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athelstan,
ragnar

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Curled in Rangar's arms and clutching Athelstan's hand, Sinric keeps his face hidden as they enter their rooms. Somehow it's easier with his eyes closed. It seems to narrow down the visions.

He tries to steady himself enough to stand, wavering like a leaf. "I must smell terrible." He can't tell, still so disconnected from his own body. "I don't remember how long it's been since I washed."

He senses a turn of discomfort from Athelstan. "I can do it alone, it's alright."

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Sinric sniffs and nods, trying to sit up.

It doesn't go well and he falls back into Ragnar's arms, looking as if he might throw up, if he had anything in his stomach to throw up.

List completed, Hannibal returns to the bed to just sit with Sinric and hold his hands while Ragnar is keeping him steady in his arms.

"When Athelstan comes back, he'll bring things to make you feel much better," he informs him.

Athelstan is already gone on his errand.

At Hannibal's touch, Sinric's eyes widen sharply, his breath quickening. He starts to tremble again, his heart racing as he looks deep into the Doctor's eyes.

And sees.

Hannibal doesn't flinch away, but instead looks back at Sinric unwaveringly.

"See?" he says, giving the arc word from the tale of Garrett Jacob Hobbes and his unfortunate daughter. Of Abigail hiding from him, and of revealing himself to Will Graham. Of blood spilled in the corner kitchen of an unassuming suburban home with a double garage, of a stately kitchen with a pantry full of secrets, of pigs eating men, and a sow carrying a human fetus, of two women finding fulfilment where two men do not. Of a great red dragon in sorry human shape used as a hand-tied fishing lure just as the one to be caught makes them. Of blood and food, skill and deception, death and love, great creativity and infinite patience.

Edited 2016-11-26 17:41 (UTC)

And in all of it, Hannibal. Strong and tall and resolute. In cold rage and heated desire. In pain and in pleasure.

Not the horned monster Will Graham saw, black-skinned and menacing. Just Hannibal, true to himself.

"I see." Sinric answers, breathless but calm and unafraid.

Edited 2016-11-26 17:53 (UTC)

There is true affection in this tale, not just the deep love for Will Graham that Hannibal would give anything for, but affection for Alana or Abigail, for Jack or Bedelia -- and great regret when Hannibal sees the need to sacrifice them to his great game.

Then, there are the likes of Tobias Budge or Randall Tier, minor monsters that fall to the wayside as the connection between Hannibal and Will is forged in fever and blood.

"You do," Hannibal says, almost awed as he realises how far Sinric's new gift goes, and that he would be able to step inside the Memory Palace itself, if he wants to.

Hannibal's mind palace is too complex for Sinric yet, the feeling too new, but he can feel the thread singing, and all the threads crossed and bound with it.

"You will both take up St George's spear." Sinric whispers, feeling his way forward to a shining knot. "To a symphony of waves."

"Waves," Hannibal says, pondering the option. A house on the cliffs, lonely glass and concrete, rises in his mind's eye.

"Oh yes."

His threads are complex, a spider's web in the shape of a renaissance pleasure maze.

So complex Sinric starts to lose himself, starts to feel trapped by the tight threads of the web and the sharp twists of the maze.

His breathing quickened, threatening to hyperventilate him as he pulls away to rub at his eyes.

Hannibal lets go of his hands.

"I'm sure Athelstan will be back soon."

Ragnar is stroking Sinric's shoulders. "Perhaps you should give him that other thing after all."

"Diazepam, rectally? I don't think so," Hannibal answers.

Sinric buries his face in Ragnar's shoulder, panting for fear of losing himself again. He reaches under Ragnar's shirt for the matching tattoo he knows is there, using the softly ridged flesh to anchor himself. He's shaking quite badly now, not quite seizing but not in control either.

Ragnar is holding him close, then slips his hand down to the tattoo on Sinric's hip.

"Cling to me," he murmurs. "I am here. I have you."

The incomprehensible words the doctor said about what he might do sound somehow spiky and not very helpful.

The touch over his tattoo, the gentle strength of Ragnar's voice helps and he slowly sinks into the closed loop made by the ink in their skin. It calms him, tracing those lines over and over in his mind.

"I have you, " Ragnar says, "I love you!"

He looks at the doctor.

"Will this happen every time he has a vision?"

"I don't know," the doctor says. "He might be able to learn -- with an honest teacher."

"It's fading." Sinric's voice is little more than a breath. "The further I am from the tree. The closer I am to you, to home"

Ragnar holds him very close. "Cling to me!"

The door opens and closes in the other room.

nd he does, burying himself as close as his thin frame and the sheets wrapped around him will allow.

He can feel the rivalry between the two men, the desire to control but he doesn't have the strength to play the peace keeper.

"Athelstan?" Ragnar calls out.

"You should stay with him," the doctor says, gathering up his things to transfer them to wherever Sinric spends the night. "If you two anchor him to his sanity."

"Here", he calls back.

There's a sound of wheels on the floor.

Sinric concentrates on breathing, fingers clenching rhythmical at Ragnar's still damp shirt. "My room. Please? I want to be near."

"Of course," Ragnar says, picking him up and getting off the bed without letting go of him once.

Hannibal, bag in hand, goes to open doors as indicated to let them through.

Athelstan has a trolley loaded with the equipment and supplies Hannibal asked for.

Sinric's room usually isn't very big. In fact any other day the harpsichord will need to be moved closer to the wall in make room for the bed, but the Bar seems to have anticipated the issue and expended, creating deep bay window area the perfect size and shape for a sick bed and all the equipment required. And a view east over the gardens.

There's far in the distance, is the giant ash tree, almost skeletal against a patch of evergreens.