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There was nothing to describe the smell that came from the water. It was nothing except rotting, reminiscent of a bloated corpse and yellow bones. The water itself could only be called water since there was nothing else it could be called, dyed a crimson stained brown that in certain lights, when the sun was captured between the coiling waves and the vultures plopping shit, the water would turn a shining puce.
Hannibal’s half-mask, protecting his nose and mouth from the twisting effluvia birthed from the waters, did nothing to save him from the stench. His satchel weighed him down and made him drag his feet from the miles of trudging through mud and dead vegetation. If he looked up from his vigilant watch of the many holes in the dirt path before him, he could see the purple bruised sky of the setting sun.
It was almost an hour after the moon had risen that he finally, finally saw the shack that was spoken of only in murmurs and half whispers. At the very edge of a bluff far above the roiling sea, Hannibal’s blistered feet took him ever higher until he finally stopped outside the door with a human skull for a knocker.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Hannibal waited patiently. He heard a rustling from the other side of the weather worn door.
A gruff voice called out from within, “Who goes there?”
Hannibal’s voice was thick from behind his mask. “A traveler in search of a potion I’ve heard rumors you can create.”
A wary pause. “Which potion are you looking for?”
“A potion that promotes rejuvenation and health from those stricken with the Wendigo’s Fever.”
Hannibal felt his stomach twist at the next pause, long and stretched thin with what sounded like an animalistic whine puncturing it deep below the bluff in the woods far behind him. The miles separating them still didn’t feel like enough when he knew what it was that was making those sounds.
He nearly jumped when the sounds of heavy thunk!s and the slide of rough steel on wood punctured the stillness. The door creaked open, revealing a mass of brown curls hiding witch eyes. Skin as pale as moonlight shone with power, even with an unruly scruff and plain brown robes hid anything that could have been attractive.
The witch on the other side asked in his rough voice, “Who is the potion for?”
“My sister,” Hannibal said, his voice clearer now that one barrier was gone though he did not remove the mask, “an accident many years ago has cursed her with ravenous hunger and a thirst for blood. She is to be executed within the year if she is not cured.”
The witch seemed to watch him from behind his hair, studying him. Hannibal stood his ground, not giving the witch any provocation to deny him. His road worn tunic with his steel breast guard, his soft boiled leather trousers tucked into strong filthy boots. Eyes the color of a war field with lanks of greasy silver streaked ash hair. Accepting what he saw, the witch pulled away from the door, leaving a wide space for Hannibal to slip through.
Inside was not what Hannibal had expected and exactly as he imagined it to be. Clean and orderly, the single room he could see had a fireplace with a rumpled bed nearby, a small human kitchen with closed cabinets and a sink filled with unwashed dishes beside it. A homey green rug softened the hardwood floors, a small table with a sturdy chair beside it. It even had bits of tackle equipment strewn about the tops like the witch was about to go fishing any minute.
But he wasn’t human, could never be human. The bookshelves (and oh so many beautiful books, Hannibal had never seen such a wondrous number of books in one place) were lined and stuffed with hex books in languages that couldn’t be human. The larder was clogged with bits and baubles of all kinds of organics and moving parts. The shelves that adorned the walls were filled with monstrous plants and tools he could not name. Above the fire, bubbling away with a smell far too rich wafting towards him, was a cast iron cauldron.
“Take a seat,” the witch offered gruffly, shuffling away to his heating cauldron, sweeping his tackle bits into a basket to set off to the side of a basin in the corner.
Hannibal took the offer and slumped down into the chair, nearly groaning in relief as he did so. He might have made a sound anyways, as the witch turned towards him, watching him like a rabid dog from beneath his hair, only to turn away from Hannibal like he was a mildly interesting rock.
Hannibal set down his satchel beside his aching feet, finally slipping off the half mask and throwing it onto the table to breathe in the stale musk of the witch’s shack with its many spicy and unidentifiable smells. He could have laughed it all smelled so sweet compared to the musty breath of his three days unremoved mask.
He eyed the witch cautiously as he filled two bowls with whatever was in the cauldron, wooden spoons plopping into the mess within. The witch then brought one bowl down before Hannibal slowly, ready to flee at any sudden movement. Retreating to his bed six paces away from Hannibal, he snapped his fingers.
Hannibal blinked as a goblet of red wine appeared beside the beef stew in front of him. He looked up to see that a small bedside table appeared next to the witch where he set his own meal of stew and wine, eating without reservation.
The witch contemplated Hannibal. “Not hungry?”
Hannibal shifted to cross his legs. “Is it not unwise to take the food of one who has spoken with the Devil?”
The witch snorted, washing down his next comment with a gulp of wine. “It’s unwise to stay hungry when you haven’t eaten in two days.”
Hannibal refused to allow his eyes their owlish looks. “Have you been spying on me?”
“No,” the witch replied, “I’ve been guiding you. Here.”
“Why?”
“I’ve known of your journey for some time. Since you crossed the forest and started to walk the shore towards me four days ago, I’ve been sure to keep the forest spirits otherwise occupied for you.”
Hannibal’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I was attacked just yesterday by a Ghost Worm. The day before, by a hoard of dryads out for my skin. The day before that, it was the Vile Bats and the day before that the Blood Hounds. We’re you really protecting me?”
“Protecting you?” The witch’s laugh was like two rusted pans rubbing together, “I’ve been sending them your way.”
In a flash of movement, Hannibal was pointing a long dagger at the witch’s pale throat. He snarled, “Trying to kill me before I could reach here?”
“I’ve been testing your resolve,” the witch said placidly, taking another spoonful of stew, “You passed. Now eat up, I don’t want you fainting before I get what I need from you.”
Hannibal smoothly hid his dagger away in his belt, striding with dignity as he finally began to eat his stew. Rich and creamy with chunks of meat and potatoes with slices of carrots and tomatoes, Hannibal didn’t care that the tomatoes might poison him as he politely shoveled the food into his mouth. He finished his bowl quicker than he wanted, but didn’t turn down another ladle full from the cauldron.
His belly finally filled with stew and wine, Hannibal sat back to see the witch regarding him from his bookshelves.
“I’ll be in the basement,” he intoned. “Whatever you hear, don’t go in.”
Screams and squeals, squelches and slurps, it all came from beneath Hannibal’s feet that night. In the morning, hours after the last of the sounds had vanished, he woke from his makeshift bed by the dead fireplace to the sights and sounds of the witch working at his table.
Picking himself up, Hannibal made to stand over the witch’s shoulder only to be yanked by a strong force to be beside him.
“Don’t hover,” the witch said, “It makes for testy spells and nervous shakes.”
Hannibal waved to the jars on the table, ignoring the way his fists clenched. “How does one know what all this does?”
“The same way one learns all things,” the witch replied, adding something purple and dry to a mortar filled with herbs, “From a teacher.”
“Was your teacher kind?” Hannibal asked, looking for the witch’s eyes behind the mass of curls, “Or was he cruel?”
“He was what he was,” the witch turned to Hannibal now, “and he was nothing more. Now give me your heart.”
“Why must you have it?”
“Your love has been what’s spurred you on - anything less will never work for the potion.” The witch stopped Hannibal’s hand from going to his dagger. “The heart of your love.”
Hannibal appraised him. “How do you mean?”
“A fond momento, the source of your secret, the reason that your sister will not die of Wendigo Fever. Give it to me.”
“What could I possibly have to match that?”
Will pulled Hannibal’s shirt until they were only inches from each other. “You have your memories.” And he kissed him.
To call it a kiss would be a misnomer: a devouring of soul, a reliving of plenty and a weightlessness in the face of danger. Hannibal’s eyes slid shut at the feelings, only opening his eyes to see the witch parting away from him, a splash of light lingering on his lips.
“Will,” the witch said, “My name is Will. Hannibal, I want you to slit your wrists for me, bleed into this bottle.” It didn’t concern him that the witch knew his name, merely doing what was bidden of him.
Once done the witch snapped his fingers and all that was left was a scar.
The witch finished the potion in silence afterwards, paying no attention to the man that was laying down on his bed in a daze.
“Will you allow me to return?” Hannibal asked at the door when they were ready to part, “When I’ve cured my sister, may I come back?”
Will smiled, his first since Hannibal had seen him. “Please do.”
“May I have a parting kiss?”
“I would like nothing better.”
Hannibal put a tender hand to Will’s scruff, leaning in to smell the fragrances of the shack - Will’s home - and commit them to memory. A tender kiss placed on biting lips, Hannibal had to fight himself from pushing Will to his bed.
“Is there nothing I can do,” Hannibal whispered as they parted, “to have you with me.”
Will was silent for a moment before pushing aside his thick hair. “Look me in the eyes and say that you will come back. Dead or alive, you’ll come back to me.”
Hannibal was unable to turn away from stormy eyes, whose center was red as blood. “I will come back to you once my sister is cured.”
“Then be on your way,” Will smiled, and his eyes smiled with him as he helped Hannibal into his mask.
One last embrace and Hannibal was gone.
Will held a small marble in his hand, rolled in between his fingers. “You’ll always come back to me, Hannibal Lecter. You’ve never had the choice.”