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Will Graham is dead. Pronounced as such at 6:26 a.m, on the bright winter morning of November 18th, 2018. His body was lacerated by the ocean, coarse sand clogging his pores, his body filled with sea water. It was undecided whether to catagorise it as a suicide or under the grand list of murders commited by Doctor Hannibal Lecter, a bloodied cherry on top of an already extensive collection; another victim left to decay while the world turned without their presence.
Alana was called to identify him, Hannibal was nowhere to be seen, Jack couldn’t seem to shake the blame of his death from his shoulders – yet another grievance to seek forgiveness at the confessional for.
He had no living will, but Alana felt it necessary to give as much as she could to the local dog shelters in his name, only taking a single fishing lure – now living as a memento upon her desk. Maybe one day she may be able to let Margot convince her she had no part to play in his death, but that was far from the truth; she had made many mistakes along her path to where she is today and her treatment of him now lays claim to the top spot upon that list. Her actions were not unfounded, however, the guilt seeps through the words she gave at his funeral – littered with apologies and unintelligible confessions.
It was not her who shed the most tears as his coffin was lowered into the ground, not her who weeped silently as roses were piled high on the wooden box – not families of the victims he gave closure to, not his co-workers at the FBI.
It was the solemn figure standing just out of sight, dark coat pulled up as to cover their face, as for days and nights this figure drifted into the graveyard, each time with a bouquet of beautiful flowers of all varieties; occasionally with gifts of food or glittering gems shining in the moonlight, as if he were a deity to leave offerings to. Every visit took hours, the figure kneeling, hands grasping the sides of the polished stone tile; like the spirit of Will Graham would rise and possess them if they were only strong enough to hold it. This figure was stricken with grief, brought to their knees by the mere thought of his absence, forced to withstand the weight of the world without him to balance the burden. They were half the person they were before without him. And as people watched on, they wondered if they would ever be truly whole again.
Jack did not cry at the announcement of his death, nor by the side of the autopsy table, nor at his funeral. He only let one tear fall in the silence of his barren home, accompanied by a bottle of whiskey bought by him for his birthday, slowly draining over the course of the night. It made him reconsider his place in the world, if he was created to experience grief as a testament to the fragility of the human race, if he was the test subject of a cruel god attempting to pull someone apart from the inside of their mind through no direct action of his own.
Hannibal Lecter did not mean for Will to die. He did not know that in falling from the cliff edge, Will would be forced from his arms by the ocean waves, be pulled helplessly into the dark abyss of the water, out of sight. Part of him wished he could let himself die, but unfortunately for him the choice had been taken out of his hands. If he made no attempt to save his love, what kind of a man would he be?
A weak, weak man.
So, as his lungs screamed for air, he swam deeper and deeper, catching the floating – unconscious – body by the fabric of his shirt and pulled him to the surface against the force of thrashing waves. He tried again and again to revive him but to no success, his ribs were shattered, lungs ejecting water with each desperate push to his heart. If it was the force with which they hit the water or the ocean laying claim to his lungs that killed him, he did not know. The answer would come to haunt his dreams as much as his waking hours, clinging to his skin, absorbing into his bloodstream, nestling into every corner of his mind.
His voice held no force, each word sputtered out like a whisper, accompanied by heavy-hearted sobs, “ Mylimasis …” Hannibal reached out, holding the side of the pale face lying in the sand, caressing him with the tenderness he had longed to have shown him for an eternity. There were no words in any existing earthly language to describe the pain and sorrow and apology Hannibal craved to express toward the motionless corpse; and so, overcome with guilt, he left the body of his love to be discovered and be given the treatment of care he would only wish to bestow upon him.
It would not be long before Hannibal killed again, hiding in plain sight as he had done many times before, but without the glamour and grandeur of his previous life. In his mind he had lost the privilege of living with such splendid gifts, he had made yet another frivolous mistake which had – again – cost him the life of his most treasured love.
This presentation was a beautiful tribute to the time they had shared, littered with mementos gathered from Italy as well as gifts salvaged from the vacant bungalow Will called home. Each was carefully placed to look like it had been scattered across the floor, leading up to a body – insignificant who it was – lungs pulled back and spread thin to represent wings, arms lifted – mimicking the outstretched hands of an Icarus statue, glittering in the golden light filtering in from behind the figure. He was pulled and held by fishing hooks and string attached to the ceiling of where it all began; where their paths intertwined and their lives would be changed forever – the kitchen of the Hobbs family.
Among the treasures laid out in front of this man, was a manuscript, a piece written for the harpsichord left untitled. A note lay on top of the beautifully handwritten transcription of a presumably extremely emotional piece, penned in the same black ink – barely dry by the time first responders arrived after an anonymous tip was left on their phone line – it read as such:
My Dearest,
I leave this as my final offering to you as forgiveness for my mistakes. I hope that with this you will allow me passage into your arms when the time comes. If you do not find me worthy, I will gladly suffer whatever penance you see fit for my actions.
I would have never been able to fully express myself as you fill my veins with such power I cannot manifest the words or actions to show you exactly what you have done for me.
No matter our distance, I pray that you will bestow enough mercy upon my soul to grace me with your memory; of your radiant smile, of those eyes which even with my gaze I could never dream to reach the depths of, of the way you waltzed so carelessly into my life I could not help but fall so effortlessly into your arms the moment you allowed me such comfort.
Eternally yours, mind, body and soul.
He left no signature, he did not deem it necessary. Instead he allowed the words flowing from the tip of his pen to speak forth his name and mould his image.
Soon after the discovery, the letter and its contents were leaked onto the internet, sparking speculation of this seemingly hidden killer and the subject of his affections. However to those close to the pair, and even those slightly further out – onlookers to their affair, it was clear as day the message of this murder. It was that of a broken man, repenting for the actions he cannot undo, spilling out the contents of his heart onto the canvas of their discussion.
There was never a date listed alongside the life of Hannibal Lecter to mark his departure from the world, no body ever found. There was no funeral, no justice served to those marked by his blackened hand, only a day continuing onwards without him with no acknowledgement of his passing.
If there is an afterlife perhaps they reunited as lovers do, holding one another in that fatal embrace once more. If not, each is haunted in their deaths with the loss of the other, cursed to exist eternally without the blessing of closure.
In another life, they may have met differently, without the backdrop of blood, lies and secrets. Perhaps then they could have loved each other without remorse or the assumption of betrayal lingering behind every interaction they shared. Expressing themselves through tender touches and gentle kisses planted upon every inch of the other in reverence for their beauty. For every reality where they intertwined themselves in the mind of the other, there is one where their paths do not cross and they are left empty and without an answer of what could fill that endless void within their hearts.
In this life, however, they were not granted this mercy.