@skingames (erik lehnsherr)
“i am not who you think.”
there is a knife to the throat that is not hannibal’s, a knife that had moved so fast in the man’s hand that he could hardly see it and a few years ago he could not speak, not move, but he is stronger now. he cannot afford to be afraid, cannot think of the frigid air and the cleaver and prašau, prašau, prašau—
the papers that had brought him here, wearing this face, are scattered on the floor around him and he sees murder in the man’s eyes. he sees murder and in seeing murder he sees kin. lady murasaki has warned him about his gift—you are special, hannibal, but they will be afraid, you mustn’t show anyone—but he does not want to be murdered as this nazi, this friend of them—and so he raises his hands and sheds his face, gains an inch in height and loses a hundred pounds in weight and forty years of age, and this hideous face becomes the one that he most often calls his own. if he is going to be murdered for something, this is the skin he will die in. this is what he will die for.
“please,” hannibal says, in his own voice, his accented french, his stiff and halting diction as his mind fights him, trying to take refuge in silence. “he is evil. i am not him.”