Chapter Text
It wasn’t the language of the New World that posed the greatest difficulty for Hannibal. Though his formative years passed by in Europe, he had spent the last decade or so making his way west, and each step he put behind him was another word added to his vocabulary until he knew – not immodestly – that he was more literate than many of the people he met on his journey. These individuals that flocked to the Americas alongside him weren’t a problem either, for a man was as rude as he was allowed regardless of the continent beneath their feet.
Sweat stung his eyes, narrowed against the bright sun. From the back of his hair, another bead slipped past his starched collar and trailed down his back, making him shift uncharacteristically on his feet as it was absorbed by the waist of his pants.
Of all of the indignities of passing through settlement after settlement, it was the heat that Hannibal could not abide. He wished for nothing more than to find a cool stream in which to bathe, but his time was not his own. Hannibal was expected in the nearest town, and he could dally no more than he had already.
When he blinked, there was a brilliant white circle stamped on the back of each eyelid. For a moment he kept his eyes pressed shut to watch its white geometry fade into fleshy red. The sun’s rays touched down upon him as if with a physical touch – a gentle yet no less oppressive smothering of heat – and he was not alone to receive its attention. From where he stood in the jamb of the door, the grass was brown and the soil loose, all but bleached to the colour of sand. It, just like Hannibal, was all too mindful of the fact it had been weeks since the last rainfall.
The door opened up into a single room just large enough to contain a bed, a fireplace, and a wooden chair. Its floor was packed dirt. Despite its diminutive size, he had shared it with another traveller, whom he only met yesterday just before dusk. Then, he had pushed through the door to find the building already occupied by a short man hovering over a pot of beans. After a brief introduction, they found themselves both amendable to sharing lodgings, as neither could appreciate another night spent amongst the flies and the beetles – the wind and the dust it managed to kick up. The man – Charlie of San Antonio – had revealed he planned on following the Siskyou River north.
He had only offered to share his beans when he learnt that Hannibal, a doctor, carried with him medicinal tinctures on his travels.
Hannibal, no stranger to hunger, had declined the offer and chose not to make use of the fire to cook his own meal. As he was last to arrive, he insisted he take the floor, unfurling a blanket as he said so. He slept like a dead man on his back until the morning sun brightened the small space they shared, at which time he rolled up his blanket and considered the day before him. His companion hadn't stir and continued to snore sharply on the bed. His breath wasn’t a sleepy see-saw of slumber but a nasally snort that split stone.
Now, with the day about to begin, Hannibal ran his tongue along his top teeth, feeling the grooves between each tooth. He spit into the sand and kicked at the dust before turning towards the bed where he stopped, shins against the frame. From above on high, Charlie was small and dusty and darkened by Hannibal's shadow.
Round eyes met his as he drew the edge of his knife against the man’s throat. Hot blood splattered his face, hotter still than his already sun-soaked and sweating skin, a brand across the ridge of his cheekbones. He smiled as he felt it trickle down his chin.
If it weren’t for the blood, it would look like Charlie was merely sleeping through the heat, which was how Hannibal left the sorrowful house with the dead man inside.