hlectermd-blog

[hlectermd-blog]

xuteo​

     He did not have reason to search for him. The hawk had played its part, the act had played out, and now.  Now the tides had shifted, the wind filled the sails of his journey, and he was free.

     He was alone.

     There were only a few, special people with which he wished to spend his time, though he knew not whether they still drew breath, his cuts had been intentional, precise. Hannibal never cut more or deeper than he intended to. The changing winds spoke to him, carrying the slightest scents in the wind. Will had not perished, but any chance at being together had. The blow was not lost on the doctor, the images of Boticelli no longer held the same breath when he viewed them. 

     He was hungry, and, though he was loathe to admit it, he was lonely. Strident bars of Bach danced around him as the night air filled his lungs, a sensation he knew he would one day savour, one that would one day be little more than a dream. The smell of ink soon took over that of the air as his mind got to work.

     A letter.

     It was not difficult to find the man, a pleasant surprise, however, was the lack of bars encircling him. Lecter’s post was obscured as he watched, carefully and quietly, the hawk’s eyes taking in the contents of the letter.

Mr. Brown,

     I am pleased to see that this note will find you in good health and free of chains. It pains me to say that you seem in better sorts than our dear Will Graham, from what I can gather. I do not regret the state in which I left him, however. A gift was given and denied, the actions were simply a result of that denial.

    I do wonder, Mr. Brown, if you think about that evening, if the scent of chlorine still reminds you of the deeds you’ve left undone. Every shirt I don reminds me of that night, the scars rubbing against the fabric. You have left an indelible mark on the manuscript of my life. I wonder, perhaps, if I have left any such mark on you. Do the backs of your eyelids burn with my smiling face? Does the mere thought of that evening become a physical sensation in your shoulder?

     The tapestry of the night sky swirls above my eyes and I wonder if we see the same stars. I should like to call on you before the view of Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. If you are indeed as intelligent as our last encounter has led me to believe, we shall be seeing each other soon.

    Ta-ta,

      Dr. Hannibal Lecter, MD.

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The doctor offers a ghost of a smile--a rare treat, even to Will--as his nostrils flare, inhaling the essence of the insanity Will fears encircles him. The complexity of scent is something which cannot be given to things which have no physical form.

                                       And yet. . .

  Fear’s form is not in and of itself, it is the twitch of muscles contracting, the trickle of sweat beading on brows, the slight copper in the air as blood races, pumping a heart to breakneck speeds. To smell fear requires more than one’s nose, and Hannibal has become adept at merging his senses together to ferret out even the smallest of scents, of sounds.

   Inhaling, a small bit of air squeaks between his teeth.

  “Probability dictates that is not the most likely choice. It is not a clock, and whatever word still sits coiled on your tongue. . .my keen senses do not extend to the supernatural.”

             ❝ Your ears are just as keen as your nose. ❞

There is something very animal about Hannibal Lecter and his ability to sniff something out—– to hear it before he ever even sees it. Will wonders for a moment if Hannibal can ever smell something akin to fear, making him tense in the slightest when the other male leans forward and shortens the space between them to question further.

                                         ❝A ticking sound. Like a clock, or a—— nothing,                                                      a headache setting in. That’s probably it. ❞

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     Head cocks, eyes focusing wholly on the man before him. Will appears tired, yet again. Has his sleep difficulty returned? The doctor wonders idly to himself. “I hear your ragged breathing, the shift of your clothing against the chair, your rapid heartbeat.” He pauses, leaning forward, the length of space closing between them, if only a small bit. 

     “What is it you hear, Will?”

              ❝ —–…….Do you hear that? ❞

An incessant ticking noise like the clicking of the hands on a clock; twisted and drawn in a horrific position—-   abnormal. Will presses the pads of his fingers into the bridge of his nose  as he feels the onset of a creeping headache.

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[Resurrecting this blog to actually do some roleplaying! please send an ask if you’d like to plot/play/want a starter! This is a sideblog for roleplay for my main, In Character Hannibal blog (found here). I will RP with just about anyone, but please read the rules page on the main as it informs the timeline. I am semi-selective, but please come give me a try!! I really want to find people to play with!]