Chapter Text
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The tree of life my soul hath seen,
Laden with fruit, and always green.
***
Wakefulness came slowly, pulling on Will’s senses one at a time like strings on a puppet. Sound came back to him first. Bird calls outside carried on a rustling breeze. Unfamiliar calls, he realized. Sweet songs, but alien to him. And beyond that was a soft, distant slosh of water.
Then smell. The cool wind that blew gently across his face carried the minerally scent of lake water, and the aroma of the earth after rain. And most strongly of all was the sharp smell of a barn yard. Or at least of animals. Of hay and warm fur. Of food...
And finally sight came to him when he forced his eyes to open. He could see the sun out of the open window, high in the sky and cloaked in a gauzy film of gray clouds. He blinked, his eyes grimy with sleep and his mouth dry and sticky. He pried himself up and found a glass of water on the table beside the bed and unthinking, he gulped it down. But then, thirst sated and vision clearing, he looked around.
He was in a small room, on one of a pair of twin beds in what appeared to be an old but well maintained log cabin. The peaked ceiling was supported with stout, rough cut beams, and that meant he was on the top floor. It wasn’t built for style, but it was built for comfort in what was probably a rather inhospitable clime. And built to last. It reminded him fleetingly of Molly’s cabin, but her style had never been so provincial. While there was nothing lavish to be found, it was none the less comfortably appointed in a very simple style. Lace doilies on the night stand. Hand stitched blue and white quilts on both the beds. Painted shutters. Sturdy furniture.
Will tried to sit up further, expecting pain for his trouble, but finding only a dull ache in his side and his shoulder no greater than the general stiffness in his joints from what had likely been a long repose. He turned and looked out the open window. The cabin was perched atop a green hill. Rows of trees all laden with small green fruit followed the slope of the hill, their branches dripping with the recently passed rain. Far below through the haze of fog, Will could see a lake. The water was a murky and almost artificial blue that reminded him of Caribbean ocean water.
He frowned sharply. Where was he?
Quickly, he catalogued his thoughts and memories. Retracing the steps he could remember. It felt unsettlingly like he’d lost time again. But after a moment’s effort, the scenes came back to him in shocking clarity.
Hannibal taking him to the cliffside chalet.
The bottle of wine shattering.
The fight with the Dragon.
The embrace. Will could feel the fabric of Hannibal's sweater, thick and heavy with blood that squished between his fingers. He could hear Hannibal's short, panting breath as it ghosted over his skin, which heated at the memory.
And then quickly cooled when he remembered pulling both he and Hannibal off the cliff and into the crush of the Atlantic. A desperate and uncalculated attempt to end it all. For both of them. For everyone.
But he’d survived apparently. No way to know if Hannibal had as well, though he didn’t have high hopes. It was a miracle either of them survived, and he was far less injured that Hannibal had been. With the gunshot wound, he’d probably bled out in the water if the fall didn’t kill him instantly.
There had been so much blood. He remembered that fact most vividly of all. Remembered how it tasted in his mouth. How it had shifted from red to black with the angle of the moonlight. How he had admired it. Honestly admired it where it coated his skin in a lustrous patina. He'd even cracked a joke and a smile with Hannibal over the corpse.
Will pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes to blot out the sight. When he looked back out over the grayed out landscape, stars still danced across his vision. He tried to think. He’d heard of lakes like this… water that was an opaque, otherworldly blue. The glacial lakes of the northern Rockies looked like that. He'd seen pictures. Maybe he was in Montana… or Canada?
But how did he get here? Who would have brought him out west?
He shuffled and stumbled to his feet, limbs clumsy with disuse. He shambled towards the wardrobe that squatted on the far wall. It sported a full length mirror, and the sight of his reflection shocked him.
He was thin for one thing. Down right gaunt, if he was being honest, with hollowed cheeks and collarbones. He hadn’t been this scrawny since the encephalitis had robbed him of his appetite. And the food at BSHCI had done little to return it to him. And while his hair was longer than it had ever been, his face was clean shaven. A turn of his head revealed why. A row of impeccable black stitches marched along his jaw, expertly sealing the stab wound he’d garnered from the Dragon closed. They itched the instant he saw them.
Will went into a scramble then, pulling off his shirt to reveal two more sets of identical, even stitches, one in his shoulder just below the collarbone and the other in his side. Both were healing well. The puckered skin under the stitches was barely red. And the same was true of his face. In fact, one of the stitches there had come out and tickled against his clean shaven skin. Will plucked it out, rolling the thread between his fingers and pondering the texture as he thought.
A little thrill of something welled in the pit of his stomach. Hope? Was that it? Hope that what… this was Hannibal’s handiwork? That Hannibal had once again whisked him away to safety. Seen to his wounds and tucked him safely into bed. Will quashed it with a thunderous frown and shake of his head.
Before he could consider any other possibilities, he heard a clamoring noise downstairs, like pots banging together. He felt his heart seize and sink in his chest at the sound. But he decided that he wasn’t finding any answers here. So he pulled his shirt back on, and grabbed the robe off the back of the door and headed down stairs on his still stiff legs.
The lower floor of the cabin was much the same as the bedroom upstairs. Same rustic, but comfortable furnishings, with hand made appointments. All the windows had their painted blue shutters flung open, inviting in the cool, rain-soaked air.
Will heard a shuffling by his feet followed by a rickety, deepthroated mewling. He looked down to meet the squinting green eyes of an ancient gray tabby cat. Will was instantly smitten, despite not really being much of a cat person. This feline had clearly not had the easiest life, and Will could certainly sympathize. His fur was mussed and uneven, and one ear was missing a sizeable chunk. But his lackluster appearance didn’t seem to quash any of his feline entitlement to affection, and he promptly began making figure eights around Will’s ankles, purring and trilling as he went.
“That’s Freddy.” came a thickly accented woman’s voice from around the corner.
Will peered around into the kitchen, mindful not to step on the cat, who was still rubbing his bony frame against Will's shin. He saw a short woman with shoulder length gray hair bent over the sink, facing away from him.
“Uh… interesting name for a cat.” Will offered, frowning.
“I named him after that man Freddy Kruger in those American horror movies.” she continued, as Will tried in vain to place the accent. She sounded European, but he couldn’t be sure where. Germany maybe?
“He doesn’t seem like a horror.” Will said leaning down to give him a scratch. The old cat practically stood on his knobby hind legs to press his face into Will’s palm.
“Not to you or me.” She said with a shake of her head. “But to the rest of the animals in the neighborhood,” she made a sound like she was puffing out her cheeks. “He is a terror. Chases anyone who comes near the house. Cat. Dog. Even the ravens stay away.”
She turned, still drying her hands on her apron and crossed to Will. She held out one of her weathered hands, but her eyes never met his face. Instead, she had a championship thousand yard stare that Will recognized from Reba McClane. The woman was blind.
“Will Graham.” he said, taking her hand. It was still damp and smelled of lemon soap.
She made an effort to look up to his face but missed, guessing him to be taller than he was. “Beata Glauser.” she replied with a shining smile.
“I… I don’t mean to be rude.” Will stammered, rubbing a hand across his neck. “But I… I don’t know exactly where I am.”
“Ah. We weren’t sure you’d remember anything. You were drugged to the gills when you arrived.”
“We?”
“Hannibal and I.” she replied.
“Han… Hannibal is here?”
She nodded, drifting towards a chair with an outstretched hand. “Out in the orchard, I suppose. He paces out there when there’s nothing to do in the house. For the first week he drove himself crazy wringing his hands at your bedside. I finally ran him out to make splints for the apple trees. Seemed to do him some good.”
“I… I’m sorry…” Will said squinting and shaking his head a little. “But where am I?”
“You’re in Beckenried, Switzerland. Or near enough. The actual town is about two hours to the east.”
Will blinked dully a few times. “Sw… Switzerland? How did I get to…”
“Hannibal brought you.” She answered simply, her smile still unwavering.
“But…” Will’s eyes darted around. “What…”
Beata, hearing the strain in his voice, reached forward to find his arm with her weathered hand. “You’re both safe here. I understand that you both seek not to be found. You’ll see this place is fairly secluded. And I always take on a little extra help in the orchard come harvest time which should be very soon. Nothing to… how do you say… make suspicion?”
Will nodded, swiping a hand over his face. “Okay… I… Sorry, I just… One minute I’m… well... And then I wake up in Switzerland of all places. Do… how do you know Hannibal?”
Beata smiled again, patting his arm. “I’ll let that be his story to tell. He’s out in the orchard, most likely. You should go find him. He’ll be happy to see you awake and upright. He’s been worried sick.”
Will nodded taking a deliberate breath to steady himself. “Thank you, Beata.” he said, touching her hand before leaning down to give Freddy one last scratch behind his mangled ear.
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