Archive of Our Own

Gorgeous illustration by Tyger and the Lamb on Tumblr. More beautiful works on artist's page~ <3

The bell tolls in the early morning. Its voice swells from the town church to fill the ravine. The hollow sound echoes through the forest and up the moors, ringing harsher where it strikes naked rock.

The knife in Will's hand does not pause. Wood shavings cover the porch's front steps. More drop between Will's feet as the knife digs and twists.

Will had started well before dawn. He had worked sightlessly for hours, shivering in the dark and damp of a late autumn morning. The sweat slicking his shirt to his body had dried at some point. The nightmares staining the back of his eyelids remain, but Will is used to that.

The death knell has rung four times over the last four days. Four bodies - Will curves the blade in repeated whittling motions, schnit-schnit. There are less than two hundred people living in Ashbourne. The graveyard skirting the lone church has more residents by now. A town of corpses.

"Shh, no."

Zoe whimpers but leaves off trying to eat the shavings. Will rolls his neck. The dogs milling in the yard perk up when he stands. "Yes, breakfast," Will tells them. Happy yips and thumping tails follow him into the kitchen.

Far below, chimney smoke curls into the air as Ashbourne slowly wakes up.

Will sets out after breakfast. The morning is a gray one. The sky is sullen and heavy above him - rain is likely. The charge to the air speaks of storm and thunder in the making. Will is looking forward to watching fire split the havens.

The path Will follows is narrow and steep. It cuts down the cliff side in near vertical steps to the forest below. A ladder suited to mountain goats, not people. Will has scaled it his entire life. He is not afraid of falling. There is another road - a winding, flat thing meant for caravans and horses and men. Will avoids it, especially during the mid-year months when trade is at its peak and merchants come through in droves.

It is about a hundred paces from the cliff to the edge of the forest. Will crosses the distance quickly, feeling exposed. Tall, lanky trees close around him soon enough. Their crowns make a canopy of yellows and golds above Will's head. Gray clouds peek through naked patches, like stuffing from a torn quilt. Birds chirp and tweet. Living things rustle and scrape, blurs of motion at Will's periphery. A stream croaks in the distance.

Will walks through the trees. There is no path to guide his steps. Had there been one, Will would not have taken it. He has no need of illusions of safety.

There is a tall wicker basket slung over Will's back. Will fills it steadily with fallen branches and other bits of dry wood he will use as kindling in the days to come. The basket hangs heavy by the time he is half-way to the stream. It is full long before Will catches sight of rushing water.

The trees do not quite break to make way for the stream. It simply appears - a jagged line of silver fenced by trees. As if the banks are the edges of a wound and the water is an exposed vein in the earth's flesh. Will walks to it and shrugs off his burden. He kneels in the tangle of roots between two trees and closes his eyes.

Time passes in stutters. The birds seem to quiet, the forest to grow still. Will's mind is silent, too. A blessing well worth the pain in his knees and the cold damp leeching the warmth from his skin.

Will is not certain how long he sits there. When he blinks aware again, the sun is high in the sky and a man stands in the shadowed grove across the river.

Will shifts back, startled. The man on the opposite bank tenses visibly. The muscles in his exposed arms bulge. His generous mouth opens over a low growl.

"I wasn't the one staring," Will scolds.

The man's expression smoothes. He regards Will with sudden intensity, then launches back into the shadows of the forest and disappears. Will stares after him. His heart beats loud in his ears.

Will thinks of the stranger on the way back home. He thinks of the runes inked in the man's broad chest as he feeds the dogs, thinks of the jagged wound bleeding sluggishly down the man's belly as he tends to his own lunch. The man's eyes burn in Will's mind long after the sun hides behind the distant mountains.

A sharp crack has Will digging the knife deeper than he had intended. He frowns at the unwanted ridge. He had been in the process of shaping a portion of the wooden block into a snout. The cut comes just below what would be the figure's chin. A hard press will have the whole head loping off.

The noise had come from the front door slamming shut, pushed along by a gust of wind. Will walks to the window and looks out. The skies are swollen and angry, the moors dark. Far below, trees bow and shake with the advance of a battering gale.

Will hesitates. A peal of thunder breaks the gathered clouds. Will grabs his coat. The carving knife goes in the front pocket.

"Stay," he commands. The dogs whine but cower back inside. Will closes the front door firmly. It won't do to have them follow after him.

The wind pushes Will forward. Will leans his weight against it to keep his balance. Climbing down the cliff leaves his fingers bloody but he manages. He will have to take a less direct path on the way back if he has company.

The woods are quiet save for the creaking of branches and rustling of leaves. The creatures that inhabit them are hidden away in burrows and nests and caves. Will wonders if his own quarry has found shelter. He discards the thought - the land is flat here, barren. There are no holes deep enough to hide a man, save those headed by a tombstone.

Will reaches the stream. He stands at the spot he had first seen the man, staring into the darkness. There is no sight of the stranger. Will looks up and down the river. More darkness. Water rushes at his feet.

Will takes a breath.

"I am here to help," he calls out. The wailing wind distorts his voice, lifts it so it echoes far out. "Let me help you!"

The silence is heavier now for having been once disrupted. Will waits. The notion that he has been heard and understood stays with him, ridiculous as it is. He should search the man out, track him down as he does wild game. He should go home.

Will waits.

A subtle shift of mass at Will's right alerts him to danger a moment before a large hand grabs Will's neck and slams him into a tree. Will wraps his hands over his assailant's wrists and bucks against the hard body that crowds him. Panic blurs his vision when there is no give. It's like trying to move a mountain.

"Nesijaudinti." [1]

Will forces his mind to focus. The eyes, lips, nose inches from his own are familiar. So are the dark marks running over naked shoulders. Will bares his teeth.

"That's not very nice."

The man cocks his head. He says something in a lilting, foreign language. Will cannot move his head or see anything below the man's bearded chin. He does not need to. The image of the man's body is etched behind his eyelids.

Will slams his right hand into the stranger's exposed side. The angle does not allow for enough force to crack ribs or even bruise too deeply. Will digs his knuckles into the raw edge of the wound curving over the man's hip and knows it will be enough.

The stranger howls and moves back, releasing Will. Will stumbles away. He walks backwards so he faces the man at all times. The man has his hand pressed to his side. Blood seeps through his fingers. He growls at Will, expression dark.

"You started it," Will tells him.

The man growls some more. Will ignores the violence thrumming in his own blood. He looks the stranger over, noting the many injuries on his body. The wound Will had exploited is the only one bleeding, but there are plenty of bruises mottling the man's chest and arms. The stranger glares menacingly. His face betrays nothing but Will is an old hand at hiding pain. He sees the exhaustion and hurt in the clench of the man's jaw, hears the steps of death in the stranger's rattling breath.

A bolt of lightning spills silver light between the trees for a handful of seconds. Will thrusts the carving knife toward the stranger, handle first. The man flinches back before he realizes that Will is offering, not threatening. Will sees surprise in the man's eyes before the light disappears and gray darkness swallows them once again.

"Take it," Will says. As it stands, Will has every advantage. The man is unlikely to allow him near without something to balance the power between them. Will certainly wouldn't have in his place.

The stranger reaches forward. He tugs the knife out of Will's grip slowly, so the blade does not catch Will's skin. Will smiles.

"I will come closer now."

Will makes plenty of noise as he walks. He stops a step from the man and offers his arm. The stranger is still and silent. Will does not move, does not breathe.

A warm, solid weight presses against Will's side. Will exhales and brings the stranger's arm over his shoulders. They fall in step with surprising ease.

The forest gives way to barren ground soon enough. The last of the stranger's nervous tension melts away when Will steers them toward the cliff rather than the town sprawling further south. He does stop to eye the steep rocks with great uncertainty, however. Will chuckles and turns in their half-embrace, offering his back.

"Well, get on."

The man does not move. Will twists his arm back to pat blindly at a naked thigh. "On," he repeats. A web of fire cuts through the sky. Will tastes wetness in the air. Rain will make the rocks too slick to climb safely. They will have to follow the main road if that happens. The stranger's condition will likely deteriorate along the way. "Come on," Will says.

A hard chest presses against Will's back. Will urges the man closer and arranges his arms and legs until his grip on Will is as secure as it can get without Will's support. He is heavy, but Will is strong enough to bear his weight.

"Hold on," Will warns. The man murmurs something in his ear. Will does not understand the words, but the voice is oddly soothing.

The path Will takes is not the same he had climbed earlier. It is not as steep, the natural footholds larger and flatter. The wind pulls them back in surges. Will loses his balance twice before they reach the top, but manages to hold on. The stranger helps by tipping his weight forward to press them both into the cliff's side until the danger has passed. They make it.

Will lets the stranger down gently. A cold drizzle starts up, intensifying by the second. "There," Will says and points to the dark shape of a small house tucked in a grove of trees. "That's my home."

The stranger says nothing. It has gotten too dark for Will to make out the man's face, but he feels eyes on him the entire way.

The rain is coming down hard enough to blot out the world by the time they reach Will's front porch. Will urges the door open. The stranger tenses as six furry bodies surge around them, but allows their curious sniffing. Will sends the dogs away and helps the stranger to a chair. The stranger watches him light lanterns and feed logs into the fire, silent. They are in the kitchen. Will sets a kettle over the hearth and leaves for a moment. He returns drier, with a basin and a few rags. He fills the basin with lukewarm water and sets it in front of the stranger.

"Wash your hands." Will rubs his own hands together.

The stranger looks at him. Will lets him be and starts dinner. The sound of water splashing at his back has him smiling down at the fish he is gutting.

The fish cooks quickly. Will sets out the last of the bread with it, along with a jug of wine and two cups. Alcohol will warm the stranger and dull the pain he is no doubt in. The man stares at him from across the table. Will smiles, reminded of their first meeting.

"It's safe to eat. See?" He takes a demonstrative bite from his fish. The man's expressions shifts subtly. He picks up his fork. Will busies himself with his own meal, but cannot help sneaking glances from time to time. The stranger eats with a fussy sort of elegance. It has Will fighting a smile.

The food is gone soon enough. Will finishes off his wine. He thinks of clearing the table, tending to the dogs. The stranger shifts in his chair, face tightening minutely. Will sets his cup down with a sigh. Enough stalling.

"Alright. Let's get you clean."

Will walks around the table. The stranger eyes him warily. "Come." Will beckons with a hand.

The man stands. He moves slowly, muscles stiff. The first step goes well. The second has the man swaying and tilting sharply to the right. Will darts forward and catches his elbow. A blade presses under his chin, snake-quick. Will holds still. He makes himself meet the man's eyes. The storm rages outside. One of the dogs whines.

The knife falls away.

Will grabs a lantern and leads the stranger out of the kitchen. They pass through a wide hallway carpeted with old rugs. Furry heads lift to watch them go. Will throws a couple of stern stays. The hallway leads to another, more cramped passageway. The lantern paints a circle of light at their feet. Will pushes a door open and guides the man over the threshold. He lifts the lantern to illuminate a small room. A wooden tub sits at its center, flanked by a chair and a bucket. The man looks around before turning to Will expectantly.

Will hangs the lantern on a hook by the door. "Sit. I will be back."

The stranger watches him go, silent.

There is a cauldron of water boiling over the hearth. Will brings it to the bath along with a second lantern, then disappears again for the backroom and the barrels of fresh water stored there. By the time the tub is full Will is sweaty and red in the face and the stranger's expression has grown obviously amused. Will glares at the bearded man. He scoops a bucketful of warm water and thrusts it into the man's hands, along with a bar of soap and a hand towel.

"Here. Get clean."

The stranger sets the bucket down and dips the towel in it, then rubs the soap over the wet cloth to raise a lather. Will watches his face tense at the first press of the towel to his wounded side and almost offers to help. Then he realizes that looming over a naked, injured, dangerous man is likely not something he should be doing. "I am going to - yeah," Will mutters and beats a hasty retreat.

The dogs are fed and the dishes clean by the time the strangers walks into the kitchen. Will means to say that the pile of clothing on the chair is meant for him. The words die in his mouth when he gets a good look at the man's face. The haggard beard is gone, revealing smooth skin and high cheekbones. Will remembers the little-used razor he keeps by the soap in the bathroom. He distantly hopes the blade hadn't rusted.

The man smiles at Will with his eyes. Will clears his throat and points to the chair.

"Put the pants on and sit." The stranger had been naked when Will found him, but it is different now that Will can see his face. The caked dirt and blood are gone, too, leaving only skin and scars behind. Many, many scars.

The stranger picks through the clothing. His expression does not shift much, but Will still gets the feeling he is making a face at the ensemble internally. Will scoffs and grabs the pants. He pushes them in the man's hands and sets the shirt aside. "This first. I have to look at the wound."

The man pulls the pants on wordlessly. They are too short on him and a bit tight at the waist. The man slips the carving knife in the pants' front pocket before sitting down. Will had not noticed the man had it with him. He berates himself for being careless even as he moves to kneel at the man's injured side. The man watches Will closely but does not protest Will's careful touches around his wound and over his chest and torso. He winces when Will presses a bit harder at his ribs.

"I don't think anything's broken. A few cracked ribs, maybe," Will tells him. He produces a bottle of iodine and a threaded needle from a plate on the table. "I have to stitch it," Will says and tips his head to the wound. It is a stark, angry red. The skin around it is torn and loose.

The man looks down at Will, considering. Will holds his eyes. He is surprised to find that he does not mind the contact. The man has nothing to hide, or nothing he wishes to hide. His gaze is as naked as his body had been minutes ago, if more difficult to understand.

The stranger rumbles something in his own tongue. "No idea what you just said," Will tells him. The stranger's expression conveys the same sentiment. Will smiles and bends his head over the wound.

Will's hands are steady and the man is a good patient. A row of small, neat x-s march steadily up. The last stitch is just under the man's ribcage. Will wipes the blood away with a wet towel and pats the area dry before applying the iodine. Infection does not appear likely, but it pays to be thorough.

The man tries to stand as Will does. Will puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head. "Stay." The stranger sits back down. His eyes stay on Will. Will washes his hands and does his best to ignore the probing gaze. He picks up a jar and a roll of white cloth before returning to the stranger's side.

"Salve, for the bruises." Will explains and hands the jar over. The man twists the lid off and sniffs at the jar's contents. He nods approvingly. Will watches him apply a thin layer of the crushed herbs over blooms of purple and blue and black. Satisfied with the man's thoroughness, he picks up the roll of gauze and walks to stand at the man's back. He means to urge the stranger up so he can bind his ribs.

The raw, bleeding bruises stretching from the man's shoulders to his lower back have Will cursing under his breath instead.

"Alright." Will takes a steadying breath. "Let me - Christ, let me clean those." The man had obviously attempted to do so himself, but streaks of mud remain where he had not been able to reach.

Will keeps his touches as slow and careful as he can. He washes the remnant dirt and grime away, applies iodine on the open wounds and salve on the bruises. The man remains tense throughout. His hand is in his pocket, likely clutching the knife. Will does not begrudge him the caution. He steps around to the man's front as soon as he is done. "Up, please." The words are accompanied by a gentle tug at the man's elbow.

The stranger rises. He lifts his arms out of the way as Will wraps the gauze around him. This close, the difference in height and build between them is obvious. Will takes note of the breadth of the stranger's chest, the muscles roping his torso. Not someone to trifle with. He wonders how many men it had taken to beat the stranger this severely.

Will ties the gauze low and tight at the man's side. The binding won't do much for the ribs themselves, but it will serve as a reminder for the man not to overexert himself.

"Done. Here's your shirt." Will hands the man a loose white shirt he sometimes sleeps in. It is the largest one he owns.

The stranger eyes it doubtfully, then sets it aside. Will does not bother arguing. He points to the bed tucked in the corner farthest from the hearth. "You can sleep there."

It is a daybed, technically. Will had been sleeping in it for over a decade despite the existence of two perfectly serviceable bedrooms on the second floor. It is easier to keep one room warm, and Will has no need of a separate bedroom. He sleeps better with a clear view of the front door.

Will won't be sleeping tonight, so it hardly matters whether he gives up his bed or not.

The stranger sits at the edge of the bed. He surveys the room, paying undue attention to every object in his orbit - the hand stitched pillowcases, the bookcase by the wall, the shelves crammed full with wooden figurines of animals and people and small, intricate houses. Will feels the man's eyes on him often. He meets them from time to time. The stranger never pretends he had not been looking.

After a while, Will runs out of housework to do. He sits at the table. His fingers drum against the wood, restless. The stranger watches him. Will purses his lips and pushes up again. He retrieves the half-finished figurine from this morning along with a sharp knife meant for skinning. The stranger's eyes narrow when Will moves toward him.

Will stops some steps from the bed. He shifts his grip on the knife so he is holding it by the blade and offers it to the stranger. The man blinks, confused. Will nods toward the featureless figurine on the table. "I need the other one."

The man follows his eyes. He produces the carving blade from his pocket and, after a moment of consideration, offers it to Will. His other hand grips the hilt of the skinning knife.

"Thank you," Will says.

"Hannibal," the man tells him. The syllables ring clear and precise - the man means for Will to remember them.

"Your name?" Will guesses. When the man only looks at him, Will presses the hand holding the carving knife to his own chest. "Will."

The man mimics him. "Hannibal," he repeats.

Will smiles, small but sincere. "Nice to meet you, Hannibal." He thinks of offering his hand, but then again they had already greeted with steel. More than intimate enough.

Hannibal does fall asleep eventually. Will carries on whittling at what is now a miniature wolf long after the larger man nods off, half-propped against the wall. Will watches him for a while. He looks away when the thought of how easy it would be to slide the knife he holds into the man's vulnerable neck passes through his mind.

Will keeps his eyes on the cross nailed above the front door until dawn.

The dogs wake up one by one. Will sets the wooden wolf aside and rises to let them out. He spends some time on the porch surveying the grounds. The storm had not done much damage. Will lets the dogs play with the broken branches littering the front yard and heads back inside. Hannibal is stirring when he walks into the kitchen. The man goes still almost immediately, breath slowing back down. Will smiles to himself.

"I know you're up," he says, loud enough for the meaning to translate.

Burgundy eyes open. Will meets them briefly before turning to tend to the eggs cooking in the hearth. "Good morning."

"Mornin'" the man repeats.

Will glances at him. "I should probably teach you a few words."

Hannibal rolls his neck, dismissing Will from his attention like a cat might a human. He stands from the bed and begins a sequence of stretches that have Will facing the hearth rather hastily. "And get you pants that fit," Will mutters to the eggs.

Hannibal disappears at some point. He returns as Will is setting out the plates, face damp. It seems the man is fastidious about his hygiene when survival is not an issue. Will is suddenly reminded that he had not had a chance to take a bath the night prior. He resolves to do so after breakfast.

"Eggs," Will says and places a plate in front of Hannibal. Hannibal stares at him. Will stares back.

"Eggs," the man repeats at length. Will nods and takes his seat. He picks up his fork and brandishes it in Hannibal's direction.

"Fork."

Hannibal sighs.

Will lets his guest eat after he successfully identifies knife, plate, chair, bed, door, window, and table. The exercise does not take too long. Initial reluctance aside, Hannibal proves patient and remarkably quick to put things to memory.

Will considers the implications of that as he clears the table. Hannibal must have arrived to England fairly recently for his English to be this poor. That, combined with the state Will had found him in, leads to a single conclusion. Will grips the rag he is using to wipe the table harder. He will have to speak with Lady Bloom, have her spread the word in town. People tend to disappear where slavers pass through. Young girls especially.

Hannibal is outside. Will looks out on him on his way to the bathroom. He finds the man walking the edge of the property with an intensely concentrated expression on his face. Will almost expects him to start sniffing at the foliage. He chuckles to himself, then nearly drops the cauldron of hot water he is carrying when Hannibal turns and looks straight at him.

"Bath," Will calls out.

Hannibal nods and keeps on looking at Will. Will mumbles something about the water going cold and ducks into the house. He takes his time in the bath, washing his hair and brushing his teeth and scrubbing down more vigorously than usual. His body glows pink by the time he is done. Will gives the razor a passing glance, but decides against shaving. He does trim the stubble a bit.

Will is kneading dough for bread when Hannibal walks into the kitchen. He pauses  in the doorway, eyes moving from Will to Will's hands. "Ran out," Will explains. He doesn't make his own bread all the time, but has done so often enough for parts of the process to have become muscle memory. "Won't take too long."

"Help?" Hannibal asks. Will pauses what he is doing.

"Yeah, sure, why not."

Will washes his hands and motions for Hannibal to do the same. He shows the older man where the meat is stored. "Cut into cubes," Will instructs, demonstrating by cutting off a piece from the slab of beef he had brought back into the kitchen. Hannibal nods. Will hands him the knife and returns to kneading the dough. Across the table, Hannibal is steadily slicing the meat in perfect squares.

Lunch is beef stew with fresh bread and steamed green beans. They eat in companionable silence. Will points to an object in the room from time to time. Hannibal identifies it. The stew is good. There is plenty left over for dinner, which means more time for other chores.

Hannibal helps clear the table. Will leads him outside after everything is sorted. There are two buckets hung on high hooks at the side of the front door. Will takes them both down and hands one to Hannibal. "There is a river not too far away," he tells him. Hannibal does not react to the words, but follows Will readily enough behind the house and into a thin grove of trees.

The river runs at the back of the property. It cuts down the side of the moors, splitting into several different streams at the bottom. One of them curves toward the forest. Another goes straight toward Ashbourne. "You can see the entire town from up here. There's the church," Will points to the lone tower rising amid flat-roofed buildings. Hannibal comes to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder. "And that's the Verger farm. More than half the town's theirs. The son's taken to raising pigs," Will's lips curl over the word in distaste, "but the family's money comes from elsewhere."

"Pigs," Hannibal repeats. Will grins with dark humor.

They carry the water back to the house. Will shows Hannibal the water barrels, then completes the tour of the house by taking him up a rickety staircase to the second floor. The ceiling right above the landing is missing, allowing access to the flat space below the roof. The cramped attic had once been used to dry peppers and herbs. Now, it is home to rats and the occasional fox come winter.

Will pries the door to the second floor open with some difficulty. The hinges squeak, rusted enough to break given enough pressure. "There's nothing up here," Will says as he leads Hannibal through a small entryway into a bedroom, then another. The rooms are well-furnished but look gray under the accumulated dust. The air is heavy and stale.

Will pauses in front of an ornately carved chest. His father had made it for his mother. Her dresses are still in it, moth-eaten and dulled with age. Will looks away. "I moved the books downstairs." He motions to an empty bookshelf. "The rest belongs up here." Hannibal watches him silently.

Will goes to another chest, smaller and shabbier than the first. He rifles through its contents. Occasionally, he thrusts a shirt and more rarely, a set of pants at Hannibal.

"My father's. They should fit you better."

Hannibal does not look too hopeful. He is even less thrilled when Will sends him off to the other bedroom to try the clothes on. Will gives up after the third outfit; the fit is certainly better, but the clothing does not seem right on Hannibal. "What do you wear normally?" Will mutters, bewildered. It's like trying to dress a lion or a bear. Possible, but unnecessary.

Hannibal pulls the frayed blue shirt he had ended up with over his head as soon as they reach the kitchen. It probably irritates his bruises. Will says nothing. The man looks more himself out of it anyway.

They have dinner. Hannibal has another bath. He seems to expect Will to accompany him, judging by the meaningful looks and the lingering in the doorway. "I'll look at your back later," Will says and keeps his own to Hannibal until the man leaves. Then he lets out a sigh and goes to kneel by the bookshelf. When Hannibal returns he finds Will sitting at the kitchen table, busy inking letters in a thick sheet of paper. He comes to stand behind Will's chair, watching quietly for several minutes. Will finishes the row he is working on and sits back.

"This is what I do for money. I copy the Bible so Verger can sell it." He laughs.

Hannibal bends to study the curling script. He says something in his own tongue and looks at Will. The naked awe on his face is unexpected and disconcerting.

Will clears his throat. "Let me put this away. You can get the salve." He points to the pantry.

Hannibal retrieves the jar of salve while Will puts his work away in a drawer built in at the bottom of the bookshelf. He sits through Will's careful probing of his bruises, making no sound even as Will pokes at a particularly swollen spot. "The trip to the river might've been overdoing it," Will mutters. The stitches in Hannibal's side have held well through the bath, but the wound is bloody. Will dabs it clean and reapplies the iodine. He does the same to Hannibal's back. The bruises there are turning a terrible shade of purple-black. It hurts just to look at them.

Hannibal sits on the bed once they are done. He goes back to looking at Will expectantly. Will busies himself putting the salve and gauze away, pretending not to notice. He had been planning to stay up again, but is no longer certain he will make it. Sleeping in a chair will leave his body stiff and useless tomorrow. Will refuses to consider Hannibal's unspoken suggestion to share the bed. "I'll be right back," he says. Hannibal watches him go.

Will brings down the blankets from the upstairs bedrooms and piles them in a corner. It takes him several trips but there is a serviceable nest of quilts by the time he is done. Hannibal studies the makeshift bed with quiet amusement. Will sits down on it and promptly sneezes. He probably should have beaten the dust out first.

Hannibal chuckles. Will glances at him. An answering smile tugs at his lips. "It's not polite to laugh at your host, you know." Hannibal blinks at him in mock-innocence. Will grins.

Somehow, Will ends up talking. About the town, the house, the moors. He speaks of his own life in between, snatches of stories and people now gone. Will hadn't realized he had quite so much to say. Hannibal listens without a change in expression. It's oddly comforting.

"You should sleep," Will tells the man eventually. "I probably won't. I'll try not to, at least." He will rest his eyes. Sleeping often leads to dreaming, and Will's dreams are never quiet.

Hannibal lies down on his uninjured side. He watches Will douse the fire in the hearth, check on the dogs, smother the lanterns. Will feels Hannibal's eyes on him in the dark. He pulls more blankets over himself and curls under their weight. It's not enough to ease his fear at the prospect of sleep, but it is something.

Hannibal speaks up after the third time Will tosses noisily in his nest. "Sorry," Will says. Hannibal keeps on talking. It is a story of some kind, Will thinks. The soft, even tone of Hannibal's voice reminds him of his mother's. Will wonders if Hannibal is telling him of brave knights and fearsome dragons too. He slips into sleep like a man might into a deep river.

Several hours later, he wakes up burning.

Will's eyes are open. He knows he is screaming, or has been screaming - his throat hurts and his mouth is dry. He can't unclench his fingers from the blankets, cannot move a muscle. The dogs bark frantically in the hallway. The ceiling gapes over him like the maw of some great beast. Will wishes it would finally swallow him and be done with it.

"Nesijaudinti, Will." Large hands grip Will's shoulders and pin him down; Will realizes he had been thrashing. "Nesijaudinti."

Will swallows. "Ha-hannibal." A quiet hum answers him. The man rests some of his weight against Will. The feel of it grounds him. Will frees his shaking hands from the blankets to grip Hannibal's elbows and pull.

"Down," he pleads, too out of his mind to be embarrassed at the needy whine in his voice. "Please. I need-" He doesn't know what he needs, only that he needs.

Hannibal pries the blankets twisted around Will's body off. Will moans in protest, then in relief as Hannibal presses against him. The man is still careful, resting most of his weight on his elbows. Will opens his legs and pulls Hannibal down fully. He cannot move. He can barely breathe. Will sighs in relief and presses his forehead to Hannibal's shoulder. Hannibal arranges the blankets above them, enclosing Will further.

"Your bruises," Will remembers. Hannibal curves a strong arm around Will's middle. Will trembles.

"Sleep, Will."

Will sleeps.

The second time Will wakes up, the world is hot in a very different way. Will thrusts up against the solid mass holding him down helplessly. He is hard, painfully so. Will does not do this often, has not been in mind to for over a month. But when he does it is like this - under the heaviest blanket he can find, hidden from the world. Safe.

The man above him shifts. Will stills. "Let me up," he croaks.

Hannibal turns his head so his nose presses under Will's chin. He inhales deeply. His hips roll down once, hard. Hannibal is naked, his cock thick and heavy and hot against Will's belly. Will gasps and thrusts up. The thin shorts he wears as undergarments grow wet at the front. Hannibal murmurs approvingly. He is leaking, too. Will feels the slick of it on his skin, hot like blood.

"Yes?" Hannibal asks. Will tries to keep himself still but his body shudders and strains, starved for pleasure. He wants Hannibal's hands on him. He wants everything Hannibal is willing to give.

"God. Yes."

Lips press to Will's neck. Will tips his head back and arches up. He gasps at the first bite of teeth, writhes as a wet mouth closes over one nipple, the other. Hannibal's name rises in stutters from his chest. Large hands grip Will's hips and lift. Will wraps his legs around Hannibal's thick thighs and presses closer, fucking against the man's arousal. Hannibal growls. The hand urging Will's shorts down his ass twists in the fabric and pulls. The shorts rip. Hannibal swallows Will's gasp in a hard, dirty kiss that leaves Will's mouth swollen.

Hannibal bites at Will's chest, his lower ribs, his belly. Will watches him suck marks into his skin, wild-eyed. He is panting. His thighs tremble, slick with sweat. Hannibal's shoulders keep them open wide under the blankets. Will moans at the thought of what he must look like. He likes that Hannibal is covering him with his body, likes that he is large enough to hide Will and hold him down. "Please," he begs, "Please, please." Hannibal responds with a low growl of Will's name and slides his mouth over Will's cock.

"God, Hannibal, God."

Hannibal presses his forearm into Will's stomach, keeping him still. He pulls at the blankets with his free hand. Will's chest swells with gratitude. He takes over, pulling the covers all the way over his head. The smell of sex and sweat is stronger now, the press of them together more intimate in the warm darkness. Will cards his fingers through Hannibal's hair and moans his name over and over again. Hannibal groans around him. He pulls up to suck at the head of Will's cock, tongue dipping in the slit, hot and sloppy. Thick fingers fondle Will's balls then slip behind them to trace the furled edge of his entrance. It's too dry, too hard, too much. Will keens and comes when Hannibal's nails dig into the meat of his ass. Hannibal swallows around him, slow and soothing.

"Up," Will moans when he can think again. Hannibal slides up his body, licking and sniffing Will's skin like something wild. Will tilts his chin up in silent demand. Hannibal bites at his lips. His quiet chuckle transforms into a low groan when Will wraps a hand around his cock.

"You're so hard," Will whimpers. "Fuck. Turn on your side - yes, like that." He parts his legs and pulls at Hannibal's ass until the man slots between his thighs. The head of his cock nestles in Will's crack. Will squeezes his thighs together. Hannibal moans and thrusts hard, harder. His cock catches against Will's entrance on every upstroke. "Yeah, yeah." Will pushes back against him. Hannibal kisses his shoulder, his neck, the side of his face. Will swallows the man's moan when he comes. Semen drips between his cheeks and soaks the blankets.

Will closes his eyes. He distantly feels Hannibal withdraw. His discontented grunt is answered by foreign words. They lull Will into a light doze. Sometime later, the blankets shift again. Will makes himself look; Hannibal is smiling at him, crooked canines pushing his lips into a curl. He offers Will a steaming cup. Will pushes to his elbows.

"Did you take a bath?" he asks, then, "Is that tea?"

Hannibal says something back. Will takes the cup and takes a sip from the greenish liquid. He makes a face at the bitter taste. "Where'd you even get this?" Hannibal keeps on looking at him. Will sighs and lifts the cup to his lips. He ends up drinking the whole foul thing.

"Thanks. I guess."

Hannibal sets the empty cup on the table. He returns to Will and helps him up. Will wraps himself in one of the blankets and avoids Hannibal's amused face. His own is flushed. Hannibal puts his arm around Will's waist and guides him to the bathroom.

The tub is full. Will smiles at Hannibal gratefully. Hannibal guides him to the chair and fills the bucket. Will's smile dims. "I can manage," he says.

Hannibal kneels in front of Will. Will's hands clench in the blanket. He can't make himself look at Hannibal, so he stares at the floor.

"Will," Hannibal murmurs. Will shakes his head. Hannibal catches his chin. He is frowning when Will finally gathers the courage to look, but his eyes are soft. "Will. Bath."

Will bites his lip. "Yeah. Okay." He makes his fingers loosen their grip.

Hannibal peels the blanket off carefully and sets to washing Will. His hands are firm, his attention thorough and not remotely sexual. Will relaxes by increments. His shame washes away with the sweat and dirt on his body, replaced by cautious happiness. He does not have to explain to Hannibal. There are no hurt feelings between them, no misunderstandings over this. Will stands and sits and turns as Hannibal's hands direct him, content. When Hannibal wraps a towel around him, Will turns in his arms and presses a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you."

Hannibal's smile is small and soft.

They have porridge for breakfast. Will's eyes catch on the cross over the door. He watches it as he eats, as they clear the table. Hannibal does not ask. He looks at the cross, too.

"Well," Will says finally, "The house's still standing."

Hannibal smiles at him. Will chuckles, suddenly giddy. He remembers God only when he thinks he ought to be punished.

Nails clacking against wood draw Will's attention. He leaves the rest of the plates to Hannibal and goes to let the dogs out. "Sorry, guys. Bit of a slow morning." The dogs don't seem to mind. They bound out happily once the door is open. Will laughs and follows them out. It is too cold to go without a coat, but he does not mean to stay long.

The men making their way toward the house have Will forgetting the autumn wind.

Will pulls the front door shut and calls out a greeting. The man at the front - Sir Crawford; Will's stomach twists - raises a hand. Will hurries down the porch's steps. He meets the men in the middle of the yard.

"How do you do, Mr. Graham." Crawford smiles politely. The four muscled men looming at his back do not. Will keeps his eyes on Crawford with some difficulty.

"Well enough. Is something the matter?"

Sir Crawford's expression hardens. "Unfortunately, yes. Have you seen anyone suspicious around, Mr. Graham? Specifically a tall man with tattoos on his chest?"

"No." One of the dogs comes to stand next to Will. He pets its head mindlessly. "An outlaw?"

"Escaped prisoner. A barbarian from a tribe that's been wrecking havoc in the countryside for over a year, from what I understand. He was being transferred to the capital. His Highness wishes to be present for the beheading." The dog whines. Will nods Crawford along. "There's been word of sightings in the area. Just - be careful, Will. The man killed four trained guards."

"I'll be careful."

Crawford frowns. He glances over Will's shoulder, at the house. Will stiffens. "When are you going to sell that pile of wood and move into town?"

Relief leaves Will weak-kneed. "I keep telling you, not going to happen."

Crawford snorts. "Just wait. Some pretty dame'll turn your head soon enough. Set you straight."

Will grins. "Sure, Jack. Mind telling your men to stay out of my tomatoes?"

"Not my men. Verger's." Crawford calls the hired muscle off Will's innocent garden anyway. They do not seem too pleased to be taking orders from him. Judging by Crawford's expression, he'd rather do without them too. "Verger's company was assisting the transfer," Crawford tells Will. "He's not happy with the situation. If you ask me, they should've left the whole thing to the army to begin with."

Will escorts Sir Crawford and Verger's thugs to the edge of his property. The road picks up a mile or so further down. "Be careful, Mr. Graham!" Crawford calls out in parting. "God be with you!"

"Too late," Will mutters and waves back.

The house is quiet. Will walks inside, half-expecting to find it empty. It is not. Hannibal is sitting at the kitchen table. Will stops in the doorway and looks at him. Hannibal looks back, expression calm but for his eyes. The kitchen window is open. He had probably heard everything.

"Do you understand me?" Will asks. Hannibal nods. "Can you talk?"

"Yes."

Will exhales loudly. "Well, that's just - fuck. Was this all funny to you? Were you having a good laugh while  - what? Planning my murder?" Hannibal rises and moves forward. Will does not back down. He can't stop shaking. "God, and I let you - I begged you-"

Hannibal presses against him. Will's back hits the wall with a quiet thump. Large hands wrap around Will's wrists and pin them to his sides. "I will never hurt you," Hannibal says. His speech is heavily accented, but confident. "Will, I give my word. I will never hurt you."

Will lets out a shuddering laugh. "But you did, you already did." Hannibal makes an unhappy noise and moves closer, covering Will entirely. His ribs must be hurting. Will cannot make himself take pleasure in that, upset with the man as he is. "You lied to me, Hannibal."

"You assumed-"

Will bites the man's shoulder. Hannibal's teeth clack shut. "You lied." He takes a breath. "Promise me you won't do that again."

Hannibal's response is quick and sincere. "I promise."

Will exhales. He rests his forehead against Hannibal's chest. "I believe you." The arms around him tighten. Will shakes his head. "Let's - let's talk. At the table. I can't think like this."

Hannibal releases him with obvious reluctance. He drags his chair closer to Will's. Will lets him. After a moment's consideration, Will rises. He returns with the wine jug and two cups.

"Alright. Tell me what you did."

"You will have to be more specific, Will."

Will scowls. "Your crimes, Hannibal. Tell me why they locked you up. Tell me why the King of England wants to see your head roll."

"It is not a matter of what I have done. It is who I am, what I can stand for." Will makes a disbelieving noise. Hannibal continues, unperturbed. "I have killed, yes. More than they know, worse than they can imagine. But that is not why Verger's men seek me."

"And the Crown," Will reminds.

"The Crown is secondary. This is an agenda of a greedy man." Hannibal looks at his wine. Will sips at his. "My people... we are nomadic. We do not belong here. Barbarians, you English call us. It's in the name already, the hate. Very easy to forget all else. To fear us over more real threats."

Will thinks on this. Times have been difficult lately. For a long time. Rumors of disquiet in larger cities have reached even Will's home. "They meant to use you as a whipping boy."

"An example."

"What happens to stateless men," Will murmurs. Hannibal smiles, humorless. "Why you? How did they single you out?"

"I am the leader of my people. This man - this Verger - he was not certain your King will agree to the scheme. He kept me alive to trade back if the King said no. Profit either way."

"What about your people?" Will swallows; if Hannibal is - what, royalty? Will's mind shies away from the thought. If Hannibal is important in his tribe, then he would not have been traveling alone. "Where are they? Why did they leave you?"

"They passed on to the lands down south. There is a place we plan to make our home, set roots. I took a different route to trade before the snow fell. We are craftsmen. Much like you." Hannibal's eyes are dark. "I had five men with me. They killed them all."

"They weren't too kind to you, either," Will says, thinking of Hannibal's bruised body.

"They have paid, and will pay more. All will be even in the end."

Will's stomach twists. "You mean to leave. And kill."

"Yes," Hannibal tells him. Honesty. Will wants to laugh.

"When?"

"I should have gone yesterday."

Today, then. Will maintains a blank expression with some difficulty. "You are injured. Men are looking for you."

"You helped," Hannibal says. Will swallows and looks away from the warmth in the man's face. "I do not want him to forget. I want him to know me when I come for him. It has to be now, when his failure still maddens him."

Will nods. He cannot untangle his tongue to condemn what Hannibal says as wrong, cannot even look at the crucifix above the door. "Stay for lunch, at least," he says instead.

Hannibal says nothing. The silence between them stretches, grows heavy and ugly. Will makes to push away from the table, disgusted with his own weakness. Hannibal catches his hand. When Will looks at him, he finds a man broken open.

"Come with me."

"What?" Will croaks.

"Come with me, after it's all done. Leave with me."

"I..." Will looks away. The cross hangs in front of his eyes as surely as over the door. Hannibal's hand tightens over his. Will remembers the feel of Hannibal over him, the safety of his arms pinning Will down. The quiet darkness. "I'll need a week," he says.

Hannibal threads their fingers together. "A week is possible. How will you let me know of your decision?"

"No." Will turns and looks at Hannibal, lifts his chin. "I have already decided. The week's to sort out my belongings."

Hannibal stares at him. Then he leans over and kisses Will, deep and soft and grateful.

They do not talk during lunch. Will sits in Hannibal's lap, back to the man's chest, Hannibal's hands on his hips. They kiss more than they eat. Will packs a bag of food and clothes for Hannibal when they are done. He places the figurine of the misshapen wolf on top of a pile of shirts and hands the bag over. Hannibal shoulders it. He pushes Will against the front door and kisses him until their lips hurt.

"Where we first met," Hannibal says in parting.

"One week," Will agrees.

They walk to the edge of the cliff together. Will watches Hannibal scale down the steep rocks, watches until the man disappears in the woods. Hannibal does not look back. His grip on the bag's strap is white-knuckled.

Will does not sleep that night, or the next. On the third morning, the bell tolls for a dead man. Five bodies - a debt collected. Will will go into town tomorrow to pay his respects to Margot Verger and hand over the deed to his father's house. The day after, his two remaining dogs will have new homes.

Will smiles at the ceiling and closes his eyes.

In another few days, so will he.