This is Our Design

His Design

This is just a little fic to keep you guys entertained while I write the next prompt.

                                                                               

                                                                             His Design

      

       Hannibal Lecter stood at the edge of a cliff.

       He watched the violent, vehement waves of the Chesapeake Bay fervently tear his best friend into pieces, like a starving dog deprived of basic sustenance. He experienced the sea's metamorphoses, twisting and rising, twisting and rising, until the beast met him eye to eye, Will's limbs thrown about inside the whirlpool; an arm, his head, both lifeless eyes, and two legs annulled of ankles and feet. Hannibal could only feel suffocated as it shot up and over, arching, and wrapped him up in the eye of the tornado. As it squeezed the air from his lungs far longer than humanly healthy; the spirit of a boa constrictor.

       Despite the ocean's ferocity, Hannibal was blanketed in a warm tunnel. There was no sound except the beating of his heart—and Will's—in sync. The echo was a white-cloaked, feline cub, purring and eager to bear its teeth and appear ferocious, but forever a lone omega. A perfect balance of loyalty.

       Hannibal grit his teeth, a new type of desperation electrifying his heart; unfamiliar affection for the man who he designed, who he lured and raised as his own, who attempted murder on his behalf for the sake of love, left the man suddenly void of any other goals he had hoped to achieve prior to Dolarhyde. It was only then, while suffering from the wrath of the empath, did Hannibal really understand the depth of his obsession.

        He loved Will Graham.

       He expected the two of them to run away together and expected to fall as one as well. But his plans strayed way off course and now Will Graham's personal Familiar has come to Hannibal with a vengeance, slowly choking the life out of him, killing him with kindness.

       How far his desire to bring Will back from the dead depended solely on the cannibal then and whether he chose to fight for what was originally in his possession. What of the empath's body? What of Hannibal's heart? Should he have accepted his fate then, succumbing to submersion, or pray to God for strength?

       The outcome seemed fairly obvious to Hannibal as he gnashed his teeth, growled, and let out a barbarous cry as the muscles in his forearms strained to wrestle Will back over the edge. The ends were withered down to a single cord of thread from where the burden of Will Graham's weight dropped dead, a manifestation of meat, into oblivion and lacerations ascending in a spiral around his forearms sliced through sinew and tendon.

       "This is not my design!" Hannibal called to him. This was never our design.

        "Make it so." He replied. "Then make it so. Please."

Then make it so.

                                                                     Then make it so.

              Then make it so.

   

                                               Then make it so. Please.

End