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Her lungs felt like useless, worn-out sacks. Her muscles shook, barely capable of performing their function. Still, Chiyoh willed every cell in her body to keep moving.
Too late…too late…too late…
She ran like something hunted, on and on, up and up through the dense underbrush. The steep woods surrounding the house on the bluff seemed to stretch in front of her endlessly, her eyes wide and searching in the dark. She kept them locked to where the house should be — where they should be — desperate to catch even a hint of light through the tree branches. They whipped at her face as she tore through them, as though the forest itself was working against her, scraping and clawing.
Her thoughts were a blur — calm centre eroding, desperation bordering on panic, lucidity and self-possession almost entirely lost to reckless speed.
Everything that had happened to lead her here, everything she had done, everything she had not done, all flashing through her mind as she ran — disjointed images, feelings and sacrifice. The waiting. The watching. All of it taunted her. That it could all come to nothing. Everything could be lost, and the quiet ember she had sheltered from the world would finally go out.
Hannibal.
Will.
For good or ill, Chiyoh knew she could never let go of Hannibal. She also knew that Hannibal would never let go of Will. They would never let go of each other.
Also for good or ill.
Loyalty, freedom, sacrifice, obsession, honour, fear, family —The words cycled through her head, keeping time with her footfalls and galloping heartbeat. Could the house possibly be this far? She was approaching it from behind; sandwiched between the sea and her approach there was no chance of her missing it, but still it felt like she was lost in this endless sea of trees.
Too late…too late…too late.
Without warning, she broke through the tree line like a free diver breaching the surface of the ocean — the ground beneath her feet was suddenly level as she hit the clearing behind the house, the malicious clutch of the forest unexpectedly absent. Her momentum caused her to stumble, hands and knees hitting the ground hard, sharp stones and surprise jarring her back into herself. She clamped down on her tongue to keep from crying out, tasting the faint coppery tang blood.
Stop, Chiyoh. Breathe.
She willed her body to stay crouched low to the ground, regaining her breath — forcing herself to ignore the adrenaline still screaming at her to continue her headlong lunge towards the house. Muscles twitching with fatigue, Chiyoh was utterly spent, but somehow her mind mustered the energy to chastise her…
Here she was, on all fours, panting, mind a blur… This loss of composure was…disconcerting at best, almost embarrassing…
Focus. Now.
Chiyoh gathered her will and equilibrium around her like a familiar cloak, rising gracefully on unsteady legs and stepping backwards into the forest. Quiet as an owl in flight, she let the shadow of the tree line envelop her.
Hidden now, she closed her eyes and took a deep steadying breath, forcing stillness into her body and mind. One by one, a constellation of cuts and bruises announced themselves, winking into her consciousness like stars. The whipping branches had exacted their penance for her hurry. A warm line of blood traced its way down her jaw from a gash along her hairline. She focused her mind on that small, bright pain — on how it contrasted with the almost tender trail of blood rolling down her cheek.
Pain sharpens who we are. Just breathe.
Calm. Still. Satisfied. Chiyoh opened her eyes and scanned the scene before her.
Now find them.
About twenty metres away, the small house was poised on the edge of a black abyss Chiyoh knew was the Atlantic Ocean. Its angled collection of windows stretched upwards to an elongated roofline — a haughty mid-century debutante, refusing to surrender her dignity to the erosion of time. But her moorings were crumbling — soon this house would be lost to the sea.
Against the darkness, the angled windows glowed with soft light. Hannibal. There was no way Will or Dolarhyde could have found this place without him. If someone was here, Hannibal had to count among them…at least he couldn’t have been killed outright during the escape.
Chiyoh felt a familiar but impossible mix of deep visceral relief, threaded through with a bright spark of poisonous disappointment. It flared brief but hot in her chest. She ignored it. Had always ignored it. Would always ignore it. She would have none of it, that thread that stank of the corruption of betrayal. Instead she held tight to the relief, that she had not lost her only tether in this world. Hannibal had to be here.
But are they here together? Where is Will? And where is Dolarhyde?
Chiyoh weighed the variables as she saw them, deciding quickly — and not for the first time — that Will Graham was still the most dangerous element on the board. He was always the unknown factor. Even though he had been the one to set this stage, Chiyoh doubted that Will had even decided which role he wanted to play. He never seemed to know what he wanted or, more precisely, what he could live with.
To Chiyoh, it was an inescapable truth that Will Graham was utterly unpredictable. He was changeable, impulsive, volatile…
You cannot know someone who does not yet know himself.
Her deepest worry was that even Hannibal did not recognize just how dangerous that made him. She needed to find them…to warn him…to protect him…
You're not here to save them, Chiyoh. Either of them. The thought instantly jarred her out of her calculations.
Remember why you are here. Will you honor what he asked of you?
For just a moment, she was at a loss. Could she do what Hannibal had asked? After all her rushing to just get here, Chiyoh suddenly found herself without a thread to follow.
Unsurprisingly, the thread she desperately grasped at came in the form of Hannibal’s voice, echoing through her memory, tethering her across time and tide. Her mind reached back to the brief telephone conversation that had set her on this path, this headlong flight into the mouth of uncertainty. She clutched at it, needing it to remind her why she was here.
Hannibal's voice was just as present and real to her now, standing at the edge of the woods, as it had been when it had whispered in her ear, resonant and magnetic, snaking through the telephone wires to coil around her heart.
“Chiyoh, listen to me carefully.” That resonant purr…that deep and familiar physical pull…
Influence.
“Yes.” She keeps her voice measured, emotionless…not bothering to ask how he had managed to get a line out to her. How could the staff at the BSHCI so consistently underestimate him?
“I trust you are in Baltimore.”
“Yes.”
“You always did like to keep a watch for me.”
“For many reasons.”
That soft chuckle.
“Time and tide, Chiyoh. Will Graham has set events into motion. Events which defy prediction and court both elevation and disaster in equal measure. Will has finally forced his own hand, although even he can't decide which part he will play."
"Speak plainly, Hannibal."
Another chuckle.
"Quite right. Tick tock. Ineptitude can only get us so far. Will has promised me to the Dragon, Chiyoh…Francis Dolarhyde. The police and asylum staff will soon attempt to move me somewhere outside of this facility, and I will let them. Will intends to use me as bait… At least, that’s what he tells himself. Regardless, I shall be taken from this place in hopes of meeting the Dragon on the road.”
“What do you need me to do?”
She can practically hear his satisfied smile…chooses to perceive it as pride.
“Will may have set his wheels into motion, but so have I. You, Chiyoh. You are my insurance policy. But not in the way you may think. You know where the sky meets the sea…where time and tide take back what is theirs?”
“I do.” The house on the bluff. She had stayed there as recently as a few months ago, before feeling the need to move herself closer to the BSHCI…to wait, to watch…a need precipitated by the inevitable return of Will Graham.
“That is where I intend this chapter to end.”
“Is this to be a repeat of my performance at the Uffizi?”
"No, Chiyoh. Not this time. Under no circumstances are you to interfere with Will or I. His choices will remain his own, as will mine. Ours is a dance for two, and you must leave us to it. Either Will and I will walk away from this together, or one of us will walk away alone."
She tried not to betray her unease. "And Dolarhyde?"
"How clever you are. Dolarhyde is another matter. There will be no triumph for him, no walking away. Listen to me closely, Chiyoh. Regardless of what happens to us, I want Dolarhyde's life to be a gift for Will…even if it is only a parting gift. If Will and I are both… removed from the equation… I will need you to do what you do best."
“Fatalism doesn’t suit you, Hannibal. Or have curiosity and boredom finally gotten the better of you?”
“This is none of those things, Chiyoh. What I require of Will is simply a choice, once and for all. His choices dwindle with each and every step he takes, but I am determined that they remain his own… give my life to the Dragon, take my life for himself…or finally become what he truly is and come with me.”
And there it is. In those last few words, borne of urgency, Chiyoh finally hears it like a quiet crescendo through the hairline cracks in Hannibal's well-polished person-suit…. Love.
Now she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt what they are dealing with. Her knuckles turn white as she grips the phone tighter. He is in love.
Hannibal seems genuinely delighted when he hears his own tone — a smile creeping through words spoken only for himself.
“I suppose I truly do wish the teacup would come together after all…despite shattering it so many times.” His voice turns on her now, sharp and hypnotic and impossible to deny. “Will you do this for me, Chiyoh?”
She convinces herself to hesitate…at least a breath…but she knows it’s just for show. She is locked in this orbit and she knows it, no more capable of disengaging than the moon is from the earth.
“I will do as you ask, but you must tell me one thing, Hannibal… Are your feelings for Will Graham enough to risk your life as well as your freedom?”
She decides to push… “Is he worth it?”
One last pause on the other end… Brief. Heavy.
“He is.”
“I will get there.”
“Thank you, Chiyoh” A soft click and the line disconnects, silence stretching out to wrap around her. As always, his voice had transported her somewhere else, and with the loss of his presence Chiyoh is left grasping for her bearings in the confines of her sparse Baltimore apartment.
Standing at the edge of the forest, Chiyoh allowed the memory of that conversation to wash over her. Everything inside urged her to move — to find them, help them, save them. That was not why she was here but her sense of urgency was undiminished. Now, here, less than a day after Hannibal’s voice had plucked her from her limbo and thrust her back onto the board, Chiyoh sensed she had arrived at a pivotal moment — perhaps even too late.
The FBI had moved Hannibal that very day, less than an hour after they had spoken. By the time she had gotten to the asylum to keep watch, they had already taken him. Only a couple of reporters were left milling around the front of the building, undoubtedly hoping to catch a quote from BSHCI staff as they left at the end of their shifts. From the looks of them, they had been there for quite some time, standing around looking bored and rumpled. Collections of paper coffee cups and empty bags of fast-food takeout littered the parking lot.
Chiyoh knew better than to show her face or ask any questions. It was possible that the FBI knew of their phone call — that they knew about her. At the very least, they would know she wasn't another reporter, and would wonder why she was asking questions. But with no idea how long ago they had left with Hannibal, or even if Will had been put in the same vehicle with him, she would now be left to chase blindly after them, despite her promise to be lying in wait at the house on the bluff.
Feeling an unfamiliar panic start to rise in her stomach, she had leapt back onto her motorcycle, the one extravagance she allowed herself, and sped east. It was normally a three-hour drive to reach the house from here; first east, then south. It was possible she could shave off a half hour, provided she could avoid the authorities who, depending on how the ‘escape’ played out, would likely be swarming the area soon.
There were highways most of the way — her motorbike would serve her well there — but then the house was even further removed by winding, rutted old roads in bad repair. Not to mention, if they got there before her, and Dolarhyde had followed, the bike would become a liability as she got closer to the house, its powerful engine a beacon signalling her approach. Ultimately, she knew she would have to lose even more time climbing the forested hills up to the house on foot. It would be dark by the time she arrived.
As she gunned the engine and took off along the rutted hospital road connecting the asylum to the highway, she took mental stock of what she carried with her. Other than the rifle case, the backpack she had strapped to the back of the bike held everything she had bothered to take from her semblance of a life. A life full of waiting…of biding her time. It didn’t hold very much.
She dodged a huge pothole expertly, edging more speed out of the bike. Riding the line of catastrophe as close as she dared.
She had her rifle and a smaller semi-automatic, in case closer work was necessary —something she usually preferred to avoid. Otherwise, the pack contained a scant change of clothes, medical supplies and the few small personal belongings she couldn’t bear to leave behind. The tiny book with its intricate scrolled letters. The key. The painted snail’s shell. The shard of coloured glass. Whispers in the dark.
It was hardly much, but would it be too much to haul up a forested slope at speed? Everything was a gamble now. If she were ahead of them, she would want the rifle, but if she was late, if she had to ditch the motorcycle, the handgun might be all she could manage to carry. She was somewhat reassured by the familiar weight of her large hunting knife and its worn leather sheath on her belt…although it would require even closer work than the handgun.
She swung herself expertly onto the highway, neatly circumventing a large rattling truck and accelerating towards more open road.
Perhaps it was time, she thought — time to stop holding herself at such a distance. Despite her mounting tension, her mind found more familiar worn ground as she looked inward. The world she had kept at bay for so long seemed to be rushing up to meet her, and she was quietly astonished to find she was actually steeling herself to encounter it. Welcoming it, even. Thinking of the knife’s promise of…intimacy… made her remember fireflies. Blood in the dark. Relief.
She tried to shake off the introspection working to dull her connection to what was happening around her. She needed to remain focused and present. She didn’t want to think. She needed to act.
Chiyoh bit her lower lip hard and felt her mind re-focus. She pushed the bike even faster, sweeping past yet another car. She was grateful for the anonymity of her black motorcycle helmet and leather clothing — just another joyrider out on the highway, irritating but forgettable. The scattered motorists she wove around looked briefly into her opaque helmet with angry accusations, but quickly glazed over when they couldn’t meet her eyes, as though she wasn’t truly there.
The ride passed by in a haze of mounting anxiety, the pavement slipping by underneath her, the lines blurring in a pulsing, interminable rhythm. They lulled her into another place where the words too late, too late, too late repeated in endless monotony, competing only with the frantic imagery of dire possibilities. The ceaseless lull of the road transported her to another world where she passed by the highway’s transient inhabitants like a ghost.
One highway turned into another, and another, until finally she arrived at the place where the road to the house met the highway. Dusk was settling quickly, the gloaming steadily advancing like a violet shadow. She braked only as much as necessary to make the turn at the mouth of the seldom-used access road, leaving a brief plume of dirt and gravel behind her, bloody dust in the crimson of her tail light.
Concentrate now. Decide.
She had to make a choice. Now. Was she late, or was she early? Simple enough, but it would radically affect her next course of action. Should she ride straight to the house with the rifle? Or abandon the bike and begin her ascent with only the handgun and hunting knife?
Decide, Chiyoh.
In the end she had to acknowledge that her anxiety had become an almost palpable certainty. That certainty had nested in her chest, settling there, dead and cold. She was late. They were already there. The wheels had turned too quickly, and every moment she lost to indecision meant she increasingly lost influence upon events. Chiyoh chose to live within that certainty. She would leave the motorcycle and make her way on foot. If Dolarhyde heard her approach, everything could be lost.
Or Will for that matter.
Chiyoh took the bike as far up the access road as she dared before stashing it behind a stand of young hemlocks. She left everything except the backpack. Already starting to run, she searched for the handgun inside the pack, the cold metal sending a jolt through her as her practiced hands checked the gun’s clip with fluid precision, jamming it into the waistband of her pants. Swinging the pack in place, she put on a burst of speed, barely flinching as a branch ripped at her cheek.
It was the running that tipped her anxiety towards panic. The movement. The release. Her apprehension, which had remained somewhat in check by the confinement of her motorcycle, had exploded unrestrained as her muscles fired into action. Her headlong rush through the underbrush a near wanton release of the tension that had been mounting in her since Hannibal had first surrendered to the FBI, the captivity of the last few months spent waiting and watching. Years. That tension had crested with Will Graham’s return — a wave barely held in check at the point of breaking.
She felt it crash over her in those last desperate moments before hitting the clearing. Tumbling her in its panic, in its potential for destruction and irrevocable loss. Buffeting her in time with the tree branches that held her back.
But now, standing at the knife’s edge between shadow and light, the house in sight, that wave had washed over her and had begun to retreat. She felt cleansed somehow, clear, poised. Chiyoh gathered her frayed edges around herself, and breathed that tension back down inside — compressed it — felt its familiar shape holding her together. She took comfort in the internal and analytical, and put that tension to work.
Find him. Find them.
The crack of the gunshot echoed off the landscape, rolling back at her like the waves on the ocean. The sound of shattering glass followed almost instantaneously.
Chiyoh crouched down slowly, her heart beating behind her ribs like a bird in a cage. Try as she might, she couldn't see or hear anything from this position. Where had the shot come from? She willed herself to pause and scan the tree line. The windows on this side of the house were still intact — the shot had to have come from the courtyard.
Her ears were suddenly awash with noises, adrenaline exposing her to the roar of sound all around her — the wind in the trees, the crash of the Atlantic…and…yes, there…the sound of human flesh and human voice. Not words, but the sound of action and reaction — sounds of pain and exertion. The singular reverberation of flesh striking flesh.
It was coming from the other side of the cabin. She needed to move. She pulled out the handgun, knowing full well that she was still much too far away to use it. She left the edge of the forest and moved towards the back of the cottage, forcing herself to move slowly.
Remember, Chiyoh. She reminded herself of Hannibal’s intentions for her, one last time. Hannibal had not asked her here to save them. This was to be Will’s moment to choose — his becoming. Should the worst happen, Hannibal’s request for her intervention extended only as far as removing Dolarhyde from the board — his last gift to Will.
In one rushing instant, Chiyoh grasped the raw beauty and potential of this moment between the two men — this culmination…the possibility of it stretching forward and beyond — an end and a beginning rolled together in an act of incomparable intimacy.
You will honor his request and bear witness.
Will would have to make his choice. She would not interfere.
Chiyoh felt a kind of closeness with Will then, something bordering on sympathy. She understood the choices left to him, and they were few. She too had lived her life in the grip of Hannibal’s influence, the delicate and delicious web he wove around you — stripping away your pretence and exposing your true nature. Holding it up in front of you like a prize to be plucked, an ideal to be exalted. Ultimately forcing you to choose, never truly knowing how much that “truth” had been shaped inexorably by his presence.
But as the scene before her unveiled itself in a staggering operatic rush, Chiyoh lowered herself into a crouch against the building, so as not to intrude on the raw beauty of what was unfolding in front of her, this terrible moment of fate and consequence.
She was so close now she could see the glint of blood in the moonlight, and hear the ragged breath of all three men. They were all here. Hannibal. Will. Dolarhyde. She forced herself to quiet her own breathing, despite the crescendo of her heart — one hand involuntarily moving to grasp her throat as though she could physically hold her voice at bay. Her other hand still gripped the handgun. She willed those fingers to relax, but stayed ready.
Hannibal and Will were both on the ground, but on opposite sides of the terrace, painfully far apart. They were both struggling to rise and covered in blood, the majority of which looked to be their own. The Dragon was striding away from Will, moving towards Hannibal with such intensity that Chiyoh could almost see two terrible wings flowing out from his shoulders.
On his hands and knees, Will let out an anguished gasp, his eyes glued to where Hannibal lay prone as the Dragon bore down on him. Chiyoh could see the blade of a knife protruding from Will’s right shoulder, just below his collarbone. His face was awash in blood from a stab wound in his right cheek.
Hannibal had just made it to his knees as Dolarhyde reached him. Chiyoh could feel a cry welling up in her throat as her eyes darted back and forth between him and Will. Save him! Her mind screamed at Will even as she watched him grasp the hilt of the knife, still buried in his shoulder, and wrench it free. The loss of pressure from the blade allowed the blood to surge from his body, streaming to the ground in small gouts. The knife only barely out of his shoulder, Will staggered to his feet and pitched himself towards where Dolarhyde had already dragged Hannibal up by the throat, holding him above his head like a terrible prize.
Breaking into a run, Will swung the knife in a savage arc, stabbing twice, deep into Dolarhyde’s right side. The Dragon reared back with a guttural cry, letting go of Hannibal and sending a vicious backhanded blow behind him. It connected heavily with Will’s jaw, sending him crumpled to the flagstones.
Dolarhyde’s focus shifted almost immediately back to Hannibal, still struggling to stand, savagely kneeing him in the face. Chiyoh’s sharp inhale was lost in the sickening sound it made. Heavy. Wet. Hannibal sprawled backwards, his body landing heavily on a nearby woodpile, knocking it in all directions. Will was still gasping and fighting to regain his feet when the Dragon fixed him once more in his sights and began to advance.
But just as Dolarhyde reached Will, Chiyoh’s heart leapt in her chest as Hannibal reared up behind him, swinging a small hatchet in a ferocious blow to the back of Dolarhyde’s leg, its metal head flashing in the moonlight. It must have fallen from the woodpile.
They have him.
Hannibal’s swing sliced the tendon behind Dolarhyde’s left knee, causing it to buckle as blood sprayed from the wound. Will finally regained his feet, still grasping the knife. He hurled himself towards the Dragon as if launching himself out of a runner’s box, stabbing at Dolarhyde’s good right leg as Hannibal sent a second blow of the hatchet to his left. Their combined attack sent Dolarhyde to the ground on hands and knees with a strangled cry.
The overwhelming urge to intervene quickly became a still pool of calm and satisfaction within her as the world seemed to slow and the scene before her unfolded in all of its terrible magnificence.
Chiyoh watched as Hannibal and Will drew themselves up in unison. They were on either side of Dolarhyde now, circling him as he struggled between them. They’re hunting. Together. This was the ancient choreography of a cooperative kill.
Circle, immobilize… Attack.
No sooner had the word formed itself in her mind than she saw their eyes lock onto each other. Both men were breathing heavily, crouched, their eyes burning. In that one moment, just one second of shared gaze, Chiyoh could feel the understanding pass between them. Incandescent desire. Animalistic release. They attacked together.
Hannibal took Dolarhyde from behind, leaping onto his back and pulling his head sharply backwards. Will sprang forward, knife in hand — not even a hint of hesitation as he plunged it deep into the Dragon’s gut. In one eviscerating motion, Will pulled the knife hard to the right, great gouts of blood flowing from the gash like water from a dam.
Dolarhyde’s guttural scream roared up to the night sky, but was cut short as Hannibal took a vicious bite from his throat, ripping, tearing. Arterial spray gushed from the wound as Hannibal and Will released him, watching as he struggled and collapsed to the ground, rolling to his back with arms outstretched as he surrendered to the inevitable. Chiyoh could see the blood flowing out from him, pooling on the cold stone — an irregular halo of darkness. Wings.
Chiyoh’s eyes immediately snapped to Will, collapsed on hands and knees, panting. All of her previous tension returned in a rush…all that waiting and watching…this was the end game…now was the time for choice. Her fingers tensed and relaxed rhythmically around the grip of her handgun.
You must choose too, Chiyoh. What will you do if he chooses wrong?
Blood, both his and the Dragon’s, dripped from Will onto the stone beneath him as he struggled to rise. Chiyoh watched him lift one glistening hand in front of his eyes, turning it back and forth as if mesmerized by the way the light reflected off of the blood… But then he turned his gaze upward, searching for Hannibal, who was already moving closer to him, blood dripping from his mouth and his chin, one hand to his bloody side.
“It really does look black in the moonlight.” Will managed, looking back at his bloody hand. There was only a second’s pause but to Chiyoh it felt as though the entire world held its breath before Will reached that hand out towards Hannibal with the barest hint of a smile.
Hannibal grasped Will’s outstretched hand, and pulled him up towards him. Will was panting and struggling, but held tightly to Hannibal’s arms, grasping at his shirt for purchase and pulling himself closer. His eyes were glazed, but they focused when they found Hannibal’s gaze locked to his own, only inches away. Will’s face seemed full of questions, but glowed with feverish transcendence.
“See?” Hannibal searched Will’s eyes, his breath ragged, hands holding tight to his shoulders as if he would be ripped from him at any moment.
“This is all I ever wanted for you, Will — for both of us.“
Breathing hard, each exhalation betraying the exhaustion of a failing body, Will’s eyes locked on to Hannibal's, each breath coaxing forth a miraculous smile as a look of pure revelation spread across his face.
“It’s beautiful.” Will managed. The sentence was simple and quiet, but Will’s entire being seemed suffused with the full magnitude of this epiphany.
Will reached out to Hannibal as the two stepped into an embrace that looked to Chiyoh like the truest expression of intimacy and relief she had ever beheld. Their connection sparked like an electric current. They held each other there, swaying in their exhaustion at the bluff’s precipice. A shared exaltation. A climax of blood and beauty. Radiant.
On the verge of collapse, Will pulled Hannibal closer and rested his head on his chest. At this, Hannibal closed his eyes and let his head tilt back, sighing to the sky. He gripped tighter to Will’s shirt and softened into Will’s embrace with such apparent relief it made Chiyoh’s heart ache. Lowering his head to Will’s, he cradled him to his chest, and they stood there, swaying together.
They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing heavily and holding each other tightly. Chiyoh had only just decided to leave quietly and let them be alone when she realized that Will’s face, still visible to her in Hannibal’s embrace, seemed to be rapidly losing the spark of exaltation it had possessed only moments before. He was beginning to look infinitely spent, hollowed out, like he was mourning a loss — that beautiful radiance eclipsed by a cloud of mounting doubt.
Something is wrong.
Chiyoh felt paralyzed. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. All she could do was watch as Will, his head still resting on Hannibal’s chest, reached up as if to embrace him more tightly. She felt a desperate cry well up inside her as that arm tightened its grip. No.
But she could do nothing, her body frozen, doomed again to be the watcher as Will suddenly twisted his body around, throwing the weight of both men towards the edge of the bluff. She could see it happening as if in slow motion, her face caught in an O of surprise.
Chiyoh viscerally felt the moment when the two men tipped past the point of no return — that instant when everything had gone too far for the situation to right itself. It felt like the invisible thread that connected her to them was pulled impossibly tight, thrumming and fraying with tension as they hung on the precipice. Hannibal barely moved to stop their momentum, appearing almost resigned as he maintained his grip on the man he loved, both of them unwilling to let go.
Chiyoh had only time to think — he is satisfied — before they went over the bluff together, each locked in the unyielding orbit of the other, that tether from her heart pulling her with them as she ran to the edge, skidding to a stop at the lip of the abyss with only one thought echoing in her mind…
Nakama.
They may all be birds trapped in a cage, each holding the other’s key, but she refused to be still this time, refused to merely watch. If this family was a trap, she would not dash herself to death against its bars. She would learn to fly within it.
Chiyoh began picking her way down the bluff, her eyes trained on the shape of two bodies, embracing still in the waters of the cold Atlantic.