Sinric the Wanderer

"Yes." He hurries to the desk in his own room and comes back with pen and paper.

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While they are busy with that, Sinric slowly comes to, turning ever so slightly to bury his face in Ragnar's thigh for comfort.

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Ragnar strokes him, bending down to be with Sinric while the other two are busy with their list, which seems to involve medical supplies, electronic machines, and a bed on wheels.

"We have you," he whispers to Sinric. "We love you, and your doctor friend is here to take care of you. Prophecy asks a high price, always, and I don't want you to pay it."

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Athelstan is busily writing down everything Hannibal asks for, occasionally pausing to check he's got the spelling right.

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Sinric tangles his fingers in Ragnar's, squeezing weakly. He keeps his eyes closed, his face turned away. "I'm afraid."

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"It's scary, you are right," Ragnar says, having by now learned that trying to argue everything away is miserably unhelpful, invalidating whatever the other person feels rather than showing a way out. "But at least we are all here to help you deal with it."

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"We'll find you people who know how to help with new powers", Athelstan offers, glancing up from the list for a moment. "It's Milliways, there must be someone."

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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.

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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.

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Athelstan is already gone on his errand.

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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.

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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 Date: 2016-11-26 05:41 pm (UTC)

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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 Date: 2016-11-26 05:53 pm (UTC)

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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.

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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."

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"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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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