Chapter Text
They walk among us.
It turned into stories old folk repeated, campfire tales to scare the children. Few really believed in them anymore, the old lord of the forest that exchanged safety for sacrifice. One slumber too long and suddenly too much time had passed, the world moved on, the people grew and changed. The fear of shadows lurking among trees was replaced by things more tangible – getting food on the table, keeping jobs, raising families among stone walls and not wooden ones. Villages merged into a town, though plenty still remained scattered around the belt of the forest. The bay was how they crossed and connected to other parts of the world. No one needed to fight through the dangerous dark of the Chesapeake woods anymore and less need was there to hunt and scavenge it. But when the slumber ended, quiet trouble rained on the outer villages. Fanfare was never how their preferred being know, and being forgotten came as an opportunity for games.
They wear our skin.
Wolves, the villagers told themselves, just wolves. But the hunters knew better; they were never allowed to forget what they really stood guard for. Some parts were better protected than others, with walls erected and hunters stationed on the gates and passages. And yet even walls couldn’t keep them out as they bit and clawed their way through rotting wood. A wolf would tear through a chicken coop and leave a family damaged for goods to trade. They would take a lot more and no one would ever see them do it.
They play with their food.
For some it was still hard to believe they existed, these once human things that lorded over the woods around them. Rare were the hunters who lived to speak of a direct encounter, and rare more were the villagers. Will’s grandmother was among the less fortunate ones, not the first or the last person to go missing and be found limbering disorientated out of the woods with no memory or a piece of sane mind left. She was the one who silently claimed to have seen them, who told young Will about these creatures that could steal their shape, who came in every night walking on two legs and leaving odd prints in the snow and claw marks on the doors. The Wendigo. She was the one who told him how her father, a hunter, came back from a simple mission a changed man, a mad man. His eyes had stared too long at one of those creatures in the woods, she claimed, and the sight had been enough to twist the mind of a good man. He drove a knife through his wife’s head in the middle of the night, and then he turned it on himself.
Will’s grandmother may have been among the less fortunate ones, but at least she returned with no murderous intentions – only drool on her lip and a broken record warning no one understood.
They drive us mad.
Young Will hoped the string of poor luck would stop with his grandmother. Wishes of moving back to the city were slim, but they became even slimmer when the father went missing. Will prayed and he hoped very dearly for his safe return – a boar hunt for the winter festival – but he never came. And that, Will assumed, was for the better than coming back changed. Wolves, the other hunters told them, he just wasn’t careful enough, but they never showed a body. Will knew then what took his father was not just a wolf but something a lot more dangerous, something that suddenly chose to hunt in broad daylight. Something hungry that grew more dangerous with every passing day. The hunters suddenly patrolled more frequently and the villagers found less reason to linger in their gardens.
Then the winter festival came, the last one ever held. No one really remembered anymore why it was celebrated, what it was about. A way of thanks for a prosperous year, some said. A prayer for an easy winter, others claimed. But one thing they knew – meat had to be on the menu, and lots of it.
But it was the wrong kind, and the old lords did not take kindly to it.
They eat us.
Large gatherings, bonfires, and fireworks marked the festival. The lights, the masses, the banging of firecrackers, all of that should have kept the danger away, as it always did, if just for that one night. Most of it the hunters standing guard with their crimson capes and loaded rifles felt useless, so they joined in for meat and mead and warmth.
An air of safety shrouded the days of the festival, a carelessness that would soon be regretted when the children roamed freely and unattended, escaping their parents’ sight in a flurry of games.
One group fled to a barn a little too close to the woods. Young Will was among them. Young Will was the only one among them who lived. They found him at the crack of dawn, mute and terrified, huddled in the corner of the barn hugging his legs. Besides him were the mangled remains of a boy he used to play with. The rest of him was never found. What was left of those nine children was scattered around the barn, its walls painted with innards and blood. The same blood found its way to Will’s hands and clothes, but barely a scratch was on him. Only one sign of damage – claw marks stretching across his neck and ending right below his jaw.
It took Will three years to speak again but no one would hear him, no one would listen to the damaged boy who couldn’t even look people in the eyes anymore. Some accepted their own truth – wolves and a lucky coward who hid well enough – and some were so grief-stricken they even blamed him for living. But no one, not even those who suspected the creatures took their children, no one could fathom that the boy truly saw them in all their horror and lived to tell the tale.
The sun creeped in, casting light where shadows gathered and often fooled Will with strange shapes. He was awake, he was always awake to greet the rising sun but not out of volition. The day was when he slept and nights were reserved for dancing shadows and strange shapes standing at the foot of his bed, staring at him with cold luminous eyes.
But today was a special day, when Will would finally make a difference. Today he’d get his official red cape and rifle and the excitement made him miss his afternoon sleep. But the cold did its job to keep him awake, the cold and the fear. His was the northern watchtower that night and no great distance from the cold ground made him feel safe, not when the thick blackness of the forest was staring him in the face. The sound of the sea murmuring in his ears could do little to calm him now. Will kept a tight grip on his rifle, steadying his jittery nerves not to fire at the slightest gust of wind that ruffled the leaves. The partner he didn’t yet meet was late and on Will’s first watch. Solitude would suit him just fine but not today, not while on guard, not this close to what almost killed him. Wrapped in thought and panic, when a knock and a voice came from below the hatch, Will almost jumped out of his skin.
Another man in a red cape climbed into the watchtower, a veteran hunter with a head of gold and silver hair and features so uniquely sharp and chiselled, Will was certain he had seen him before somewhere.
“Hannibal,” he introduced himself but it didn’t ring any bells for Will. “Sorry to leave you alone for so long on your first watch.”
“I prefer it on most days,” and it was only half a lie. “Will,” he introduced himself, hoping the other was oblivious to his infamy.
“I know who you are,” and the hunter grinned in a way that exposed his teeth. “This part of the village has quite some things to say about you.”
Will forced out a tight-lipped smile, his eyes not going further than the man’s teeth. He turned his head back on the forest, muttering, “Tasteless, I’m sure.”
“Very,” the other agreed and whatever else he said, Will gently tuned out. His voice made for an enjoyable drone but Will had no interest in hearing village rumours about himself. He heard enough in person.
At some point Hannibal stopped talking and Will hardly noticed until the hunter said, “God forbid we socialize like adults, hm?”
“I’m sorry but I’m really not interested in chit chat.” Or distractions, he thought, eyes looking through his own private horror, the woods of Chesapeake.
“I either caught you in a bad mood or you’re perpetually in one,” and Hannibal chuckled with a breezy voice, barely bothered. “All right then, we can be quiet. But the night will last longer.”
And the hunter spoke no more, circling the watchtower on occasions while Will stayed rooted in body and sight to one and the same spot. The night did last unbearably long but Will was grateful for the consideration, even if the quiet stillness started feeling like he had been left all alone. Perhaps that’s why he was a lot more receptive the next day when Hannibal made his second late appearance. By the third visit, Will was already tuning him out a lot less.
“Tell me,” Hannibal asked when the atmosphere between them finally felt a little amiable, “you’re not too fond of eye contact, are you?” And Hannibal bent his knees a little to catch Will’s eyes. The furthest they got was half way up his nose.
“Eyes tell you too much about a person. I already hear enough, I don’t need to see anymore,” and Will pulled the red cape tighter around himself, feeling cold and exposed for what he revealed about himself to a mere stranger. Hannibal said nothing, just laid a comforting grip on his shoulder.
The last time Will had a good hard look into someone’s eyes was almost fifteen years ago in that barn, and those eyes glowed.
“You missed breakfast again,” Abigail showed herself in with a tray of eggs and sausages. “Or is this supper for you?”
Will was used to her intrusions by now, had been since he started living in their inn. And while she had a knack for coming in at the absolute worst time, after missing four breakfasts Will wasn’t going to complain, not when he barely even started taking his clothes off.
He said his thanks but she continued to linger next to him with a curious grin. “Well come on then, tell me how it is?”
What could he tell her that her father hadn’t? But perhaps that was why she asked, because her father didn’t speak of his job, the job she not so secretly craved to follow. Will could tell her how he replaced sleepless nights in his room with sleepless nights at the top of a frosty tower. He could tell her how the feeling of always being watched now lived with him, up close and personal with the forest staring back at his every move. He could tell her how he no longer had nightmares of horned creatures lingering in the darkness of his room, because every crooked branch and shadow in the woods looked like one of them.
“Very uneventful,” Will told her instead. “Very cold. Not much to write home about.”
The disappointed sigh and roll of her eyes told Will she had head similar already. “It’s too late to change my mind. I’m a better marksman than you, Will, and I want to make a difference here, just like you. Just like dad.”
The dangerous thing about Abigail’s ambitions was that she believed him. She believed Will and the stories he couldn’t stop telling when his voice returned, the stories that isolated him and turned him into a suspicion, a freak. Will stopped telling them a long time ago when he quickly learned no one listened, and all it brought his was the worst kind of pity. Not even his mother believed in what he saw, and on her deathbed she made him promise he wouldn’t be spreading those lies anymore, those fantasies.
But Will knew what he saw. Will knew why he wanted to protect this place. Unfortunately he was stationed on the wrong watchtower that night to do it. Morning would reveal a chewed up fence and a half-dead hen house. An actual wolf attack for a change, or it would have been if one of the residents didn’t disappear in the night.
The other hunter came a lot later than usual that night as well, and Will had to admit he noticed the emptiness, the lack of human sounds. Three times that evening he almost fired at what others would call just shadows and branches. Going gray before even turning thirty looked like a legitimate concern.
Leaving the tower to take a piss was a particularly unnerving experience. It required moving from the post, climbing down a long set of ladders and being at ground level with the forest. Will avoided it for the most part but sometimes it just had to be done.
“Be quick,” was all the warning Hannibal gave him, lacking that penchant of easy humour.
And Will was quick. He zipped his pants up the moment he was done and circled the outhouse, walking fast to the watchtower. The feeling of eyes on him intensified, crawled across his back and pulled his head to turn at every dark corner he passed. That lack of attention his panic fostered had him running head first into a villager he didn’t recognize.
“You shouldn’t be out this late,” Will warned as he took a step back, skin crawling with chills and unease.
Where did this man come from, with only the woods behind him? His clothes were too thin for someone walking in the night. He didn’t blink and he didn’t speak.
“A-are you all right,” Will asked as he took another step back and the feeling in his gut told him to run, to yell, to use that rifle on his back. He could swear he saw his jaw unhinge the tiniest bit as the strange man opened his mouth. To speak? To scream? Will felt like he was the one who should be screaming, all of the signs threading far too familiar ground he never recovered from. His feet took him another step back, his hand reaching for the rifle, but he hit against someone, another body, another pair of hands gripping him tight. Will’s heart lodged into this throat, the tiniest sound leaving him and he could feel all the blood drain from his face.
“Easy,” and that deep familiar voice brought Will back among the living. “And you, sir, shouldn’t be out this late,” Hannibal said as he let go of Will and took the necessary steps around him to approach the villager.
Will grabbed him in sheer panic, still unable to say a word, but the other hunter ignored his tugging as he stood close to the villager. Hannibal laid a hand on the man’s shoulder and his mouth closed, his head turning to look at the hand and back on the hunter’s face. No response came from the odd man as they locked eyes.
“Best if you go home now, yes?”
“Yeah,” a short, clipped, answer came and the strange man passed by them, heading deeper into the village.
“That wasn’t right,” Will managed to whisper when the villager was far from ear shot. “He didn’t seem right.”
“Some taverns still work, you know. Danger be damned if you got coin to make,” Hannibal shrugged it off easily. “Probably drunk.”
He didn’t look drunk to Will. He looked a lot of things but drunk was not one of them. Will looked with shaken suspicion back at the odd villager slowly disappearing through the streets.
“Ever been drunk, Will?” The young hunter shook his head. “Then trust me, he was drunk,” and Hannibal quickly ushered them to the tower, letting Will be the first to climb up as he looked back to where the villager had passed.
Will gripped the railing of his watchtower as he tried to catch sight of the stranger loosing himself among farm houses. He took his rifle and aimed, using the scope to follow him further but it was too dark to see.
“I know the smell of alcohol,” he said when he heard Hannibal close the hatch. “There wasn’t any on him,” Will lowered his gun, his fingers too numb from the cold to handle it properly.
“Oh, I had a good smell of him,” and Will had to agree that Hannibal did come closer. “Everyone’s a little weird around these parts. You have to be to keep living here.”
The thought of firing at the strange man sat all too well with Will, and that could have been a mistake he wouldn’t be able to undo. But his gut still told Will something was terribly wrong and he looked down that scope again only to be disappointed once more. Will knew what barely anyone did, and he thought he knew what he saw in that man. But running after him now would be madness or tragedy, and still something Will wasn’t sure he could do without freezing in place from fear. He cursed under his breath, wishing he had more strength to do what he came here to do.
The glint of light from a small metal flask caught Will’s eyes. Hannibal was offering, and when Will didn’t take it, he took a sip himself and offered again.
“I was told we shouldn’t drink on the job.”
“How do you think we stay warm,” Hannibal grinned and he shook the little flask again until Will reached out for it with some hesitation. “How do you think we keep calm while staring at the forest?”
“I doubt wolves keep you up at night,” Will took a sip and recoiled from the bitterness. He was no connoisseur of alcohol, but he had a shot or two in his life. Not this strong though. It burned on the inside in just the right way to warm him up, foul taste be damned. He took another sip before passing the flask back.
“Not wolves, no,” Hannibal refused the flask and pulled Will by his cloak, turning them to the woods their eyes should be trained on. “In this line of duty you’ll see many things that can’t be explained with just wolves. But I think that’s a story you know more about.”
Will took another sip to kill the spiteful remark that was about the fly out of his mouth. “Ask around, I’m sure you’ve heard it.”
“Several versions, but never from the source.”
“I’m done being made fun of.”
“Not my intention, but I would like to know what killed my little sister.”
A dead weight dropped on their conversation and Will took another long sip. He’d been through these kinds of conversations before, several versions, and not one ever ended pretty. Knots tangled in his stomach. They were up high, they had guns. Who was this man? Will should have suspected something sooner, as soon as the man tried to make friendly with him.
“Looks like you could use another drink,” and Hannibal turned to look at him with a crooked smile. “Is it still so hard to speak of it?”
“I can’t tell you anything you haven’t heard. I just won’t punctuate the story with that boy’s crazy.”
Hannibal pulled away from the railing and stopped a few inches away from Will, eyes resting somewhere below his jaw. It took Will considerable strength not to back away from the intrusion. His fist tightened as his eyes were unable to read anything off Hannibal’s face, and he braced for a nasty exchanged.
Hannibal gestured at his neck. “Is that what you were left with?” Will responded with one quick nod. “Can I see it, please?”
The words were disarming with courtesy. There wasn’t much in Will that wanted to show it, but the older hunter asked, and nicely even. Something about his eyes compelled Will to go through with it. They seemed kind, kinder than he was used to, and genuinely curious. Will loosened the clasp holding his cloak and pulled at the collar of his shirt to expose the marks.
“May I,” Hannibal asked but he acted before Will could even question his actions. He pulled Will’s head to the side, his hand adjusting the tilt where it held Will’s jaw. The four pale scars stretching from below his jaw to the collarbone were fully exposed and Hannibal connected the tips of his fingers to them. They dragged down, slowly following the length of the marks. Will’s breath hitched, the hair on his nape bristled, and once more he was torn between staying perfectly still and backing away.
“These don’t look like the marks of an animal,” Hannibal’s voice murmured, seemingly close to his ear, and all the response Will gave was a nod. “Then I don’t know the right story,” and he backed away as quickly and nonchalantly as he broke through Will’s personal space.
Hannibal had a penchant for coming late and leaving before dawn. Will didn’t question the workings of seniors but today he had to, and for the first time since they spoke, Will looked him in the eyes. “Will you stay until dawn?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No. But if you want to hear it, I’ll need you to stay.”
They looked like people until they didn’t, until bones started snapping and skin shrivelled and darkened. In shape they still resembled human, the lines of their faces vaguely familiar, but everything else was black and cold and wrong. Hands were claws, heads had antlers, and the hollows of their eyes glowed white. No one moved, no one screamed. All the children stood there petrified, mesmerized by the glow, and not a sound left them as they got cut down. All but Will who scurried to the back of the barn with both hands covering his mouth. He hit the wall and closed his eyes, tears welling through them, and slowly the sound of tearing flesh was drowned out by the sounds of the sea side, the bay in early summer, the seagulls, the warm sun reflecting off sill waters.
The memories were almost enough to get him out of there, to cover his impending death with something beautiful. But it burst like the bubble it was when cold wet claws pulled away his hands, when one dragged across his neck to lift his head. Will opened his eyes to sharp human outlines covered in darkness from head to toe. This close, behind the glow of its eyes, Will could see dark tinted pupils darting across his face. Claws gripped him by the arms, left stains of blood everywhere they touched, curious, intrigued. It almost felt like an animal to Will, a curious animal that tore through a boy he used to play with before it came to him, his remains dropped where Will could notice them.
His breath hitched, tears never even stopped, and a scream was so close and perched in the back of his throat. The thing caught his head with its blood soaked claw and turned it away from the remains. Two of those sharp fingers found their place across Will’s lips.
Quiet, quiet.
Its bony frame did little to obscure what was happening behind it, the crunching of bones prevalent in the air as much the smell of rust and iron. Will tried to close his eyes but it wouldn’t let him. It wanted him to watch and keep quiet, keep his eyes open and on its glowing ones.
It stayed with him until the feast finished, it stopped others from harming him, and it lingered still when the barn was empty. If Will had a voice he would have asked why, why not him, but the things didn’t respond in human sounds. Only the yelling of worried parents reaching the barn made it leave.
Will saw it again many times, that Wendigo, outside his window and inside his room, and he couldn’t tell anymore what was a dream and what was sanity slipping through his childlike fingers.
“It’s almost noon,” Abigail said and sat on the other side of Will’s table. The dining room was mostly empty, slowly being cleaned and prepared for lunch time. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“I’m waiting for exhaustion to take me there.”
“Then maybe don’t drink the coffee.” Abigail took his cup away. “Rough night?”
Since the moment sun rose and his shift ended, he’d been looking around the village for signs of someone missing, someone dead, for signs of that man he saw walking around unchecked. Nothing. And now when he had to sleep, he found it didn’t want him, his thoughts stuck in the retelling of that night. All his life he remembered with crisp clarity the lines of that vaguely human face that left its mark on him, but now all his memory could supply was a black canvas. More nothing.
“Did you see my dad maybe? Had a talk with him?”
“No. Rookies are on guard duty before they start patrolling. Why?”
“They went on a hunt this morning. He didn’t say why and no one is reporting anything.”
Will knew why, but he chose not to say anything, no to feed her fears any further. She worried every time her father left, and with good reason.
Hannibal also knew a lot more than he let on, and Will couldn’t understand why he insisted to hear his side of the story. But speaking it to a pair of ears that listened instead of judged was a rare comfort. Even the thought of seeing him again that evening felt a lot more pleasant than it should be.
He was already there that night, pulling Will up by his arm when he came.
“I hope you managed to sleep well,” there was an apologetic tone to his voice.
Every sleep was bad for him. Will brushed it off and hopped immediately to more pressing news. “Some hunters were sent away this morning. What happened?”
“Nothing you’re authorized to hear yet.”
Will huffed and didn’t bother beyond that. The question about that strange guy they ran into linger in the back of his mind, but he knew he wasn’t going to get anything from Hannibal, not when that answer was given. They leaned on the railing for another night of passing the flask of some strong spirit between them as they watched the woods.
“Why do you think it spared you,” Hannibal asked now what he couldn’t yesterday, when alcohol warmed Will’s mind enough to loosen his tongue.
He shook his head, unable to answer. “I’m on borrowed time. One day it’ll come back for me, but before it does I want to make a difference here,” and he looked at Hannibal seeking council. “I thought of asking for a reassignment, to the east watchtower maybe. When I hear of trouble, it’s always in the east.”
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“There’s four to six people on the east watchtower at once,” Hannibal took a sip from the flask before passing it back. “I don’t see you being comfortable there.”
“Depends,” Will chuckled and dared himself to meet his eyes again. “Would you relocate as well?”
“I prefer patrol to a crowded watchtower,” and Hannibal looked at him with a lopsided smile, his hand reaching behind Will to pull the hood over his head as the icy gale picked up. “And I enjoy your company,” he added.
Will didn’t often look at people, but when he’d allow himself, the eyes would tell him stories few would like to expose. But Hannibal’s were different, dark and warm, familiar in a way he couldn’t place and utterly unreadable.
Will took a long sip from the flask, grateful for the hood that hung over his head and hid his warmed cheeks. “Bullshit,” he said and hoped it wasn’t.
At Hannibal’s behest, they sat down and faced the forest, feet hanging over the ledge.
He noticed Will never brought any food for his watch and always made a point to share a piece of his meal with the young hunter. This time, instead of sharing a piece he brought enough for both. Hannibal rummaged his satchel and pulled out something large and aromatic, wrapped in paper and still warm. Two sandwiches hid in there, nothing particularly special looking, but the smell of the meat hiding between loaves of bread was divine.
Will said his thanks and even tried to politely refuse. He never thought of food or hunger up here, not when his stomach would tie in unbearable anxious knots. But the more he enjoyed Hannibal’s presence, the more it made him feel comfortable and safe, and food was more than welcome.
His food was always good but today it was something special. The first bite was heavenly for his taste buds, bread toasted a little and meat just the right amount of rare, and Will couldn’t quite place the flavour. “This is amazing. What is it?”
“Just beef,” Hannibal answered, his amusement a permanent fixture on his face. He didn’t seem to be in a rush to enjoy his food, instead rather watching Will eat.
“There must be something else in there.”
“An assortment of spices.”
“Well, it’s the best sandwich I’ve ever had. My compliments to the wife.”
“There isn’t one. This came from my kitchen, my hands.”
It surprised Will to hear that. A charmer like him should have been quick to make a family, and while Hannibal wasn’t old, with barely ten years on Will’s twenty-five, he should have found himself a family by now. Will had good reasoning for his solitude, but Hannibal didn’t fit that type at all.
Hannibal pulled out another paper-wrapped bag of goods from his satchel – goat cheese sliced in cubes – and laid it in the small space between them. It accompanied the taste of the meat perfectly, and silenced them for some minutes to just enjoy eating.
Will was quick to devour his meal, and with nothing holding his mouth back, he found himself overpowered by curiosity as he asked, “Why the solitary life?”
“Hunters should be solitary, if you ask me. You never know what might happen in the line of duty. Not a good career to raise a family around.” The answer was simple but sound and it made too much sense to Will. He thought of his father. He thought of Abigail’s father.
“Do you know of hunter Hobbs? Any word on him?”
“None that I’ve heard. Why do you ask?”
“The inn I live in belongs to the Hobbs’, and his daughter, she’s worried.”
“It’s not unusual to be gone for two days.”
Two days was exactly how long Hobbs and his crew have been gone, and Will knew it was still too early to worry. Abigail knew as well, she said as much, but a daughter could hardly help herself.
Will was licking his fingers clean, the grease on them tasting as delicious as the meat had, when he noticed Hannibal watching him. Always so amused, always smiling – it made Will feel a little special to be on the receiving end of that. He questioned Hannibal’s amusement with a silent head cant.
“Wine,” he said and only then did Will notice the bottle in his hands.
The man came prepared for a picnic on the borderlands of nightmares and it made Will chuckle. “You really enjoy pouring alcohol down my throat,” it was less an accusation on Will’s part than a general observation. He could see himself being more tolerable company under some influence.
“You’re a very tense person, Will Graham,” Hannibal pulled the cap off the bottle with his teeth and spat it out into the woods, the sign of an eager assumption they’d finish it quickly. “And I enjoy you loose and comfortable,” he added with a provocative low tone and passed the bottle, not a lick of shame on him.
Will found facing the forest a lot easier now than his companion, but he did laugh out a nervous little sound. This was new but not entirely unpleasant, just like the wine that did not taste of any grapes he ever had.
“Berries from the woods,” Hannibal told him.
Will took another swing before passing the bottle back. “Adventurous expeditions for some fancy wine.”
“And I’m still alive to share it.”
Will would have smiled but his eyes were trained on the forest, on the moving bushes and the faint glow in it. It could have been bugs, could have been wildlife, but Will thought he recognized something other than branches sticking up from the top. His hand jerked and he grabbed Hannibal’s arm, but words couldn’t come out. Looking upon those things never paid out for anyone and Will ignored the questions Hannibal sent his way. He stood up and quickly took his rifle, taking aim at whatever hid in there, but before he could even pull the trigger, a clear and loud sound of something jolting out and heading deeper had Hannibal on his feet as well.
“What did you see?”
“Probably nothing,” Will lied.
He spent another morning snooping around town until he found it, the missing person, an elder man living alone deep in the village. Few relatives, none who gave a damn to raise any alarm the hunters hadn’t raised themselves. If it wasn’t for the unhinged door, no one would have suspected a thing.
Food lost a lot of its taste after Hannibal’s meal, but Will still ate the breakfast Abigail brought up for him.
“He’ll be back,” she practiced her failing conviction on Will who listened as he ate. “He always comes back.”
And she was always a very stubborn girl. It worried Will a little.
“Get some sleep,” commander Crawford told after giving him a look head to toe.
One free day and Will didn’t know what to do with it, but slept he did for longer than was his usual. A shapeless nightmare or two stirred him awake but he managed to recede in sleep with ease, all through the day and into dusk. What woke him were the sounds of footsteps and his door creaking as it opened. He expected to see Abigail at best, apparitions at worst, but instead his lights got turned on.
“Did I catch you waking or going to bed?” Hannibal was in his room. Flecks of snow covered the cloak he shrugged out of.
“How did you find me,” Will drawled as he sat up, surprised by the visit in a manner he couldn’t yet grasp. A sense of misplaced modesty had him clutching the covers over his chest.
“The girl in the lobby told me where your room was,” the hunter said as he turned the key on the lock. “And your door was unlocked. Careless, Will.”
“Okay, better question,” and Will threw his legs over the side of his bed, the heel of his palm rubbing the fog out of his eyes. “Why are you here?”
“Breakfast.”
There was little space in Will’s room for anything, but he did have two wonky chairs and the smallest table to write on. Hannibal pulled out the intended breakfast on it, and the smell had Will captivated in no time. He was quick to wash himself in the bathroom and pull out two mismatched glasses for the wine that came as well. The paper did well enough to serve as plates for the sandwiches Hannibal prepared again. Same meat, different marinade, and certainly one of the better breakfasts Will had in a long time.
All time?
Will couldn’t place the last meal he ate in the inn and enjoyed.
Half past eight was when they slowly finished eating, unable to bring it to a close sooner due to their chatty tongues. Will mused about his early youth spent on the boatyards while his father had work in the city, and Hannibal revealed a deep love for old books and musical instruments. Circumstances didn’t allow either to pursue their wishes, though Will wasn’t sure he understood what stopped Hannibal from pursuing his.
“Shouldn’t you be heading to the watchtower already?” Will asked instead after licking his fingers clean. Not the most charming sight, but Hannibal took it as praise.
“I have a penchant for being late,” he smiled and eyes lingered a moment too long on Will’s lips.
“A poor habit you’ve been fixing lately.”
“Perhaps,” Hannibal shrugged and grabbed the bottle of that sweet wine. He filled Will’s emptied glass full again and then his own. “But you’re not up there so I see no reason to hurry.”
Will laughed, sat back, and looked Hannibal in the eyes, those dark and pleasant eyes that always seemed to look at Will as if he were something special. He enjoyed how little they revealed and yet said just enough – the story of a lonely man seeking connection to whatever held his rigorous approval. Will knew intimately what that felt like, though he never had rigorous standards, just a hard shell of defence this man sitting across him took down all too easily.
“What are you really here for?”
Hannibal picked his glass up and ushered him to do the same with the most charming grin, a hungry little look. “Bottoms up,” he said and down it went, the sweetest wine Will ever tasted.
He got the answer, though he knew it already, when his back met the wall and Hannibal pressed against him. Will was starving again, but for those lips that continued to evade him. The man against him seemed to want something odd and specific as he nuzzled against Will’s neck, licked and kissed and nibbled. Hannibal reminded him of an animal, eager and exploring, comfortable, but Will still wanted those lips on his. He pulled the man by his hair until they faced each other and Will lunged for it, a little desperate for the kind of contact he barely allowed himself. It caught Hannibal off-guard, a little stunted by the eager tongue that didn’t know what to do with itself, and Will sighed, the taste of that sweet wine filling his senses again, and more so when Hannibal reciprocated. The sweetness overwhelmed him and dizzied, stole his breath, but Will wanted more, wanted to drown in it.
Hannibal pushed him off, an arm against his collarbone held Will to the wall without much force, but he tried to lean in again and chase that sweetness back into his mouth. “Not so fast,” Hannibal warned and his words made no sense to Will. Nothing made sense in his head anymore as his vision blurred and every breath was a struggle.
“Don’t feel... good...” Will struggled to say but the other man just shushed him, wrapped hands around him as Will quickly became dead weight, his head lulling and fighting to stay up until it crashed against Hannibal’s shoulder.
He set Will down on his bed, laid him on his back and watched intensely the moving of his chest. It was laborious at first, but after a few minutes it settled into a rhythm that didn’t seem to falter.
Hannibal turned the light off and took post at the foot of Will’s bed, still as a statue as he watched Will through the thick dark without ever blinking or moving, just like old times. He waited and he watched until the crack of dawn for something that never seemed to happen.
Will woke with his first and worst hangover where his head throbbed and every muscle ached. His memory couldn’t even untangle the events of last night, couldn’t figure what dream was and what reality. The breakfast of eggs and bacon felt stale and tasteless on his tongue but he couldn’t complain when his stomach craved something warm and solid in it. Abigail brought it up to his room as she so often did lately, but the look on her face spoke of dire news.
“It’s a good thing you weren’t on guard yesterday. Whoever was went missing.”
Will had trouble finishing his food when he heard that, a certain someone’s name on his mind, but Abigail knew little and seemed in much of a bad mood herself. Her father still hadn’t returned and she couldn’t even muster the optimism, not after so many days without a single word. They said little to each other for their own reasons and Abigail left with his half eaten food when Will couldn’t put another bite past him.
He left the inn earlier that day, at dusk, hoping to catch commander Crawford and ask about the casualties of the northern watch. Will was half way there when he noticed in the corner of his sight another red cape soaring in the wind. He had just glanced at the quickly moving shape, too small for a man and with flowing long hair. Will would have brushed it off as something irrelevant but the hair he saw, the auburn coloured hair dragged him away from his path.
“Abigail,” he whispered to himself out loud, shocked by what he thought he saw, and he turned down the street where the girl ran. It was dark and the girl had ran too far, Will couldn’t get another good look at her but his feet took him with increasing haste down the path that lead to the north watchtower. “Abigail,” he yelled this time but the girl didn’t turn or stop and Will could see it in his mind too clearly, poor desperate Abigail taking her father’s gear to look for him in the woods that took him.
Will ran but so did she and with many paces ahead of him, she quickly reached the woods. Will screamed out her name in panic but she never stopped and soon he lost sight of her among tall black trees. He came to a sudden stop at the very border of the woods, his knees shaking, heart beating fast, cold sweat gathering on his brow. Will hesitated for long moments, and he felt those seconds like small eternities, each one dooming Abigail more and more, until finally his legs gave in and passed the boundary of relative safety.
He didn’t run though, didn’t make a sound other than the crunching of twigs and leaves at his feet, and Will held his rifle close and mind focused on the task.
Find Abigail. Find Abigail.
A thin coat of snow covered the forest floor and Will followed the tracks she left deep into the woods. He tried not to think of the unlikeliness of finding her in this dark, of coming back safe at all. The nerves were on edge and he had his rifle pointing at anything that seemed to make a movie in his eyes, at anything that made a sound, but the truth was that the woods were still and quiet like death and the only thing that moved in it or made noise was he himself. A thousand eyes were on him and Will couldn’t see not one but knew they were there.
When the tracks stopped, so did Will. They were abrupt in their disappearance on the small clearing. Where could she have gone to leave no tracks? It was as if she was swept away from where she stood by something. Something. Will looked ahead, looked right and looked left, did a turn to look behind then back ahead where he finally noticed it. Two glowing orbs between trees where bushes and branches obscured whatever hid among it.
Will stood still, fear and determination keeping him rooted and the sound of his heart echoed like drums in his ears. The Wendigo creeped slowly, pulling out of the shadows piece by piece in its crouched state. The first clear things in Will’s eyes were the claws reaching out and digging into the snow, pulling out that bony but large frame of black skin and bones that once might have been human. The antlers tore free of the branches, sharp and menacing, and Will could imagine the thing rushing at him and goring him. But it didn’t, not yet, as it crawled slowly out of the dark, its eyes set on Will to keep him petrified.
But he wasn’t. When he saw enough, when he couldn’t handle a moment more of stillness as panic ate him up from the inside, Will moved quickly and aimed with his rifle, shooting at the creature’s head. The motion startled it, the dark blinded Will, and the bullet lodged itself in the Wendigo’s shoulder.
The screech that left it was unbearably loud, a high-pitched howl that felt like nails against chalkboard and it wouldn’t stop, ramping up in volume as it clutched its oozing shoulder.
Will ran, unsure if he could take another shot at it, not with that noise bringing in more unwanted attention and not with that screech that buried itself in his brain. He ran and jumped over logs, zigzagging between trees instead of taking a straight path. When the scream stopped, Will heard the clear sound of wood breaking and tearing and he knew the thing was after him, running at full speed towards the noise Will made in his escape. He saw a hollowed out tree standing upright and hid inside, back pressed against the resin-covered insides and spider webs. Will prepared his gun to shoot again, knowing the creature would sniff him out, but at least here he didn’t have to worry about his back and neither would he have to worry about missing. It would either work or it wouldn’t and that was the best option at his hand.
He heard gallops and grunts approaching, gripped his rifle harder so it wouldn’t be taken from him, took a deep breath and held it, counting down seconds that could be his last. But the Wendigo in all its speed and prowess just dashed by the tree like nothing was there. Did it not hunt by smell? The thought contradicted so many things Will thought he knew about them, but moments passed and the creature galloped further with no signs of turning back, not yet. Will knew he couldn’t stay there forever and it would be back to smell him out with less haste and more preparation, something he might not be able to stand against, so he took his chance and dashed out to look for the next best cover, and maybe just maybe he’d reach the village.
He didn’t rush this time, as much as his instinct told him to, watching instead every step he took to be as quiet as possible. His head kept turning towards the distant howls slowly coming his way, and Will’s feet took him one step too fast, too quick, and he circled a tree only to blindly crash against someone standing there. Will’s hands were quick to cover his mouth before anything louder than a gasp left him, and he stopped in shock.
“Hannibal,” he whispered in disbelief and a thousand questions would have poured out of his mouth had there not been something chasing him. “Run,” Will hissed and grabbed the man by the arm, dragging him away with haste.
“Why,” Hannibal asked and didn’t even bother to whisper.
“I shot one of them,” Will pulled the arm he held on to while quickening his pace. “It’s behind us.”
“Oh, Will,” and the arm tore from his grip. “You can’t outrun a Wendigo.”
Before Will had the chance to question anything, to even turn and face Hannibal, hands grabbed him by the cloak and pulled. Will’s feet lost touch of the ground, but the next second he was thrown against it, face buried in the snow. He tried to protest, tried to get up, but hands pushed him back down with considerable force he couldn’t match.
“Stay down,” and that was the last he heard of Hannibal’s voice as the sound of bones crunching filled his ears, and the sight of a Wendigo crawling out of the shadows arrested his eyes. Another one walked upright behind it, holding its shoulders and screeching as it saw him.
The pressure on his back increased and the only thing Will heard for a while was the snapping of bones as they set in and out of their place. His eyes closed and he thought of the sea, of a boat and sales taking him far and safe, where this heartbreak and fear couldn’t be felt again.
The wounded Wendigo approached, callous and screeching, claws and teeth ready to dig into the hunter who dared to damage him. It did not pay attention and it cost him another deep gash against its sturdy bones. The Wendigo clad in human clothes claimed the pray as its own and did not feel a want to share or play fair. Its companion started receding into the shadows, unwilling to challenge an elder, and the wounded Wendigo had little choice but to give up when more claws swung towards it. Threats were exchanged in hisses and growls but the oozing tar of its wounds became too grave to be left unattended. The sombre hisses of its companion pulled it back and it left with one last threat that sent crows flying in fear from the treetops.
Will held it together, tongue between his teeth to stop any sound, and face buried in the snow. The tears had frozen in streaks on his face but they never stopped, and Will felt like a child again, like that child stuck in a nightmare of hearing bones break as simple human faces turned sinister. The sound was prevalent again and Will hoped for a quick death, a small mercy and no games.
Hands pulled him up to stand, almost effortless, and a well known voice told him, “Turn around.”
The games never stopped and Will had to grit his teeth in misery. He obeyed and turned around but could not open his eyes. Warm human fingers lifted his chin and the voice asked him, “Open your eyes, Will.”
He liked the sound of that voice, the voice he associated with something safe. It compelled Will to open his eyes, and in the haze of drying tears he saw Hannibal’s face and it smiled at him with a wicked pride. “That’s more like it,” he said and removed his hand. The dismay on Will’s face didn’t seem to bother him. “Shall we go home,” he asked and Will barely managed to squeezed out and audible yes from his throat.
Hannibal walked behind him, and with a nudge and an arm clutching Will’s shoulder they moved, though Will was barely aware of his legs taking him.
“Try to be less gullible next time,” Hannibal’s soothing voice came from behind him. “Whoever you think you followed into the woods is surely in bed by now.”
Will thought of all the people who must have fallen for a trick like that, a clever lure. It implied they watched the villagers with a more closer eye than even he had imagined. How often must have people just passed them in the streets, not knowing something was terribly wrong with that human? How often did they stalk Will and many others just to play a fishing game when they could force their way through a door?
“Stay with me,” the warning came close to his ears and both hands were now on him. Will’s step was falling back, his legs dragging not by will but automatism while his mind tried to find shelter away from this terrible moment. But Hannibal should know he had nowhere else to go. Not one safety net in his mind could work against this.
“Her father,” Will asked then, trying to keep himself away from the image of his carved up remains scattered on the streets. “Abigail’s father. Is he—”
“No,” Hannibal didn’t wait for his shaky breath to string words together. “We’ve been eating him for some time now.”
“We,” and Will thought of the other Wendigo and how many others hid among the trees.
“Yes, we. Us.” The voice sounded far too amused in Will’s ear. “You and me.”
Will stopped and jerked his head around, his disbelieving eyes finding Hannibal’s, and once again he was smiling. “Has food lost taste? Appetite dropped?” Will turned his head away, now utterly confused with this game and appalled by his lack of objection.
“Good,” Hannibal said and pressed himself against Will’s back, urging him to keep walking.
With the edge of the forest just in their sigh, Will had to ask why, why this, why him, why any of it, and why so long. But the three letter question got him nothing but shushing sounds and Hannibal’s head perched on his shoulder. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” he said and his hands carefully let go of Will. “Right now you should be swift with your return. They may come back, and when they do, you best be far away from here.”
And he stepped away, allowing Will’s legs to carry him further towards the village. Will turned at one point, question the reality he was experiencing, but Hannibal was still there, on the edge of the woods, watching him walk away.
Nothing made sense anymore but Will’s legs woke up with familiar flat ground at his feet and the next thing he knew he was running, running towards his home, but not the small room in the inn. His real home, the one that just couldn’t sell, not close to the forest but not far enough either. Will abandoned it as soon as his mother passed, hoping the demons that haunted him would stay in it, but not a damn thing changed.
And not a damn thing changed in the house either, besides the thick coat of dust that covered every flat surface. He entered his old room where much was still as he remembered it, and sat on the dusty bed facing the window with blinds shut and curtains closed.
All night he waited for something to burst through it and take him, but nothing did, and sleep certainly wouldn’t have him so all Will had left was to think and think and think until all those scattered thoughts connected into something reasonable.
With dawn he returned to the inn. Seeing Abigail smile at him turned Will’s stomach, and he hugged her and apologised. In her confusion, all the girl could offer was a smile and his breakfast, another plate of food that had even less taste than before.
“I’m sorry about yesterday, sir, it won’t—”
“Keep your excuses, I’m not interested. Just don’t let it happen again,” and Crawford gave him a long hard look. “If you don’t got the stomach for it, you best quit right now.”
“No,” Will spoke up immediately. “I’ve got the stomach for it.”
And for what he thought might be his last day, Will climbed up the watchtower, loaded his rifle, and waited for that hatch to rattle as the partner whose existence eluded all records came in.
“I must say,” Hannibal came in with a bright grin and a total disregard for the rifle aimed at him, “I expected to look for your across the village. This is a good surprise.”
The scent of fear was unmistakable in the air but, the young man put on a brave front behind the gun. Hannibal couldn’t think of many reasons that would put this lovely face in front of him so quickly, and the ones he could were conniving and bargaining – all the more reason to place faith in his choice. That he could see them and resist their spell was proof enough, but Will was so much more, a beautiful reminder of what it was like to be human, to touch and feel one, to talk, listen, and be heard.
Hannibal never forgot his own name. Hannibal never forgot the choices that turned him into what he was today. But he missed, oh god he missed what he had lost so so long ago.
“Put the gun down,” he stood in front of the barrel and wrapped his fingers around it. “You’ll have a hard time explaining why the barrel is bent if you don’t.”
With some visible reluctance, Will complied. The gun was there more for show or threat. Had Will wanted to use it, he would have done so already, but the young man had other plans in mind and Hannibal was curious to hear them.
“What do you want,” were the first hushed words that left Will’s mouth.
“You know the answer to that,” Hannibal cocked his head playfully.
He hadn’t blinked in a long time, had no intention to, and the gesture was clearly unnerving to Will. His eyes trailed to some point over Hannibal shoulder as he asked, “Why?”
Why indeed, and Hannibal could tell him how his resilient eyes were to blame, how the rare people like him made the bulk of all the Wendigo that roamed the woods. He could tell him how it was a simple expansion, the natural way their numbers grew. But what Hannibal chose to tell him was a different kind of truth, a personal one.
“I enjoy your company,” he said and that was how he wanted to keep it, just the two of them.
Will closed his eyes for a moment and turned his head sideways. He seemed more upset than he should be, more sad, but that was how Hannibal liked them, the humans with their wide range of conflicting emotions. Echoes of them still resonated in Hannibal, most when he’d think of Will.
“Why did you feed me...,” Will couldn’t finish, but what bothered Hannibal most were his averted eyes.
He reached out to turn his head, but Will flinched away, his free hand seizing Hannibal’s reflexively, but at least he looked at him.
“I tried to turn you,” Hannibal put it simply, “but it doesn’t seem to be going quite the way it should.” And in a strange way he was glad. He preferred the pink skin on him.
“Food lost all taste,” Will spoke with bitterness.
“Is that so,” Hannibal smiled but it didn’t change the fact Will showed no physical signs, as he should have already. But that wasn’t something Hannibal truly cared for, though knowing Will was tied to his food and drink was a pleasure. “What do you want, Will,” he cut to the chase. “Why are you here?”
“To make a trade,” and a lump slid down his throat. “Help me make this place safe, and you can have whatever you want. However you want it.”
“And how do you suppose we achieve that goal?” But Hannibal already knew the answer and it made him giddy with joy. Just the thought of it was enough to seal the deal.
Will’s grip on his wrist tightened and he pulled Hannibal in, closer, their noses almost touching, and with a low husky voice he said, “Help me kill them all.”
That night, Will Graham disappeared from his post and was never seen again. Tired of losing people around her, soon enough Abigail appeared on commander Crawford’s door. She wanted to change the world, but that was already happening.
All it took was one good shot, and just like any man the beasts of old could fall as well. Making the shot was the tricky part.
They spent many days close to each other, hiding, evading, looking for the perfect vantage points to take each one out. Hannibal’s true form became an uncomfortably familiar presence over time, but he got to know it well, well enough to tell the difference when two would lay at his crosshair. Will supposed it was high hopes on Hannibal’s part that he would make the right shot, trust even, but Will never even considered making a wrong one. For one, he wouldn’t live to reload if Hannibal didn’t stand to protect him, but neither could he live with himself if he’d made such a poor decision, not when he was actually trusted.
There was more humanity than Will wanted to admit in this thing that fed him people.
Deep in the forest there was a large rundown hut made of the sturdy dark wood that grew around it. The insides were scarce but loved – a stack of hay and blankets, a small crooked table, one stool, three oil lamps hanging from the walls, stacks of books wrapped in leather. Will didn’t have to ask who it belonged to, who built it. He didn’t even have to ask about the sketch book hiding in the pile, filled with landscapes and faces, some his own, some of a very young girl.
Will was grateful for a safe place to sleep. He needed it, the other didn’t, and each morning he woke to a lit campfire and the smell of breakfast meat. Never a question where it came from, not when Will hungered so much for it, but every bite was savoured and the more bites he had, less and less could the Wendigo sniff out his presence. It helped to take them out, one by one, but one pair was inseparable and that was enough to cause trouble.
It almost cost Will his life. He was the weak link, he knew that, but he did all he could to bring an end to their hunt even if it took his life. One Wendigo fell and the other spotted him as soon as the shot was made. It ignored Hannibal and lunged for the tree Will perched himself on, knocking him down. The Wendigo Will first wounded was ready to die if only it meant he could drag the hunter down with him and split his head – that’s what Will felt when he looked at those glowing eyes that stood above him. No interest to end him quick; this was vengeance. But Hannibal surprised them both with wild brutality as soon as foreign claws dug into Will’s skin. Screams filled the air.
Will didn’t remember the weeks he lost, the fever, the delirium, the smell of death that clung to his skin. He only remembered the touch of hands that took care of him, sometimes warm, sometimes cold, but always gentle.
The very first thing he saw when sickness left him was a Wendigo crouching low by the hay he laid on. Will didn’t jump or recoil, didn’t even close his eyes, but instead he reached out to trail fingers over cold skin and sharp edges that now more than ever resembled the human face he was more accustomed to.
“I’m hungry,” he murmured, and that was the first time Will found out those things could even crack a smile.