Chapter Text
Hannibal first found his lamb as he descended the golden steps of King Solomon’s Temple, head bowed in reverent worship.
Curls donned his forehead like a crown, dark and lustrous beneath the moonlight, as were the lashes covering his gaze.
Hannibal had been young then, by his standards, not even a century old and relearning the world from behind the lens of a monster's gaze.
623 B.C., the Classical era of humankind.
The spread of religion, crops and disease.
The rise of empires and the fall of kings while the classical Greeks lay the foundation for Western civilization.
It was beautiful to be monstrous among the birth of civilization, to watch the Earth rise up to great towers, soil stained crimson with bloodshed.
He was hungry, as he always was, but there was something about taking life from the divine. Pure, full of righteous spirit, seraphic on the tongue.
There were eighteen of them in the first Temple of Solomon, eighteen High Priests worthy to be the intercessor between God and Man.
Of course, Hannibal knew there was no God, no mighty creator, wrathful or not.
Just him and his kind, scouring the Earth for a drop of rapture amidst the serpents.
Hannibal’s particular exaltation for tonight comes swathed in fine layers of virginal cotton, stark as snow.
His mouth aches with the torrid scent of blood, cloying even at this distance.
The lamb smells of salt and incense and beneath is a sweetness with thin skin and juicy flesh. It brings to mind being a child, running along the shore of the Baltic Sea with his mother scolding him as his sister followed in pursuit, the scent of ripened plums coming in on the sea breeze from the nearby fruit orchards
Hannibal hisses through a pained inhale, tasting the high priest on his tongue without even cutting his skin.
It pulls him forward on silent feet, eyes dark as he follows the man.
He doesn’t make a sound, but the man’s head lifts, curls silken under the silver moon. His eyes are revealed at last and it brings with it another pang of homesickness, to see the ocean reflected in his eyes.
Hannibal wants to kill him for the crime of nostalgia, teeth pointed beneath the flex of his tongue.
The man is peering around the darkness, squinting.
The closest light comes from the temple entrance, the great Menorah lampstands flickering a gentle gold over the inner courtyard.
Hannibal is hidden by the weight of the pillars at the entrance, so after a long, hesitant stillness, the priest shakes his head and ambles towards the bronze basin, the Molten Sea, where he begins to disrobe to bathe.
Hannibal moves swiftly to the side of the altar diagonal, hand on the warm stone as he peers into the fire flickering above, hunger twisting his lips.
The priest’s skin glows in the firelight, gilded as he sinks into the water.
He doesn’t see Hannibal coming, but even when he’s hauled from the basin by his throat, splashing gouts of water over the side, he doesn’t struggle, blue eyes locked with Hannibal’s in something like absolution.
He doesn’t scream, doesn’t thrash or plead, doesn’t even sour with the scent of fear or piss.
He’d seemed so blind in the dark before, uncertain as he searched for the reason his skin crawled, but faced with his answer his face is serene.
“Be not afraid,” Hannibal whispers anyways, as he always does.
The man’s brow creases, puzzled. “Do you come as an angel?”
Hannibal laughs lowly, feeling the rumble in his chest, watches the man’s eyes linger on his teeth. “Would that make you more comfortable? To go to your maker in the arms of the very angel he created?”
The priest doesn’t answer at first, studying Hannibal with a calm precision, until, finally. “No.”
Hannibal smiles softly, placating as he leans closer, smelling the smoked spices heavy on the man's skin. “And what would make you more comfortable, servant of god?”
“More comfortable than death?”
Hannibal’s eyebrows twitch up in surprise, mind warring with his instincts to rip into the tender throat fluttering under his palm. He’s been working on his civility though, how to put a mask on over the beast.
“You embrace death?”
The man blinks, a simple flutter of his lashes, unperturbed. “Death is not my end.”
Hannibal is intrigued, but more than his intrigue, he is hungry. So he takes pity on the priest and sends him to his wrathful Father.
The first note to reach Hannibal’s palate is salt, rich and savory, melding beautifully with the tang of iron that follows. This man, like all others, has a unique flavor that Hannibal revels in, taking notice of each subtle change.
He wonders if all high priest’s taste this fragrant, marinated with cinnamon and frankincense and saffron and myrrh, a delicate balance of sweetness and earthy.
He hums a laugh against the man’s neck, amused by the thought that he could almost understand divinity when it came in a package like this.
Hannibal pulls back, tilting his head back with a muted groan, pulling in a gulp of fresh air to clear his palate.
“Oh, you are ambrosial , little priest.”
The man’s eyes roll, scanning the heavens, before lighting back on Hannibal’s face. His mouth parts, a ragged breath slipping out.
Hannibal moves his hand from the man’s throat to his cheek, cradling it softly, smearing blood over the smooth skin.
He bends to the man’s neck again, the weak thump of pulse at his fingers, sluggish blood blooming from the puncture of his teeth.
Hannibal laves his tongue over it.
Sublime.
“I forgive you.” Are the last words to leave the dying priest’s mouth.
It’s the first thing to stir warm emotion in Hannibal’s chest in years beyond anger.
His victims curse him, beat at him with useless fists, tears streaking their faces as they damn him to a hell he doesn’t believe in.
This man, this high priest of divinity, has absolved him of his crimes with whispered, blood-drenched words.
It tastes sweeter than anything he’s ever had.
So when the man goes limp in his arms, slumping, head rolling back to stare blankly at the sky, Hannibal lifts him up, carries his bloodied body to the burning altar.
The altar is used for offerings, to ask for repentance, to show sorrow for sins committed, a promise towards a change of heart.
Hannibal climbs the steps until he stands at the edge, gazing down at the body for a beat, then tosses the lamb into the fire.
The fire blooms around the mass with a licking heat, tongues of white flame spitting at Hannibal, screaming as they sear flesh.
The smell is mouth-watering and one Hannibal will carry with him for the rest of his immortal life.
…
He finds himself wandering for years after that, chasing the taste, the scent of a man he didn’t even know the name of.
Earth is much different the next time Hannibal sees his face, skin tanned dark by the sun, with shaggy curls hanging to his shoulders.
He’s younger, Hannibal thinks, less weariness tugging at his bones and lining his face, but old by the standards of peasantry.
Hannibal spies him by chance, traveling between Crete and Doris.
He’s headed for Ionia and Caria, to view two of the ancient world’s Seven Wonders, The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus and the Tomb of Mausolus at Halicarnassus.
He may be a monster at heart, but that doesn’t make him uncivilized. Humanity has more to offer than a blood supply for his raging hunger and with each passing century they produce more art and beauty than Hannibal can eat.
The travel to Doris is rough, having to conceal himself below the deck of a rotting, stinking ship, enduring off the meager blood of sea rats and the men who are wasting away from the perilous journey.
He finds the rats to be more well-fed and significantly less bitter.
That is to say, Hannibal found himself near starvation by the time he landed in Doris, stumbling through the seaside town in search of a less-crowded space, away from the port teeming with boats and bodies alike.
The closest thing to seclusion is miles out, but even at his weakest Hannibal’s body is superior to a human, faster and stronger, capable of enduring.
The emerald hills are a work of art themselves, rolling and scenic, dotted with woolen sheep.
There’s the assumption of a small farming village in the distance, but closer still is a set of sturdy stone structures. A home, an outhouse and an overhanging stable for the sheep.
The breeze kicks up, coming in salty and cool off the ocean, bringing him the peppery, herbal scent of olive trees and the musky warmth of sheep wool.
Under it all, a crosscurrent of blood, hot and pumping and much sweeter than that of a rat.
Hannibal stops where he is, feet planted on the dirt road, turning his head to scan the fields, skipping over the sheep and scraggly trees to find the figure layered in sheepskin and wool clothes.
A great sense of reminiscence washes over him as he abandons the path in favor of navigating the grass slope.
Sheep nuzzle his fingers as he goes, more affectionate than he’s used to from animals, who are often wary of his nature.
He pats their heads as he goes, like a benign deity, acknowledging them with bemused tolerance.
The shepard notices him before Hannibal gives himself away, too far to be heard, sensing him like he might the threat of a coyote.
Hannibal is given a tentative wave of the hand, head tilted in confusion.
He’s still far off when the shepard’s face registers with startling clarity, stealing the breath from Hannibal’s throat, interest piqued.
It’s his delicious high priest, wrapped in shepard’s garments, decidedly more hellenistic in his features. His hair is darker, the curls tighter, curling like the structure of a snail’s shell. His nose is straight at the bridge and his jawline is free of the beard Hannibal had last seen him with.
His cheekbones are the same, high and elegant, eyes heavily lidded, lashes thick against the slaughter of the sun.
Hannibal stops in place, feet rooting to the ground as he peruses the man’s face, rumination over the possibilities, the plausibility of this occurrence and the likeness of repetition if he walks another step, because if he doesn’t turn around and head for the village on the horizon he won’t be able to stop himself from ripping the man’s throat out and drinking the fountain that spills out.
Hannibal doesn’t get to make the decision and will never know if he’d have had the strength to turn away that day, because the shepard moves first, walking toward Hannibal at a leisurely pace.
He walks with a tall, gnarled stick, sheep at his flanks like protectors, face placid, undisturbed.
“Hello, stranger.”
He gives Hannibal a slight nod, head bowed in humble deference, acknowledging Hanibal’s superiority as his elder.
Hannibal’s mouth quirks into a smile and it’s more predatory than he intends because the man’s eyes grow wary and his footing falters.
Hannibal tilts his head to the side, hand at his breast, returning the respect owed while acknowledging the shepherd's age, beneath his own.
The Greeks have complicated and delicate social protocols in place within their culture, most notable with their aristocracy, but it’s enough to trickle down to this impoverished village.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you while you tend to your sheep, friend, but I find myself in need of shelter after my travels. I'm not sure if I can make it to the village, could I bother you for a moment’s peace?”
The shepherd's suspicion doesn’t wane as he nods slowly, eyes darting around the fields, as if he refuses to make eye contact. “I…suppose I can lend you space to rest yourself after your journey, but I must warn you, sir, that my abode is nothing luxurious.”
Hannibal follows him when beckoned, feigning relief once under the roofed structure, as if the shade is pleasing, when in reality his hunger is clenching ever more beneath his skin, barbed, burning.
The shepherd’s home is tidy, with few belongings. Woolen blankets line the floor in the far corner and the small kitchen is stocked with salted strips of meat, fresh olives in a basket, tender plums laid at the center of a hand-carved table.
There’s a small altar at the entry and the man stops to bow his head by it when he enters, dipping fingers into a bowl of olive oil to smear over his lips before he presses a kiss to the feet of a statue Hannibal is sure belongs to Apollon.
The shepherd’s lips glisten when he turns back, eyes darting briefly to Hannibal’s before he gestures vaguely at a varnished tree stump acting as a stool.
“You may sit.” He murmurs and Hannibal does with ease, watching the man stand awkwardly in his own home.
“Thank you for your kind hospitality, good shepherd.”
The man’s lips part, eyebrow knitting together. “I… Are you hungry, traveler?”
Hannibal’s lips twitch, teeth aching. “Famished.”
The man turns, hands trembling as he reaches for clay plateware, also handmade. Hannibal wonders absently as the man places olives and thick slices of a preserved, salted cheese on the plate followed by a hunk of bread and neat strips of salted meat.
Then the shepherd pulls a stone knife from the belt at his waist and picks up a plum to slice into, juice running down his wrist in rivulets of wet sweetness. He places each slice on the plate carefully until only the pit is left.
He slides the plate Hannibal’s way. “Would you like oil, sir?”
Hannibal is assuming he refers to olive oil, a standard delicacy of the region.
He drags a finger across the rim of the plate, eyeing the display. “I’d be delighted to take such richness on my tongue.”
The man stares at him with a wide-eyed bewilderment and retrieves a stout dark-glass container, holding it out for Hannibal to take.
He takes the shepherd’s hand with the bottle, pulling him closer with the contact, delighting in the way the man gulps, eyeing their hands.
“Thank you,” Hannibal says, setting the oil to the side without releasing the man’s hand.
He lifts it to his mouth, locking eyes as he drags his tongue over the juice still dripping down the man’s arm.
Hannibal hums, nostrils flaring as he passes the man’s pulse, hammering at the thin skin of his wrist.
Hannibal could bite down so easily, as if biting past nothing more than a plum’s skin.
He drops the shepherd’s hand to a whispered plea of ‘Apollon’, as if the man is praying to his deity for help.
Hannibal digs into the feast presented with relish. His tongue can still find the beauty in taste, even if it does nothing for his hunger.
The man watches with a rapt sort of attention, fingers curled in his layered clothes, eyes darting from Hannnibal’s fingers to his mouth as he lifts different delicacies to bite into.
His teeth are sharp with pain, pulling scents from the air, the drumming heartbeat wafting cinnamon and salt and olives. More savory than last time they met.
The shepherd won’t meet his eyes, but he refuses to look away and Hannibal wonders if it’s human instinct or something else, if he remembers Hannibal too.
He slides the plate away an inch when he finishes, licking salt and juices from his lips with lidded eyes.
The shepherd has an odd look on his face, eyes unfocused, staring at a point just over Hannibal's shoulder.
Hannibal reaches out with yearning fingers, grasping the man’s wrist, earning no remark or rebuttal for his efforts.
He tugs the man forward a step, testing, then another, until he’s closed the distance and the man’s unfocused look shatters with a shaking exhale, chest heaving as he looks down at Hannibal.
“What are you?”
There’s knowledge coloring his tone, but Hannibal isn’t sure what kind it is.
“What are any of us in this life, but wandering souls searching for meaning to fill our bellies?”
The shepherd goes without a fight when Hannibal pulls him down, eyes examining Hannibal’s face with apprehension.
“I’m not looking for an eromenos , sir.”
Hannibal’s eyebrows lift, genuinely surprised at the assumption. “Nor I an erastes , boy.”
The presumption gives Hannibal more insight to the man’s age, definitely younger than the last time, then.
He’s inferring the way Hannibal wants to devour him, but the context is off, likely unfathomable.
“What do you want?”
Hannibal rises, hand still circled around the man’s wrist, backing them up until the man hits a wall, wary, but lacking any true fear.
“While I greatly appreciated your offered food and the sacrifice it cost you, I still find myself famished.”
“Help yourself to the kitchen. Please.”
He doesn’t say please in the manner of grace, but instead asking Hannibal to spare him.
As much as he would like to turn from the smooth column of the man’s throat, ignore the siren call in his blood, Hannibal's will hangs by less than a thread, fragile to the point of implosion.
He cages the shepherd against the wall, bending his head to soft, musky curls. “If you believe in any gods, now is the time to pray to them.”
The man looks beyond him, towards the fields. “What of my sheep?”
Hannibal finds himself nearing laughter, cruel, truly, in the face of the situation, but the man continues to take him by surprise.
“I believe your sheep will survive longer than you will.”
“Ah.”
Hannibal expects more, once again, confusion, at the least.
There’s just silence as he brushes the curls from the man’s neck, sweeping them aside to reveal smooth tanned skin.
“Are you not afraid?”
The shepherd tilts his chin up, eyes flinty when he lifts heavy lids.
“I will go to Hades’ realm with acceptance.”
Hannibal leans in, breathing hot over the man’s neck, delighting in the shiver it pulls from him. “Send him my regards.”
He doesn’t go soundless as last time, a pained grunt ghosting past his lips when Hannibal’s teeth sink in and the taste of him is sweeter for it.
The last words he speaks are not for Hannibal, but for his god.
“Apollon, forgive him.”
…
Sunlight streams in through the columns in radiant, refracting luminosity, highlighting the marble with hellfire.
Hannibal ascends the stairs slowly, taking in the tympanum decorated with frieze sculpture, painted in vibrant hues.
There are bodies moving around him but Hannibal finds them inconsequential in the face of his remorse.
He fingers the bundle in the folds of his robes before he continues inside, entering with the rest of the cattle.
The walls are splashed with a cranberry red, teal bordering the different levels and the grand ceiling makes room for Her, the goddess Artemis.
Hannibal doesn’t see much appeal to her, but he can respect a figure known for hunting.
Apollon, forgive him.
It doesn’t help her case, to be related to the very name the shepherd had whispered with his dying breath.
Again, with the forgiveness.
As if Hannibal needs forgiveness for being what he is.
“Hannibal.”
He doesn’t turn, knowing the cadence of that voice anywhere, beyond used to the melancholy.
“Bedelia.”
In the corner of his vision he can see how her golden hair curls in the light, attracting attention with its brightness.
She must look like one of their gods, to them, so pale and beautiful.
“Why have you come here?”
He stares up at the decorated walls, amused. “Are you not more concerned about why I’ve asked you here?”
She eyes him, “I am always concerned when it comes to you, Hannibal.”
“Not concerned for me, I trust.”
“No.”
“I have come across a rather peculiar plight since we last saw each other.”
She drifts to the side, weaving through the throng with ease, and Hannibal falls in step beside her.
“What have you found?”
Hannibal pulls out the bound cloth, tied with a lock of dark hair, placing it in Bedilia’s palm.
She swallows thickly, looking around the grand space.
“What is this?” She whispers.
He can tell by her tone, the dilation of her irises, that she can scent the organic nature of the bundle.
“Open it.”
She does, with shaking fingers, sucking in a sharp breath and turning her face when it falls open, revealing his trophies.
“Hannibal…this is graceless.”
He trains his gaze across the room, watching the line of humans approaching the statue, bending to pray and offer and plead.
“I’d prefer to call it unconventional.”
She wraps up the bundle and holds it out for him. “Why did you do this?”
He takes the homemade pouch gingerly, aware of the precious sundries. “Would you believe me if I told you I have recently found myself feeling devotional?”
Bedelia’s eyes drop to the treasure in his hand. “I would question your motivations.”
“Have you ever encountered the same face twice while wandering the Earth?”
“I haven’t been on this Earth as long as you have, Hannibal.”
He hums, stepping toward the towering statue, venerated. “I have found the same human twice now. Changed only by his environment. Twice now, he has bestowed upon me the gift of forgiveness. Forgiveness at the time of death.”
“Do you feel worthy of his forgiveness?” She asks softly, eyes downcast.
“An interesting question. One I don’t have the answer for yet. Perhaps if I have the honor of enjoying his company again I will let you know.”
Her head whips toward him, incredulity written in her eyes. “You would kill him again?”
Hannibal closes his eyes, tilting his head skyward with a grin. “I have tasted him twice now on my tongue. I’m not sure I could deny myself the pleasure if I was given the opportunity a hundred times over.”
“You have no morality left, Hannibal. You will succumb to nothingness if you do not find a reason to exist.”
He inhales, smelling the fear on her skin, the disgust lacing her words. It fuels him as he leaves her side, joining the mass of bodies funneling toward the goddess.
He kneels at her feet as the swine do, hollowing out a space in his chest to make room for a sliver of idolatry, setting the bundle down with ardor, tracing the shape of it before he removes himself from the dais.
He traces his tongue over his teeth, remembering the feel of the shepherds beneath his tongue as he stole that last breath of air.
Now they sit at Artemis’s feet, his spoils of the hunt.
He can only hope his entreaty is answered in his immortal lifetime.