charonxviii

[charonxviii]

Between Reason and Devouring

.synopsy:

In which Isolde is torn between two men who devour not only flesh but the very essence of the soul.

In which Will Graham hunts the darkness within her, while Hannibal Lecter seeks to possess it.

.hey! hello! welcome to my very first story! first of all, I'd like to give you a few warnings about this story:

.i want to highlight tw for sensitive themes, cannibalism, nsfw, graphic descriptions of physical and mental violence, and of course, hannibal lecter.

.i'll do my best to update as often as i can.

.i hope you like it! i'm always open to suggestions and comments (i accept criticism but i don't keep quiet).

so...let's go!

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Isolde Du Maurier arrived in Baltimore with a nagging feeling, like a shadow stretching over her, obscuring even her own thoughts. She didn't know what made her more uncomfortable: the city itself, with its lifeless streets and buildings that seemed to have been swallowed up by the humidity and the gray sky, or the fact that she found herself there, lost in a setting that didn't correspond to anything she had ever known.

Those streets didn't have the glamor of the catwalks, nor the golden lights of Paris, they didn't exude the smell of luxury that had always been an intrinsic part of her life. The city somehow seemed absent, disconnected from something bigger, and she, reflecting her own alienation, walked like a shadow moving away from herself.

The agency car dragged along the streets while Isolde observed the landscape without really seeing it. Her eyes were empty, absorbing the images without the slightest intention of understanding them. The gray buildings, the heavy sky, everything seemed to amalgamate into a single block of oppression that was consolidating in her chest. When the phone vibrated in her hand, she didn't need to look at the number to know that it was her aunt Bedelia, who always had something mysterious about her words. Before she even answered, a familiar restlessness came over her.

"Isolde, have you arrived in Baltimore?" Her aunt's voice, soft and calm, but with a subtlety that hinted at a warning, seemed to carry across the space, laden with a kind of melancholy that Isolde couldn't ignore.

"Yes, aunt."

She replied, a sigh escaping her lips. As always, her aunt seemed to sense something that she herself was unable to perceive. But there was something, some shadow of a presentiment, that troubled her deeply.

"Baltimore can be a difficult place for someone like you."

Bedelia's voice hesitated for a moment. That sentence seemed to go beyond a simple warning. Those words, spoken so enigmatically, sent a shiver down her spine. Isolde moved away from the window, still feeling that her aunt was talking about something she couldn't understand.

"What do you mean by that, aunt?" The question came out more on impulse than out of real curiosity, but her mind, already tinged with a diffuse fear, couldn't help wondering.

A silence gripped the line for a few seconds. When Bedelia spoke again, her voice sounded deep, imbued with an almost secret tone.

"Baltimore is more than it seems, Isolde. And some presences... are harder to deal with than others".

Isolde's heart squeezed. She felt the weight of those words, but refused to allow herself to dive into them. Not at that moment. She, who had always had the upper hand, couldn't allow something so insubstantial to affect her.

"I'll be fine, auntie." The reply came out automatically, an effort to calm her growing unease.

When the call ended, the young woman modeled an impassive expression, but the tension continued to build in her chest. When she arrived at the hotel, the luxurious surroundings had no power to ease her worries. The dark-toned walls, the heavy curtains and the smell of wood and velvet were not enough to dispel the feeling of emptiness. Everything seemed at odds with her own soul at that moment. It wasn't the kind of sophistication she was looking for. It was something solemn, but with a touch of desolation, as if the beauty was kept under layers that she could no longer access.

The next day, the Baltimore sky offered no relief. Thick clouds hid any trace of sun, and the light that poured into the city was warm, uninteresting. The charity event she had been invited to, at a dog shelter, seemed far from what she had imagined for herself. But the agency had signed her up and, perhaps for the first time in a long time, she decided not to stand out. No designer dress, no exuberant make-up, she just allowed herself to exist without the weight of image.

The process of getting ready was hard. Every movement in front of the mirror felt like a painful effort. The woman reflected was not the same as the one who walked the catwalks. Something inside her forced her to take a step forward, as if life was something that needed to be lived, not acted.

She went downstairs to the event, the fresh autumn air making her shiver. The surrounding landscape, with rustic tables and the lamps hanging delicately over them, looked like a painting of a lost time. There were no flashes, no shouts from journalists thirsting for a photo of her latest conquest. It was almost like a reflection of her own lack of purpose. She felt distant from everyone. There were no more glances to feed her, and this was somehow consuming her.

Walking among the guests, the discomfort grew. She, who had always been the center of everything, now saw herself as a shadow, an anonymous figure who went unnoticed. The idea of being seen without being observed made her feel completely comfortable . What was left of her, apart from her body? What was left apart from the image she projected? Nothing. And that realization was amazing. The emptiness tightened her stomach, but something, perhaps a desperate need to be touched in another way, pushed her to continue.

Then a movement caught her eye. A thin dog, with a dark coat and a suspicious look, was observing everything around it. It was as if the animal, suspicious, avoided glances, but with an internal mystery that made it hesitate, as if it didn't know how to give itself to those who were looking at it either.

Isolde slowly crouched down, holding out her hand to the animal. It studied her for a moment, backing away, but then began to approach, sniffing the air with a certain care. She felt a tightness in her chest. She saw there, reflected in that gaze, her own fear of trusting, of giving herself up. In a way, they were similar.

That's when she heard a soft voice, as unexpected as it was precise, coming from behind her.

"You don't trust easily either."

The male voice was deep but serene, as if it carried ancient wisdom. When she turned around, she found a tall man with impeccable posture standing at a respectful distance. His gaze, however, was implacable. He was watching her with an unusual intensity, something that made her feel completely exposed.

Isolde, disconcerted, tried to maintain control. Her posture straightened automatically, but her mind was far from her body. This man, who wasn't smiling, didn't seem to be looking for flattery. He saw her, somehow, as an enigma that needed to be solved, and that bothered her deeply.

"And you think you can read me that easily?" Her voice came out sharper than she had imagined. But it wasn't an attempt to defend herself, it was the surprise she couldn't disguise.

The man shrugged indifferently and unhurriedly looked back at the dog, who was now approaching her with more confidence.

"I'm not the one who needs to read you. He's already done that." His voice, almost a whisper, accompanied by a slight nod to the animal resting next to her, seemed to unsettle her even more.

She didn't know how to react.

Silence settled in for a moment, but somehow she knew that this man had touched her in a way that no one else had been able to. He had penetrated the veil she held so tightly. She didn't know whether to laugh or respond, but she felt the tension rise, and something inside her gave way.

Then a woman approached, interrupting the silent exchange. She smiled, almost amusedly.

"Will, you managed to have a conversation without pushing someone away? That's new."

She said, with a provocative tone, and Isolde could immediately sense the intimacy between them.Alana Bloom. She introduced herself, smiling with the courtesy of someone who was able to understand the game of appearance, but without being impressed. Isolde, still absorbing Will's presence, felt strange, almost like an intruder.

The woman spoke again, trying to ease the tension.

"I hope he wasn't rude. Will has that special talent."

The joking tone didn't hide the depth of the words, and Isolde found herself distant again, not knowing how to react.

What she felt was a poignant discomfort, a sense of being out of place. As if, at that moment, she was nothing more than a ghost, watching from afar, unable to get involved.

When Will looked at her for the last time, as if he knew exactly what was going on in her mind, something inside Isolde broke. She, who had always been the center of attention, now found herself in front of a man who saw her not as an image, but as a being. She didn't know how to react to it, but she knew that something inside her had changed. The evening progressed, and the atmosphere of the event became more and more oppressive, as if the world around her was crumbling little by little.

Will, sensing Isolde's whirlwind of thoughts, said:

"You know, dogs have this thing... they never care about perfection. They're just there, ready to love, regardless of how you are."

Isolde, staring at him, felt as if the sentence had struck her with the force of thunder. Something inside her wavered. The weight of her masks and burdens seemed to crumble, but the emptiness that filled her was not relieved by Will's words. She remained silent, feeling the weight of her own fragility, as he walked away, leaving her with the resonance of those words in her mind, but no consolation.

The night then dragged on like an unbearable weight. When she returned home, the silence of her own loneliness was more present than ever. In front of the mirror, as she prepared for the event, something seemed empty and hopelessly distant.

She put on the black satin dress, the fabric flowing with a weight that seemed to reflect the very burden she was carrying. The mirror in front of her was no longer a simple reflection; it was a prison of truths she didn't want to face. The room, still delicately lit by the lampshade, exuded an atmosphere that could have been taken from a nightmare. The walls, decorated with the solitary luxury of a space that seemed to hold nothing, seemed to draw closer with every breath, as if they wanted to swallow her up. She stood there in silence, feeling the pressure of the layers of her own identity suffocating her, and yet she knew she had to get out. The night was advancing and with it the weight of the obligation to be seen, to keep her image untouched, like an untouchable statue.

The dress, so beautiful and complex, was no longer a work of art. It was now a reminder of her loneliness. The lightness of the fabric on her skin didn't offer comfort, but a cold distance between her and anything genuine. It was as if she was wearing the very façade she had hidden so much over the years. A façade that now seemed insurmountable, difficult to bear.When she looked in the mirror once more, she didn't see the confident woman she had always been. She saw a shadow, a soulless figure disguised as something she could no longer be. Her mind floated between emptiness and what was demanded of her, with no room for doubt or questioning. She needed to once again be the image of what everyone expected, but where was her soul? Where was the woman behind that mask?

The hall of the opera house was hushed. There was no laughter, no celebration. The glare of the lights was reflected in the velvet and silk faces of guests who, like her, were only there to exist in the guise of what they hoped to be. The sound of a distant, almost inaudible violin echoed in the room, but it didn't seem to reach anyone's heart. She, like everyone else, was there to be observed, but never understood. The empty whispers of the conversations around her formed a hopeless melody, as if they were all dancing on the edge of an abyss without really knowing where they were.

It was then that he appeared.

He was no ordinary presence, not just someone who stood out from the crowd. Hannibal Lecter entered the room with a cruel, almost unrecognizable grace, as if his premeditated presence was woven with the care of a predator, but in no hurry to hunt. He moved like a being who had already mastered the art of controlling the gaze of others. His every step was a precise, fluid movement that seemed to blur the lines between the present and time, as if he were the very fabric of reality. His eyes, dark and deep-set, were like bottomless wells that sucked in the light around them, and his presence, almost sensual, seemed to absorb the energy of everything and everyone around him. She watched him briefly, unable to look away, as if something in his essence attracted her. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. His expression, on the contrary, was one of calculated gentleness, as if the world were a game he already knew how to play flawlessly.

There was something dangerous about the way he looked at her, a look that seemed to pierce through the façade she so carefully maintained. He wasn't impressed by her dress, her beauty or the brilliance of her image. He saw her in a way that no one else ever had. Isolde, disconcerted, felt the ground move beneath her feet, and what should have been a simple greeting became an inexplicable weight. As if he already knew what she was thinking, what she wanted, what she feared. His eyes, in a disturbing way, touched something she feared to recognize. He spoke with the softness of someone who knew much more than he seemed to.

"Good evening." His voice, soft and almost inaudible, cut the silence between them, but she didn't pay much attention to the tone. She merely raised her eyes briefly, with no more interest than was necessary for a greeting.

"Good evening."

She replied, unable to disguise the disdain that wasn't explicit, but was apparent in the lightness of her response. She knew he was only there to be noticed and, like so many others, he deserved no more than a polite exchange of words.He watched her with an almost disconcerting calm, his amber eyes deep, yet insensitive to her rude dismay. He looked like a man who was used to analyzing everything and everyone around him, as if he knew them before he even approached.

"Hannibal Lecter."

He introduced himself, his voice now firmer, but unhurried. It wasn't a casual introduction. It was more an attempt to get a reaction out of her, perhaps one he knew wouldn't come. Isolde looked him in the eye for a moment, a brief and almost imperceptible gesture of curiosity, but then her expression closed. She was tired of dealing with the superficiality of the people around her. A name, a face. One more in a sea of others moving in endless circles, trying to connect, trying to get noticed, but always moving away from something deeper. She wasn't there to be captivated.

"Isolde." She replied with an almost lifeless tone, almost as if it were a formality to be fulfilled. She no longer wanted to get involved with those who were there to play emotional hide-and-seek. There was no room for anyone else.

"Curious. You behave like someone accustomed to the gaze of others, yet you avoid getting directly involved in social interaction."

His words felt like little knives, and Isolde, unable to help it, felt a pang of vulnerability. He was right, of course. She, who had always been the center of attention, now found herself in front of a man who seemed to possess her in a way she couldn't control. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her composure, but her words came out weaker than she had imagined. Like a meaningless defense.

"I'm here to be seen, not to interact"

"And yet you're talking to me." He said, his voice a soft echo that seemed to reverberate in the space between them. There was no hurry in his speech. He knew she was trying to escape, but he was in no place to let her. "Did you miss something in the game mechanics?"

His words sank like stones in a deep lake. She tried to resist, but she couldn't. He knew now, and that made her feel more exposed than ever. It wasn't just a look. It was a silent invasion, a presence that seemed to challenge everything she believed to be true about herself.

Hannibal moved even closer, without haste, without sudden movement. His perfume, soft and enigmatic, mingled with the warm, dense air in the room, and his presence seemed to grow with every step. He looked at her with an intensity that made her swallow, as if he could read every fragment of her soul without any effort. She cringed, a strange sensation of being naked, exposed, dominated by something she didn't understand. He wasn't like the other men who looked at her, who admired her. He didn't want any of that. He wanted something deeper, something she didn't know if she was willing to show.

"I'm just a spectator, Isolde. But unlike everyone else here, I'm not captivated by your image."

Isolde felt a pressure in her chest. He knew. What's more, he was daring her to see what he saw. She didn't want to, but she couldn't help it.She turned to leave, trying to control the turmoil inside her, but Hannibal's voice reached her again, like a whisper invading her most secret depths.

"Perhaps I can help you understand what your body fears."

The phrase, so simple, so loaded with meaning, left her silent, her mind spinning, trying to understand the nature of the challenge he had just thrown down. He knew more about her than she had ever wished. He had touched a deep spot, something she had buried for years. He had seen her and, for a terrifying moment, she knew she could no longer hide.

She didn't know what to do, but she knew he would be watching her. And that gaze would haunt her, like an echo that never goes away. She left the room without looking back, and although everyone's eyes turned to her, it was Hannibal who still dominated her thoughts. He had stripped her naked in a way she had never imagined possible.

[charonxviii]

sometimes is all about being a little weird and offputting