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2.5, Mukōzuke
“I want you to kill Hannibal Lecter.”
Seven words. That’s all it took to bring Will Graham to his knees, gasping for air. He reached back to run a hand over his neck when a wave of shock brought him gasping to the floor. He ripped his shirt from his body, feeling something rippling beneath the skin of his back. Something had uncoiled itself from his spine and was trying its hardest to emerge through his flesh. As he panted, he felt pinpricks up and down his back, branching from either side of his spine, sharp additions to his skeleton. He couldn’t see them, but he knew what they were, the image of the Ravenstag seared under his eyelids and burned into his brain when he closed his eyes. He saw himself in a field, a young woman thrown over him and held fast, prongs sticking through her flesh to emerge on the other side. Cassie Boyle. Abbigail. No, no... not her. Hannibal. He was the one deserving of such an end, and Will had promised him as much. The orderly had given him a crooked smile, awe for Will still radiating from him in waves. He would do it—or at least he would try. And he’d make sure that Will was given the credit for his good work. Hannibal would know that, in the end, he died by Will’s hands. It would be glorious; Will had no doubt about that. Hannibal’s flesh elevated to the level of the art that he himself so loved to create. Will’s breath came in quick pants, his back arched, and the proud antlers on his back praised his Becoming.
2.6, Futamono
“I look at these dogs… I see the best part of Will. But he’s lying. He’s manipulating, he’s playing a game, and he’s not scared. Not anymore. That’s what’s making him dangerous.”
The second time he felt it, he allowed them to come. He had expected them, and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply in and out as he felt the branching antlers spread out from his spine. It felt right now, that the stag that had so long followed him through his nightmares would become a part of him. It had been all along, as a shadow, a companion, a warning. He just hadn’t heeded it, and now he could feel the evidence of his change fused to his spine, uncoiling magnificently to fill and escape the cage that held him. Breathing deeply, he held the bars in front of him to ground himself, trying to reason out his next move. The orderly had failed. It wasn’t a surprise. Not really. The man was just another pawn, captured by a ravenous opponent. He’d made a mistake, he understood that now. He couldn’t send someone else, no, Hannibal was too proud to let himself die at the hands of a pretender. A proxy. He had to be the one to do it, to silence the monster and make him pay for what he’d done. And he wanted to desperately. He wanted to see the life leave the monster’s eyes as he was torn to shreds himself; until he was torn like he had torn Will, his reputation and his life thrown, destroyed, at his feet. He could see it, feel it, just as acutely as he could feel the prongs rising through his skin. He wouldn’t be Doctor Lecter when Will got his way, he would be Hannibal, Will’s first and only true victim. It would be Hannibal’s neck crunching under his hands, Hannibal’s blood smeared over his skin, and Hannibal’s chest impaled by the proud antlers branching from his back. He tightened his grip on the bars in front of him, focusing on keeping his breathing and mind even. He knew what he wanted now. He knew who he was and who he wasn’t. He wasn’t a victim, not anymore. And he would have his Reckoning.
When he opened his eyes, the magnificent antlers had gone but he could still sense them, rolling beneath his skin, and stirring his blood to a boil at the sight before him. He thought that maybe, just maybe, the man before him had seen them too.
“Hello, Doctor Lecter.”
2.9, Shiizakana
“Kill.”
It was one of Jack’s “weird ones,” to be sure, but Will could see him. A man with the soul of a beast. He closed his eyes and watched the pendulum swing, his stag beside him in an instant, standing in the woods to watch their prey. The couple was a lovely one. He could smell the blood thrumming in their veins. He wanted to taste it. A single word to his beast and it was galloping towards the happy couple, their laughing turned to screams as it ran them down. It ripped at them, gored and tore at their bodies where they fell, and he could taste their blood between his teeth. He took his stag’s place to tear at them, and drink in their dying breaths. He wasn’t a victim, not anymore. He was a predator. Rearing up, his mouth opened in a silent scream, the dark antlers on his back dripping with the gore that tasted so, so right.
2.11, Kō No Mono
Rebirth
The Wendigo was watched as Will’s beast fell. It watched as the animal’s belly bulged, its breaths heavy and pained as the life inside it pushed to get out. The creature broke through the stag’s belly and stretched and strained to escape, to be born. The Wendigo cocked its head and watched the spectacle, curious to see what would happen. What emerged was a new creature, not quite what the Wendigo was and yet not the same Will that it used to be. He was a transformed, terrified thing, not yet ready to join the world as he was but forced into being regardless. The antlers protruding from his head punctured the amniotic sac, and he gasped, trying to force air through blood-slicked lungs.
When he found his voice, he screamed.
3.13, The Wrath of the Lamb
“It’s beautiful.”
When Dolarhyde stabbed him, plunged the knife so deeply into his cheek that he had to tear it from his own flesh, his antlers didn’t appear to defend him. They didn’t manifest themselves to be his weapons, they wouldn’t even become his shield and his throat would have been snapped quickly, his body falling into the collecting pool of his own blood had Hannibal Lecter not run to save him.
Hannibal drew the Dragon’s attention, wrapping his arms around his neck, and the killer bellowed and flung him away, stalking over to stand over him where he fell with dark intent in his eyes. Shaking with pain and exertion, Will looked for Hannibal and saw the Great Red Dragon’s mighty wings unfold, the apex predator ready to end the struggling man on the ground before him. That couldn’t happen. Will gripped the knife handle embedded in his shoulder and tugged, the blade sliding out covered in his blood. The Dragon lifted Hannibal by his throat, whether ready to bite or crush Will didn’t know, but he plunged the knife that he pulled from his own flesh into the Dragon’s side. Hannibal was dropped and regained his footing immediately. The beast bellowed, his proud wings shrinking back as the two developed a rhythm; Will with the Dragon’s own knife and Hannibal with the hatchet he’d pulled from the woodpile. He didn’t see his antlers then, not as clearly as he had seen the Dragon’s massive leathery wings, but he could feel them. The prongs curled upwards through his skin and through his clothing, standing taller and more imposing than ever before.
As he and Hannibal circled slowly, the Dragon staggering and wounded between them, Hannibal met his eyes. Will hunched close to the ground, his chest heaving, covered in his own gore and that of the beast they were about to bring down. Will knew that he could see them then—Hannibal could see his antlers curling upwards from his bowed back. He could see how magnificent they were. They surged forward, and Will slit open the Dragon’s belly as Hannibal wrenched his neck back to rip away a chunk of flesh with his teeth, the muscles and skin stretching and tearing, giving way to a rush of red that stained the ground beneath them. The great wings drooped and disappeared as the Dragon fell to his knees, and lay instead over new wings made for him by his destroyers—wings of blood that branched out, greater still than those of bone and sinew that he'd imagined for himself. He was a work of art; one completed by Hannibal and Will together.
“It does look black in the moonlight,” was all that Will could say, staring at his own hand in wonder, shining with blood. Hannibal helped him to his feet, pulling him to stand at the eroding edge of the bluff. Will held onto him desperately, fisting his hands into Hannibal’s shirt as they panted, adrenaline giving way to pain and exhaustion.
“See?” Hannibal said. “This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us.”
Will smiled then, remembering a time when he didn't even want to look into the other man’s eyes. He felt the antlers on his back as clearly as ever, and knew that he was meant to be here. They were meant to be together in this place and at this time. And he replied the only way he could—“It’s beautiful.” He buried his face into the crook of Hannibal’s neck and held him close, feeling the strong arms around him hold him fast.
Falling from the cliff came as easily as falling asleep—Will couldn't have prayed for a better end. He felt righteous, beautiful, strong, and safe, and he smiled and closed his eyes as the water beneath rose up to meet them.
Epilogue
Havana
Their survival had never been a part of Will’s plan, but when they both hit the bottom with life still in their bodies, they disappeared from the rest of the world. They situated themselves as far away from Jack, from the FBI, from the Dragon’s corpse and the ghosts they’d left in their wake as they could. They disguised themselves and lived luxuriously, and anyone who looked twice at them with any recognition came over for dinner and never left. They even had a dog, as Will was sure that Winston would have found a way to follow him even if they hadn’t brought him along. The fluffy mutt had taken well to the easy life himself, and Will laughed to see Hannibal chasing him over the sand. Will did that a lot lately—he laughed and smiled like he hadn’t before, the twisted scar on his cheek stretching with the movement.
Hannibal the Cannibal had been all over the news. Whole nations had feared him, there were books about him (even ones not written by the currently-incapacitated Frederick Chilton), and speculation and rumors spread like wildfire, and yet they lived now in relative peace. Hannibal was an adapter, and he acclimated well to his new environment, even as Will looked over his shoulder. Their pictures had been everywhere for months after they disappeared. Hannibal topped the FBI’s Most Wanted list (the official narrative named Will Graham as the Ripper’s latest victim, probably thanks to Jack), and yet, on their island they weren’t disturbed. Hannibal attributed it to their new appearances and the private nature of the locals. It was funny, almost, how a beard and a new wardrobe could change him so utterly for others—the way he spoke, the way he carried himself, how could it not be Hannibal? But nobody came for them, no decked-out teams burst through their door, so Will, despite himself, began to breathe easier.
Most days were long ones, the sun bright in the sky. On one such day, Will shifted his feet in the sand and looked over at him, Hannibal, basking in the midday sun, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He wore his loose shirt unbuttoned with black swim trunks, his flip-flops discarded in the sand between them. Will felt that he should’ve looked ridiculous, dressed down as he was from the three-piece suits that he was used to, but somehow he looked right at home. There was an easy smile on his face, giving Will a fleeting image of a contented snake sleeping in the sun. Hannibal felt his eyes on him, and peered over his sunglasses to meet his gaze.
“Will?”
Will smiled and shook himself out of his reverie. He stood and stretched languidly, yawning.
“That landlord was extremely rude, don’t you think?” he said, recalling the angry old man who’d refused them a stay the day before. A sly smile curled the corners of Hannibal’s mouth, and he stood slowly, brushing sand from his clothes.
“Distasteful man,” he said. “Shall we pay him a visit?”
Will rolled his shoulders, feeling the antlers rise into place along his back. Hannibal’s gaze on him was reverent, and Will knew that he could see them too. Hannibal pulled him in close, and Will wrapped his arms around him, smiling into his neck.
“My butterfly,” Hannibal whispered, “Shall we?”
Will stretched, feeling the antlers shift and move with his muscles. When he closed his eyes, he could see Hannibal’s, a matching set attached to the Wendigo’s dark shape. He smiled, comforted by the image, and felt a thrill up his spine.
“Of course,” he said.
The two walked slowly away from the beach, hand in hand, their shadows black and stretched in the fading light, each dark shape christened with magnificent antlers.