Chapter Text
There is nothing to be gained from denying this match—aside from his mortal soul, the clergyman continues to remind him—and everything to lose.
They have come to his manor house, shrouded by the dark of night, to offer him the most advantageous marital arrangement for anyone on the continent. Offer, they keep saying, but this is no offer. His fate has been decided by men more powerful than himself, and while he can deny the match, he knows all too well what would come of that. From his King, this is a demand.
There is something contented about them, he can see it through the candlelight. What they have brought him, these three Advisors from a foreign court, is something he should be joyous about. Part of him is, but the shuddering and gasping and save us God’s behind him make that part of him quiet.
He stares at them, taking in their soft smiles and strong bodies. Two men and a woman in dripping deep blue riding cloaks threaded with gold and light livery of blue and green, embellished with glinting swordfish—they are from Myria.
His small staff wouldn’t allow them further in, nor did they set a fire for them. The three are still at the entrance, and Hannibal intends to keep them there until they squirm. His staff, the clergyman, and his companion stay behind him for his protection.
Myria is a week's ride in the best conditions, and nature has not been kind to them. The mountains are known for their snow and rain, regardless of the season, and they shiver with blue lips and stiff fingers as they wait for him to do something. The King of Lyrae has not done anything for them either, despite the good relationship that this arrangement is meant to secure. He allowed them to leave in their thin fabrics meant for the seaside and travel from his palace to Hannibal’s manor house. The only warmth they have is their cloaks and the warm bodies of their horses. Now, neither offers them anything.
The stone walls whistle and creak, a frigid breeze sneaking in through the aging building. Hannibal is warm in his woolen nightclothes and boots (a great scandal if anyone aside from the manor staff knew he had received visitors dressed so bare), and he takes pleasure in watching them shake.
He eyes them over his candle. Whispers from the West have brought lurid stories of Myria, and none of the manor staff dared speak to them without a man of God present. Or, the Lord of the house. However, they could not turn them away, his valet informed him, as they came with a letter from the King of Lyrae.
“My King has agreed to this?” he asks, holding the letter so tightly the paper wrinkles around his thumb and forefinger. The question is not an easy one; he knows the answer. The King’s seal is on it, declaring his designs for a match to be made. “What of his children? He has a daughter who is right for marriage.”
“King Willelm desires no woman and King Cedric’s sons are too young to be wed,” one of the Advisors explains. The woman.
His second son is now 18, only a year younger than Hannibal, and perfectly amicable to be married as the rumor mill goes. Except no one, King or commoner, would damn their children to the King of Myria, or their soul to the bowels of Hell. But Hannibal has no father or mother to plead the King not send him away. He is a Count, unmarried, alone, with income the Royal purse could use. He’s disposable.
He scans the curt letter once more, but the words are all the same despite his wishes that they might change. It does not leave room for argument. He has been ordered to agree to this arrangement as his greatest service to the realm, to sacrifice himself for others, those above and below him in station. To be courageous. A good deed that the King believes God may be able to forgive.
Courage is not a trait he’d consider strong within himself, nor is it a trait he suspects his King could identify with ease.
Has he described him as courageous to these three? If they ask others, the sparse nobility still standing, they would not hear about his courage but about his time as a boy. Those stories could not have appealed to their sensibilities. Regardless of any King’s battle prowess, what he should look for in a spouse is someone agreeable, with talents, and an ability to be easily loved by the people.
Love has never come easy to him.
Hannibal straightens himself and folds the letter. Reading it again will only enrage him more. “You say he will take no woman?”
“The Queen, rest her soul, has been dead for three years. The King has declared he shall never lie with a woman again.” The only one who speaks is the woman; the two men shiver behind her silently. “A man will have to do.”
A man will have to do. That speaks confidence into this union.
“Then why marry at all? There would be no heir born of this match, and I have heard your King has sired no children with the late Queen.” He steps toward his companion, a silent invitation for his three visitors to come further into the room.
Whether this is true or not, he can’t be entirely sure. Many rumors come from the West, whispers that seem to be nothing more than hearsay, but this one had felt true on his tongue as he said it. In each of their travel-gaunt faces, he can tell it is, and that they all hate it. This truth isn’t enough to sway them from their mission.
The wooden floor creaks beneath their boots as they come deeper into the room. The cold of the night still clings as their cloaks drip and their shoulders jump, but their shoulders slacken and their faces become smoother with each step.
“King Willelm’s nephew has been named heir, and he sees it fit not to cause a war between the young Prince and any child he might sire for the throne.” The woman watches Hannibal. Her dark, deep eyes take him in. No, Hannibal thinks to himself, they were promised something else. This is an unfair time, he is tired and unkempt, but the woman’s full mouth quirks, pleased with what she sees. The King will surely want to know what to make of the young man promised to him, and while he will learn of Hannibal’s misbehaviors, an Advisor finding him adequate will do wonders. “A man, especially a King, hardly wishes to sleep in a cold bed.”
“A paramour will not do? A squire has yet to make himself available to the King?” he laughs, and one of the silent Advisors, a dark haired man, does so as well.
He passes the letter to his companion, Chiyoh, for her to read. She takes it and opens it, eyes scanning each line in the flickering candlelight.
“The King is a just and moral man. He has no desire for a mere paramour. He desires true companionship. Companionship that can be acknowledged by the Court,” the Advisor explains. “We have traveled a great distance to find such a person.”
“Of course, he is. Your King wants someone to warm his bed and parade around,” he accuses. “He slithers by, striking and strangling what he desires most, and who can say no, lest they suffocate beneath him.”
The three look at each other, but Hannibal can tell he has missed the mark, and they are a gaggle of liars in one way or another. The King, their King will allow him to reject him without a fight. The only time he hasn’t fought in his life.
Sucking his lip between his teeth, Hannibal tries to reason with himself. A match like this is rare, a King marrying someone lower in such a way, and then also a man. He knows little about Myria but what comes by word of mouth, and has heard nothing of their proclivities there, however, the three Advisors hardly seem perturbed. It’s his own house in shambles over the mere suggestion that he marry a man.
“You cannot do this, my Lord. These pagan relations are against God.” The clergyman shudders so loudly he can hear his clothes rustling against his body. “He will take you and ruin your good name. God will turn his ire against you.”
The ire of God is not an ire he fears. God has punished him before, and here he stands—alive, well, and soon to be consort to the King of a great nation. If he feared anything, it would be his fellow man, but he’s yet to meet a man he cannot kill.
“Hush. It is already written. My denial will do nothing. What has the Kingdom gained from this?” he asks.
“The protection of Myria,” the Advisor says. “And a promise of trade.”
The protection from a grand Kingdom such as Myria is hardly something any King, even a devoutly religious one, could deny himself. If one of his subjects’ souls is to be damned for it, there is nothing to be done. That is one soul, but hundreds of thousands may still be saved.
Trade too, but what does Lyrea have to trade that the King of Myria cannot get from other allyships?
“Do you know what this means for me?” he asks.
What does he care? Except to lose what is rightfully his and has been since his birth? Does a good King ask another man to give up what is his?
No, he doesn’t believe so, but he doesn’t believe there are good kings either.
His father wanted him to have this, and would die a thousand deaths to know it would be ripped from him in due time. To become the glorified bride of a King from a land he hardly knows—he is no princess, no daughter of a Duke, he is a Count, and soon he will be—a prince. In name alone.
Her lips tighten. Not out of anger, but something else. Something almost pitiful. “Your Kingdom will fall. Whether it be this year or twenty. You are not a fool, my Lord. Where would you like to be when that happens?”
The letter is passed back to Hannibal. Crinkled now, from both of their sweaty hands. “I assume the treaty is not complete.”
“No. You have time to get your affairs in order, but we have no reason to believe it will fail.” The head Advisor is certain of this. Their King will make it so, now that he has agreed to it.
Hannibal takes a breath. “Can I make my own bids to your King?”
She nods. “If you wish. I will hand deliver your letter to him. You will find him to be generous.”
What’s left for him to do? In a handful of minutes, his entire life has been irrevocably changed, and he had no say in the matter.
He takes one final, deep breath and turns to his staff. “Prepare three beds for our visitors, wake the stable hand, and have their horses fed. Any friend of my betrothed is a friend of ours, and we shall treat them accordingly.”
A collective gasp fills the room that he would agree to this. To them—and he understands it to a degree—to be exiled would be better suited. But this is an exile, this arrangement, the moment it’s consummated, will mark him forever as a sinner. One that cannot be cleaned.
He leaves the room, the only thing he can do, with Chiyoh a step behind him.
“What do you intend to bid the King of Myria?” she asks, voice purposefully low.
“To bring you with me.” He turns up the dark staircase. “They are right. The usurper won’t hold the realm forever, and either someone worse will take control or we will be plunged into a war again. One that God cannot save us from. You will come with me, lest you wish to die here.”
If the King of Myria intends to wage war with Lyrae, which he surmises is in the distant future, it would be best for both of them to be safe within his walls. What is here for Chiyoh anyway? His uncle is dead, his aunt gone, and Chiyoh’s only title is companion. She will not be wed well, nor does the girl want to be wed. Likely, they would send her to live in a convent and she would not thrive there. Their care for the Church is in equal measure.
“Is this what you want?” she asks.
Hannibal hesitates. “The strangeness of rank is that I can do all I wish and nothing at all. Do Ladies have a decision on who they marry?”
“You are not a Lady,” Chiyoh tuts. “You should be marrying a Lady.”
Hannibal finishes his climb up the stairs. “No, but I am at the whims of men, and smarter than them all. War is going to come. You should fear it.”
Not that Chiyoh knows of the war, hunger, or what it takes to bring a country together again. There is nothing left; God or the Church or both will fail Lyrae. Starvation will set in, then pestilence, and then many will die. Opposing soldiers will hardly have to fight. He rationalizes that where they are when that happens is what matters.
“Your birthright,” she reminds.
He doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. “Perhaps he will give me a better title when we are wed.”
A Dukedom, maybe. It would hardly be the same, but he could stomach it. If not, he will have to pry a title—a real title—from a corpse of his making. He will not die an obscure relic; the strange partner of a strange king. He will be something.
The hall to their chambers is quiet. The wooden floor creaks beneath his boots and her slippers. The candlelight dances across the empty walls as they move.
The manor will never be brought back to its former glory. Or, someone will restore it, but it will not be Hannibal, and it will lose the touch of every Lecter that has stayed here. The usurper will change it, beautify it, and it will be as if none of them ever existed.
“Do you fear for your soul?” she asks. She is teasing, he knows that, but now is not the time for teasing.
Hannibal stops to look at her. The candle flame between them flickers. Chiyoh is still very young, and very lucky to not have a title. She would have been ripped from him in a few years’ time, married at 15 or 16 to a man old enough to have sired her father. In his life, he never thought he could be put into such a position, and he is grateful to not be so young in this, but the gravity of their situation is lost on her.
“God has denied me since I was a boy. I have no more fear for my soul than I had during the war.” He turns to his door and enters, leaving her in the darkness.
Once inside, he removes his boots, thankful to be out of the dreadful things without his stockings. He cleans his face from the basin, scrubbing away the nightly impurities, and crawls into his bed.
His bed has been recently tightened, and he finds it much firmer beneath the wool blankets. He imagines his bed will never loosen in Myria. To his left, across the dark walls, a secret door cracks open and Chiyoh presents herself. Barefoot now, her long black hair is ready for brushing, which she was doing before they were called down to greet the Myrn Advisors.
“This is unconventional,” she comments, taking her seat at Hannibal’s desk with her hairbrush. He knew this conversation was far from over, and he has yet to rationalize everything to himself. At least she has come to terms with it in the few minutes they’ve been apart. “Strangely. I have to wonder—why you?”
Swallowing down the desire to skin her here and now, he rubs his fingers over the small embroidered snakes that dance across the blanket. A decent question, if it were not meant to prick beneath his ribs. Despite what the nobility may say about him and more likely, his uncle, he is the son of a good man. His father was respected, commanding a sense of loyalty amongst the people of the county. In turn, if a king were looking for a lower man to marry, the son of a highly regarded nobleman would be perfect.
From his childhood, he has become something divine. His staff and the county would speak well of him, if asked. He is generous with his money, wages are paid on time every month, and he is never inappropriate with the housemaids. He has talents, but not the sort a king would typically look for. Still, he reminds himself, they are talents. He is learned, agile, and charismatic. It is not his fault his fellow nobleman despise him.
“It has been recorded of men and women alike partaking in such… relations.” He stares up into the empty ceiling. “As we know, other regions of the continent are much more tolerable to this.”
Although, he cannot deny the strangeness of coming to a Kingdom that is not tolerable to it. Had every other Kingdom denied him? Had they brought young men before King Willelm and he became so displeased that he sent them beyond their alliances?
His great sacrifice, and it is far more of a punishment.
Chiyoh makes a noise of agreement. “A king?”
“His Kingdom accepts it. His lack of desire for an heir strikes me more than his desire for a groom. Should he not wish for that?” But he knows the answer himself. Some people, regardless of status, know not to breed.
“Ours does not accept it. You will not be allowed to return.” Someone moves past the room. The two sit in silence. After a moment, Chiyoh continues quietly, “And if the King of Myria rejects your request, we will never see each other again.”
“It is such a rarity. I imagine new laws will be made for such cases. I have never heard of a man being punished for such a sin.” He has never heard much of people participating in the sin either. There had to be people, but they must keep it quiet. “Mine will be exile, by order of our King.” He refuses to acknowledge her final statement. It would be in good faith for the King to accept her in. What he is asking for is small, a companion, and his own Advisors have boasted of his generosity. “Soon, this will not be our Kingdom anymore, so what they decide for me will hardly matter.”
“They will call you a sinner. The religion of your land would see you flogged, or worse. In Lyrae, you will be a pariah.” She turns away, taking the brush over her roots. “I do not believe this will damn you to Hell, but tell me, Hannibal, will he find a kindred spirit in you?”
Hannibal closes his eyes. “Whatever comes to pass, this will not be my greatest sin.”
Taking that as the message that it is, she stands and returns through the hidden door to her own chambers. He opens his eyes again. Above him, the plain ceiling morphs into shadows and shadows of deep darkness, only occasionally brightening into muted yellows from his dying fire.
Will he find a kindred spirit in Hannibal?
There is no one alive that could be truly kindred with him. A handful have tried, but he is not like others, and he has known this from the time he was a boy. Something is missing in everyone else, something his soul needs and cannot find. Even Chiyoh is separated from him in this way. He doesn’t mind it; once he recognized this he came to terms with it, and contentment filled him. Hannibal likes being this, being better.
This is his secret, one he holds close to his heart. He doubts a man who would ask him to give up his birthright would be kindred to Hannibal in this way, and he isn’t foolish enough to dream it.
He pulls the blanket up to his neck, pushing that away before he angers himself again. This anger doesn’t serve him currently. Not while he’s weeks away from meeting the man who agreed to strip him of everything. Only then will he remind himself of this. For now, he needs to be sensible.
In the morning, when the Advisors leave, he will have to think of what he can say to his staff to ease their troubles. They are all praying now, he’s sure, for his soul. The house mourns him, and his apparent loss of salvation.
But what of Hell when this life and all that he was promised can be so easily taken from him? The Lecter name has been besmirched by his uncle, and now he is suffering the consequences. He will be made an outcast among his people, and then God will turn his back on him. Or so they say.
Anger comes over him again, and he decides he needs to sleep. Once well rested, he’ll be able to think through everything much more clearly.
When he does wake, he stays shut up in his chamber, lying in bed as he might if he were sick. Rest does him little good.
This is the hand life has dealt him, and it’s better to accept it than fight, but he wants so badly to fight it. When life gave him war, when life took everything, he learned how to balance the scales again. But murder is not yet an option, and if the King refuses to give him a true title, it will take years before he can claw it from another.
He washes his face again. Scrubbing away thoughts, of feelings. There can be good, he reminds himself. If he is particularly lucky, there will be some ease to his new life. Perhaps he will be more of a friend to King Willelm rather than a romantic partner. Love has never been something he required; most men his age and his standing are married now, to their first wives (and only wives if they have any luck). Fairly, he assumes the King does not wish to love him either. He likely loved his wife and feels the emptiness between his ribs like a blade. If he truly has some partiality to men, he may admire Hannibal, but can two men love each other?
As a boy, before his parents’ devotion to religion became so strict, he had little concept of love, and what is and is not allowed. There had been a warmth in him for both a page that lived in the castle, and one of the village girls. Neither of them, he quickly learned, was appropriate for him to marry or love. And for different reasons. Now it appears his choice has been taken again, and he will have to suffer every consequence there is both socially and Holy for it.
The King will have to create a narrative around it. Hannibal has run off, or they are simple companions, or this is the only way. If he were not a learned man, he might believe these lies himself. Perhaps the marriage is a formality, but they are companions for things like hunting. However, this isn’t a formality. The King is not looking for a simple companion to entertain him during hunting trips and dinners. King Willelm won’t take another woman. This marriage will be consummated.
Whatever his King says, Hannibal will find his way to make the truth known. He decides that now, as grey sunlight spills into his chamber. King Cedric will fall, and he hopes they pick his bones clean.
He turns over on his stomach, pressing his face into one of his pillows, and he tries to consider what of his affairs he’s meant to set in order. There will be no Count of the manor or castle after this, all of his unnecessary staff will be dismissed, and he cannot promise them pay because, despite his King being a godly man, he is also a selfish man. His best would be to petition him and remind him of Hannibal’s great sacrifice, and to implore him to remember Christ and his many good works.
The words from the night before still ring in his head too. A man will have to do. He may not fear Hell, but he does fear obscurity. A loveless marriage is expected, but to give everything up for a man who is settling in such a way hurts him. To be so flippant about it, as if this is a game.
King Willelm will view him as less of a person then, and in many ways he is. Nobility or not, he is not royal, and he will never be truly equal. Unless the King becomes fond of him in any way, and he can do that, but it will be false. He just needs to learn which mask the man would prefer.
All he can hope is that his letter finds him in good spirits and he is as generous as the woman Advisor believes he is. Chiyoh, and his few personal items, are coming with him, with or without King Willelm’s permission.
It isn’t his thoughts that keep him in bed, however. He could think this all while moving through the manor, but the anger keeps him pinned down. It devours him whole, turning him into a piece of blackened coal. If he looks at anyone, he might find good cause to lash out, and he has taught himself how to control emotional outbursts, or how to hide when he cannot.
Damn Hell, damn his King, damn the Advisors, and damn that letter.
Still, he manages to crawl out of his bed and bring himself to his desk to write. He doesn’t humble himself before him, he doesn’t plead for his own mercy, he addresses him as would be expected, lists his desires, and signs it—large, perfect handwriting.
Count Hannibal Lecter VIII, so he knows the line he is getting. Eight generations of Counts, a strong and noble family. Not just his country or his county, but his family name, to remind him what he has greedily taken. He is not some second daughter or third son. He is the only living Lecter, the last of his name, and this man’s desire for a bedmate has killed a line. So, he may take him, but he won’t go down without a fight.
Dinner is served at 11, and he is gracious enough to get dressed and make an appearance. He is first, and then Chiyoh, and then the King of Myria’s Advisors.
They sit together at the last remaining long table in the empty room. His Great Hall is not so great anymore, and they so rarely receive guests that many of the tables have been broken down and converted into more useful items. Firewood, to name one.
The only beauty of the room now is the banisters above them, carved with delicate designs of leaves and snakes. The first Count Lecter had designed it when the manor house was first erected. This same design can be found throughout the manor, but with the large windows, it’s easiest to see here. As a child, he would look at it and remember the generations that came before him, walking these very halls, learning how to become the next great Count. He never assumed he would be the last, that the Lecter family would die with him. There will be another Count of Aukst one day, with children, with a sense of duty and pride that cannot be taken away.
He takes a breath. That won’t be today, or tomorrow, or likely for another ten years while the Royal purse struggles. Perhaps if Myria is to take Lyrae, this will all be returned to him by his—husband.
Finally, he greets everyone and calls for dinner to be served.
The Advisors eye him strangely as they sit. They eye them all strangely, and often catch on Chiyoh’s hennin. The piece is not too large, she is hardly a conceited woman, but they stare nonetheless. He isn’t innocent of staring either. Nor any of the staff who come in and out of the room.
These three have more naked skin than he has ever seen in his life. Collarbones, necks, hands, wrists. Without their riding cloaks, they are quite exposed.
If he thinks far enough back, he can get a vague image of life before the war, and the style his mother often took. It was similar to this, he thinks. Not as plunging, but he remembers the pale column of her throat, but that was before his 8th year, and none of it seems real anymore.
His gloved fingers touch the collar of his shirt, toying with the high fabric. He flips the top down for a moment, exposing an inch of skin, and then lets it snap back into position.
Other than the clothes, his eyes catch on the long hair of the men. Both of them have hair that comes past their ears, and full beards. Unlike any man he has seen, even the most downtrodden man has well trimmed hair and a clean face. He wonders if all the Myrn men look like this, or if it’s a sign of power for them.
“You take the first meal rather late,” the Advisor who laughed the night before comments. He is a middle aged man with dark hair and grey eyes. The blue and green of his livery brings his eyes into startling focus.
“We would not want to be gluttonous,” Hannibal tells him.
The three look at each other, making a point to be decent but their eyes say it all. The customs here are strange to them, and somehow this is the first time they've come into contact with them.
His King, who has deemed himself God’s appointed, may not follow these same sanctions. The Church gives him options that men like Hannibal and lower are unable to receive. Gluttony is a sin he can easily be forgiven of, he needs to keep his strength to keep the realm in order. He needs to offer expensive meals to those from foreign lands. He needs to be free of the Church while heading it.
“When do you have dinner?” Chiyoh asks.
“With the sun,” he says, smiling at her.
Hannibal’s stomach turns with hunger. He can smell porridge.
“With the sun and then supper?” she asks. “I imagine you would grow quite hungry.”
“We eat more than twice a day,” he laughs. Not at her, but the absurdity of it. The woman cuts her eyes at him, as if to say he should not insult their customs. Hannibal finds he isn’t insulted, but watching the two dance in this way makes him wish he were.
“You will get used to it,” she tells Hannibal. “We have the best food in the world. It will… You will find things are very different in Myria.”
His teeth itch. Gluttony is the sin he most asks forgiveness for, only because he must ask to be forgiven for something. He never eats two meals. Dinner, supper, and whatever he takes from the kitchen when he so pleases.
“I am very adaptable,” he assures her, one of his fingers rubbing over the grain of the table.
The meal is served; small beer, apple porridge with a drizzle of honey, and a fresh loaf of bread. If the Advisors expect better, which they must if they have the best food in the world, they are polite enough not to comment. Supper would be a better meal, but they should leave before nightfall if they want to avoid the rain.
He cuts himself a slice of bread and butters it, setting it to the side. The Advisors follow suit.
“Will you sing your King’s praises now? Or shall I wait?” He spoons a bit of porridge into his mouth. His stomach clenches and relaxes at finally being fed.
Chiyoh watches them. She cuts herself a slice and brings it to her lips. No one copies her, but he can see her out of the corner of his eye, nibbling.
The head Advisor smiles kindly. She seems to be an honest enough woman, with much more grace than the laughing man. “King Willelm is a learned man, with the brightest minds teaching him from his birth. He is strong and courageous. His prowess on the battlefield is unlike anything seen. He runs as fast as a deer and strikes with the mastery of a lion. You will want for nothing, he will make sure of it.”
Hannibal takes another spoonful of his porridge, lets it sit on his tongue until he loses the sweetness of the honey. “Is he affable?”
She tilts her head, and her dark, plaited hair falls across her shoulder. “My Lord?”
“What of his demeanor?” he asks directly.
The air stills, and a great silence falls over the space. No one moves, the sounds of spoons clinking against the bottom of their bowls stop, and someone, the man who has yet to utter a word, clears his throat with a cough. That question, he realizes, will go unanswered. They don’t want to lie to him, but they can’t risk him backing out—for some reason.
King Willelm is many things, and maybe he is generous, but it seems to him that he isn’t the sort of man many wish to spend time around. This must be why he couldn’t find an appropriate consort within his Kingdom, or one of his allied Kingdoms. They must all at least tolerate this sort of relation, and yet he’s come to a Holier land and asked them what many are sure to see as depravity. And he knew the King would agree.
He takes another bite of porridge, a sip of small beer.
There are worse things, he supposes, than being married to a bothered, generous King. He could have his birthright stripped for nothing.
His eyes trace the outline of his spoon in his dinner. His chin, only for a second that no one notices, quivers.
He refuses to cry. Instead, he clears his throat, takes another bite of dinner, and sets his eyes on the woman. “Am I meant to provide anything to the King? We are not accustomed to… this sort of marriage. A dowry?”
That would be reasonable. It would be what is done for a woman, and since Hannibal is at a lower status, it would be fit for him to offer a dowry—for himself. There is Mischa’s, never touched. It would be nothing to the King of Myria, but it would serve its purpose.
“Your King offered such, but King Willelm is a pragmatic and generous man. You are enough,” the woman Advisor insists.
His King offered very little then. The war may have ended seven years ago, but money has been scarce, especially with what was due to his wife, the Church, and the wages he paid for his soldiers. Still, rejection of any payment is unheard of with such an arrangement. He could begin to understand this if it were a love match, but this is not a love match, and even love matches require something.
“Leaving my birthright is enough,” he surmises. It takes every ounce of control in him not to sneer as the words pass between them.
“It means a lot for a man to leave what is rightfully his,” the third, a fair haired, older man says finally. “There is no greater sacrifice.”
Hannibal sets his spoon down and chews a piece of buttered bread. The King of Myria is rich enough that a dowry of any sort is inconsequential. This has less to do with honor than they would like him to believe, but the idea of him giving up his birthright still must make him look incredibly humble. Or desperate to escape. He can’t decide which, and he will not know which the King believes until he sets his eyes upon him.
A new wave of anger comes over him. Throughout his entire life he has known loss. This, his birthright, was always meant to be his. No one alive should be allowed to take it from him, but the King can, and he has, because he needs money. Hannibal’s money, and then the money of Myria.
He takes a steady breath, forcing himself to drink.
“My father had a crossbow, if the King enjoys the hunt,” he offers. “Beautifully made. He did prefer the long bow, so it is in good condition.”
He has used that crossbow before, but not for any deer.
The woman blinks, shocked by this offer, but not displeased. “King Willelm—“
“I insist.” Another sip. “An olive branch, to show my good intentions. I do hope King Willelm and I can be… fond of each other.”
To say he is affable, to say he is wise, to say he is an arrow and will easily pierce the King’s skin and bleed him dry if need be.
She nods once, lips pursing into an unsure smile. “I believe you will be.”
They finish their meal and then the Advisors are to leave. Their horses are well rested and the weather has steadied itself for now. The crossbow is fetched and Hannibal hands it over to one of the men. To the woman, he hands a sealed letter. His own demands.
“A letter for King Willelm. I hope he finds my requests are reasonable.” Hannibal watches her take it and tuck it close to her breast.
“Yes, my Lord. Thank you for the hospitality.” She takes the reins of her horse in both hands. “A portraitist will come to paint you for the King’s pleasure once we make him aware of the good news.”
Hannibal inclines his head. There are no portraits for them to take with them, nothing of him since his infancy. It might do them all some good to have a man like that brought in. The staff will have something to fuss over other than his mortal soul.
“May God guide you,” he says in farewell.
“And you,” they say in stupid unison.
Hannibal turns. Chiyoh looks at him, and mouths the response, And may God protect you.
They go, horses breaking into a run, they have a long trip ahead of them, and much is to be done, there is no time to dawdle.
“They serve no God,” Chiyoh comments as he passes her.
“They serve their King.” He steps up the slight steps to the door. “Some things are more rational than others.”
“You will serve their King soon,” she says.
Hannibal nods, and steps into the manor. He can smell them still, especially now that they’ve gone. Something salty, something floral. He tries for blood, but there is none.
In the front room, his staff waits. Their pallid skin against the dark walls could make him believe an outbreak of pestilence has taken over his home. Their hands shake, folded in front of their chests in silent prayer. They are glad for the Myrn Advisors to be gone.
“Is there cause for concern, my Lord?” one of the women asks.
“Not for you,” he sighs. “I will petition the King to pay you a month's wages when I leave. Some of you will stay to tend to the manor, as some will stay to attend to the castle. My good word will mean very little in the coming weeks, so I implore those who will be let go to look for work in another county or duchy. I will not hold this against you.”
His staff looks amongst themselves, as if they expected him to suddenly reject the arrangement. They had expected to serve him for their entire lives, as they had served his father, his uncle, and some of them his grandfather. Now they are watching him stray from the path of God. Not that he was particularly abiding by the laws of God, but they know so little of what he has done to survive, and only what he does to appease those around him.
There is no good in rejection. This will be taken from him regardless.
“You will pray before you go, my Lord?” the steward asks, his old eyes suddenly wide and wet.
Hannibal rubs his gloved hands over the front of his doublet. “Yes, and continue to pray for me. I will need all our strength in these uncertain times.”
They part for him, and he goes. Chiyoh a step behind him. Today she chooses to give him that space. To allow him to lock himself in chambers and speak to no one, and take his dinner—roasted venison and potatoes with thick bread and the strongest ale they have—alone. Maybe she thinks he needs time to accept his new lot in life, and who would deny themselves the position of being a prince of a great land, but he has accepted it. The good and the bad of it. His time alone is spent scheming.
The next few days he spends drinking ale and trying on masks that may appeal to King Willelm. More information will come about what he can bring, but for now, he is sure to pack a small trunk. Inside he places a locket with his sister’s teeth and hair in it, his father’s cross pendant, and his mother’s book of prayers. These items are all he has of them now, everything else would be in the castle.
The rest of his time he spends in the library. In a strange way, he feels lost. Chiyoh gives him a large breadth. The staff mourns him and feeds him well, but without his title, his land, his fortune, he has nothing to do. His plans come together with ease, but they always do. What he should say, how he should act, how long he should wait before whispering in King Willelm’s ear about Lyrae, if he ever gets the opportunity.
He reads about what to expect, but in his hundreds of manuscripts, there is nothing about relations between two men. He can imagine, but there is no certainty that his imagination is right.
Still, he tries to imagine King Willelm. While he has heard whispers about him, he has never heard anything about his looks. In his mind, he is as old as 50 or 60, round from his gluttony, with thin hair. Perhaps he was a great fighter when he was young, but he doubts it now. All kings and their people spread stories of prowess. In his imagination, he is ugly, scarred, and angry. He has heard the noblewomen of Lyrae lament their horrors of being married off. Every man wants an heir from their loins—not King Willelm—every man wants his partner each night. His wife and then his mistress and whatever housemaid he predates upon.
Maybe he will die in battle, leave Hannibal a good bit of money and a title, and he can live in peace. He is still willing to do what he must to enact his revenge upon Lyrae. If that be as a companion to an old, dying man, or the bedmate of a lecherous man, he will be those things.
Each day is dragging, and the staff tries to bring him some happiness while he waits for the inevitable. They make what they can of sweets, roast pheasants, and bring him ale. Sin matters little now to them, at least in his regard. They pray for him at night, a ridiculous ritual, but he allows it. Now is not the time to create enemies with his staff. If they want to lay their hands on him and call on saints and God, then he lets them.
On the sabbath, he attends church. No one knows yet, except the clergyman who can do and say nothing. He listens, he takes the bread, and feels nothing. No Holy presence, no turn of his heart, but he didn’t expect to. He thinks that maybe a hunt will balance the scales again. One more before he goes. A final meal.
The crossbow is gone though, and he has his eyes on no one but King Cedric.
On a bright Monday, Chiyoh comes into the library. He isn’t reading, he has given up on that. Instead, he draws. He finds it to be more cathartic than reading and finding nothing that can help him.
This is the first he’s seen of her, and she has taken on some dramatic fashion of mourning clothes. Completely veiled, hiding from God as she may.
“Is it the portraitist?” he asks quietly, brushing away the charcoal on his fingertips.
“Yes.” She moves her veil from her face. Her dark eyes scan him, narrowing as if she sees something she doesn’t like. “He is dressed the way the others were, we will have all of Myria here before this is over.”
Hannibal collects his pages and stands. They are hidden away and he retrieves his gloves from one of the tables. “Have the staff prepare a room for him. This will take more than a day.”
“He is in the old nursery. They did not want to let him in, but I had them set him up there,” she informs him. “He is polite.”
They all have been. Of the stories he has heard of Myria, he expected each person to be obscene, but they have come and given him respect, behaved themselves, and despite their lurid outfits, he has not found issue yet.
He walks from the library to the old, empty nursery. The room is small, but lacks furnishings which gives it an oddly large feel that is reminiscent of his childhood. In the middle is the portraitist, who has already begun to set up, much to Hannibal’s pleasure. There is a singular chair for Hannibal to sit on, and behind him, a red velvet chaise lounge that someone brought in, likely at Chiyoh’s demand.
“My Lord.” He bows deeply. “I am Edmund of Llynding. If it pleases you, I have been commissioned to paint you by the good King Willelm of Myria.”
Edmund is another long haired man, but younger than the Advisors had been. Late 20s. Chiyoh is right, and while he isn’t in livery, he is dressed with the same cuts as the Advisors. His clothes are in shades of brown, and his skin is tanned from the sun.
“Very well.” He takes the seat set for him without fuss.
He imagines one of the women stuttering around setting the room as the man bids, doing her best to finish quickly and avoid seeing his bare neck. A chair here, the lounge there, opening all the windows for the best of the grey light.
“Lyrae is beautiful,” Edmund offers, “I have never seen mountains before.”
Hannibal hums, nodding. “Most of the country is mountainous. I’ve heard Myria is by the sea.”
“Have you ever seen the sea, my Lord?” He asks and begins to mix his paints.
The largest body of water Hannibal has ever seen is a lake when he was 16, before that, he had only seen the moat at Lecter castle. He has seen pictures of the sea, and there are many seas. The lake was murky, a mix of brown from the soil and green from plant life. In all the art he has seen of the sea, it is always blue.
“I have not,” he says.
“They say the King is fond of the sea, so you will become acquainted with it.” Edmund sounds sure of that. Everyone from Myria sounds sure of everything. There’s so much trust in their King, he almost envies them.
The door opens, and he smells Chiyoh, as he expected. Behind her, he smells lye and hears the shuffling of feet. She must be tailed by one of her girls, and a pot of tea and cookies.
The two sit on the lounge; it bumps the wall.
“Pay them no mind,” Hannibal says, and Edmund pries his eyes away from Chiyoh and the girl with the sort of deliberate obedience he’s never seen in any of his staff.
The canvas is small and oval, no bigger than the palm of his hand. He has many colored paints with him too, and while Hannibal has never been so skilled in painting, he knows this is no small feat. He intends to get quite a bit of detail on the tiny canvas.
“You must be very accomplished to work on such a small canvas,” Hannibal comments.
“This portrait is meant to be carried close to one’s heart,” he explains carefully. “King Willelm is fond of art. He held a competition for the honor of painting himself and you.”
Chiyoh chews on a cookie at the back of the room. He hears her swallow, and then she speaks with the deadpanned giddiness he knows her for. “King Willelm is a romantic.”
“A patron of the arts,” Hannibal chides. “It would do you some good to become more acquainted with art.”
There is nothing wrong with that. His shoulders relax at hearing it. Maybe he’s going to marry an old, ugly man but there is something there they could find connection in, even if it is that alone. Perhaps King Willelm would appreciate seeing Hannibal’s art; it could endear him to Hannibal. Help him see the younger man as a person and less of a replacement for his deceased wife.
“He will carry you close to his heart while in battle,” Chiyoh mutters. There’s a seriousness to that statement that startles him. What other use would he have for such a portrait?
“I heard he ate the heart of the Duke Antony of Llynding after slaying him in battle,” the girl, whom he now recognizes as Chiyoh’s favorite, Cecily, says as if to dissuade the idea of romance. He is no knight, no good man, Hannibal should not run wild with fantasies. “They were half brothers, you know. He killed his own kin. My mother says killing your kin is the worst sin—“ She stops herself “—One of the worst sins a man can commit.”
As if the same did not happen in Lyrae for years. Everyone forgets that. They pretend that brothers were not bringing each other to the sword.
Hannibal’s ears twitch. “A cannibal king? And yet God has not killed him for it. How curious.”
“As if Myria’s sins were not enough,” Chiyoh murmurs around a cookie.
Hannibal turns for a moment, just to set his eyes upon Cecily. She is a religious young woman, far more than he or Chiyoh. She wears a brown, linen dress like she does every day he sees her. Her hair is tucked away in her wimple. All of her skin is covered. “What else have you heard about King Willelm?”
She blinks, her thick eyebrows shooting up, shocked to be addressed so directly. “My Lord–“
He cuts a harsh look at Chiyoh. “You have caught my attention now, Cecily, tell me what rumors Chiyoh has whispered into your ear.”
And her mother, apparently. He managed some time before the commons learned of what is to become of him, but it could not last forever. Most will now turn their chins from him, but there is little he can do about that. Soon, he will be gone and their disgust won’t matter.
The young woman knots her gloved hands together. “The King of Myria is not a pious man. He kills for pleasure and whores without repentance. He is a glutton for all of life’s pleasures. They say his heir, his nephew, is truly his bastard. He killed his brother so that he would not announce the affair, and then in due time, he could marry his widowed wife.”
Perhaps he did sire a bastard and kill his brother, but the widowed wife is still a widow, and Hannibal is being scrutinized by a portraitist who had to prove his worth to the King. Some part of that story has been fabricated, how much of it, he can’t be sure. Enough though.
He’d not lie with another woman—but he is expected to remarry. The widow of his brother, the brother he killed, would be too poor in taste, even for a land like Myria. He can marry another and keep his mistress—but he isn’t. He won’t bed her. There could be another, a paramour, a man too low for him to exalt so highly.
The arrow is sharp. Hannibal is not giving up his life to be made a fool. If King Willelm wants another, he will have to keep whoever it is far from him. He will learn that the hard way. Damn their customs, or a king’s ability to do as he pleases.
“What do you know of his wife?” He turns back to stare at the portraitist.
Currently, he works to get the color of his eyes. It must vex him because nothing he mixes pleases him; he keeps starting over. Still, he trusts his abilities. Or, he trusts that the portrait will be to King Willelm’s liking.
“He brought a sorceress to his Throne and had spells made to kill the Queen,” she whispers, muffled by her gloved hand. He doesn’t have to see her to know that her fingers are resting against his top lip, she has always done this when speaking against another. Futilely hiding her lips and words from God. “They summoned a demon who devoured her soul.”
Hannibal makes a low noise. Rumors rarely mean anything, especially those that have traveled so far. If he had borne a bastard—which very well may be true—and killed his Queen—which he doubts—then what need would he have for a husband? If he did all of that to be with his sister-in-law, what purpose would Hannibal serve in all of this?
“Do you believe these rumors, Cecily?” he asks, a test of her intelligence.
He imagines the young woman holding her hands together in front of her chest, as if in prayer. Her wide eyes stare into the ceiling, and then beyond into the Heavens. “No, my Lord. They are all gross misinterpretations of truth. As anyone with good sense and eyes can see.”
“All except for his lack of religious piety.” He refuses to laugh, but the idea of it brings him close to a fit. “That is true.”
Of all of his transgressions, that may be the worst to Cecily and any person in Lyrae that have heard them. He could be forgiven for the things he’s done, for the things he will do, if he repented, but a man like him would never, and they know it.
“Yes, my Lord.” He imagines her crossing herself. “And we know of his… proclivities.”
Yes. His proclivities for the occasional man in his bed. She must think it horrid, and Hannibal can't be sure if it is or is not, but they think these things for different reasons. She believes he desires to drag others into his sin, and Hannibal has no basis for what this relationship will have for him.
“Those rumors are spread by the nobility—our nobility. What do his people say?” He smooths a hand over his breeches. “Do you know that?”
She chokes. “I–“
“We will surely have more visitors soon, less dignified than the first. Chiyoh is too high in status to have such conversations with them, but you are not.” He spares her a glance over his shoulder and then returns his gaze to Edmund. “You will sing his praises, although he killed your Duke. He has paid you a good sum to come here. Have you met him?”
Edmund of Llynding freezes under the scrutiny. He is not used to being the one observed, but rather the observer.
The brush in his hand stills, and then begins to move again. He stares down at his little canvas, his large teeth digging into his lip. His King did kill the Duke of his duchy, he can see that there’s truth to that, but the man doesn’t have anger for it. The people trust their King, and despite their loyalties, they trust his sword.
“Yes, my Lord, I have,” he answers honestly, too struck by the directness of the question and the accusation to lie.
“Is he a kind man?” He tilts his head. “Learned, strong, but they say very little of his personality.”
The portraitist glances away, his lips coming together thinly. “The King is… a deeply troubled man, but he is known for his mercy.”
He adjusts, crossing his legs, interest piqued. A man living as he does should hardly be troubled. The continent fears him, bows to him, allies with him, and he has troubles. More so, the idea of him being merciful catches oddly in his chest.
“His mercy?” he asks softly.
“To those who are also deeply troubled.” He sees a kindred spirit in them, then. Did his King call Hannibal troubled? Did it make him want to save him? “He is fair with his wages, the Lord’s of his lands are loyal, and he sees that those who are troubled—from war—are taken care of.”
The Lord’s are loyal, except for one. His brother. To him, it sounds like the Duke of Llynding became overzealous. His son was named heir, and what is the father of an heir if not a king?
Hannibal clears his throat. “Would you say anything truly bad about him if I asked for the truth?”
He looks away, his tongue pressing against his cheek. Nothing then, but Hannibal can see it in his eyes that he has thought of something. There is something they say about him that he could say right now.
Behind him, Chiyoh adjusts in her seat. The sound of her dress moving catches his ear. She has something to say about him of her own thoughts.
He glances back at her. She’s removed her veil and is sitting, whispering with Cecily. New rumors to spread, better ones.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, fixing her with a stern look.
She shrugs a shoulder. “A troubled romantic.”
Hannibal turns his attention back to the portraitist, and they sit quietly after.
The young man paints until supper, and is then shown to his room. He promises to be done tomorrow, and that King Willelm will adore him. Saying he may love him from the portrait alone. Hannibal doesn’t say he would be a fool for that, or that he greatly doubts the King is capable of love. He won’t run wild with fantasies, but he supposes others can. Even Chiyoh.
She lies beside him in his bed, hiding beneath the covers. As a child, she would do the same when she was scared and too stubborn to admit it. At 14, she is too old to do this, but he indulges her. Their lives are changing, and if he were younger or weaker, he could see some fear growing in him too. She has been ripped from more lands than he knows, and he has become her only constant. If King Willelm denies his request, she will be alone again.
Some part of him believes she would thrive alone. She is more independent than most girls her age, but it would be cruel to force that on her.
“They do say he is the richest King on the continent. I heard in town this week that his palace is encrusted with sapphires and gold,” Chiyoh whispers to him. “You will be looked after, until he kills you.”
“Or I kill him,” Hannibal argues, amusedly.
“A crime you may not get away with,” she’s warns. Of everyone, she knows of the things he’s done. She has never said whether she agrees with his actions or not, but she has never betrayed him either. “Lyrae would have you flogged for your marriage, but to kill a king…”
He stares at the outline of her face through the darkness. They should think positively for now. He may have no need to ever kill him.
In truth, he would far prefer them to be companionable, even if he believes this to be a far cry from what will happen. He can give the illusion of companionship, he can be what he needs to be. So long as King Willelm is easy to be around and not too ugly.
He may not forgive him though. He forgives so little, and this has been a great blow.
“He must be incredibly lonely to have sent his men so far to find a match,” he says instead of acknowledging what could happen if he needs to kill him.
She may not realize this, but he would secure passage far from Myria and any of her allies before he enacted that plan. They would be miles away by sea before anyone discovered the dead King.
“Or you are the only man to agree,” Chiyoh mutters. He just makes out her deep eyes. “But lonely nonetheless.”
The next morning, Hannibal wakes early and goes in to be painted. Dinner will be served in the nursery, where he finds that a few new items of furniture have appeared. A table for their meals, a woolen blanket, and cups for ale and tea. Chiyoh and her tailing girls are barred from the room today. He wants to hear nothing of Cecily’s mother and his sins.
“Is there a portrait for me of the King?” Hannibal asks once the sun is high, and his legs are prickly from disuse.
Edmund nods, his hair shifting to fall in his face. He brushes it away with the back of his hand. “Yes, my Lord, I was instructed to give it to you after the completion of your portrait.”
Hannibal swallows down a sigh. “Very well.”
The portrait is done in the late afternoon, and he is permitted to view it. There’s a strangeness to seeing himself painted. In some of the halls, portraits of his father and mother hang, one of his grandfather, and then more of his ancestors he has never learned of. More Hannibal Lecters. Seeing it now, he can pick both his mother and father from it, and then neither. A complete stranger. In many ways, it does look like him, but his features have been softened. His cheekbones are rounded, his nose much more slight, and he has dulled his hair to give it a more mature look. He didn’t include the high collar of his shirt, instead painting a pale throat that does not quite look like Hannibal’s. He looks not quite mischievous, but not quite innocent either.
It could be him, in another lifetime.
He touches his collar, a bit lower over where his throat meets his collarbone, and then his ears, feeling for where there should be earrings. He should have found a pair of his father’s old earrings and worn them. He looks plain, little, and sickly sweet.
Edmund packs his items up, and his horse is brought for him. The beast is well rested and fed, it nuzzles him as he steps to greet it, and his items are strapped to it.
“Thank you for your hospitality, my Lord,” Edmund says as more of a promise, as if his high praise is important. Perhaps it is.
Hannibal nods his farewell. “May God guide you.”
This man doesn’t respond, smart enough to recognize there is something he should say, but decides not to in hopes of staying in the good graces of his future prince. Unlike an Advisor, his position isn’t so certain. Instead, he offers him a palm sized portrait. One of King Willelm.
“I hope you find him to your liking. There are many who desire him,” Edmund whispers. “He has denied many matches, I’ve heard. He is not easily pleased.”
Hannibal holds it carefully in his hand, staring at the portraitist until he mounts his horse, and leaves, disappearing into the tree covered road.
Behind him, he can hear the door opening. He looks down quickly so he can take in the portrait before Chiyoh of the steward or his valet comes to him.
King Willelm of Myria is attractive, far more than Hannibal expected, with tricky, gentle eyes that the portraitist captured with reverence. He has a short trimmed beard and dark hair that curls around his ears. His lips are uneven, but full, and he smiles timidly. An unusual addition to a portrait for a man like him—Edmund did not add one to Hannibal’s portrait—so much so that he has to believe the portraitist took liberties to make the King more appealing to Hannibal. Similarly, the softening of Hannibal’s own features must be for the pleasure of the King. This man is hardly the killer he has been made to be. There is nothing empty in him that only blood can fill. There is a loneliness, he thinks. One much older than three years.
Of what he can see of his clothes, he isn’t in any typical regalia. No fine embroidered pieces of shining blues and greens, no lustrous jewels. He is in a glinting suit of armor, as if he had been plucked from the battlefield for this portrait.
Part of him insists this is not what he looks like now. That they have aged a portrait of him from his youth, but the lines of the art feel true. If the portraitist had changed too much and Hannibal was immediately disgusted upon seeing the good King of Myria, he would be hanged for it.
It has to be him. Some approximation of him, at least.
Something warm blooms in his chest, as comforting as an old friend, and as is the purpose of the portrait, he tucks it away into his doublet, over the slow rhythm of his heart.