#lecter.

⠀ in the center of their mourners' circle, beverly's grave yawns open like a mouth, a dark void into which their collective focus pours. hannibal monitors the display from the fringes of the crowd, letting the grief of beverly's family and friends and acquaintances wash over him in long, rolling waves. he is not unmoved—to the contrary. it had been a shame to end beverly's life, and hannibal had grieved her loss even as he'd tightened his arm around the fragile length of her throat.

⠀ beside him, frederick chilton fidgets gracelessly. hannibal wonders whether it is the service that has so unnerved him or his own proximity—he had taken special care to position himself at frederick's side, curious to see just how deep his discomfort ran. as with any bothersome pest, at some point, hannibal will need to deal with him—to halt the panicked flutter of his wings before the sheer regularity of his quivering threatens the integrity of hannibal's carefully spun web.

⠀ for the time being, though, he intends to enjoy watching frederick wriggle.

⠀ hannibal does not turn his head, but his gaze slides toward frederick for the span of a moment—long enough only for frederick to feel its weight. "death rituals force us to come face-to-face with the truth of our own mortality," he says and parts his lips to better scent the cool graveside air. the promise of rain hovers over them, eliciting a damp, ozonic sweetness from the lichen-crusted gravestones and poorly manicured greenery, as though the cemetery itself has exhaled its grief over beverly katz's death.

⠀ "is it the ritual itself that disturbs you or the associations that the ritual brings?"

⠀ closer to the lidless grave, alana folds consoling arms around a woman hannibal doesn't recognize. tonight, he knows, she will come to his bed seeking a comfort similar to that which she currently offers—a physical testament to her own vitality. as always, the prospect excites him; does not god promise his children both punishment and release?

⠀ "any one of us might have found ourselves in ms. katz's place." hannibal wonders whether frederick has seen the flowers he'd had sent anonymously to the bureau to adorn beverly's memorial shrine—a striking arrangement of chiranthodendron and holly, fennel and yew.

⠀ "still might," he says idly, smoothing a hand down the unwrinkled stomach of his three-piece suit. "as long as the ripper continues to evade us."