Work Text:
Entry 1; year 1984, The lost encounters with Will Graham.
Jack had been a mentor once, an old friend; but that was a long time ago. His obsession with the “creature” had eaten him alive. It had started back in ‘78, and year by year, it only got worse. When he showed up on Will’s doorstep that stormy night, he looked half-dead. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes wild, and he reeked of whiskey and salt. “I saw it,” he hissed, breath hot and sour. His hands trembled as he gripped Will’s shirt, knuckles bone white. Will didn’t buy into Jack’s madness. Not really. He didn’t believe in sea monsters or the ghost stories sailors swapped in backwater bars. But he did believe something dangerous was out there. The Chesapeake Triangle wasn’t a place you fished if you wanted to live long. When Jack came to him, ranting about the expedition, needing Will as his “eyes” to chart the deep waters, Will told him to go to hell. But Jack had a way of twisting the screws. He knew how to push, and Will, broke and cornered, finally gave in. Before leaving, he patted Winston, his old dog, on the head. "I’ll be back soon, boy," he muttered. It seemed not to reassure the old boy. They set out sail.
The storm came out of nowhere. No forecast, no warning. Just black skies and hellish and screeching waves. Matthew fought to haul in the flapping sails, the wind shredding them like paper. The deck was a war zone, slick with seawater and carnage. Salt burned their eyes, and the air reeked of brine and panic. Waves smashed the boat from all sides, crashing over the crew, knocking them to their knees, choking them. Jack was screaming orders, completely unhinged.
“We need to turn her around!” Will roared, gripping the railing as the boat groaned under the force of the storm.
“NO! WE’RE CLOSE!” Jack’s voice was raw, his eyes blazing with madness.
Will barely had time to register what happened next. A flicker in the water, something impossibly fast. A flash of jagged teeth glinting in the dark. Then pain, hot and sharp, as something smashed into the back of his skull.
The world tilted, spun, and then there was only blackness.
Jack’s Memories, Year 1978
Hannibal was ancient, a creature born of hatred and malice. His eyes, glinted deep maroon. Sometimes they caught the light and burned blood red. He didn’t belong in the world of earthbound creatures, and he knew it. Though he could walk among them; those fragile, bipedal creatures. . he chose not to. Their forms were weak, their movements graceless. Why stoop to their level when his own dark scales were armor, his sinews coiled with strength they couldn’t fathom? He preferred the armor of his dark red scales, the power in his coiled muscles.
Jack? Jack was a silly, flailing creature so far out of his depth it was almost pitiable. The first time Hannibal set his sharp eyes on the man, he barely noticed him. What held Hannibal’s attention was the girl.
Miriam. That’s what Jack called her. Miriam. She was different. The way she looked at him, transfixed, leaning over the water’s edge as if pulled by some invisible thread; it amused him. Fascinated him, even. She saw him, truly saw him, and Hannibal found himself speaking to her. His voice was low, hypnotic, curling around her and pulling her closer to the water’s edge.
Jack was somewhere behind her, rambling on, a useless monologue spilling from his mouth. Hannibal didn’t care. His focus was on Miriam as she inched closer, her hand dipping toward the water’s surface. And then he saw it; the spear. Clever girl, hiding it so well. But not clever enough.
Hannibal’s lips curled back into something between a grin and a snarl. With a single, fluid motion, he surged from the depths. The water shattered around him. Miriam’s gasp caught in her throat, cut short as Hannibal’s jaws closed around her. She didn’t even have time to scream.
Jack’s voice was screaming now, though. High, panicked, and meaningless. Hannibal ignored it. The water turned red as Jack’s screams tore through the still air. Hannibal paid them no mind. He had already vanished, dragging Miriam down into the dark where he belonged.
When Will awoke, for a brief, blissful moment, he thought he was home, nursing a horrific hangover. His body ached, his head throbbed, and for a heartbeat, he expected to open his eyes and find himself sprawled outside his cabin, Jack probably hogging his couch inside.
But when his eyes fluttered open, the sight before him told a very different story. He wasn’t near his cabin. He wasn’t near anything familiar. He was lying on the ground, and above him, palm trees swayed gently in the breeze. No. No, no, no.
Will scrambled upright, instantly regretting the action as pain knifed through his skull. Clutching his head, he blinked at his surroundings. He was standing on what looked like an utterly abandoned beach. Pale sand stretched endlessly in both directions, and the waves lapped quietly at the shore. His leg throbbed with a dull ache, and when he glanced down, confusion and horror churned in his stomach.
Beneath his tattered pants, the skin on his calf bore a ring of jagged teeth marks, the wound scarred over but unmistakable. The sheer size of it... What the hell had bitten him?
He needed to leave. Now. He didn’t care about Jack, Matthew, or Randall—if they were alive, they could fend for themselves. Will’s only thought was of his dog. Winston. He’d promised Winston he’d come home, and damn it, he was going to keep that promise.
For the next hour, he worked with desperate focus, scavenging planks and anything remotely useful from the shore. He knew sailing away wasn’t the safest idea, this was the Chesapeake Triangle, after all, but he also knew no one was coming for him. Not here. Not ever.
He bent down to grab another plank when a voice drifted to him, smooth and teasing, from somewhere nearby.
“Trying to leave so soon?”
Will froze, his heart hammering. Slowly, he straightened and turned toward the sound.
The voice had come from the water.
There, perched lazily on a rock just beyond the shore, was...something. At first glance, it resembled a man; its upper body humanoid, lean, and elegant—but the resemblance ended there. Its teeth glinted in the sun, sharp and crooked, framed by lips curled into a mocking smile. Its skin shimmered faintly, like it had been polished.
And its tail. . oh, its tail. .was long and serpentine, covered in glistening, brilliant red scales that reflected the sunlight like fire on water. It shifted slightly, the movement unnervingly smooth, and Will’s stomach churned.
It wasn’t like the mermaids of sailor lore, the kind he might’ve idly imagined while charting maps. This thing was no romanticized vision. It was something ancient and serpentine.
Will recoiled but managed to stay silent.
The creature tilted its head, eyes half-lidded, studying him with a lazy sort of curiosity. Will forced himself to glance away, his heart pounding as he avoided eye contact.
“Not fond of eye contact?” the creature asked, amusement lacing its tone.
“Eyes are distracting,” Will muttered under his breath.
“You’re not nearly as frightened as I expected,” the creature observed, its voice smooth and amused.
“Should I be?”
“I ate your crewmates.” The creature shrugged, a casual, unsettling motion. “Took a bite out of you too.” It smiled, flashing those teeth again, and Will fought the urge to step back as it added with a wink, “Tasty.”
Will’s mouth felt dry. “Why am I alive?” he asked hoarsely. His mind flickered to the image of fish kept alive in streams by fishermen, their flesh kept fresh for later.
“Because I wanted you to be,” the creature said simply, its voice both chilling and coy. With a flick of its tail, it tilted its head, maroon eyes narrowing in interest. “What’s your name, sailor?”
"Not a sailor," Will replied, his voice steadier than he felt.
"Oh?"
"Cartographer. I chart things." He hesitated, then added, "My name is Will."
"Will," the creature repeated, savoring the sound as though testing its weight. "No last name?"
Will hesitated again. It was unwise to give his full name to strange beings—an instinct drilled into him. But this... thing... wasn’t fae. Was it? Refusal, he sensed, might provoke it.
"Graham," he said finally, his voice guarded.
"Will Graham," the creature purred, elongating the syllables like a caress. Its lips curved into a smile, revealing far too many teeth. Will suppressed a shudder.
"My name," it said after a beat, "is Hannibal." A pause. "Lecter."
The name shouldn’t fit, yet somehow it did.
"Sounds European," Will said, his voice tight.
"It is," Hannibal replied with a smile that did nothing to reassure.
"What are you?" Will ventured, his curiosity overriding caution.
Hannibal tsked, the sound light and scolding. "Rude, little cartographer," he said, almost jovially. "I am many things. A scholar. An explorer. A beast." The last word rolled off his tongue with deliberate weight, and Will’s gaze flicked to the sinuous tail trailing behind the creature. Its scales shimmered faintly in the bright light.
"Do you like what you see?" Hannibal asked, lifting the tail to display its end—a battered, once-regal fin. It was torn and tattered, yet somehow still majestic.
"Something took a bite out of you," Will observed.
"Your kind," Hannibal replied curtly, his voice darkening. Then, almost flippantly, he added, "It will heal."
"I'm sorry," Will said softly, surprising even himself.
Hannibal's eyes gleamed with amusement, crinkling at the corners. "How curious. I just told you I ate your crewmates, and yet here you are, apologizing."
Will’s lips twitched, though he didn’t smile. "I would have done the same if they were trespassing in my home."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Hannibal tilted his head, studying him, then, slowly, his expression brightened, his teeth flashing in a grin.
"I’m glad I didn’t eat you, little man," Hannibal said, his tone rich with delight. "You’re the most fun I’ve had in centuries."
That didn’t bode well for Will.
Fortunately, the creature seemed satisfied—for now. With a final, lingering look, it slipped back into the shimmering blue waters, its tail a streak of crimson beauty as it disappeared beneath the surface.
Will exhaled shakily, staring out at the vast, empty expanse of the ocean. The sick realization settled over him: his makeshift raft wasn’t going to carry him far.
So, he made a fire.
The heat was comforting, the rhythmic crackle of the flames almost soothing. Before long, exhaustion took him, and he drifted into uneasy sleep.
"You really shouldn’t sleep without someone keeping watch."
The voice startled him awake. Will bolted upright, heart hammering, to find himself face-to-face with the creature once more.
How? He’d gone to the center of the island—far from the water. His eyes darted downward, searching for the familiar shimmer of scales and a tail. Instead, he saw legs. Bare, human legs. And. . Something else. His face flushed red.
"You have legs," he blurted.
The creature snorted, clearly amused. "Sometimes. I don’t like using them, but you made it necessary." It gestured broadly, indicating the lack of water surrounding them.
Will swallowed, his mouth dry.
"Still," Hannibal continued, circling him with an almost predatory grace, "you shouldn’t sleep without a watchman. There are animals on this island, and they’re far less polite than I am."
The creature’s gaze dropped to the fire, its expression shifting into something almost...appreciative. "Good," it said, nodding toward the flames. "We can work with this."
Before Will could ask what that meant, Hannibal reached into a bundle slung over his shoulder and pulled out a fish—no, not a fish. It was enormous, unlike anything Will had ever seen, its scales glinting like polished onyx.
"Hungry?" Hannibal asked, holding the bizarre creature over the fire.
Will’s stomach growled loudly in response, and Hannibal’s smirk widened.
The fish tasted surprisingly good, though Will couldn’t shake the oddity of sharing a meal with a creature that, by its own admission, had eaten his crewmates. Strangely, he found himself forgetting, or perhaps ignoring, that little fact.
The creature, of course, was quick to remind him.
"I prefer red meat," it said casually, its sharp teeth glinting in the firelight.
Right. His crewmates.
Will froze, the half-eaten piece of fish still in his hands. "Are you fattening me up, then?" he asked warily.
Hannibal chuckled, low and rich. "No, little man. Just making conversation."
Will decided to change the subject. "How do you know English?"
The question seemed to offend the creature. Its expression shifted into something imperious, almost haughty. "I know many languages," it scoffed, as if the answer were obvious.
Embarrassment flushed Will’s face. "Oh. I only know two."
"How quaint," the creature replied, amusement curling its lips. "How old are you, Will?"
"Thirty-four," he said, unsure why he was answering.
"So young," Hannibal mused, his tone almost wistful.
Will laughed, shaking his head. "Middle-aged, more like. People don’t live too long."
"Not on this island," the creature replied smoothly.
Will stilled, his brows furrowing. "What?"
"If you stay here," Hannibal said, his voice soft, almost coaxing, "you could live for a very long time."
Something flickered across the creature’s face—something almost... mournful.
"My sister did so," Hannibal continued after a beat. "For a while, at least."
"What happened to her?" Will asked cautiously.
The creature’s gaze drifted to the fire. "She died when she left."
"Right after?"
"No," Hannibal said quietly. "She lived out her life with your kind." There was something unsaid, lingering in the air: Without me.
Will hesitated before asking, "Could you help me get off this island?"
The creature stilled, and then it laughed. A deep, rolling laugh that sent chills down Will’s spine.
"No, dear Will," Hannibal said at last, his teeth sharp and eyes gleaming with amusement. "I think I’ll keep you here a little while."
The creature appeared sporadically, slipping in and out of the shadows of Will’s days like a cat toying with its prey. Its visits were unpredictable, always brief yet somehow leaving the impression that it was watching even when it wasn’t visible.
By now, Will had abandoned any real hope of rowing off the island. His makeshift raft sat untouched, its futility weighing heavier each time he looked at it. Instead, he shifted his efforts to sending small smoke signals into the sky, feeding damp vegetation to the fire to create thick, curling plumes.
The creature found this endlessly amusing.
"I truly don’t understand why you’re so desperate to leave," Hannibal said, lounging nearby as Will stoked the flames.
Will didn’t look up, focusing instead on adding just the right amount of green branches to keep the smoke going. "Well, being neighbors with the equivalent of a great white shark isn’t exactly comforting," he retorted, his tone sharp. If the creature was going to eat him, Will figured he might as well go down with some dignity.
Hannibal tilted his head back with an exaggerated sigh, his amusement evident. "You are no saint, dear Will. You don’t mourn for those you lost. "
Will turned and then immediately looked elsewhere. "Could you cover it up?" he snapped, gesturing vaguely in the creature’s direction but refusing to meet its gaze.
Hannibal frowned, glancing down at his naked torso and legs, then back at Will with genuine confusion. "Oh," he said after a beat, his lips twitching with amusement. "It’s perfectly natural for your kind, is it not? Tell me, Will, does it arouse you?"
The question was clearly a joke, but Will’s face burned red. He stormed off, muttering curses under his breath.
Behind him, the creature laughed— "I wouldn’t have these appendages," Hannibal called after him, "if you didn’t insist on holing up in the middle of the island, far from my waters, dear Will!"
The freshwater on the island, though limited, wasn’t saline, and Will had found a few natural springs trickling down from the rocky cliffs near the forest. It was enough to survive on for now, but he couldn’t help eyeing the endless ocean and its untapped potential. A part of him couldn’t stop tinkering with the idea of a system to filter seawater.
Using scraps of debris from the shoreline and some large, flat leaves from the jungle, Will began constructing a rudimentary solar still. He set a shallow container of seawater at the bottom of a cone-shaped cover made from overlapping leaves, then placed a smaller collection vessel in the center. The idea was simple: heat from the sun would evaporate the seawater, and the condensation would collect on the leaves and drip into the smaller container.
Hannibal appeared as Will worked, his steps soundless as he emerged from the treeline. The creature crouched nearby, watching with undisguised curiosity.
"What are you doing now, little man?"
"Making something useful," Will replied, his tone clipped.
The creature leaned closer, tilting its head to observe the setup. Its sharp eyes flicked between the pieces of the contraption. "You’re separating water from salt?"
Will glanced at him, surprised. "Yes."
Hannibal’s lips curled into a faint smile. "Resourceful. Primitive, but resourceful."
Will ignored the jab and kept working, using a strip of cloth he’d salvaged to secure the leaves in place.
"You humans are fascinating," Hannibal murmured after a moment. "Always trying to bend nature to your will, even when the odds are impossible."
"Desperation breeds creativity," Will muttered, adjusting the angle of the leaves.
Hannibal chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on Will’s hands as they worked. "You could have asked me for water, you know."
Will stopped, his hands freezing mid-motion. "There’s more water on this island?"
The creature smiled, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Yes. But where’s the fun in telling you everything?"
The solar still had been a success, briefly. Will had managed to collect a small amount of fresh water, enough to make him feel a flicker of triumph. That is, until a particularly strong gust of wind ripped through his camp, scattering leaves, cloth, and containers across the beach.
He stared at the wreckage in silence for a moment before a familiar voice called out from the treeline.
"Want me to show you where the fresh water collects?"
Will turned, narrowing his eyes at the creature lounging in the shade, its grin almost too wide.
He hesitated, but after a moment, he sighed in defeat. "Fine."
The creature lit up, surprisingly animated as it beckoned him forward. It moved ahead with a quick, almost playful stride, though it tripped once or twice, cursing under its breath each time.
"I don’t understand how you use these," Hannibal muttered, glaring down at his legs as though they had offended him.
Will bit back a laugh. The contrast was striking; this being, so fluid and elegant in water, was somehow slightly clumsy on land. Not that it wasn’t graceful; it still moved with ease. But Will could tell the creature wasn’t used to walking.
"Careful," Will said dryly. "You might stub a toe."
The creature shot him a sharp look but said nothing, leading him deeper into the jungle.
Eventually, they came to the mouth of a cavern, dark and uninviting. Will stopped short.
"I’m not going in there," he said firmly, crossing his arms.
The creature sighed dramatically, rolling its eyes. "Such a coward," it muttered.
Before Will could argue, he felt something latch onto his ankles.
"Hey—what—"
Suddenly, he was being dragged into the cavern, kicking and shouting. Panic surged through him, and his mind raced. This is it. This is how I die.
The darkness of the cave swallowed him whole, twisting into a disorienting series of loops and turns. The air grew damp and cool, the faint sound of dripping water echoing off the stone walls.
When the creature finally released him, Will was gasping for breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He scrambled to his feet, ready to fight—only to freeze at the sight before him.
They had entered a vast underground chamber. The ceiling arched high above, jagged with stalactites that glistened in the dim light filtering through cracks in the rock. The floor was covered in bones and scattered treasures—gold, jewels, and trinkets reflecting faintly in the water that filled the cavern.
At the center of the water was a small hill, rising like an island within the chamber.
"Drink," Hannibal urged, his tone smooth. "You’ll find it quite refreshing. And don’t mind the bones—they’ve been here far longer than you."
Will hesitated, then crouched at the edge of the pool. He scooped up a handful of the clear, cool water and brought it to his lips. It was crisp and clean, the purest water he’d ever tasted.
The creature watched him closely, its expression unreadable.
"See?" Hannibal said softly. "I can be generous."
Day 15
The nights on the island were heavy and oppressive, the kind of darkness that pressed against Will's chest like a weight, suffocating him with loneliness. He tried to keep his mind occupied during the day—building, foraging, surviving—but at night, when the fire crackled low and the stars seemed indifferent to his plight, the grief always came rushing in.
On this particular night, it hit him harder than usual. He sat near the fire, his knees drawn up to his chest, his face buried in his arms as silent tears spilled down his cheeks.
The sound of footsteps, soft, broke through the quiet. Will didn’t bother looking up. He didn’t have the energy to fend off the creature’s curiosity or its endless teasing.
But it didn’t speak, not at first. Hannibal settled himself on the other side of the fire.
"You cry often," Hannibal said finally, his voice low, almost thoughtful.
Will sniffled, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes. "I didn’t realize you were keeping track."
"I keep track of everything about you, dear Will," the creature replied, its tone warm yet inscrutable.
Will laughed bitterly at that, shaking his head. "Well, don’t take it personally. I don’t exactly have a lot of company to distract me."
Hannibal was quiet for a moment, watching him. Then, with a sudden shift of movement, he circled the fire and settled down beside Will.
"It’s not so bad here with me, is it?" Hannibal asked, his voice softer now. There was no malice in it, no teasing, just a strange kind of vulnerability that made Will look up.
His tear-streaked face was flushed, and his eyes, red-rimmed and tired, met the creature’s unblinking gaze. "I don’t know," Will admitted. "It’s...different. You’re different."
Hannibal tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a faint smile. "That is not a ‘no.’"
Will huffed, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and looked away. "What do you want from me?" he asked quietly, his voice breaking on the last word.
The creature regarded him for a long moment before answering. "I want you to see that this place is not your prison. It can be your sanctuary. With me."
Will shook his head, his hands curling into fists against his knees. "You killed my crewmates," he said hoarsely.
"I did," Hannibal admitted without hesitation. "But you are not them, Will. You are special."
"Special," Will echoed bitterly. "Special enough to keep alive?"
Hannibal’s gaze softened, and for the first time, there was something almost tender in his expression. "Special enough to want you to stay," he said simply.
Will’s breath hitched, and the tears came again, silent and unstoppable. He didn’t pull away when the creature’s hand, cold and oddly comforting, rested lightly on his shoulder.
"You mourn for a life that has already left you," Hannibal murmured, his voice low and soothing. "But life persists, Will. Even here, even now. It is not so bad to live, is it?"
At first, Will was nothing more than a curiosity to Hannibal. When the wreck happened and the humans spilled into his waters like helpless fish, he hadn't felt the slightest pang of guilt when he devoured them. They were trespassers, after all, and there was a certain poetry in returning their flesh to the sea. But then there was him.
He told himself he spared Will out of boredom, of course. Something to keep him entertained. A plaything. It was so rare to find a human worth observing. Yet as the days passed, that justification began to feel thin.
By Day 15, Hannibal no longer bothered to pretend that Will was merely an amusement. Somewhere along the way, the strange little human had wormed his way into the creature’s mind. Hannibal found himself lingering longer during their conversations, taking note of the details in Will’s expressions, the subtle shifts in his tone. He admired Will’s stubbornness, his clever hands, the sharpness of his tongue.
More troubling, though, was the way he felt drawn to Will’s vulnerability, the quiet moments when his walls crumbled and the grief seeped through. It stirred something ancient and possessive in Hannibal, a desire not just to observe Will but to protect him. To keep him.
And that terrified him.
Micha had always warned him about this. She used to tease him, call him foolish for growing attached to the things he claimed. "You care too much, brother," she would say, her voice light but her eyes serious. "One day, it will ruin you."
Hannibal could almost hear her now, her laughter echoing in his mind as he sat watching Will sleep by the fire. "See?" she would say. "You’ve done it again."
He cursed himself for his weakness. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Humans were prey, nothing more. He should have eaten Will that first night and saved himself the trouble.
But now, it was too late.
Hannibal turned his gaze to the small, fragile man huddled near the fire, his face streaked with tears even in sleep.
"This was not supposed to happen," he murmured under his breath, his voice low and bitter.
But it had happened, and no amount of cursing Micha’s wisdom (or his own foolishness) would change that. Will was his now.
And gods help him, he didn’t want to let him go.