#msmischalecter

“My lady, we've arrived.”

The stone towers rose before them like barred teeth. It stood amid a sprawling estate surrounded by tall, dark trees with branches that wove together a canopy through which the sun could shine only in thin shafts. The carriage wound its way through the tall trunks of the evergreens, teasing emerald needles and pine cones from their branches as they passed by. The soft thumping of the cones against the top of the carriage had startled her at first, but now she was used to the occasional dull thunk.

She had not known who he was when she had found him on the edges of her village. He was wounded, and she had thought that he would not last the night. So, she'd brought him into the barn to keep the animals and birds from disturbing him and to make him comfortable. But he was stronger than she thought. He'd survived the night and the next and the one after that. She brought him food and water and tended to him under the noses of her aunt and uncle. There had been stories of a castle and a younger sister whispered into the air of those quiet nights spent together amid the hay and lowing of cows, but she'd thought them all to be the ravings of a fevered mind. It was only after he had recovered completely that she realized he was serious. Things happened quickly after that. There was a wedding and a call to battle, and before she had time to catch her breath, he was telling her goodbye.

He placed his signet ring on her thumb, kissed her brow, and sent her away in a carriage to his castle. It was hers now, and until he returned, she would be cared for by his sister, who was living there. It frightened her, and her apprehension only grew as the castle drew nearer. She didn't know how to live in such a place, and more than anything she feared this sister she didn't know. What would she think when she saw her in her plain gown and worn corset with her red hair all pulled up into a practical bun? What if she didn't accept her? Her home was far, far away from this place- she wouldn't long survive being thrown out into those endless woods.

You know, idk whether it's classified as a headcanon, but I'm always tinkering with the idea that, if Mischa had lived, Hannibal would have gone on to live a healthy life. Or perhaps even if she had lived he still would have gone on to become what he is now in some capacity. 

Judas Cradle: Would your muse rather suffer physically, or be humiliated?

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