.
On to the next.
Will had to use the corner of the couch to help pull himself up, his recent burst of energy was rapidly depleting, but he could not stop now. He wasn’t finished. The blade was wiped along his trousers, but did little to clean it. He stumbled out of the room, unable to resist looking behind himself one last time to account for his part in all this. Just lumps of rotting meat, covered in their own filth.
“What a waste..” He spit on the floor before turning away.
“Will?”
Will quickly spun towards the sound, as it echoed above his head.
“Papa?” Was it his voice calling to him from the other side of the veil?
“Will!”
As it was outside Mischa’s room, he once again felt the arms wrapped around him, urging him to stop moving. He struggled against the weight of it, swearing he could hear the echoes of someone crying nearby. Was she truly dead? Had he even made sure of it? The cries came from down the long hallway, far away from her chamber upstairs.
Will shook his head, ridding himself of the obvious delusions. He dragged the back of his wrist over his head, flinching from the sharp pain until he found the spot where he had been hit. How long ago that seemed now. His fingers touched the perimeter of the wound, which has grown a crusty seal over the worst of it. He was tempted to pick at it, to wash it out and make sure it was clean. Now was not the time, not when he was so close to the vengeance owed to him. To the entire Lecter family.
He broke free from this invisible hold on his body, taking one slow step at a time, having to rest against the wall along the way. He swayed on his feet, and his stomach clenched with an empty, gnawing ache. It grumbled and he heaved, bent over at the waist. Nothing came out but the sound, for there was nothing left inside of him. He could feel the cold sweat oozing from his pores, chilling his skin into goosebumps as the sickness came in waves.
It wasn’t long before he was standing over the next group of men. They were sleeping, pitiful whimpers and smacking of their gums while they slept peacefully in the inevitability of their own graves. This room used to hold such joy, such life, and such memories. Between the beats of his heart, and the blinking of his eyes, he could see glimpses into the past. One of smiling, and beautiful music dancing in their shared laughter. He could see the places where these things happened, unknowing the disaster that would eventually replace them.
It wasn’t fair. Why would they die in peace, when his father suffered? When his mother cried, and was beaten and pleaded for mercy? When his darling little sister was torn apart and hung above the torment of flames? There was no mercy from these men, not when they had the chance to give it. Will would only give to them what they so readily offered.
He stepped close to the gramophone, and reset the needle. He cranked the handle on the side of it, much like he saw his grandfather do, too many times to count. If listening to Francesco Durante was a direct path to communicating with the almighty himself, then he hoped God was listening.
And watching.
The first few notes were simple, but powerful in the darkness before morning light. It was a quiet composition that would build over time. Will took a deep breath through his nose and all the way down to his ribs until it hurt. He turned the letter opener in his palm, so the blade angled downward and approached his first victim. The power that coursed his veins was warm, and full of adrenaline, but his heart remained as steady as his constitution. He grabbed a pillow from the sitting chair, it was mostly for show, but was as soft as the velvet encasing it.
He placed the pillow on one of the defector’s faces, uncaring what this one looked like, or what he might have been before all this. Right now, he owed his pathetic life to honour, and will die fighting for what he believed in. Will raised his arm high and came down fully with the metal point aimed for the man’s heart. And in it went, again and again and again. He stabbed and stabbed, holding with an iron grip the pillow on the screaming man’s face. And oh, he screamed, his arm vibrated with it, but it was drowned out by the stuffing of a pillow and the music of angels.
Will did not wait to see the light fade from his eyes, he moved quickly to the next and the next. Not one awoke, before the other was already dying in a pool of the other’s blood. The familiar scent of copper filled his nostrils and his stomach grumbled with its vast emptiness, he could even see sparkles in his vision when he sat victorious in the armchair, watching the men scramble and crawl along the floor. They slipped and fell, they clutched at their hearts, and other places where the knife pricked them, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. He could not really hear their cries, but he could see it plastered on their faces. Their suffering was beautiful.
Will smiled, crossing one leg over the other to watch the show. His head dipped a little, and his neck felt loose. He would blink and it was dark, and he would open his eyes and it was a little lighter. He wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t awake either. There was a numbness all over his body, and the record played in the background while the cries of a child lingered above. He heard the letter opener thump loudly against the wood, when it fell to the floor and it startled him enough to sit up straight and look around.
He rubbed his eyes, which were blurry with things he did not want to name right now. He remembered the smirking, smug face of a soldier that was not counted amongst the bodies laying around him. Will tried to gather enough strength to stand, but his body was weighed down with a heavy exhaustion. He contemplated driving the makeshift weapon into his own heart, or maybe into his neck. It would be a quick death and it had to be better than living through this chapter in his life. Maybe he could turn a gun on himself, or hang from the bannister in the foyer. He was already damned to hell, what would one more sin matter?
With one more trembling rally, he lifted himself up and made his way back to Mischa’s room. The stairs creaked loudly with each step, alerting no one to his presence in an empty shell of a home. He took a moment to brace his forehead against her door, holding the handle for a few seconds before the crying returned. It did not come from within, it was behind him, coming from his parents room. Curious.
He turned the knob only a half-turn before letting it go, he could not move on from this life without knowing what was haunting him. He sighed, and turned to face the final mystery. He did not particularly want to go poking around in his parent’s room, it was something they were adamant about remaining closed to anyone but themselves. Still, the thread that pulled him closer landed one foot right in front of the other until he crossed the threshold.
Will looked around, in the stillness of the vast room, and gasped. Their room was chaotic, and torn apart by the pigs that ravaged their most private of places. Drawers pulled out and thrown about with no care, papers littered the floor, and clothing torn to shreds.
“Animals!” He yelled into the quiet room.
He picked up the nearest discarded garment, his mother’s quilted dressing gown, it was something she always wore after bathing. He brought it to his nose and inhaled her flowery scent. Suddenly his brain was flooded with tragedy and death, seeing her bruised and battered face instead of the beauty he knew her to be. Will held the fabric to his mouth and screamed into it before throwing it back on the floor. Another sob, and hiccup, the crying swirled around him, leading him into the adjoining washroom.
When he approached the long mirror, he saw someone he did not recognise. The sun was creeping along the wall, shining a new day through the window. It reflected on the edge of the mirror and into eyes that were not his. He leaned closer, and let the ray of light beam into his iris and studied the blues and greens that shone back at him. He could not make sense of this phenomenon. His eyes were always dark, even in the bright light of day, he had his father’s eyes. He shook his head and backed away, only now noticing the coat of filth that layered his skin. His clothes. Everything from head to toe, was blackened and smeared with dried muck of some kind. The boy in the mirror reached out to him, as if to pull him through the glass. He was tempted to reach out, tempted to go some other place, it had to be better than this.
“Who are you?” He whispered to the mirror.
“Please, come back to me, Will.” The voice was gravelly, and thick. That of a man, speaking through the lips of a child.
“My name is.. is Hannibal..” He took another step backwards.
“You are stuck in a dream. You have to wake up.” The boy had tears streaming down his face, clearing little paths through the blood. Will touched his finger to his face and felt the same clear lines on his cheek. Was it truly just a dream? A nightmare that he needed to wake from, and all would return to normal? Could he reverse time, and put all these little pieces back together?
“Are you God?” It was naive to wonder, but he must know.
The boy stepped closer, right through the reflective surface, joining him in the room. As he crossed over, his eyes shifted into dark, familiar pools and they stared at each other with fascination and awe. He answered in the same deep timbre. “I am not.”
Will lifted a hand, to touch him, he needed to know what was real and what wasn’t. He had been trapped in this hell for days, and if this was the only way out, he must take it. He closed the distance between them, and cradled the boy’s cheek with his palm. There was a moment where the boy sighed and seemed to resign himself to their fate. Will’s hand was gently taken, and held, before being tugged through the open doorway.
“Come with me.” The man’s voice beckoned him away from the washroom and they walked hand in hand through his parent’s room. They began the journey down the long hallway, when Will looked back, he noticed the room they left was now in pristine condition. Everything was where it ought to be, neat and tidy.
Pictures were back on the wall as they passed by, the faces of distant relatives smiling down on them as they walked by Mischa’s open door. She was not in the bed as Will had left her, the bedroom was empty, but perfectly untouched. All her dollies and trinkets just as they were before they left for church on Sunday.
Down the stairs, and through the corridor that showed all his family’s belongings were returned to the shelves, and the smell of blood was replaced with his mother’s slow-cooked Sunday roast, ready for when they get back from town. Will frowned and wanted to investigate the changes, but his hand was being urged forward, not allowing him to stop. He was led down a small set of stairs and through the back door, before they walked through the snow and towards the smoke house where it all began.
Will tried to dig his heels into the earth and slow them down, but he would slip on the snow and have to jog to keep up. The grip on his hand never faltered, even when the door to the shack was flung open and he was forced to see Mischa’s body hanging above a dying fire.
“No!” He struggled again, trying to rip his hand away. “Don’t!”
The boy turned to face him, looking more like he remembered his own face to be, before speaking to him. “You cannot gather a shattered teacup together, without all the pieces. It would be incomplete.” The boy reached up, on the very tips of his toes, and retrieved a long strip of skin that was hanging over the beam. “You know what happens next, don’t you?”
Will’s lip was trembling and he slowly nodded his head.
The boy held the dripping meat, still warm from the fire, and spoke softly. “What did we do, when no one could see us? When no one would know?”
Will took the offering and blinked a heavy tear from his eye. “We were curious what she tasted like.” Will opened his eyes to see a man standing tall above him. His suit was three pieces deep, tailored to his body, and starkly clean against the horrific background. The embers reflected red in his eyes while the glint of avidity shined through the dark room.
“Are you the devil?” Will wondered out loud, overwhelmingly intrigued by the creature in front of him.
The man took for himself another piece of meat, and held it to lips before inhaling. “It’s just as I remember.” He smiled between his whispers and his tongue darted out to lick his fingers where it had dripped. Will’s mouth watered with empathetic anticipation. The man stared at Will, his eyes locked on without blinking. “I am much worse.” With that, he opened his jaw wide and let the entire piece fill his mouth to capacity, humming in delight while he chewed.
Will licked his lips, and looked at the flesh being pinched between his own fingers. He dared to glance at Mischa one last time, focused on her half-lidded eyes and greying skin, wondering if she was able to cast judgement. Her face disappeared as the man stood in front, blocking her from sight. He felt a hand wrap around his wrist as it was gently raised to his lips.
“This is a rare gift, Will. Don’t you want it?”
Will opened his mouth, allowing his tongue to bathe in the saccharine taste of heaven. His eyes fluttered shut, and his involuntary moan filled the small space between them. It was unlike anything he had ever tasted. Soft, like her. Sweet, like her. It held all the properties of her youthful joy and he loathed to swallow it, knowing there would never be anything like it in all his life. When he did eventually have to concede, and allow the morsel to travel down his throat, he was filled with a divine nourishment. For a moment he swayed on his feet and let the weight of her soul settle in his stomach, and when he opened his eyes he was level with the man. They smiled at each other.
“Hello, Will.”
“Hello, Hannibal.”