Colliding worlds (Hannibal x OC)

Fencing

Hey Dearest readers. I realise it has been a little one since I posted a chapter so there you go.

Frances breathed in slowly, the various smells of Hannibal's basement registering in her brain. Humidity, but very little mould. Coldness of concrete, the sharp tinge of metal in a corner and the slight remains of chlorine – bleach. Under their feet, the wide expense of polished concrete had been covered with traditional Japanese mats, allowing the skin of her feet to touch and feel. Toes free from bonds, bokken in hand, hair tightly braided, Frances was ready to face her worst enemy. The man she loved more than anything in the world. She lifted her gaze to meet his hazel, their hues greying in the artificial light of the basement. His beardless chin startled her for an instant before she remembered that – unlike Tristan - he had never sported a beard. The straight nose and high cheekbones, though, were a dead giveaway.

Frozen like a marble statue, his eyes set upon her face, his whole body coiled to attack, Hannibal was terrifying. Cold, and calculating, his gaze, for once, unguarded. She knew what he was; there was no point in hiding. Or perhaps it was a test, to see if she would eventually recover her mind and run away from the beast. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth; Hannibal was obviously enjoying this. Or mocking her, who knew. The meanderings of his mind were so difficult to follow, it made her crazy! And it was the exact reason of their presence here.

After the debacle with Freddie Lounds, her cunning husband had suggested they go fencing ... to work out her frustrations. The 'about me' hung in the air, never spoken, but he knew how difficult it was, for her, to accept his ways. How could he not? How ironic to have a man who could read and decrypt her every emotion as easily as he read a book, no matter how closed off she was. A master of the human mind, especially since he wasn't subjected to the same emotions. The ever-exterior observer, the perfect psychiatrist... with dark motives.

So they went to a club of renown, encased in the restraining protective suit, and played with the 'needle' people called swords for a little while before Frances forfeited. More than fifteen times, she'd been stopped by the club officials, claiming her moves were 'forbidden' as per the fencing code. Too many rules, not enough freedom, and her husband's face not even visible for her to release her frustration. The frustration of being loyal, and very much in love with that man. The biggest failure ever, and Frances left the club with more steam accumulated then released. 'Mild,' she had called that sport ... avoiding insults, of course. There had been no pleasure, no muscle memory while waving this tiny piece of needle around.

So when Hannibal suggested Kendo – which he has studied, of course, in his youth – Frances agreed to give it a try. And it worked so much better. The wooden sword accommodated her elvish training much better, and she suspected Hannibal to prefer it because it also resembled his old Dao. Well, Tristan's Dao.

Today, there would be no traditional protection – all blows to the face controlled – and just a little padding to outer limbs and chest. A self-constructed outfit of leather that Frances had recreated to mimic her elvish armour. She had sewn Hannibal's as well, choosing a minimalist design to preserve ease of movement and flexibility. Now, they were ready to spar properly. No rules except for love and respect. No restraints and absolute freedom.

And so, this is how Frances inclined her sword to the side, creating an opening for Hannibal to attack. And attack he did. His blow was deflected nearly absentmindedly as Frances stepped aside, surprised by his speed. She shouldn't, really. Sleeping with a man taught you much about his abilities, and she knew he was packed with long, lean muscles. Not the ones from the movies where actors build up vanity muscles. No. Hannibal was a bundle of nerves and long, fatless fibres. The ones that gave speed and explosive strength. The perfect anatomy to surprise and prevail. One swift turn upon her left leg and she was facing him again, her sword brushing his in warning.