ways_infirmary | (no subject)

A figure darkens the door, and whatever lights illuminate the infirmary suddenly seem to struggle to do their job.

The Prince stands and watches the sleeping woman, an expression of longing and sorrow plain on his face.

Until he registers the man sitting beside her bed. His brow darkens, his mouth set in a fine line, his jaw tense.

'How is she?'

The man opens his eyes, never having been asleep. Instead, he was pondering blood, and that which the dead vampires were made of.

"On the mend," he says, his voice taking a crisp, self-assured tone. He is the doctor, it asserts.

He stands.

"You saw my note, I take it?"

There is a moment's hesitation and then a reply.

'Yes.' He tears his gaze away from Rae and focuses on the doctor.

The dark gaze plays over his figure, and there is a pressure on his thoughts. Too orderly. Too proper. Too... Precise. Especially for the scenes he was replaying.

'Who attacked her?'

His hands curl into fists, utterly unconsciously.

The man's eyes are a light brown that is almost maroon, and he looks straight into the dark ones.

"Vampires from her world," he says. "They were dead on arrival, or shortly after."

Blood and gore in his mind are replaced, at the pressure, by a row of doors, with bronze plaques on. The one which the man opens now is labelled 'Our Vampires Are Different'.

Edited 2013-08-25 22:24 (UTC)

A swarm of bats emerges from the door, disappearing as quickly as it came. The thought did not originate in Hannibal's head, and a quirk of the newcomer's eyebrow lets him know that.

'She is very good at what she does.'

The pressure switches, coming as if from above. Someone is peering into the memory palace as if it were a dollhouse, lifting off the roof and casting an eye over the contents just beneath the surface.

The dark gaze never waivers. It makes sense that a doctor would not be disturbed by such gore, but he gets the distinct impression that is not the whole tale.

'My apologies, doctor.' He dips his chin in greeting. 'Vlad Tepesh. A friend of the lady's.'

"Dr. Hannibal Lecter," the man says, nodding back.

He tilts his head to look at Vlad. "And she is. You even say that as somebody who likely never sampled her baking."

There is a little smile, but no judgement or further remark. And through the uncovered corridors of the memory palace, a stag calmly wanders.

It is a strangely peaceful mind, though there are rooms full of violence. Horrific images, but nothing that makes his stomach turn. There is a certain -- creativity to them. That, above all else, gives him pause.

'She makes bread, as if it would cleanse her hands.'

He shares an image of himself, on the battlefield, an opulent feast laid out before him in the early dawn light. Around him, a field of bodies impaled on a forest of pikes. The stench of blood fills the air, and the groans of the dying carry on the wind.

'Hannibal Lecter. I would have you know, she is under my protection.'

"And under mine as well," Hannibal Lecter answers. In his memory palace, a new room forms, the wallpaper a garish pattern of dripping blood and crosses, and the image Vlad provided goes on the wall, in an ornate frame, like an epic painting of a battlefield.

Vlad Tepes 1462 the plaque on it reads.

'The label is incorrect,' he murmurs.

Tepesh is an appellation he was given after his death. His name is Vlad Dracula, son of the Dragon, or of the Devil, depending on the translator.

'But it matters not.' His gaze moves to the sleeping woman. 'Save only that she is safe.'

"That's what matters to me as well," Dr. Lecter says.

Pause.

"And the year is correct."

Not a question.

'The year, yes. The name, no.'

At least he thinks the year is correct. There were so many atrocities committed against the Turk.

'Vlad Dracula. Tepesh was added only after my -- death. It means, "Impaler." But you know that already, don't you?'

The corner of his mouth lifts.

'In more ways than one.'

"I do," Dr. Lecter says. "Rae has interesting friends who know to treasure her."

He thinks, briefly, of a box of hand-written index cards.

"It's fitting you're one of them."

Vlad shrugs, and dips his chin.

'I'm curious how you fit in to her collection.'

"I cook," Dr. Lecter says. "She bakes. We appreciate each other's work."

Pause.

"She fights monsters much larger than herself. I feel great respect for that."

In his mind, there's the brief image of an unassuming and slightly unkempt man whom Dr. Lecter affords a similar respect, combined with inquisitive interest.

That thought makes Vlad smile. She is formidable, indeed.

He turns an eye back to the doctor. There is a sense memory, lurking, just beneath the surface. Of sinking teeth into flesh.

'At least she knows what kind of monster I am.'

"And for some reason, she affords you the privilege of not fighting you," Dr. Lecter says.

Never doubting that she could.

In his memory palace, there is a room that contains the model of a labyrinth of thorny hedges and walls armed with broken bottles on top, with pins that have names on stuck to various staged inside. Most pins are red; only four of them are green.

"Friends are worth more if they could take you down, but do not do so."

It seems an odd layout for a battle, but that's what he sees it as. Chess pieces in motion.

'She knows my true heart.'

It is left unstated that she does not know Hannibal's true heart.

'She knows, perhaps more than she'd like to, and she uses what I have to offer her.'

"She has proven to you that she can be trusted utterly," Dr. Lecter says. In his mind, a yellow pin is added to the labyrinth.

'No. She will betray me.'

He looks back to her again, and his heart shows on his sleeve.

'They all do.'

"And knowing that," Dr. Lecter says, "she is still worth the price to you."

In his mind, he moves the yellow pin beyond one more thorny hedge, closer to the centre of the labyrinth.

Edited 2013-08-28 14:41 (UTC)

'Oh yes. Of that, I have no doubt.'

This man's battle plans, his chessboard of identities and relationships, reminds him of something his tutor at the Ottoman court taught him. When your life depends on knowing who is friend, or friend of friend, and foe, or friend of foe, it behooves one, even as a child of only ten, to be able to remember names and faces, and their place in the game.

He fixes Dr. Lecter with a gaze as cold as steel.

'She will betray you, too. She fights monsters, Doctor.'

"That she does," Dr. Lecter says. "And yet, she is worth it."

He might mean either of them.

'Yes. On that point, we are in, agreement.'

He glances across at the woman, who seems to be stirring from sleep.

'You'll excuse me, Doctor?' He lifts a hand, resting it across his chest in an archaic gesture reminiscent of touching the brim of a hat.

Dr. Lecter nods his head, hinting at a bow.

"Of course," he says. "It was good to meet you, Prince. I hope to talk to you again."

In his mind, Dr. Lecter enters a door with a plaque that says "Remarkable Milliways Acquaintances", and there hangs up the earlier scene Dracula had given him, alongside a portrait of the man as he is now, and a miniature of the Ambras Castle painting.

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