Chapter Text
The ravenstag begins to fade as the first grades of light spill into the sky. Pre-dawn light gathers, vanguard of the incumbent sun, and shines through the glossy black flanks, revealing shades of grey in the coarse gravel under the train tracks. The stag’s steady pace never falters; it merely dwindles from perception.
All night it had led Will along Europe’s antiquated railway system, committing without hesitation whenever the tracks diverged. This time, when the track splits, there’s no feathered stag to blindly stumble after, and he stands at the juncture with his hands on his knees, tongue dry and thick in his mouth, options reduced to two: left, or right.
Will thinks, and not for the first time, that sometimes two options are worse than none.
Hidden in the thick broadleaf foliage around him, birds he can’t see fill the air with trills and whistles, repeating calls and snatches of melody. It should be comforting, but it grates against the pressure behind his eyes. One half of his body is in considerable pain – the other half only distantly so. His feet and ankles ache from the unstable terrain offered by the coarse gravel, but it’s easier than fighting through brambles and dense weeds at the edge of the tracks.
He had travelled to Lithuania to learn about Hannibal Lecter, to move towards building a more complete profile; to understand the man behind the myth he had created of himself. What had he found? The dripping ruins of a castle, pain laced masonry, two more captives in the tangled web of the monster he hunted. An origin story that only reinforced the legend.
He tilts his head back and looks at the nacre sky through the dark leaves above. Faith has never held much appeal. He has tried, goddammit he has fucking tried to be a good man. Not for some pearly white gates and an all-access pass to cloud city, but because… it’s what you do, you strive for betterment. Expecting a reward for giving a shit has never been part of the bargain, and smacks of privilege.
Enter: Hannibal, stage left. If all the world’s a stage, Hannibal’s the only one who still remembers. The other actors all got lost in their roles, believed the lines they were handed. Hannibal goes off-script, works behind the scenes, subverts the plot, restructures the narrative.
What’s Will meant to do when the lights go up for Act 2, his script worth less than a blank page?
He seems to have two options moving ahead. He can try to understand Hannibal, or he can kill him before any more innocent people bleed out on the floor. He looks at the right fork in the path. Will killing Hannibal remove his influence? Garret Jacob Hobbs had stayed with Will for months after he filled his body with lead. Exposure to Hannibal might have already passed the critical stage.
The left track now falls under his scrutiny. Would untangling Hannibal grant him the insight to identify and remove his influence? Peel back the creepers of his manipulations? Or would it only give them more fertile soil to bed into?
He’ll never know if he doesn’t try, and it wouldn’t be possible to reconsider after murdering him, whereas, killing him will remain an option right up until the minute he chooses to do it.
There is a sweetness to that thought. Alright. Understanding it is then.
For now.
His legs select the left track, and he lets them carry him along. They don’t walk with the same assurance as the stag, but they have him moving again, and that has to be better than standing at the impasse of indecision.
Short of breath from pain and exertion, Will’s first sight of Florence steals what little air remains in his lungs. Emerging from the treeline and taking a moment to rest, he marvels at the cityscape. The towers and the great swell of the Duomo’s cupola manage to stir some latent awe through the murk of his exhaustion and the heavy relief of his destination’s proximity.
A few more hours of walking, and judging by the sun, he enters the old city a little before noon, grateful for the solid walls of shade the buildings cast. It’s hot, but he wears his coat to hide the sweat rings and dark spots of blood that have bled through his shirt from the grazes beneath.
Florence is old. Older than he can really fathom. The Duomo had begun construction in the 13thcentury, and the city had stood for over a millennium before that. He shuffles through its streets, senses awash with the architecture and clatter of urban life in an unfamiliar tongue. Ambulances Doppler past with a different siren, radios play music from another era, school children loose on their lunch-break jostle passed him with unintelligible chatter and laughter.
With so much to look at, avoiding the gazes of the local populace is easy enough, and a necessity considering his rumpled and battered appearance. Consequently, it only slowly dawns on him that the city is not only old, but strangely old-fashioned. The cars, the poster-board adverts, the complete lack of digital technology force him to finally look at the people around him.
He always heard Italians prized fashion, and while he has to admit the inhabitants are well turned out, the high waistbands, the hairstyles, even the sunglasses, all look out of date. The occupants of the city all look as though they’ve stepped out of a perfectly preserved 80s magazine.
Falling from the train must have done more damage than he realised. Encephalitis taught him how malleable perception could be, having hallucinated wendigos and dead serial killers, he can certainly chalk exaggerated fashion dissonance up to a cranial injury. It is certainly more likely than the alternatives; i) Florence observes a city-wide ‘80s festival, ii) he has travelled through time...
He passes the Piazza della Libertà, heading generally south, before getting lost in a tight maze of paved streets that eventually spit him out at the Arno River; a soothing, slow-moving ribbon, reflecting bright dots of sunlight. There would be no wading out into this stream, but he leans on the wall and finds calm in the flow of water.
Colourful buildings line the banks, arched windows peering past wooden shutters thrown wide. A statue looms on one side of him, gracing one corner of the bridge, stone robe billowing loose around him and a thick sheath of wheat under one arm. His female counterpart caps the opposite wall, looking in their direction, a basket under one arm.
Will shivers under her empty scrutiny, goosebumps growing in the warm sun. He is sweaty, dusty, bloody, tired, hungry, and unsettled. There is only one place he has to go, one thing he has to do.
The postcard from the Uffizi gallery remains in his possession, the piece of card and a knife were the only items on his person when pushed from the train. Probably says something about you. He hears Abigail’s voice, but doesn’t manifest her. Maybe if he finishes this – kills Hannibal and survives – he will allow himself to see her again. For now, the indulgence would only weaken him.
Assuming Will can kill Hannibal, can even find him.
Speculating on whether the strange temporal distortion in his perception will extend to the good doctor, he imagines the usual three-piece suits replaced with a shiny bomber jacket. Using the genuine smile the image conjures, he turns it on a passing man and garbles his rudimentary Italian, “Dov'è la Galleria degli Uffizi?”
“Gli Uffizi?” The man responds, peering curiously up and down the ragged picture Will makes, while he in turn wonders if the man’s awful moustache is real or imagined.
“Si.”
“Americano, yes?”
Will’s smile becomes forced. “Si, Americano.”
“I can tell,” the man smirks, arching an eyebrow. “The galleria is near.” He points along the bank of the river, “Keep on this road, eh? Passed the ponte, that is the Ponte Veccio there, yes?” He gestures with the flat of his hand, slicing through the air. “You keep walking, before the next ponte, you will see it. Big columns, piazzale. Cinque minuti.”
“Grazie.”
“Prego, prego.”
Five minutes later, Will limps between long tan columns, through a cool courtyard, and into the marbled halls of the Uffizi Gallery. Following floor plans and getting lost twice, he finally reaches the chamber with Botticelli’s Primavera.
A great empty void opens in his chest as he scans the room and sees no Hannibal. He boards over it by cursing under his breath. He really has no other ideas. He will have to sit in the room every day until closing, as he had in Palermo.
Some other tourists skirt the walls, ogling the paintings with the glazed look of the over-stimulated, and a lone art student sits on a low bench before the Primavera, diligently absorbed in his task.
A prickling sensation precedes the sliding panic, and Will grips the doorframe fiercely, until a large English couple pointedly cough for him to move out of the way.
The ridiculous notion doesn’t even fit… the slender young man has a fragility about him that Hannibal Lecter would never be able to fabricate, much less genuinely exude. Yet the erect posture, neat hair and trim suit certainly fit the profile.
Will shuffles around the side of the bench, unable to tear his eyes away as inimitable cheekbones rotate into view. He notices subtle variations: a finer jaw, smoother skin, some softer curves of lingering youth, a plumper pout of his lips… and then the eyes snap up to meet his. Dark and hostile before shifting in surprise and curiosity, and then that mask of control slides up, less fluid than usual, but unmistakably Hannibal.
The bench catches Will as he crumples gracelessly onto it, mouth artlessly slack.
“What’s happening?”
A few possibilities present themselves in response. One: this is all in his head. Two: he really is sitting next to Hannibal, but somehow picturing him twenty odd years younger. Three: he has jumped back in time and is genuinely sitting next to a younger Hannibal. Younger, but no less a serial killer, if Inspector Pazzi was correct.
Will swallows the lump of confusion in his throat, and waits to see if Hannibal has an answer. The ambiguous hope he holds onto withers as the seconds tick by without any sign of recognition on the young man’s face.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” Hannibal blinks eventually. “English is not my first language, and I’m not sure if that is a genuine question, or a colloquial greeting.”
His accent is almost exactly the same, a little thicker, pitch a little lighter.
Will turns his face away and buries it in his hands.
A moment passes, and then the sketchbook shuts with a quiet clap of paper, and Will feels the attention focus exclusively on him. It seems, even at this point in his life, Hannibal is irresistibly drawn to distress.
“You appear in need of some medical attention.” The young man notes, voice discretely low in the public space.
Will chuckles into his coat sleeves, “Yeah, I don’t… I haven’t…” He sighs, shoulders slumping further into a protective posture as he considers how fundamentally screwed he is. He has a knife and a postcard in his pocket. No wallet, no passport, no phone, not even a goddamn watch. If he discovers he’s crazy he can’t just retreat back to America with his tail tucked between his legs. If he’s sane and he really is in… whatever fucking decade this is…
He lifts his head from the reassuring darkness of his palms, and meets the cool assessing gaze of the young man beside him. “This is going to sound strange,” he rasps, “but I don’t suppose you’d confirm what year it is for me? Would you?”
The cant to Hannibal’s head is achingly familiar, eerie with the uncanny features. “What year do you think it is?”
Will laughs. A typical Hannibal answer. Has he already started studying psychiatry, or was he just born this fucking annoying? “I’d rather not influence your answer.”
The scrutiny goes on for a long time. “It is 1989,” the answer eventually comes.
“Oh,” Will nods, eyes widening as he glances off around the room, “good.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck fuck.
So. One explanation collapses, and he’s down to two: this is either a complete fabrication of his mind with surround-sound visual and auditory hallucinations, or he has travelled back through time. The idea is so beyond ridiculous that he can’t even find it funny.
Hannibal’s voice intrudes into his blank despair. “If you don’t mind my saying, some of those wounds need disinfecting, and you look as though you may have a mild concussion. I’m... ‘pre-med’, I believe you say? Perhaps you would permit me to check your responses?”
A small whimper escapes Will’s throat, equal parts terror at the prospect of Hannibal’s ‘care’, and desperation for something familiar to cling to in this fresh hell. “That… that might be good. Thanks.” The words fall from his mouth like shell casings as he fires into the face of logic. But where would logic take him now?
Should he throw himself at the mercy of the American embassy, insist he’s a citizen of the United States, even if their only records would have him as a thirteen-year-old boy? Assuming any embassy he stumbles into is actually an embassy, and not just a fancy restaurant; Will a delusional lunatic raving and seeking asylum in its kitchens. Or perhaps logic would dictate he return to following the train tracks, and hope one of them leads him to the right decade?
Hannibal nods once and rises, slipping his art supplies into the leather satchel that hangs at his hip, waiting for Will to join him. It takes Will a moment to find the wherewithal to stand, but he’s an old hand at pushing himself beyond his limits. He holds onto his thighs and pushes himself up like a man twice his age, and does his best not to limp too obviously as he follows Hannibal out into the Florentine streets.