erosion.
pack.
[noun. a group of animals of the same kind, especially predatory]
a rhythm of engagement, greater than self. a force
inexorable dark water reaching up to catch them, harder than air, when the rushing impact split into silence. the atlantic took their fall without pity, slowed the rushing in Will’s ears
{ hannibal first
in all things, striking, first }
beating in over their punctured edges, washing out the moon.
will heard dolarhyde toss his head in the churn; saw the tomb flesh made paring him back to meat, just meat, as they brought him down
down.
down.
thrill, conquest and stutter behind the drowning cage of his ribs, rusted too thin; oxygen and glory slowed by the
they’d lie soon, drowned with the wrecks; jailed by silt, all his rust blamed on the
stunning cold.
with his final choice he’d reached for heat, filling the holes in him with ragged breast, the last act of metaphor turned man. now the current made him struggle to hold on, too much salt blood in his salt water, turning slippery too soon. before the last inevitable: their lungs expelling, the autonomic inhale --
was a leak of brine, sucked in between strong fingers closing fast over his bloody mouth (found the edge of the wound, made him scream).
and like a statue from their tragedy, Hannibal was moving, though Will had meant this to be their plinth. faltering strokes carving first no-where, thwarted by the tide’s pull, and then in haggard tugs they weren’t sinking any longer. pushing upwards in agonizing pulls of asphyxiation, of life they’d never deserve.
the surface came, and it came with a glut of pain and failure and light.
will dragged in the air, felt his chest fill; felt his legs give a traitorous kick. his hair was in his eyes; Hannibal was nothing but contrast and shadow, turned out to sea, and will caught the rhythm like he’d caught the frenzy: hit out at the waves to keep them afloat.
sounds were hunting with the light, bouncing back off the cliffs, the slap of water against a salted side and a familiar putputput that Will knew, ten years old and coiling rope; standing miles from shore, watching the lights on Lake Erie --
on his little house, the only time when he felt
-- never more himself.
a hundred points of memory piled into a sound he should have known Hannibal wouldn’t, couldn’t, leave innocent in his self. one more piece to fracture and sink, leaving the rest waiting in the spotlight for their ship to come in.
Her face was strength and stone, and he shouldn’t have forgotten her so easily. Doubted that out there, somewhere, Chiyoh would be waiting to keep her promise. When she cut the engine and reached down Will found no new thoughts to think; pulled in at his bleeding core, pushed his legs forward, caught the sturdy weight of the keel under his feet. Together, they heaved Hannibal up away from him, the wet human weight of meat slapping onto the deck beyond. Will could hear the stag’s heart hammering through the hull, and listened as its call, high and cold, spread out triumphant over the water.
When the hands reached down again, slippery as his, Will went with them.
