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Will's hands are shaking faintly, and he curls his fingers tightly, feeling the cool metal of the rings against his palm, to still them.

"Stop moving, Will," Alana hisses as she attempts to fasten his cloak pin. "The Thing voted, and you agreed to accept their decision."

Will bows his head. He had agreed, to spare the remaining lives of his clan; his pitiful father.

"The clans only wish to avoid revenge killings, Will," she continues in a gentler tone. "They're - we are - frightened. You can keep the peace by honoring your father's arrangement with the Hiorth clan."

"And I will," Will says, dryly, though the thought repels him. "I am here. I will say the words."

He thinks of the chieftain he has been promised to, with the silver hair and the red-brown eyes. Hannibal. The freemen and the farmhands who fled clan holdings after the massacre - they say he killed dozens of men by his own hand, sweeping through the villages from the south and mowing down every man he crossed with his band of mad-dog soldiers. They say he and his men ate the flesh of their conquered enemies. Will has a vested interest in remaining uneaten.

"You're ready," Alana murmurs, gentle fingers twisting the last strand of his long hair back up out of his face. He swallows as she holds up the mirror, showing him the marks of their clan painted on his eyes, smeared from his eyelids to his temples – wolf markings. He’s wearing his finest leathers – though his idea of ‘finery’ is different than some – and he’s been gifted a cloak for the ceremony, charms hidden in the lining to protect him. Though back from his face, his hair falls down past his shoulders, twisted and adorned more than he’d normally tolerate. He’s tolerating many things he wouldn’t normally, such as being given away like a brood mare.

Will nods and thanks her; when she turns away to tidy away her combs and paint, his fingers drop to touch the hilt of the knife at his waist. When Alana meets his eyes again, her gaze is questioning, and he nods: he's ready.

"They'll be waiting in the main hall," she murmurs, going to the door and opening it.

Outside, Jack waits, his silvering hair painted in stripes with black pigment, from eyes to well over his ears.

"I'm here to accompany you," he murmurs, bowing his head.

Will keeps himself from curling his lip: he won’t be accompanying him far. Still; Jack means well.

“My father?” he asks.

“He… isn’t coming. He gave his permission before the council.”

Will expected as much. The abandonment doesn’t sting like he thought it might: he knew his father would surrender him as soon as Hannibal demanded it. Knew from the moment Hannibal’s soldiers decimated them on the beach, the Jarl slicing off limbs and cutting throats with effortless swings of his great sword, that his father would cower and plead and die slow, a subject, rather than enter Valhalla.

Will had fought too, and barely escaped with his life. The evidence stings under his tunic; a slash across his chest that split open flesh and ink alike, hastily cauterized by the healers.

“Will?”

“It’s fine. I don’t need him.” He shakes off his red-smeared memories, and they exit the hut.

There is another man waiting outside, Will sees, from his future husband's tribe. He's painted with the dark red of blood in the rough shape of antlers, his pale blue eyes lit with the lingering evidence of mania. He’s shirtless under his sheepskin surcoat despite the chill, and there are distinctive tattoos on his torso: a serpent, disappearing beneath his ribs as if sheltering there. Will forces himself not to flinch when their eyes meet. The stranger is young, maybe Will's age, lean and tattooed. He says something in their clan's language, tone jovial, and Will looks to Jack for a translation.

"He's come to fetch... the bride," Jack murmurs, gaze cool.

"I don't require fetching," Will snaps.

Jack puts a calming hand on his elbow, and Will quiets, but steps back instinctively when the stranger reaches for him.

"Don't dare presume to touch me," he hisses, baring his teeth.

The young man laughs again. Will's eyes snap back to Jack when he speaks. He's either translating, or warning him. The man gives him a casual, though somewhat sarcastic bow, and takes a step back.

"Please precede him to the hall," Jack murmurs.

Will glares at him a moment longer, and then walks. He won't be guided like some fearful calf. How dare this Hannibal send a lackey for him. As if he weren't a man of honor.

The rage makes him spiky as he enters the hall, in white and furs and gold. He wears a heavy torque studded with amber, an heirloom of his clan, his throat bare above it, fox fur cascading from his shoulders; and he keeps his head held high. Not one of the jarls in attendance will be given reason to doubt him. Least of all the man who sits in the fur lined chair at the head of the hall, one side of his iron grey hair shaved down and the rest long and tangled with charms and braids.

Hannibal has a presence that desaturates everyone else in the room, his gait and expression pleasant despite the lingering scent of funeral pyres. The cruelty is in the set of his mouth. It gleams in the empty eyesockets of the animal skulls that decorate the keep: sacrifices past.

As Will draws level with him, Hannibal rises gracefully to his feet, a great dark pelt flowing to his boots, and speaks.

Will does not understand the language. He is suddenly painfully aware of how alone he is. Jack is the only one of them who can translate, and Jack will not be able to accompany him to his new home.

With grim resignation settling over him, Will bows to his betrothed. They meet in the middle of the hall, between the braziers, under the great peak of the roof. Will stands stiffly, feeling Jack take up a position near his elbow. A priest steps forward, clearly ready to officiate. He's older, portly, with a foxlike face and much the same unholy light in his eye as the tattooed boy.

He speaks the rites in their language, so that Jack has to translate into his ear, and suddenly it's happening. Hannibal says the words first, burgundy gaze holding steady on Will as if the effort costs him nothing. Will himself struggles them out in the foreign tongue, humiliated by the lack of diplomacy offered. His own clansmen, the other jarls in attendance, he's sure few of them understand a word. But they stand like statues, frozen by the air of barely-sated violence that curls through the hall.

Will repeats what he's supposed to, and watches with barely-concealed dismay as Hannibal offers his arm for the binding. He lifts his own, feeling a chill steal over his skin. Hannibal's hand is tattooed with warrior marks, a long, jagged scar running down the side of his hand. He clasps Will's elbow, eyes boring into Will's own, and lets the priest bind them.

Will's own gaze hardens into frost as the silken cord wraps tight. He won't be bullied or objectified. And the faint smile crooking the warlord's lips makes him want to snarl. He bares his teeth, but Hannibal's amusement only seems to grow.

 The priest speaks a few more words, then waves his hand over their binding. Will looks down at their bound arms and lets out a silent sigh: it’s done. Forever.

Usually dancing would be customary, but Will doubts his new husband will indulge. A feast is customary too, but Will isn't sure any of his people really want to... risk it. Not when this man is essentially stealing the chieftain's son and heir. They're still getting the alliance they need, though it's somewhat of a farce when neither of them can produce heirs between them - that had been Hannibal's terms, he would have the pact honoured even if Will's father had no daughters to honour it.

The priest unwinds the cord, and Jack leans in to whisper in his ear when Hannibal speaks. His tone is gentle, though smacks of slight smugness.

"He speaks of the... bedding ceremony," Jack says hesitantly, and Will glowers.

"He will stop speaking of it if he wishes this ceremony to remain peaceful," Will growls.

Hannibal listens to Jack, mouth tilted all the while, and then his eyes slide back to Will. He speaks again, light and cheerful.

Will narrows his eyes at Jack. His expression is not a happy one.

"He admires your spirit," Jack murmurs reluctantly.

"He will admire my blade in a minute."

Hannibal raises his pale eyebrows at Jack, who translates woodenly. Then, astonishingly, he laughs. Will tenses faintly, the sound making him just as uneasy as any displeasure. The next words he speaks are directed at Will, as is the full force of his gaze.

Jack stares at him for a few seconds, and Will has no doubt that what he has said is threatening, despite the pleasant tone of his voice. He shows his teeth. Jack glances at him, expression grim.

"He says you'll leave immediately for his town," Jack murmurs.

"That wasn't the agreement," Will grits, "the agreement was we'd leave in the morning."

Jack translates dutifully, and Hannibal says a single dismissive word in return.

"Storm," Jack relays. The warlord's next remark is duly translated as well. "Your belongings have been packed."

Will scoffs. "So I have no choice."

"Will," Jack says in a low voice. The tone makes him set his jaw.

"Fine," he concedes. He forces his hand not to stray to the blade at his belt. It takes everything he has.

Hannibal smiles, though not warmly, and offers his arm again.

Taking it is an effort, but Will allows himself to be stiffly guided from the keep. Jack, Alana, and the others follow silently, lining the path to the dock.

"Where is Fen?" Will asks Alana. He won't be leaving his hound behind, no matter the price.

"On the ship already," she assures him in a whisper.

"Thank you." He bumps their foreheads together gently. "For everything."

"Be safe," she whispers back. Her partner Margot comes forward, their son cradled in her arms, and gives Will a gentle brush of their foreheads too.

"Take care of them," he tells Margot.

"You have my word." She puts her arm around Alana then. "She'll take care of us, too."

Then Will looks to Jack.

"Take care, old friend," he whispers. Jack clasps his elbows and gently squeezes.

"You are our best hope," he murmurs back.

Will bids farewell to the rest of the clan with a raised hand, and then steps onto the boat. He's never felt so utterly alone. He stares back at the shore as the boat pushes off, grey clouds overhead indeed promising rain. The mist is closing in, as if curtaining his home from him for good.

What has he done? His heart rabbits in his chest, a chasm of fear opening like a sinkhole. He already finds himself ignored, an eye of stillness in the midst of a group of men and women rowing them out to deep water and raising the sail.

Holding onto the carved lip of the oarport, he watches his home disappear entirely from view. There's nothing left but this boat and the people surrounding him.

A cold snout nudges his hand, and he looks down, seeing his grizzled grey lurcher, Fen, at his thigh.

“Not entirely alone,” he tries to assure himself, but he can’t help that his gaze drifts back to the mist-shrouded town once more. He draws his cloak closer around him as the wind picks up: it will be a long, cold journey.

The weather is not kind for the duration of the voyage, and Will spends much of it curled with Fen in the hull of the ship, beneath the shelter of a tarp. None of Hannibal's clan speak his language, and Hannibal himself seems completely disinterested.

It’s a relief. Will had been afraid, that first night, that he might be - used, somehow. Never mind that there is little to no privacy on the vessel. But no, he's left almost completely on his own, food handed to him at rare intervals. Fen is an object of more interest than he, it seems. It seems he's safe to drift off into his own imagination, and he does, until sleep turns it into dreams and he's only occasionally jolted back to reality by the pitching of the ship or the cold speckling of ocean spray.

Often, he dreams of a serpent, coiling around his ankles, snapping at him with its fangs dripping yellow venom. It winds and flails when he tries to kick it away; wraps about his calf and sinks teeth into muscle.

He jerks awake from the same dream now, eyes darting wildly for Fen. It’s dark, the ship bobbing silent on glassy water – a rare moment of stillness that speaks of more storms on the horizon. Sweating and breathless, Will wipes his face and peers out at the sky from beneath his shelter. Stars shine overhead, and a young moon slices through the night sky like a sickle.

Gleaming eyes are on him like that of some night creature. Will looks, and it’s the grinning man who first escorted him to his wedding, keeping watch over the other sleeping crew. As Will scrutinizes him, he stands, and slinks toward Will.

Fearful but silent, Will shrinks back, hoping to avoid whatever comes next. His eyes track the man with the snake tattoo as he creeps along the sleeping bodies, toward Will, until he’s barely three feet away. Then, quick and silent, he has Will by the jaw, his other hand a vice on his wrist, keeping his hand from the hilt of his dagger.

“Unhand me,” Will snarls, but the man only leans in, mouthing at his throat hungrily – and then there’s a growl, and the unmistakable snap of jaws.

“Ah-!” He falls back as Fen rags at the back of his surcoat, the leather ripping, her growls loud in the still night.

“Fen! Stop!” Will calls her off with a click of his fingers; rushes back under the tarp with her and cowers in the hull once more as confused vocalizations start to rise at the commotion. He doesn’t look; doesn’t care. With the dog still rumbling protectively against his side, he sinks down onto his pile of sacking, and tries to will himself out of this waking nightmare.

After that, the man steers clear of Will, and he’s grateful. Even so, he’s restless for land: he had been so fond of the ocean before it became his captor. The passage to his new home seems endless, and he’s running out of memories to visit.

Eventually, a sudden burst of activity signals the end, and Will can see that they've neared a harbor. He sits groggily up, roused from half-sleep, only mildly comforted when Fen snuffles in his ear. It’s night, and he can’t see much, but torches and lamps light the town, larger than any Will has seen before. He's heard many rumors about this place. It's known for bloodlust, certainly, and the proficiency of its army, but also for advancement. The healers and craftsmen here are some of the best, presumably ‘liberated’ from surrounding clans like Will was. The warlord's own men left behind in the conquered territories to make sure their future goods flow to their new jarl.

Even in the gloom, Will can see the bulk of a temple, lit from within. Jarl Hannibal, it is said, has a taste for all things extravagant, from architecture to clothing. Will is curious to see what his skill in plunder has wrought him.

He has no time to explore; no sooner have they docked than the fox-faced priest from the wedding – Will has heard him called Abel - comes to him, carrying what looks like Will's belongings. He jerks his head in a manner that unmistakably denotes Will is to follow him.

Will sets his jaw and clicks his fingers for Fen. They walk down the docks, and there's a crowd waiting at the end, peering to get a look. They even look different than Will's clan, all painted with that red, some of them tattooed with a characteristic set of antlers that Will had glimpsed on Hannibal's skin. They don't cheer or show disapproval, only stare as he passes.

He feels bedraggled in his ocean-matted wedding furs, markings no doubt smeared. Regardless, he keeps his head held high, letting his eyes skim over their faces. Fen paces obediently at his side.

Silent and smirking, Abel leads him to the most prominent hut in the town, higher and sturdier than the rest. He's gestured inside, then the door closed rather firmly behind him.

Will looks back at the door and hears the lock slotted into place. He growls aloud. So he is to be a prisoner, then. With an agitated breath, he starts to pace, looking for a way out. There are a couple of shuttered windows, but when Will peers out, the ships crew are milling about, and drink and laughter is a-plenty already. Obviously there is some reunions being celebrated. Will fidgets with the lock on the shutter, and then sighs, giving up. He has not the energy for pursuit.

His jailer hadn't thought to disarm him, at least. He's livid, lit up with it. He'll kill this fucking king of madmen for trying to treat him like an object. He may not speak the language but that won't stop him from communicating one way or another. For now, he simply sits: he can be patient. He can wait.

He's picked up what he thinks are a few words of their language just by listening on board the ship, but truly, it's difficult to care. Difficult to feel anything other than betrayed. He casts his eye around the large building, noticing the many skulls and antlers that make up its decoration, along with woven hangings and metal goods. Plenty of things to use as a weapon.

Almost as soon as he thinks it, he hears the rattle of the lock. He draws his dagger, tucking it into the fall of his sleeve. It's Hannibal who lets himself in, expression momentarily puzzled at the sight of Fen, who draws back her lips and growls. But his eyes quickly find Will, poised in the shadows of the beams holding up the loft area. He rumbles what sounds like a greeting.

Will has no patience for it.

"Why was I locked in?" he snaps. "I am a stranger here, where would I go?"

No answer - of course, Hannibal doesn't know what he's saying. But he must understand the gist, because he points out the door, speaking, before he points back to Will. Then he smiles and takes several steps closer.

Will steps back. He understands: there are people in this clan who won't like him. Even so, he's not about to thank him. Especially since he won't stop moving closer.

"Stop," Will warns him. Fen lets out a small growl, and Will snaps his fingers at her in warning. Hannibal doesn't stop though, and then he's reaching out and Will pauses, stricken for a moment. It's as if he's frozen.

Hannibal only unfastens his cloak, touch delicate. Will can't quite believe it. It speaks almost of tenderness, but then he drapes it over the antlers mounted on the walls and pulls Will in by his jerkin. Will growls immediately, the knife flashing out to press against tender skin. He lets it cut against the short beard, shaving hair there under Hannibal's chin so he freezes.

"I'm not your property," he seethes, "I did this to protect my clan. If you, or any of your other miscreants, ever touch me without my permission again, I will burn this place to the ground and bury your head a hundred miles from your body."

He lets it blaze in his eyes. Hannibal curls a hand around his wrist. He's still smiling. He says something in reply. The words are, of course, unfamiliar. The smile doesn't falter.

Will bares his teeth again. He presses with the blade, enough to see a trickle of blood. The next moment, he's gasping, his dagger hand pinned. His back impacts the wall, the mounted antlers above him. Hannibal's expression stays calm.

"Nei," he tells Will, quietly.

He's not lulled by his calm. He doesn't see how he could be. But Hannibal doesn't seem too concerned with that. He pries the knife out of Will's hand and looks at it. He says something else. It sounds like a question.

"I would do it with my hands, if I had to," Will promises in a dark whisper.

That seems to please Hannibal even if he can't understand what Will is saying. The way he's looking at Will is enough to incite further violence. He pushes him away, but Hannibal snatches him in close again, smile never wavering as he leans in to scent Will. Will's hands close into fists, cringing at the similarity to the assault on the ship, his head jerking back. He still hears Hannibal's slow inhalation.

"No!" he cries. "I will not allow this."

Hannibal grasps his arm, a mimicry of their wedding, and raises it as he speaks. His eyes bore into Will's own. The implication is clear: you agreed to this.

"What use do you have for me?" Will spits. "I cannot bear children, and you shall have our alliance regardless."

The smile is finally starting to slip. Hannibal twitches his upper lip, looking Will slowly over. Will forces himself to stay still, eyes fixed on the branching antler painted on his shaved temple. Cruel and unhinged or not, Hannibal is beautiful. It helps him ignore his fear.

Slowly, he looks around. It seems that this building is solely Hannibal's, larger and grander than any Will has seen before, a great bed sheltered by tanned deer hide screens, a fire crackling in the hearth. He'd been too busy looking for exits earlier to notice. The bed is dressed in glossy furs, the doors wreathed with offerings, many candles lit. It smells faintly of lavender.

The beauty of it is overwhelming, but Will feels burdened with expectation. He flicks his gaze back to Hannibal. He's not ashamed to admit he's afraid of him; afraid of him taking what he expects. He thinks Hannibal knows. He thinks he doesn't care. And now he's disarmed Will, and they're alone. And he is undeniably the leader here.

Hannibal speaks again, and though the words are unfamiliar, one is similar enough to Will's own language that he can understand from context: consummate. He bares his teeth again.

Clearly displeased, Hannibal releases him. Will automatically moves several steps away. He watches in frozen horror as Hannibal bends to sweep up his dropped dagger. Automatically, he lunges for the first thing he can see to protect himself - a fire iron. Hannibal sidesteps neatly out of his radius.

"Nei," he repeats again, but he sounds gentling now. Even so, it's disconcerting how his eyes sparkle.

Will brandishes the iron.

"Do not touch me," he reiterates.

Hannibal says something in return, drawing his arm back. Will flinches, and when he opens his eyes again he sees his dagger, impaled in the wooden floor an inch or so in front of his boots and gently vibrating from impact. He stares at him, but he's already striding away, going to a nearby chest and retrieving an armful of linens and furs. These he drops in front of the hearth, ignoring Will entirely. The message is clear.

Will glares after him as he moves away, toward the bed. So, if he refuses to be bedded, he'll be refused the bed. Fine. He swallows heavily, watching from the corner of his vision as Hannibal starts to strip off his clothes methodically, just beyond the screen. Will turns away, kneeling to pet Fen. The pup whines softly, licking at his hands gently.

"It's all right", Will whispers. "It's going to be all right." He spreads the furs and linens out with a sigh, settling tentatively into the makeshift bed, facing the fire, and holding Fen close. He tucks his dagger under the edge of the furs, within reach. Just in case.

He lies for a long time, listening to the sounds of Hannibal smothering the candles and stripping off the last of his clothing in the near dark. Will can't remember if he locked the door when he came in, and his mind hovers over this crucial failing for a moment: usually he remembers everything. An escape attempt would surely be ill-fated, and would render their alliance null. Will is already aware that his refusal to consummate puts him in a vulnerable position. But still, it sits ill with him to be locked away. Even if this is a lovely prison. He lies still in the dark, listening to Hannibal. It's a long time before his breaths go even and still.

Then Will gathers himself. There has to be a loose shutter or a second door somewhere. He can find it. He sits up slowly in the dark, peering intently at Hannibal's sleeping form.

There's just enough light from the dying fire. Will creeps silently up, drawing the dagger with him. He'll check the windows first. He knows there isn't anywhere to go, not really, but his fear is getting the better of him.

Padding to the window, he eases open the shutter and peers out into the dark. The town isn't completely quiet, but the area around this building is. Will leans further out of the window, peering as far as he can, and then he slowly brings his knee up to the ledge. A quiet noise behind him, and he shushes Fen on an exhaled breath. But then Fen whines in answer, and he flinches. He doesn't even have time to brace himself before a large, hard body impacts his.

Hannibal is growling, slamming him to the ground, and Will gets the dagger free and lunges again before his head hits the floor with a thud. Woozy, he tries to lift his hands to defend himself.

Hannibal slaps the knife out of his hand like it's nothing, audibly irritated but barely out of breath. Nearby, Fen is growling, and Will holds up a hand to calm her. He will not set his dog on this man. Not for this. Not... yet.

"Don't, Fen, it's all right," he tells her, but the dog's teeth are bared, lips twitching as the growl continues.

Will begins to try to break free. Hannibal is holding him tight though, and when Will squirms he flips him onto his belly on the hard floor and growls into his ear. His hands are cinched tight around Will's wrists.

"Unhand me," Will hisses, "or by the gods-"

Hannibal is heavy, and roasting hot, and strong as a god. He doesn't move, just growls again, his soft, delicate warning. Words aren't really necessary. Will scrabbles still, and wrenches an arm free, slamming his elbow hard into Hannibal's face. Hannibal says something that has to be a curse word, and yanks Will's head back by the hair.

Will yelps; elbows him again. Hannibal's free hand stabs into his side, hits something that momentarily immobilizes him. He wrenches his arms behind him and drags him up, muttering. Will struggles harder when he realizes he's being marched toward the big bed.

"No!" he bellows, kicking out frantically.

Hannibal hisses something in reply. Will thrashes, kicking over a small table and trying his best to obstruct Hannibal's path to the bed. He can hear Fen growling; barking. The command to attack is on the very tip of his tongue. When Hannibal bears him down onto the bed, he's cut off from speaking even though he tries to call it. The large hand over his mouth sees to that.

He kicks, getting frantic. Then he feels the covers settle over him and he's trapped... but on the other side of the heavy linens from Hannibal. He looks at him, startled.

Hannibal growls a command. He's settling down beside him, still holding onto his wrist. Then he looks to the dog and pats the bed, murmuring. Suddenly his message is clear; he's being kept close so Hannibal can keep an eye on him. He would bare his teeth, but he's just relieved it's not the alternative he feared. Hannibal had in fact shown remarkable restraint; he'd never once reached for a weapon. Or threatened Will, as far as he knows. Other than with - what he had assumed to be - the obvious.

His breath starts to slow. He murmurs a command to Fen, who leaps up and inserts herself between them. She's still grumbling low in her chest. Hannibal pointedly turns his back. Will's breath comes a little easier. Words aren't necessary, the message is clear: stay put and he won't be in danger.

With a thick swallow, his hand on Fen, Will settles.

It is, regrettably, much more comfortable than the floor. He's shaking still, uncomfortable and homesick and disgruntled. He's sure Hannibal can feel it because he turns eventually, and looks at Will, holding his gaze in the gloom. His expression doesn't change, but he puts a hand on Will's shoulder and speaks, softly.

"I wish I understood," Will whispers back. That way he'd know if he was threatening or assuring him. Frowning, he closes his eyes. He barely slept on the ship, and now he's exhausted after running on pure adrenaline. The familiar sound of Fen's breathing helps lull him.

The dreams start, then, seeping into his mind like water seeping into the hull of a ship. He's trained himself, over many years, to remain aware as they unfold. Now, as he comes back to himself, struggling out of the fog of deep sleep, he finds himself in the woods.

Fireflies light the way, flashing sluggishly from the branches. As Will peers into the gloom, he sees the scales of a snake gleaming. The serpent's mouth gapes, venom dripping. It comes to him, winding around one ankle, and then continues between his feet, disappearing into the dank undergrowth beyond.

He shudders. Forces himself to look forward again. This time, in the distance, he sees something moving among the trees.

"Help me," he calls. "I don't know this place."

No answer, until a pale form appears in the clearing, hiding behind a tree trunk, small, delicate.

"I've been waiting a long time for you," she scolds.

"I'm sorry," Will says, moving forward. She's just a girl, young and bright despite her confrontational frown. Small, with wisps of white blonde hair.

"What're you doing here all alone?" Will asks softly.

"The same thing you're doing," she tells him. "Watching."

"Who are you watching?" He kneels down beside her.

"My brother," she says softly. "He's on the other side. I can't go there, but you can."

"Your brother?" He frowns. "What's your name?"

"Mischa," she says, a little shyly.

"Pretty name," he tells her.

"Thank you! My big brother picked it."

"The one on the other side?"

"Yes. Hannibal." She smiles softly.

Hannibal.

"He's doing well," Will tells her, "though I don't know him intimately."

She smiles again. "You will."

He sighs, the thought filling him with faint foreboding. "Is there anything you want me to tell him for you?"

Silence, for a moment. A firefly lands on her pale little arm. "Tell him I'm well and whole."

Will nods. "As is he." He bites his lip. "Can I ask what happened to you?"

She smiles sadly. "Ask him."

But as she speaks, Will notices glinting little shards of white among the leaf litter. He's suddenly certain what they are.

Teeth.

When he looks back up, Mischa is gone. Will startles then at a rustle in the trees; a shadow falling over the clearing. He looks up at the great stag with fear welling in his heart. No meek little deer this. The creature is immense, with violence gleaming in its eye.

Will staggers to his feet, heart pounding. "I'm not here to harm you," he whispers.

The stag huffs, breath steaming. It's inky black, it's breast proud with feathers. Will stares it in its red eye.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, reaching out a palm. He knows somehow that if he can touch it, he can tame it.

The stag paws at the ground, snorting. It's just out of reach. When Will extends his arm, though, it shifts its muzzle against his palm. He lets it smell him, holding very still. Its breath is hot, body poised for flight - or to charge.

"You don't want to hurt me," he whispers.

A snort at that; the ears flick back. He flinches, and in the next breath it rockets away. Will watches it vanish among the trees, cowering. A cold wind blows, making him shiver.

When he looks around, he sees the serpent again, lashing toward him in the dark like a whip, fangs bared. He wakes with a cry. He's sweat drenched, panting, and Fen sits up with a whine to comfort him. A moment later, he feels Hannibal's hands too.

"Will," he rasps. He says something else, that Will can't understand, and squeezes his shoulders firmly.

"Your sister," Will says, half frantic in the dark, "Mischa-"

He sees the name hit him. He says something short, sharp: what did you say?

"Mischa," Will whispers again.

Hannibal stares at him. Something tightens in his jaw. Will looks away. He covers his face with his hands, still trying to calm himself.

He feels Hannibal's hand settle onto his spine. He talks quietly, and his hand gently swipes upward, strangely comforting. There's something on the edge of his voice - perhaps pride.

It doesn't make sense, but - nothing about this does. Eventually, Will relaxes enough to lower his hands, breathing slowly. His husband is studying him intently.

"What?" Will says softly.

Hannibal says something equally soft. Will sighs. He curls up under the furs again. Hannibal lies down again too, and Will hears him whisper again in the dark. "Mischa..."

His hand settles on Will's chest.

"I saw her," Will says quietly. "She wanted me to tell you a message, but I suppose you won't understand it..." He sighs. "I'll learn how to tell you," he whispers. "I promise."

Hannibal just watches him with his serious eyes, hand still gently moving. Will tries to take it as the unexpected comfort that it is. It feels solicitous, but that's not really a surprise - he's sure there's a reason outside of the obvious that Hannibal wanted him. Hannibal strikes him as a man who always has layers of motivation. Will himself can relate.

He forces himself to close his eyes, slow his breathing. Soon, he's calmed enough to lie back down. Hannibal stays close, a warm presence. Strange, Will thinks, to find comfort in him. But it's hard to see his attention as anything but.

Slowly, he closes his eyes, feeling Hannibal settle beside him. Fen is a comforting weight on his feet. He hopes the dreams don't return tonight. Hopes that Hannibal will keep them away through the heat of his touch.

Sleep slowly comes back. And no more dreams, not even of the stag.

As if he had imagined the scant inches of progress they’d made the night before, Hannibal is gone when Will wakes the next morning. The door is locked again, but the fire is lit, and Fen is gnawing the scraps off a large bone.

Will sighs. It seems early still, and he sits up in bed blearily, rubbing his eyes and hugging himself in the chill. A lovely fur is tossed over his legs, and he pulls it up. His fingers smooth absently through the pile, soothing himself the way he often did as a boy.

His mind travels back to his clan. He'd felt lonely there too, an outsider, but the feeling is amplified tenfold here. At least he has Fen. She looks up at him now, ears pricked, doubtless at movement outside.

He pushes himself up in bed as the door opens, and a man with a tray enters. He's moving cautiously, head down, a hood concealing his features. Will casts a look around, for his knife.

"There is - no need to be afraid."

Will's head snaps up. The words are in a thick accent, but they're his own. "How do you know my tongue-?"

The man shuffles to deposit the tray on the table by the window, movements stalled and tentative. "I was raised with a boy from the Elvan clan, he taught me."

He takes his hood down after a long moment, and Will gasps at his clan marks. His eyes trail the many lines, intrigued. The man is more delicate than Will expected, but his hands are steady enough on the bowl and cup he brings.

"What's your name-?" he asks, accepting both gratefully.

"Peter," he replies softly. "Welcome to Hjorthfell, Will."

"Thank you..." Will looks down at the bowl he brought him. "And for this..."

"The jarl had it prepared specially for you."

Will frowns at that. "Why? What is it?"

"One of our local specialties." Peter hands him eating irons. "He said you struggled to sleep."

"He didn't tell me anyone here spoke my tongue!" Will snaps.

"I don't believe he knew." Peter shrugs eloquently.

And Peter didn't offer, but he made sure he brought the breakfast tray. Will bites his lip. "We are... unable to communicate."

"You wish me to give him a message?" Peter asks, and Will fairly recoils.

"No!"

"Then perhaps... I could suggest I interpret for you. For a while."

Will isn't sure what's more embarrassing. But...perhaps it's necessary. He swallows, and then nods. "He was angry with me last night."

"He is not often angry."

Will sighs, and Peter looks to the bedding on the floor; the evidence of disarray.

"I see." He moves unsteadily, leaning a shoulder on the door frame in a way that should be too casual but is obviously necessary. "The Jarl is hard, and ruthless... but he is seldom brutish," he tells Will carefully. "You would be wise not to insult him as such."

"An intelligent killer," Will muses.

"Killing is what he excels in." He sighs. "Are you sure you have no message to pass? He will make sure you have every comfort, I know."

Will bites his lip. "I wish I could speak with him myself."

"I can - I can teach you."

Will hums, considering. "Would your Jarl allow it?"

"I will ask."

Will nods. "I would like that. Teach me one thing?" he murmurs. "What is... ‘thank you’?"

"Pökk," Peter explains. Will nods, and repeats it. "What is it you wish to thank him for?"

Will flushes dull red. "Not for giving me a tour around the place, that's for sure."

Peter sighs. "It is not you who he does not trust," he mumbles.

"Then he ought to exert better control of his people."

"Yes, I suppose they might need a ...demonstration."

"From whom?"

"From the jarl."

Will sighs. "It had better be soon. I'm sick of being in here already."

Peter gives him a sympathetic look. "I'll speak to him."

He doesn't look like he's excited by the prospect, but Will only feels slightly guilty. He knows he needs this.

"I'll go now," Peter tells him, bowing his head.

"Thank you for my breakfast," Will murmurs.

"It is my pleasure." He sounds sincere.

Will watches him go, feeling a little less hopeless than before. He feels fortunate, like maybe the gods haven't deserted him after all. He makes a note to take them offerings when he's allowed in the temple. Hopefully that's soon. He wanders to inspect the breakfast in the meantime. Eggs, and porridge, and jerky. Will sighs and pours himself a cup of mead, sitting with the tray. He's not hungry, but he doesn't wish to insult his new husband further. And he knows he needs the fuel.

He eats without pleasure, and when he can't force anymore down, lets Fen finish it off. Then he tidies the tray and starts pacing again. Even though he's waiting and alert, the door opening still makes him jump. It's Hannibal, carrying a tin bathtub as though it weighs nothing, the water within steaming. Behind him, the grinning man, the serpent man, carrying an armful of clothes.

Will tries to hide his grimace. But he thinks Hannibal sees it, because he murmurs something to the grinning man, using the name 'Matthew'.

There's just something wrong about him. Will watches him uneasily as he drops his wares and takes his leave, so that Will and Hannibal are alone. Hannibal finishes setting up the tub and gestures to it, saying something. When Will hesitates, he dips his chin, fixing him with a look.

"Vilhjálmr," he murmurs, and gestures to the tub. "Nú."

"Pökk," Will says haltingly. He stands, and Hannibal sits on the bed, clearly intending on staying. Hannibal does not change expression when Will speaks his language either. Though he seems... pleased. Will is not sure how he knows. It's just a way he holds himself.

After a moment, Will realises he means to stay while he bathes. He starts to protest, again, but when has that actually worked thus far? With a rather disgruntled noise, he starts to strip off his clothes, stalling when Hannibal surprises him again by holding his hands out for them. They're wedding finery, nothing he's attached to, so he doesn't protest. Though he is a little startled when Hannibal rises to throw each item onto the fire, as if burning away the remnants of Will's clan. The only thing he preserves is the cape, and Will suddenly surmises that it had been a wedding gift. He swallows.

"Guess you're not a fan of my fashion sense."

The bloodred eyes don't waver. With a faint huff, Will strips off his unders and throws them into the fire in turn. He then angles back to the tub, defiantly unabashed as he steps into the water, Hannibal watching the whole time. If he aims to embarrass Will, he will not.

Despite his irritation, the water feels - and smells - good. He vaguely hopes that his odor had offended Hannibal last night. Though he hadn't seemed concerned when he'd leaned in and scented Will like a dog. Will shivers just remembering.

"Your friend Peter speaks my language," he tells him, pointlessly. He sees Hannibal recognize the name though. "He's nicer than the rest of you," Will mutters.

That doesn't seem to register, and Will flushes and reaches for soap. Hannibal smiles a little. Will feels achingly... observed.

"I didn't realise being your husband meant being your entertainment too," he grouses, though without much heat. Maybe if he cared what the man thought of him. Hannibal doesn't seem concerned even despite his tone.

He does repeat the word - "husband."

Will gives him his attention then; nods and points to him. "You. You're my husband. I'm yours."

"Husband," Hannibal says again.

"Husband," Will nods. They have a two-word vocabulary now.

Hannibal hums thoughtfully, repeating the word to himself. Will just keeps washing, though he glances at Hannibal periodically. Hannibal watches right back.

"Am I to stay in here?" Will asks. Hannibal cocks his head. Will points at himself, and then gestures to the room at large. "I want to go out." Then he sighs, gestures between them. "I want you to take me out."

Hannibal nods in understanding. Then he gestures at the pile of clean clothing. With a hum, Will rinses off and stands, twitching a bit when Hannibal comes to him with a cloth on which to dry himself. But Hannibal doesn't touch him. Not with anything but his eyes, anyway, taking in Will's tattoos and undoubtedly the body beneath them; the slash on his chest, healing slowly. He doesn't seem at all disinterested.

Will pulls on his breeches pointedly, glaring. It's not that he's never met another man with an interest in him. It's just that usually it's not so plain, nor sober. Will's tangles with other men have usually been the result of festivals and ale. He supposed as a married man, those days are over regardless. He wonders if Hannibal's are. He wonders if he cares.

It makes him curl his lip: he supposes Hannibal will need to acquire sons somehow. Yet another thing it would be nice to be able to talk about.

"Peter," he tells Hannibal, "has offered to teach me your language." He knows he understands the name, so hopefully he goes to discuss it and figures out what Will intends.

Hannibal simply nods, and then he's helping Will dress, despite his protests that it is not necessary. If Will suspected it was an excuse to touch him, he'd have reacted much more violently. But Hannibal's attention doesn't seem lecherous, merely pragmatic - being his husband seems to mean he is subject to Hannibal's care whether he wants to be or not, and whether or not it's the kind of care he would prefer. He sighs, finding himself dressed in clothing that resembles Hannibal's own, fine linen undergarments, and a heavy woolen kyrtill, beautifully embroidered with an emblem – a wolf, with the antlers of a stag. It’s dyed inky black blue, clearly the work of a skilled tailor. When Will looks, Hannibal’s is similar – though dark, dark red.

“It’s beautiful,” Will mutters, albeit reluctantly.

With a smile, Hannibal just helps him pull it on, then opens an overcoat too: there is a cloak for the bleaker weather, but this will suffice for around the village.

When he’s dressed, Hannibal touches Will’s hair, combing through the wet lengths, smiling where the ends are forming into unruly curls. His fingers travel over the braids; the coins and cuffs entangled. Something measuring about the touch, Will thinks. He tolerates it. Then, Hannibal brushes one of the markings on his cheek, and Will jerks away.

"That's enough."

Message received; Hannibal steps gracefully away. He goes to the door and gestures for Will to follow. Will sighs and does so. Fen immediately pads after him. He waits, but Hannibal says nothing. He just walks, ignoring the townspeople who look up from their various duties and entertainments to stare at Will as he passes.

Will looks at the town, though. At the dozens of signs of prosperity all around him. A grain shed filled to bursting, livestock and blacksmiths and a bustling market. And of course, a temple, this one extravagantly decorated with paint and carvings. Will gazes at it covetously. Hannibal sees him hesitate and stops too.

"Can I go?" Will asks.

"Go," Hannibal repeats carefully.

"To the temple." Will points, then to himself. "I go?"

Hannibal repeats something that Will assumes is, "You go." Maybe "we go," because he leads the way.

Will follows, leaving Fen to sit outside obediently.

Stepping inside is like releasing a long-held breath, even in this strange place. At once, Will throws himself down before the carved column of the gods and bows deeply, touching his forehead to the smooth wood. He murmurs his supplication, his deepest prayers. He makes a promise to honour the gods, if they can help him through this.

He feels a deep tingling through his fingertips pressed to the floor. A cawing cry demands his attention, and when he looks up, a raven is perched at the top of the totem.

"Oh," he whispers. The raven regards him, and then calls again. Will lifts a hand, and a feather drifts down. "Thank you, Allfather," he murmurs.

He tucks the feather in a fold of his tunic. Then he rises, and is met by Hannibal's dark gaze once more. He is not at prayer himself. Watching Will, it seems as always.

"Pökk," Will says again gently. He takes another step, towards the door, and Hannibal follows him back out into the street. Will glances at him out of the corner of his eye. They're constantly watching one another. Like two predators. Hannibal motions for Will to follow him, and they continue their journey.

Will strokes Fen's ears as she rejoins them. He can see Hannibal is leading him toward the great hall. This is a bit more concerning - these people haven't been friendly in the slightest. Will tries to believe he's not about to be brutally murdered. He thinks Hannibal would prevent it. Most likely. He seems intrigued enough by Will.

Will supposes he doesn't mind. It's when his husband becomes bored, he suspects, that it is time to worry. He will have to keep that from happening. Whatever that task requires.

Will braces himself at the thought as they enter the hall. This too is a highly decorated space, but where the temple was full of color and stillness, this is full of bones and blood. Dried herbs and flowers, strings of twigs, rocks and sea glass set into the walls. Bleached skulls of antlered creatures. Will marvels quietly. This more than anything is evidence of their fierceness, and the regard in which they hold it.

"It's beautiful," he tells Hannibal, though he can't understand him. He spins slowly in a circle, conscious then of how it tells a story. His appreciation must be clear, because Hannibal smiles, and points to where the story starts, above the seat of the Jarl.

Will spends some time reading it, now. It's Hannibal's story, he thinks. His myth. The best part of it is that words aren't necessary. The images are so vibrant and stylistically clear. His favorite parts are the many animals, but even the blood is beautiful somehow. And then, a hand is on his elbow, and Hannibal is guiding him to the chairs at the head of the hall. It startles him, but he hides it.

He's ushered into his seat, and that's when he sees Peter waiting, though his head is bowed, arm raised, as if he were whispering into his inner wrist. Will frowns slightly, but doesn't speak.

"Peter," Hannibal murmurs, and he finally looks up. Will glimpses the recipient of his secrets then: a small brown rat. Odd, but Peter seems tolerably odd, and also helpful, so Will doesn't comment. The rat disappears back up his sleeve now, and he straightens as much as he can.

Hannibal speaks to him, and Peter replies rather at length. Feeling lost, Will waits for Peter to translate.

"The jarl has asked me to recount our conversation," Peter eventually explains.

"And what did he say?"

"He said he would like me to continue to attend you." He shrugs barely. "If that is acceptable to you. He also accepts my proposition to teach you our language."

Will glances up at Hannibal on his fur-strewn chair. He looks expectant.

"Pökk," Will says to him.

Hannibal bows his chin. He's not sure why Hannibal would have said no, but the expending of effort suggests he plans on keeping Will around for a while. It's... a bit of a relief.

"He will learn yours, too," Peter adds, and Will's heart does something strange and hopeful. He doesn't like it, that unbidden leap. Hannibal speaks again, and Peter translates.

"Tonight there will be a feast, in honour of your marriage. Jarl Hannibal hopes you will attend."

"You will be there to translate?" Will prevaricates.

"If that is what you want."

In one way, the lack of understanding is a buffer. But Will isn't in the practice of seeking out buffers. "If you will be comfortable," he nods.

"There will be plenty bringing you offerings to bless the marriage," Peter adds.

Bless it for what? Will manages not to say. But perhaps his expression says it.

"Our gifts will wish you a lifetime of prosperity and good hunting."

"And normally sons, I suppose." He can't help it. Peter's brow raises faintly.

"I think the absence of sons was - was rather the point."

Will knows it was the point. With this alliance, provided Will is faithful, Hannibal has wiped out his family line completely without a single additional drop of blood shed. And Will's father got to keep his own Earlship. For the remainder of his life, for what it's worth to him.

More than Will, evidently. It's why he hadn't spoken to him at the wedding, or at any point since they'd come to their agreement with Hannibal's clan. As if Will were already dead to him; as if he'd accepted that may well be the outcome. Will knows of fathers whose sons mean everything to them - even Odin had guarded his sons against any harm that may befall them, with spells and enchantments. And Will's father had given him to a man who may devour him. But he'd gone willingly, hadn't he? He'd given him that much.

He supposes part of him is glad to be dead to him. He's still wondering what Hannibal has gained, in the long term. Apart from neutralising one small threat. He wonders how he would respond to being asked.

This might be the best time to find out. In front of a room full of witnesses. Peter is watching him, as though aware he wants to say something. "Hannibal," he murmurs.

The Jarl looks at him, dark ink shining through the shaved silver hair on his scalp.

"Why did you accept me?"

Peter translates, though mumblingly. Will watches Hannibal's face. He raises an eyebrow, but the corner of his mouth is crooked in a smile. He speaks, briefly. Will glances at Peter, whose cheeks are flushed, but he translates again.

"He said, he had heard of your gifts… but when he saw you, he knew you were the jarl's greatest treasure."

"And plundering is what he does best," Will summarises, wearily. Peter bows his head.

Will's cheeks burn too, but he feels no pleasure at the words: he is to prove his usefulness, as always he has been expected to. When he was a boy, he had been sickly, and sullen. Many had commented, even in his presence, that he would never make a warrior, or bring glory to his father – that it was a good thing he had other things to offer the clan. The dreams that came to him usually foretold of troubles, and oftentimes they had saved the town from plague, or invasion. Will wonders now why the gods did not see fit to warn him of Hannibal’s imminent arrival. 

He sinks back in his chair at the thought, trying not to be that sullen, weak boy now.

"Tell the Jarl I am grateful for his honesty." He's not sure if Peter will translate his tone. Or need to. But he sounds diplomatic. Will sighs. Hannibal is still looking at him.

Will meets his eyes. Hannibal says something, and Peter translates again.

"He says... that he prefers to think of plundering as liberating... from those who do not appreciate what they have." And Hannibal smiles.

"So he plans to appreciate me?" Then he sighs. "Don't ask him that."

Peter bows his head in a nod. Will is going to have to learn how to speak directly to his husband sooner rather than later. But first, unfortunately, he must endure the feast.

It’s a surprisingly long affair. Although it is not yet evening, many have gathered in the communal hall, and a lot of them are the heads of families, come to swear their fealty to Hannibal afresh – and his new husband. It seems to Will like hours traipse by, endless names dripped into his ear by Peter, endless nods of thanks. At times, the townspeople come to Hannibal with concerns, and questions. The spoils of their trip to Will’s former home are divided, the babies born in Hannibal’s absence named and blessed.

Soon enough, the afternoon starts to ebb away, and so does the sobriety. The horn is sounded for the beginning of the feast, and Will watches as food is brought out in ornate displays of animal bones and flora. The quality of the food is striking. Will has never seen anything like it in preparation or presentation. He'd call it excessive, but no one else seems to think it strange. He thinks of the strange rumours about Hannibal's appetites, and feels slightly relieved when he sees a whole suckling pig being carved. He isn't about to ask Peter. He doesn't want to know.

Peter does serve him, occasionally muttering a name to go with the figures who stop and speak with Hannibal and himself. Will says 'pökk' so many times he starts to feel like a hen. Peter singles out the older man who Will remembers: Abel, approaching the Jarl.

Will bows his head in greeting, though not much: exposing his nape to these people seems unwise.

Abel actually speaks directly to him, unlike most of the others. He's wearing peculiarity like a cloak, smiling but not kind. He'll ask Peter more about him in private; he seems to be one of Hannibal's closer advisors.

"He says he has heard tales of your hunting prowess," Peter explains to Will.

"From who?"

Peter must think it's a strange question, because he hesitates to repeat it. "Your father's advisor, among others."

Will sighs, and just murmurs his thanks. He's also seen Matthew skulking around the perimeters here and there. At the thought, he leans toward Peter. "Please ask the Jarl to keep that man away from me."

"Who?" Peter asks seriously.

"Matthew," Will murmurs.

Will sees Peter shudder.

"Very well," he agrees. He leans over to murmur to the jarl.

Hannibal's eyes glide over Will, and then Matthew, and he nods. It's a relief, even though Hannibal's gaze remains disquieting. The way Matthew' eyes keep drifting to Will is enough to enforce his decision. Every time they touch him, he wants to reach for his dagger.

Soon enough, the next well-wisher steps forward to address Hannibal - a woman, blonde and elegant, her many braids twisted back into a long fishtail down her back. There's something icy cold about her. Instantly from her tone, Will knows what he has done to offend her - usurped her from her place as Hannibal's intended. As if this were the sum of his hopes and dreams. He tries to keep his expression neutral.

She doesn't spare him more than a glance. That suits him fine.

She seems deep in conversation with Hannibal, expression one of icy neutrality. Will thinks he hears some familiar words, and he turns to Peter.
“Can I ask what they’re talking about?”

“Ah – the Lady Bedelia is wishing him good fortune on the upcoming raids.”

“Upcoming? He continues?” Hannibal and his warriors had of course blown in on the tidal wave of plunder they had wrought upon the neighbouring villages, all under Will’s father’s meaningless protection. Clearly, Hannibal returning briefly for a wedding won’t hinder his progress, his hunger for power unsated.

“He will, he leaves in the morning. Forgive me, Will, that I did not tell you-”

“No, no.” Will quiets him. “There’s nothing to forgive.” A moment of silent consideration. “I’ll be expected to attend his duties?”

“I believe so, but I will be here to aid you.”

Will nods, and looks at Hannibal, still in conversation with his fellows. He feels lost, unsure of how he could be expected to hold counsel here in Hannibal’s absence, just a few days after their marriage – but he knows he can do it. He will plead ignorance for as long as he can while he familiarizes himself with this place. Hannibal’s absence might even give him the opportunity to do so.

 For now, he grows restless, waiting for permission to skulk back to his room. Or; Hannibal's ridiculously elaborate dwelling. He doesn't rate privacy, of course, not as a marital prize.

Perhaps Will might earn it another way. That makes him eye the jarl again, watching the blonde woman retreat. Part of him knows that, sooner or later, delaying the consummation will only make him disposable. He sighs. He's done worse, hasn't he?

His heart pounds hard at the thought, fear and apprehension. But he hesitates at the idea of giving himself over with so little communication. He doesn't know exactly what he wants to be able to say, what would matter. Don't hurt me? Pitiful. Can you make it good? Equally unlikely.

He sinks down further still in his seat at the thought, trying to stifle the bitterness rising in his throat. He has to believe that the gods have a plan for him that will make enduring these people worth it. He wishes for the stillness he'd felt in the temple, reaches into his tunic to touch the feather he'd received. Holding the quill between his index and middle finger, he strokes his thumb against the down, keeping it concealed in his palm. It helps. So does Fen, lay faithfully on his foot. It allows him to lull himself into a state of tolerance. He even manages to eat and drink a little, under a number of measuring eyes, including his husband’s.

The raucous din of chatter and laughter is a comforting sort of white noise, and Will avoids Hannibal's gaze as he sips from his cup. He tries to tune most of the feast out, especially the rowdy scuffles, and the slithering form of Matthew.

Suddenly, someone rises from a bench, and Will watches over the rim of his cup as he makes his way toward them.

“Tobias,” Hannibal greets him, to deafening silence.

The man is tall, dark skin gleaming in the torchlight. He points at Hannibal and speaks now - even without the language, Will knows it's vicious. He seems outraged, and when the finger comes in his direction, Will knows why.

"Peter?" he whispers.

He looks even more hesitant than usual, but he stammers a reply. "He... is claiming the wedding is forfeit because you cannot bear sons..."

Will frowns, displeased but unsurprised. He feels Hannibal pause for a single breath beside him, then rise. He's talking, calm and low, squaring up to his questioner.

"Peter," Will murmurs again.

"Tobias has challenged the Jarl," Peter whispers.

"They will...fight?" Will whispers back.

But then he's interrupted by a blur of movement, and Hannibal swipes the sword off his back and decapitates the challenger in one smooth movement. Like a rock thrown in deep water, the body drops with a thud into the dirt, blood pooling. Blood whips across Will's own neck, thrown off the blade by momentum, and Will gasps at the shock of warmth.

Wordlessly, Hannibal reaches out and is handed a cloth. He cleans his blade decisively, gesturing at the corpse. Two attendants come instantly to take it away. Then he addresses the room at large, loud and decisive. Will doesn't need a translation for that: anyone else?

The room is silent. Will can hear every crack of the logs on the fire. Finally, Hannibal murmurs something and sits down. When he looks at Will, he offers him the cloth, and Will takes it and tentatively dabs at his face. He realises his hand is shaking slightly.

"Did I get it all?" he asks weakly.

Hannibal takes the cloth back and dabs at his cheek. He murmurs something, then turns back to survey the room. Everyone is chatting once more, the noise resumed.

Will takes a deep breath, remembering the casual violence of his swing. Quick, and smooth, completely ruthless. And no one had blinked. Will's heart feels arrhythmic. He's always known what Hannibal was, but now he's seen… and felt, he muses, touching his cheek.

Apparently undisturbed by the interruption to their meal, Hannibal leans toward Will to proffer more bread, speaking softly. Will bites his lower lip, glancing at Peter. He bends to hear the words again from Hannibal.

"He says you look tired," Peter explains. Will tries not to feel offended instead interprets it optimistically as Hannibal being compassionate.

"I'm fine." He says it directly to Hannibal. Peter dutifully repeats it, with added thanks, Will thinks.

Hannibal nods and leans back in his chair. Peter translates his next sentence.

"He asks if you would walk with him."

"Yes," Will murmurs: he can’t realistically say no, and the opportunity to leave here is too good to pass up. Blood is still soaking into the floor.

Hannibal rises, announcing his leaving to the room, and when Peter stands he stops him with a word, taking Will's arm and leading him outside alone. Will's stomach tightens like a fist. He hates that he's afraid. But he's defended himself well enough so far.

The dark is gathering outside, many fires lit and celebration well underway, dancing and music and theatrical pursuits. It's more life than he credited to the town that had stared so silently and unabashedly upon his arrival. Now though, perhaps they simply don't see him, or don't care. There is plenty of ale around, after all, amongst other substances.

Will thinks a flagon wouldn't go amiss at this point. He gestures, questioning, and Hannibal obligingly fills them two cups from one of the kegs. Will waits for him to sip. When he does, Will follows, murmuring his thanks. It's actually quite good. Will hasn't had strong spirits in a while. He nods appreciatively, and then continues when Hannibal gestures. They're walking back toward the docks; the fjord.

The stars are crystal-bright above them. The moon hangs too, and Hannibal points to a flat slope of rock that juts out of the curving landscape, muttering and then pointing to a small boat moored on the shore.

Will isn't sure what he wants - to row over there, he thinks, and so he nods his head and says, "All right." He drains his cup, setting it down and letting Hannibal help him down into the little wooden rowboat. Then Hannibal takes to the oars.

"Wait," Will gasps, but Fen clears the jump with no effort, landing solidly between them, her tail wagging excitedly. Hannibal nearly appears to smile. Will chastises Fen fondly, but he's grateful for her presence. He always feels safer when she's around.

Quiet, calm, Hannibal rows them across the dark glass surface of the water. The moon shines coldly above them as the water laps at the hull.

"It's a beautiful night," Will murmurs, though his breath mists. He thinks maybe his meaning gets across. Hannibal smiles, looking up at the sky. He nods and skillfully lands the rowboat on the rocky spit of land. Then he helps Will up onto the shore, and they start to walk.

Fen follows behind. It's a relatively easy climb, and Will is relieved to have some space, some clarity. They wind up onto the point. From up here, the town looks like a constellation, the sound of merriment far away. The water of the fjord reflects the stars above. The night feels crystalline and delicate. At the edge of the precipice, Hannibal sits, pointing to the darkness beyond the distant mountains where green lights ribbon the sky.

Will smiles despite himself. "They're beautiful."

"Beautiful," Hannibal repeats curiously.

Will nods. "Stars," he says, pointing up.

"Stars," Hannibal repeats. He reaches out and matches palms with Will. The contact makes Will stall, surprised. But his husband does not push it farther, at least not at that moment. He just says something in his melodic, even voice, and looks back down across the little pocket of safety.

Will sighs softly.

"You come up here to be away from the rabble," he intuits softly. "They need you much more than you need them. Your ambitions stretch beyond here, I imagine. Of course they do; it's why you have me. A surety against attack from a quarter you've already subdued." He bites his lip, then clicks through his teeth in understanding. "Why waste resources and men fighting a civil war when you could instead pick up an ally and increase your fighting men?"

Clever, his new husband. Will can appreciate that. He meets Hannibal's eyes - black in the moonlight, watching his lips shape foreign words, and he adds, softly, "I could help you, if I decide I should."

A faint smile from his husband at that, like he understands. Will is starting to see things differently: Hannibal is more than some barbarian warlord, raping and pillaging his way through the east. But he clearly has great goals and plans.

Sighing, Will looks up at the stars again. He needs to make himself a place here. A safe place. He needs Hannibal on side to do that. He isn't weak, or unskilled, but previous injury has made him slower. First, he needs the language. Or...does he? It's clear he has other elements at his disposal. If he chooses to use them.

He considers for a moment, gazing out onto the black expanse of the ocean, and then he turns his attention to Hannibal once more. He shifts to his knees.

At once, Hannibal's gaze is on him, eyes glinting with anticipation.

Will reaches out a hand, moving slowly to show it's not a threat. He touches a tattooed antler, first, feeling the rasp of stubble under his fingertips. The rough hand catches his wrist, but Hannibal is only reeling him closer, murmuring something that sounds pleased and surprised. Will finds himself straddling strong thighs to keep his balance.

"I'm not going to be disposed of," he tells Hannibal firmly.

The dark eyes stay steady on his. Hannibal puts his hands on Will's elbows. He's not holding him back, but that's the only move he makes. Perhaps he's not sure what Will means to do.

Will only keeps his hand moving, touching the lines at the corner of his eye, one flinty cheekbone. Then he leans in, and Hannibal tilts his chin to receive him. He gives him the kiss he'd denied him at the ceremony. He makes it good, so good he feels Hannibal's fingers tighten. It pleases him, to feel that.

Then he pulls back, and the hands stay tight. He says something in his language, softly this time.

Will bites his own lip.

"You can have me, Hannibal, if it will make you value me," he murmurs. And then he adds, "Husband."

He presses his hand to Hannibal's chest as he says it, and Hannibal covers it with his own, snatching Will even closer with a hand at his nape.

"Husband," he rumbles, pleased and low. He pulls Will in for another kiss.

Will feels the fingers from his nape creep up to tousle in his curls. Mouth hot and coaxing, Hannibal is shockingly gentle, and like this, Will feels savored.

"I'd like a bed," he tells Hannibal, pointing back at the town.

"Stars," Hannibal replies, looking reluctant.

Will looks up. "It's cold out here."

Not easily dissuaded, his husband leans in and kisses the exposed column of his throat, and Will sighs, closing his eyes in appreciation. "Bed," he whispers again.

Hannibal murmurs again softly. His kisses are having an unexpected effect on Will. He's not sure he would have been so careful last night. Will would not have tolerated it last night. He pulls back again, looking at the sky: if Hannibal doesn't want to leave they're at a stalemate, Will won't be bedded in the dirt like a dog. Hannibal turns his face back with a hand on Will's cheek.

Will laughs helplessly. This has to be a test.

"Hannibal, please take me to bed." He gives him a little, illustrative tug.

A small, quiet sigh, but the warlord rises to his feet, bringing Will with him.

"You would rather stay?" Will raises an eyebrow. "With the stars?"

Hannibal replies with something soft, hand settling on the dip of Will's waist. Will looks up at him questioningly. Hannibal just guides him toward the path, meaning clear. They're going back.

Fen follows, winding about their legs. Will tries to keep his equilibrium. He'd honestly expected that to be easier than this is. But Hannibal keeps a loose hold of him. Will wasn't expecting him to be capable of that. A small part of him is...disappointed. Though he daren't examine exactly why. It's simply not important. Establishing his position with his husband is. Making Hannibal care about him. He's not sure it will be easy, precisely, but he's certainly more than capable. Even with the language barrier.

After the climb, they glide back across the fjord, tethering the boat and making their way silently back toward Hannibal's quarters. If the revelers notice them, no one makes a fuss. When they get inside, Will gently directs Fen onto the fur in front of the fire.

She curls up obediently, and Will doesn't miss the twitch of his husband's lips.

Straightening, he watches Hannibal unfasten his heavy cloak, embroidered with those dark antlers. He tosses it casually aside and steps across the room to Will. Then he tugs him in, as ungentle now as he was cautious leading him down the cliff side. His mouth is hot as it finds Will's temple, his cheek, his lips. He starts to tug at his clothes, and this time Will doesn't stop him. He allows himself to be undressed, even helps a bit with the fastenings. Though Hannibal pushes his hands away eventually: clearly he wants to do it himself.

The feeling of his intent dark gaze is not without its own physical effects. Will swallows heavily when he reaches his trousers; unlaces them without hesitation. He has to remind himself the man has already seen him naked. But it feels different like this, in the dim light of the candles. With soft touches glancing across his skin. Finally he's bare, and blushing slightly with it, but before he can reach to return the favour Hannibal has steered him toward the bed.

He guides Will up onto the mattress and its piled furs. His hands firmly positioning, gaze intent. Then he steps back and simply looks. Will lets it happen, though he can feel his mouth fixing into an unhappy line. This wasn't in the plan.

"What are you looking at?" He says it irritably enough to get Hannibal's attention. It seems to make him smile. Will gestures roughly to him to remove his own clothing. When he sits up to physically show him though, Hannibal just kneels onto the bed and pushes his wrists back down against the furs, bending his head suddenly to get his mouth on Will's tattooed chest.

Will yelps, just slightly. But the hands don't move, and Hannibal doesn't bite. Quivering, Will forces himself to stillness. Hannibal's lips drift up to his throat, voice soft and appreciative. He's tracing the path of one thick whorl of ink. His hand smooths down Will's chest in turn.

It quickens his breath despite himself. The look on Hannibal's face could be rightly described as hunger. But he's brave enough to take it. Hannibal rumbles something soft and foreign, and glides down between Will's thighs. Will reaches out hesitantly to touch his hair. It's soft and tangle free outside the braids, pure starlight silver in with the tawny brown. He's a beautiful man, truly. And he's swiping his tongue low on Will's belly, thumbs stroking his hips. He has no hesitation about him, just a slow inevitable savoring.

Will has never had anyone touch him like this; barely knowing him and still so intimate. No one would have dared. He's cut off fingers for less. But his dagger is far away now, and he and Hannibal have already had that particular power struggle.

Now, Hannibal bites gently at the inside of Will's thigh, then breathes soft and warm over his cock. Will can't hold back a sound of overwhelm, and Hannibal's eyes meet his. His teeth flash white in the murk of the bedroom, around a question Will instinctively knows. May I?

Shakily, Will nods. His skin feels tender, covered with a flush already. And when Hannibal touches his tongue to the root of his cock, Will shivers all over, breath escaping him in a gush.

He shouldn't want this. Or should he? Hannibal is his husband after all. This is one way they can communicate.

He's lipping Will into his mouth now in a slow, easy slide. Will lets his groan out this time. His hips arch automatically, breath rushing. He... knew about this, of course. But he didn't think Hannibal would... Would do it. Not for him. But he is, eyes closed and hands firm, fingers delicately holding Will’s hard cock off his belly, steadying him. Will shivers with each slide of his lips. He tips his head back against the furs on a shaky groan.

Hannibal's hands squeeze. He likes it, he must. His cheeks hollow. Will's body feels alight.

"Wait," he gasps. He tugs at a braid of hair, urgently.

Hannibal makes a reluctant noise. But he does pull back. Will tugs him up with urgency. He crashes their lips together. Hannibal's hand slides into the length of his hair, tangling there. Will is delighted to hear him make his own soft moan. He arches beneath him, feeling the way his body is poised; ready for this.

Hannibal pulls away slightly and Will makes a confused noise. "Don't go," he murmurs, blushing at his own words.

Hannibal gives him a hungry smile and leans to a chest by the bed. Watching him, Will bites his lip, not quite sure what to do with his hands. Hannibal says something in his low, melodic voice. Will isn't sure what he wants until Hannibal turns him onto his belly decisively. He makes a soft, nervous noise, but when his cock rubs against the bedclothes it cuts off in a moan.

Hannibal's hand soothes down his back, pausing at what Will knows to be the scars on his back from various incidents and accidents. He lingers long enough that Will is certain he wishes to ask questions. Will is abruptly glad he can't. He hears the noise of scraping pottery, then smells the scent of herbs. Peering back, he cranes to see what Hannibal is doing. He's dipping two long fingers into a pot of ointment, and his teeth flash in another smile.

Will bites his lip, nerves steeling over him. "I've never done this," he whispers. As if that isn't obvious. Likely it is. Hannibal doesn't answer though, hair just falling over his shoulder in a soft curtain as he dips to bite Will's shoulder. He follows the sharp nip with a trailing lick.

Will bares his teeth a bit, feeling vulnerable and exposed. Especially when he feels slick fingers press between his cheeks. He stutters, but Hannibal murmurs and bites again lightly. It's enough of a distraction to let Hannibal press inside him. Will arches his hips to make it easier; whines softly at the strangeness. His breath whooshes against the linens. He's floundering a little, like this, entirely at someone else's mercy. But before they walked in here together, he'd have never guessed he would actually want it. He wishes they could speak to one another.

"Hannibal," he whispers.

A pause, and Hannibal's cheek brushes his temple. "Will."

His fingers twist gently inside Will. It startles a gasp out of him, making him grab at Hannibal's other hand, braced on the mattress. The exhale that wafts through his curls sounds pleased. Now, Hannibal starts to talk quietly, voice unmistakably praising. With each word, a slow press and retreat of his fingers. He's being considerate, Will sees now, each stroke carefully searching. Easing the way, Will thinks with a sigh. He bites his lip against another little whine.

Hannibal's lips move over his skin again. His movements seem purposeful now. It's hard not to rock back into them. Will is aware he should at least try to enjoy himself.

"Please?" he breathes, arching up to bring their bodies closer.

Hannibal noses at him. "Please?"

"Make me feel good," Will begs softly.

Hannibal kisses his neck and carefully eases his fingers free. He's clearly understanding what Will needs. Albeit in his own way. Then Will keens as he shifts and presses the head of his cock against him instead. It's a slow, thick slide inside, and Hannibal is careful but not altogether ginger about it.

Will pants through it like he's been running a race. It feels like it. It feels a little like fighting, this new shared sensation. He's not entirely sure he's winning. He lets out a low noise.

Hannibal cups his hips and rumbles a soft assurance as he presses to the hilt. The fingers on his hips are firm. He's kissing Will's neck slowly, almost nipping. It sizzles along his nerves. When he makes a weak little noise, Hannibal echoes it fondly. His mouth is still moving. Hands clasping Will's hips tighter, he rocks smoothly, picking up speed.

Will moans, louder now. It comes out choked and low, but unmistakable. Hannibal seems pleased. His big, calloused hand cups the front of Will's throat, and he murmurs against his ear again as he rocks his hips. Will gulps into the grip.

It's good, being contained like this. He feels less like he's going to fly away. Like he belongs. To Hannibal. Perhaps he should find it disquieting, but no one has ever touched him like this before. Like they had every right, and all the time in the world. He turns his cheek toward Hannibal and shivers when Hannibal presses down immediately to kiss him.

Their lips cling for several breathless kisses. Then Hannibal snaps his hips hard, knocking the breath out of Will in a vocal burst.

"Yes," he gasps when he gets it back.

Hannibal hums. He's pleased; Will remembers that he's supposed to be earning the man's favor, but... he doesn't really need to pretend. And he thinks that will work to his benefit. If it always feels like this.... He'll survive. He'd like more than that, but it's a start. And in the meantime, things could be worse. Hannibal's hands feel so very good on his skin. He's warm and solid. And full of an animal sort of power. It's humbling to behold.

Will moans again, more weakly as his head drops. He feels charged, stoked like a flame. Every move Hannibal makes reverberates through them both. Then, he's shifting Will, urging him onto his side. Will moans softly and goes. Hannibal presses against his back with a murmur. He lifts his thigh and slides home again. Will cries out again, grabbing him over his shoulder. He arches back into his embrace. Shivers when Hannibal bites his shoulder with a low growl.

His motions in this position are both slower and more forceful. He seems in no mood to rush. His voice is in Will's ear again, melodious foreign words. "Husband," he adds, nipping at Will's ear, sounding satisfied.

Will groans. "Fuck, Hannibal."

"Fuck," Hannibal repeats, delighted.

"Fuck," Will repeats, hips rocking, whether in explanation or just in need.

Hannibal kisses his throat and gives it to him faster. Soon he's crooning Will's own name instead.

"Gods," Will gasps, as he feels Hannibal's palm slide down his belly. He presses down firmly as his hips rock, and Will whimpers. Then, Hannibal curls his hand around Will's cock. It's like fire, like lightning. It burns through him just as quickly. He bridges into it with a hiss.

Hannibal squeezes his fingers as Will fucks into it. He's making rough, low noises of approval, stroking with skilled fingers. He keeps fucking into Will with the same long strokes of his hips. He's ruthless, and perfect. Will's body hums and crackles, the two of them, a matched pair. Two flints struck hard together. He can't help being loud. He's sparking; igniting. He'll consume them both, a bonfire in their bed. He doesn't think Hannibal would mind at all.

His hands clutch mindlessly at the covers beneath him. He can't stop the rough little snarls of need that escape him with every slide of skin. His husband echoes them all. He's moving his hand faster on Will's cock now, the action purposeful. Will's breath rasps on a whine. He feels so full of sensation he could burst.

"Please," he mutters. "Please, please."

There's a smile in Hannibal's voice when he murmurs an affirmative. That is one word Will knows, and echoes. "Yes, yes."

Hannibal gives him it faster, curled around him, hot and bright. He writhes, consumed. And then he's coming, fast and hard, a release of pressure like clouds in a storm. He groans throughout it. It's not like anything he's ever felt. Certainly not from his own hand.

Hannibal is kissing him, murmuring his name. He's still fucking into Will with abandon. His hips move faster now, hard enough to make Will wince in oversensitivity. His little grunts of effort and the slaps of their skin fill Will's ears. And then he feels the stalled surge of Hannibal's hips, and feeling him twitch and grow slicker inside him gives Will the strangest feeling of pride. His last few thrusts are lazy, and messy, his hands gone loose with his release. Will moans softly, overwhelmed, and finally Hannibal slips free. He rolls Will back over to kiss him lazily as well.

Will lets him, dazed and panting. Hannibal runs his hand through Will's hair, dislodging long strands.

"Beautiful," he tells Will. He must have learned it from Peter, and it makes Will's cheeks burn. Hannibal looks intensely pleased by that.

Will bites his lip, and touches his cheek shakily. Hannibal leans into it rather like a great cat. He kisses Will again, rumbling his pleasure again in a low voice.

"Pökk," Will says softly.

Hannibal smiles, and strokes under his chin like he sees Will as a pet. That doesn't sit so easily with him, but he supposes until they can reliably speak, he's not much more. He knows he'll get there eventually. He allows his eyes to close. Hannibal's warm hand soothes down his chest. Will feels unexpectedly cherished. He flushes, settling down on the furs. He's cradled in comfort and safety, at the moment. He wonders how much of it is a facade.

He doesn't care, not right now. He has to believe Hannibal would see it would do more harm than good to hurt him now. He practices slowing his breath on command. Hannibal's heavy arm on him helps a little. Eventually he's able to sleep. It's deep and drugging where the night before had not been. Maybe he's just exhausted. Maybe he feels safer now. Maybe both.

Either way, he wakes alone again the next morning, and it feels diminished in some small way. If he had the words for it, he thinks he'd protest the next chance he gets. He rises, washing himself with the basin of water left to keep warm over the fire, and then gets dressed and takes Fen out to find some food. It hasn't escaped his notice that he's no longer locked in. The thought of earning privileges irks him.

There is much about his new husband that irks him, but much that fascinates him as well. That is enough to propel him toward the market, ignoring the strange looks he gets. Maybe it's the cloak. It's far too fancy for everyday wear, but Will has no others. Maybe it's just his long tangle of dark hair; the wolfdog at his heels and the fact he's clearly a foreigner. He's not even sure where he's going. It's just nice to wander. For all that this place is unsettling, it's beautiful too.

He jumps a little when a woman extends an apple to him off her stall, smiling slightly. "Pökk," he murmurs.

She bows her head, and then retreats. Will regards the apple thoughtfully. Wonders absently if it's poisoned. He probably shouldn't consider it, but this has always been Will's mind. And it appears he is not welcome. He tucks the fruit into a pocket of his cloak and walks on.

A butcher kindly provides him a few scraps for Fen, when Will holds up a coin and then points at her, and when she's fed he feels better about continuing. He lets his feet lead him, and they eventually take him back to the temple. Easy enough to slink inside; sit down in front of the carved figures and listen to the whispers of the gods. Fen curls up behind him, silently patient as always. He feels so much more at peace here. He feels like he has a chance of his prayers being answered. It's a beautiful temple.

He's sunken into a meditative state by the time he hears the door open. Against his back, Fen raises her chin and issues a low growl. It cuts off quickly when she - and Will - sees who it is. It's Peter, wearing that hooded robe again.

"Sorry," Will says quickly.

Peter ducks his head, dropping to his knees beside Fen and holding out a hand to her. She goes to him, head bowed and tail shyly wagging. Will watches his lips move slightly, like he's speaking to her. The wagging gets more confident.

Will laughs softly. "You're good with dogs, I take it."

"I - I try to be." He looks up at Will from under his hood. "Am I interrupting your prayers?"

"No, no. How can I help you?"

"I-I think, that was my, question."

Will smiles. "Can we start our language lessons?" he asks. "I... think I could use some right away."

"Of course." Peter nods. "Whatever you need. But your husband needs to speak to you first."

Curious, Will bows to the gods then follows Peter out of the temple. He assumes they're heading to the docks, and for a moment considers prickling at the idea of standing waiting with the other wives. But he has no interest in raiding; he never has. Certainly not the majority of other 'perks' that seem to go along with it. He's still not sure if it's entirely complimentary that his new husband is leaving so soon. But he supposes it gives him time to find his feet.

The docks are bustling with preparations, and Will scans the activity while following Peter. Peter goes to croon to the ravens, and Will spots Hannibal behind him.

Hannibal spots him at the same moment. He gives Will a strange, not-quite-there smile, and comes toward him. Will tugs his cloak around him, chin going up. Hannibal reaches for him, and when he's drawn Will in by his shoulders, bends to kiss him.

Will tries not to show a reaction. But it's hard when he thinks of the night before. He can still feel every ache. But Hannibal probes for a reaction, cupping his jaw and murmuring his name. Will sighs, tension flowing out of his spine. He's been worried that it was somehow an ownership thing; not genuine. It feels genuine, unless Hannibal is simply a gifted actor.

Of all the things Will has heard, that's the most believable. Trust does not come easily to him. Still, it's good to be held. Perhaps it's a more honest gauge than words.

Hannibal touches their foreheads and murmurs something careful. Will bites his lip. He doesn't need Peter to translate the sentiment: he'll be back for him.

"Be safe," Will murmurs back.

Hannibal smiles, and tucks something into Will's hands then; the bone handle of a knife. It's beautiful. Intricately carved, yielding a sturdy blade, so sharp Will has no doubt it could shave the hair off his wrist. Will sheathes it and tucks it into his belt with a little bow. He understands it's not a thoughtless gift: there may be people here who wish to hurt him.

"Thank you."

His husband smiles. He kisses Will again, and then shouts to the others. The flurry of movement that follows the words leaves their meaning unmistakable: time to go. Will stands and watches. Hugs his cloak tighter around himself and feels grateful for Fen against his thigh.

Will doesn't start counting the days right away, but Hannibal is gone for months at sea. In his absence, Will dedicates himself to studying the language: technically he's supposed to rule in Hannibal's stead, and he does his best with Peter's help translating, but it's hard not to feel like he's not taken seriously.

The blonde woman from the feast, Bedelia, is particularly hostile, frequently going out of her way to undermine him – though thankfully Will is usually able to overrule her without too much fuss. Truthfully, he hates that he's wary of her. Not nearly as wary as he is of Matthew - who, he's noticed, Hannibal did not leave behind. He's relieved, and grateful.

Meanwhile, Peter seems pleased with his language skills. Will spends a few hours every evening practising. It gives him something to do other than trail around Hannibal's space, looking for clues to him. There are many, in his fine clothes and countless trophies, and also few. It's enough of a mystery to entertain Will in the long, silent hours of the summer nights.

He spends the rest of his time trekking around the surrounding woodland, getting to know the earth here. That part is much more to his liking. It's wild and rocky, the summer having given birth to endless fields of wild flowers along the mountain paths; the stretches of forest that reach for the skies. Fen runs wild through the fields as Will hikes the paths. Sometimes he takes a bow and arrow, and she fetches back his kills with her tail wagging.

Occasionally, Will meets Peter out there, having arrived by mysterious means. Peter always has an animal or two with him. Sometimes the rat, sometimes a tall, handsome owl that follows overhead. He talks to them both, like he talks to Fen, and now Will is starting to be able to understand him. It's peaceful to be amongst nature; to speak unfamiliar words and be praised.

Learning is slow going, but it feels worth it when Will starts to be able to answer people without translation when attending to Hannibal's business as jarl. They respond more easily, as well. It feels good to conquer this small hurdle.

He's still lonely, though. He finds himself wishing fervently for Hannibal's return, and then, as is often the way, he starts to dream of him.

The dreams start as notions, feelings. Fleeting murmurs of words Will knows Hannibal has never spoken to him, orders barked at strangers and assurances of safety. Sometimes, sight comes with the noise. He sees Hannibal walking on far away shores, his hair gleaming like the stars as he moves, cloak billowing behind him. More than once, Will sees him holding a curious golden icon, a great X.

One night, Will sees something which turns his stomach. Hannibal stands amongst a pile of bodies, a bloodied lump of meat in one hand, trailing crimson down his wrist in thick, wet rivulets. As Will watches, Hannibal raises the flesh to his lips, and when his fingers part, Will realizes it is a human heart, splitting beneath the jagged white crescent of his husband’s teeth.

The dreams come always, after that, until it’s at least once every night, lucid dreams like a memory. It feels like he's following Hannibal's every step. Soon, he begins seeing him on the ship, eyes to the horizon. Blood still stains his armor.

With sweat on his brow, Will jerks awake from the same dream one morning. It’s still dark outside, barely dawn, but suddenly he knows Hannibal is close. Slipping out of bed, he draws a cloak around him, pulls on his breeches and boots and rushes out toward the dock. He knows now, how to row the small boat over to the stone point. Fen accompanies him, faithful as ever. They walk up to the promontory together, the sun starting to burn away the mist.

He watches the horizon, the sun breaking red through the clouds like some great titan. He can feel his chest tightening with the anticipation of boats on the horizon. Then he sees them, like so much flotsam on the surface of the water, barely visible at this distance. He nearly gasps, glad he's alone. Hannibal's banner is flying. The fabric flows like blood. Will thinks he feels relief.

As he watches, fleet grows bigger, until finally they’re within the fjord, flowing on an ocean of sunrise crimson. Will cranes his neck, focusing on the arrowhead of the fleet. Sure enough, he sees a flash of diamond light like the reflection off metal. Even as far away as he is, he's sure somehow that it's Hannibal. And that he's seen him. Will hesitates for only a moment before hurrying back down the hill.

He's the first person there on the docks, the wind tossing the lengths of his hair. They fly around him much like the crimson banners on the ships. Hannibal is on the bow, hanging onto the carved adornment there. His hair is longer, his stance proud. His eyes, though, are only for Will.

As soon as the ship is mooring, Hannibal steps onto the dock, making a beeline for Will. It's he who was shining, a metal breastplate in an unfamiliar style on his chest. Will can't help but be distracted by it, but he still manages to say, "welcome home," in that unfamiliar tongue.

Hannibal beams to hear it. "You are a sight for sore eyes, husband."

It takes a moment to parse it, but then Will smiles. "You are wearing the sun."

"You are wearing the stars," Hannibal replies, hand reaching out to touch his cheek.

Will bites his lip and accepts the long kiss that Hannibal bestows upon him like a gift. In truth, it feels like one, love from lips that have devoured hearts. Will has been afraid without him, he knows.

"Peter has been teaching me," he tells him, unnecessarily.

"I'm glad. You speak well."

"I've almost... almost exhausted it."

"I doubt that." He looks fondly down at Will. "You look beautiful."

It shocks Will, the outward affection. He's speechless for a moment. "Thank you."

"How are you?"

"Tired," Will says honestly.

"You haven't slept well?"

"Not without you," Will murmurs.

Maybe it's a little obviously convoluted, because Hannibal raises an eyebrow for a minute, amused. "You're not defenceless."

"No," Will agrees. He can feel the gifted dagger at his side.

"You have become accustomed to me so quickly, then?" A hint of skepticism.

"Interested," Will says slowly.

Hannibal's expression becomes approving. Will thinks he appreciates strength. And curiosity.

"You left me signs of yourself," he adds.

"I left you in our home."

"Perhaps you'll see signs of me now."

"I very much hope so." Hannibal pulls him in again, heedless of the bustle around them. "I in turn have looked forward to seeing you."

"For what reason?" Will says a bit teasingly.

"Curiosity."

"Just that?"

"Other things, too." Hannibal's gloved hand soothes over the front of his throat.

Will crooks a sardonic smile. "You haven't had enough on your raids?"

"Not you," Hannibal murmurs.

That makes Will curl his lip a little: so not none then. Hannibal is watching his expression with bright interest. Will looks away, irritated and barely bothering to hide it. He's not exactly sure what he expected. He thought he'd done a better job of interesting him.

"Welcome back," he mutters, "I will praise the gods for your safe return. Fen, come." And he turns away, cloak swishing.

Behind, pregnant silence, but Will doesn't look back. He feels cheap and weak for being cast aside, reduced to some bed warmer when he never even wanted to be in the bed in the first place. This will not stand. Especially not now that he has the language to deal with it. He's angrier than he ever thought he would be. His husband will pay.

He spends the morning quietly fuming as, from up high on the mountain path, he watches the returning raiders unload the ships. It was a profitable raid, it appears. Will supposes he should be glad. The feeling of jealousy has struck him like a thief in the night. He's abruptly angry at himself for asking; for seeking out proof of Hannibal's selfishness. It was better, perhaps, when he expected to feel a cold blade in the night. At least he knew where he stood.

As he stalks back to the hall, he sees faces he knows, now. A few even smile, or bow. It's a bit of a balm to his ego to see that, Will supposes. Suddenly he's unsure how Hannibal will even react to his taking the jarl's seat. Though of course that is his duty. Public conflict now will damage his standing. Will promises himself he will keep his grievances to himself, but they still simmer under his skin.

He goes to announce the Jarl's return to the others; watches them begin to scurry to finish preparing a meal and fires and ale for his triumphant return. The hall begins to fill with noise as Hannibal's sailors finish their duties and search out their families or friends. Will sits in his seat, Fen at his side, and listens to the chatter. He still can't parse all of it, but his improvement is obvious even to him. It's a relief.

Today, most of the talk is of their jarl, and Will has no hesitation about eavesdropping. Lots of praise, some fear. Much discussion of something that sounds like "blood feast," which catches Will's attention. He rises, and moves to where Peter sits, crouching beside him and speaking in his mother tongue to avoid being overheard.

"What do they mean, when they talk of blood feast-?"

Peter looks away for a moment. Will frowns.

"I d-don't know if it's for me to s-say."

"Please." Will presses gently.

"There is a sacrifice," Peter whispers after a long moment. "We consume it."

That doesn't sound so unusual. Will tilts his head. "What kind of sacrifice-?"

"The jarl chooses."

Will doesn't like the sound of that. "This will happen tonight?"

"It will."

"Thank you for telling me," Will murmurs.

"You're... welcome." Peter sounds as unsure as Will feels.

Disquieted, Will returns to his seat just in time for Hannibal to enter. He feels his husband's eyes on him immediately. But he doesn't meet his gaze. He looks out over the hall with a remote expression. Making a point not to look at Hannibal as he lowers himself into the seat beside him.

"Husband," Hannibal murmurs.

"Husband," Will returns curtly. He forces himself to turn to face him. Hannibal is watching him, gaze measuring.

"You are angry," he says.

"What's to be angry about." Will looks away, dispassionately.

"Your claim on me," Hannibal murmurs.

"I don't have a claim on you, evidently."

"Not unless you make one," Hannibal's lips curve minutely.

"Why should I? You clearly wouldn't honour it." He turns away again.

Hannibal's silence is surprised. Will didn't mean to be so obvious. But voicing his displeasure makes him feel better. He considers bringing up the blood feast next but decides against it. He would rather not continue conversation. Hannibal will get what he no doubt intended in the first place; a spouse with whom he doesn't feel obliged to interact.

"May I be excused?" Will grits finally.

"Until later."

"Fine." He rises and he walks out of the hall with all the dignity he can muster. Fen follows, of course, and Will stalks back toward their quarters. He has a feeling Hannibal will swiftly follow. It's a feeling like a prickle all over his skin.

Once he's back in their quarters, Will waits with his fists clenched against the far wall until he hears the telltale creak of the door hinge behind him. He stands, and waits. Hannibal says his name, not gently but firmly, and Will feels hot with a flash of resentment. Before he can think, he picks up a plate of candles and throws them at Hannibal, speaking in his own tongue.

"See if I let you treat me like a fucking bed warmer! I have borne the weight of your absence and you have made a mockery of me!"

He yanks one of the deer skulls off the wall; throws that in turn. "You disgraced me as soon as you could!" He casts around for something else to throw, but Hannibal is too quick. He grabs Will's wrist, and Will punches him on instinct. Hannibal takes the blow, then twists Will's arm behind his back, slamming his shoulder against the wall.

"Let me go!" Will growls, kicking out. He barely budges Hannibal.

"Stop," Hannibal tells him, but there's laughter on the edge of his voice. "Will you throw all my possessions at me every time I take a mistress, husband?"

"Yes!" Will snaps. "If that's what it takes!"

"You are beautiful when you are jealous," Hannibal purrs.

Will headbutts him hard when he leans close. He's delighted at the trickle of blood it causes. Hannibal lets go on his slight stumble, lifting a hand to his mouth in surprise.

Will growls at him. "If you want a mistress, then you can't have me." He'll make sure of it.

Visibly, maddeningly amused, Hannibal wipes his bloody nose. "Show me why I want you."

"I don't have to show you anything." Will raises his chin stubbornly.

"But it would be in your best interest." Hannibal's voice is silky. It's even more affecting when Will can understand his words.

His own nearly quakes, thickly accented. "It would be in yours not to threaten me."

"Is that what you think this is?"

"I'm wrong?"

"I wouldn't call it that."

"What would you call it?"

"Mutual understanding."

"If I have to barter for respect, is it really worth having?"

"You tell me," Hannibal says with immense dignity.

"Would you do it?" They both know he wouldn't. Will hammers the point. "Would you truly want a partner who did?"

Hannibal makes a low, frustrated sound. Will keeps him in his line of sight. Hannibal takes a slow breath, and tilts his head.

"You wish me to be faithful."

"Is it not common practise here?" Will curls his lip.

"Captors -" Hannibal starts.

Will glares at him, not attempting to hide his revulsion at Hannibal's attitude. "It doesn't matter who." He turns away. "Leave me now. I came to be alone."

It's worth a try. Unfortunately, Hannibal doesn't seem inclined to be dismissed.

"No," he rumbles.

Will hisses again. "Why?"

"You are my treasure," Hannibal says slowly. "I will guard you close."

That makes Will sneer. "Like you have until now?"

"I gave you Peter. If you do not realize what a boon that is..."

"Peter has been my only friend here, you left after a day, and now you return after fucking your way across the continents, and dismiss me for feeling insulted." He lets it blaze from his eyes.

"How did you know?" Hannibal mutters.

Will just smiles. "You know what I am. If I am a treasure, you've been a poor guardian."

That makes Hannibal suck his teeth. "You would have wished to come?"

"Why not?"

"You think me a barbarian, do you not?"

"You could have changed my mind."

"Might I still?"

"That depends."

"Tell me how, husband," Hannibal murmurs.

"Don't leave me behind again. Don't take thralls."

"I need not go again for some time," Hannibal murmurs.

"And?" Will folds his arms.

"And when next I go, my husband will go with me."

"Thank you," Will mutters. He paces distractedly. "And the other matter?"

Hannibal bows his head.

"You have my word, I am yours." It rings out like a triumph, but Will still isn't sure.

"Show me." His voice only trembles a little.

Hannibal comes to him, and lifts a hand slowly, telegraphing his intention to touch Will. And Will wants it, despite his anger he still wants it.

"Was I so disappointing?" he can't help but ask.

"No, Will," Hannibal murmurs.

"Then what? You were testing me?" He suspects that is the truth, no matter what Hannibal says.

"I was curious."

"Has your curiosity been satisfied?"

Hannibal smiles at that.

"Not even by half." It's not reassuring. But it does make Will curious in turn. "Let me show you you're important," Hannibal murmurs, pressing in close.

Will doesn't want to stop him, not really. He still turns his cheek, nearly haughty. But the press of bearded lips against it is gentle. Will sighs.

Hannibal trails kisses down his cheek to his chin and neck. His hand slides easily down Will's waist. Will's body has its own opinions about all of that. He sighs again, this time at himself. Swaying into Hannibal is so easy. He's slipping his hands around to Will's backside now, pulling him close. Will gasps, he can't help himself.

"Husband," Hannibal whispers. Will loves how it sounds in his deep, soft voice.

"Husband," he echoes, in his own tongue.

Hannibal's hand spears into his hair, dislodging loose braids. He keeps Will close with his other, gently rocking his hips now, guiding them together. It makes Will's breath come fast. He groans, soft and low. He remembers how this feels, now. He's thought about it often in the long cold nights. Hannibal had left him full of aching, and he's ready to feel it again.

It starts with big warm hands exploring his body. He steers Will away from the wall and toward the bed, keeping him stood against him while he searches out every inch of Will's skin. He strips him methodically. Then he scoops him up onto the bed, kissing and biting gently.

Will writhes against the furs. Arching into Hannibal's touch, the heat of his mouth. It travels everywhere. He hisses when he bites his hip. But he pushes into it all the same. Hannibal licks then, stubble scratching against his skin. Will moans. That mouth is always in his dreams.

"Hannibal," he stammers. It earns him a kiss.

"What do you want?"

"Fuck me," Will says weakly, having only learned the word recently.

Hannibal nods quickly. His teeth flash white. He leans down and bites at Will's side.

Will moans. "Yes, Hannibal."

He's tugging Will close, biting down his side in sinking, stinging mouthfuls. Will can't draw breath to complain. He lets Hannibal undress him fully before returning the favour, their hands sliding over one another.

Will touches just as eagerly as Hannibal had. He has a new scar, pink and raw, cutting across his shoulder.

"Someone got you," Will observes, surprised.

"Yes," Hannibal grumbles.

"Did you get them back?"

"Oh yes," now he sounds satisfied.

Will leans and bites the mark, and Hannibal hisses, possibly surprised. "Mine," Will mumbles.

"Yours-" Hannibal agrees.

Will plants a palm flat over the mark and kisses his chest again. "Swear to me," he challenges, "and I'll tell you what you want to know."

"Will," Hannibal murmurs. "I swear, Will."

"Now prove it," Will mutters.

His husband kisses him instead. He tips Will down onto his back on the bed forcibly. Will can't catch his breath. Just arches as Hannibal slides down between his thighs, a flicker of deja vu from their first night together. He remembers how it feels, too. His heart hammers in anticipation.

The heat of Hannibal's mouth is as immense as ever. It's engulfing and surprising as the first time. Will moans gently. His eyes catch Hannibal's. Hannibal's look nearly molten red. Will is glad to have him back, all scruples aside. His entire self feels seething with some sort of spark, something that Hannibal brings. Part of it is fear, he knows. But tangled with the fear is a nearly painful longing. Hannibal interests him in the reluctant, leery way children are intrigued by dead things. And in a more base manner, as well. Decidedly un-child-like.

Will moans again. Hannibal hums around him, sounding satisfied. He can tell the effect he's having, clearly, and he enjoys it. Will thinks he'd like to inspire that sort of satisfaction, too. For now, he'll enjoy being catered to. Though - he does miss his voice. Especially now that they can speak.

"Hannibal," he murmurs, touching his shoulder. He waits for his husband to pull back.

His lips are flush, eyes dark. He's breathing hard.

"Come to me," Will whispers, "let me do something for you."

"Am I to request my boon?" he murmurs, sliding sinuously up the bed.

Will frowns, trying to parse the unfamiliar phrase, but then he nods. "Tell me?"

Hannibal strokes up his chest.

"May I have your mouth?" he whispers into Will's ear. Will nods, breath shaky. "Good."

Hannibal rolls them over so Will is on top. His hand is gentle when he presses Will down, but he guides him confidently to where he needs to be. His fingers tangle into the lengths of Will's hair; fist gently. Will makes a soft noise. It feels good to be held in place. To take Hannibal into his mouth decisively and suck. He knows the power they both have in it is evident to his husband. He's happy to let the scale tip. And to feel the hot, hard flesh between his lips, under his tongue.

He's inexperienced, but enthusiastic. The taste, the feel, the thunder of his own blood in his ears. Hannibal's gentle pressure on the crown of his head. And the prickle of the grip on his hair. He sighs, settling down. It's easier then to relax his lips and take more in. His lashes flicker down. Slowly, he slips into a state of concentration.

It's easier, the longer he spends, lips dragging and jaw aching. Hannibal's fingers spread over his cheek to feel the movement inside.

"Beautiful boy," he murmurs. "You look like a dream."

That makes Will sigh. He pulls back and presses his tongue against the tip of Hannibal's cock, tasting the fluid there. The idea of anyone else touching him like this, after their marriage, maddens him. He thinks he might kill anyone who tries. He'll kill anyone he comes across who has. He tries to tell Hannibal this with just his eyes. He thinks he's made himself clear. Then he takes him in again.

Hannibal rumbles something under his breath, complimentary. Then he thrusts upward just slightly. Will gags, just a little, but he lets Hannibal press him down further. He can take it easily enough, he finds. It's almost easier to let Hannibal guide him. And he seems to enjoy it just as much, if the shift of his thighs is any hint. His breaths come quick and sharp. Will exults in the edge of them. Feels powerful and enthralled between Hannibal's inked thighs.

His eyes start to water as his lungs empty but he keeps going, breathing through his nose. Hannibal rumbles his name. Will looks up. Hannibal touches his chin; lifts his head up.

"That was good," he says with what almost seems like pride. "Now I want you here."

Will goes, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, breathing hard. Hannibal pulls him up with a hand still in his hair. Drags him into a kiss, coaxing him until he's sat in his lap. Will presses unabashedly close. Hannibal's finger sliding between his thighs gets him shivering. He presses until his fingertip is slipping inside.

Will bridges back. He thinks Hannibal was expecting it, because his other hand slips to his hip and holds it steady.

"It's not enough," Will murmurs, and reaches for the oil Hannibal had used the first night they slept together.

Nodding, Hannibal's nose presses into the side of his neck. "You do it," he murmurs there.

Will does, slicking his palm and wrapping it around Hannibal in deft strokes. Hannibal makes pleased noises against his skin. And then he urges Will into position. They both take a breath before he rocks down, chests brushing. It steals his breath, a groan slipping out between clenched teeth.

Hannibal kisses his throat again, hands settling on his hips. He guides Will slowly down. And Will feels every inch of it. He tips his head back, breathing hard.

"Oh - Hannibal-"

"Perfect," Hannibal murmurs.

Will just nods, hair swishing over his shoulders. Their movements are snatched and frantic with the keenness of their reunion. Will exults in the simple feel of it. He didn't realise quite how happy he'd be to have Hannibal back. He keens deep in his throat. At least in this the gods have not made him unlucky. In fact, they've blessed him. Even if it's difficult to see at times. But right now, he's seeing stars.

Hannibal leans in to bite gently at his throat. He hasn't moved his hips yet, but Will feels incredibly full of him already. Then, he starts to tug him into motion. Will growls softly and bears down. They move fast together all of a sudden. Hannibal's nails bite in. His teeth are bared, sharp and animal, lashes cast down against his cheeks a demure contrast. He looks exultant, and as avid as Will could have hoped in his darkest nights.

"No one else now," he tells Will, voice firm.

"You'll take me with you," Will breathes.

"Everywhere. We won't be parted." His voice is low and soothing.

Will pushes their foreheads together, letting Hannibal pull him quicker. His breath rasps wildly now. It turns rapidly into vocalisations, low and needy. He rolls his hips down as sharply as he can. It feels like too much, but he still wants it all. Hannibal's hands are bruisingly tight. He snatches Will down nearly hard enough to hurt, rumbling low in his chest, straining and shedding heat. Every muscle in his body stands out, the long strands of his hair tacked to his cheeks and throat with perspiration.

Will bends helplessly to lick the sheen of it. Brutal or not, his husband is stunning. It is a blessing that they can come together like this. Tangled and grasping and rolling together like waves. Will keens, feeling his body tighten. He's working hard to keep it fluid and quick, heated by the exertion. Their noises are muffled by their mouths. Everything is quick, and dirty. He can't help loving it exactly that way. Especially when Hannibal pushes him off his lap, turning him around and kneeling up behind him, pushing down on his shoulders before he seats himself back inside his body.

He's entirely under his control now. Will finds he barely minds. He keens again, body swaying with the thrusts. Hannibal is sharp and fierce as he fucks him. His mouth finds Will's nape again, sharp as an animal's. He bites; holds and snaps his hips faster. The tang of blood curls into Will's gasps. He pushes his forehead into the furs and moans helplessly. Something inside of him is gathering tight. He's missed this. It's like a blaze of lightning through his life, burning away what came before.

He curls his fingers tight into the furs, groaning. "Hannibal," he begs for release now, shameless in his need.

"Yes, Will. Let go, be mine."

Will knows he is, knows he will. He lets out a howl, voice spiraling tight. His pleasure shocks through him like a wave. He feels Hannibal pause as he goes tight. His groan echoes Will's own. Low, animal, slightly shocked. Then he bites him again, and his thrusts continue.

Will's hands bunch on the furs below him. He hisses, half protest. But Hannibal doesn't slow. His movements are growing jagged, breaths sharp. His hands heavy on either side of Will. When his movements stall, Will's breath rushes out in shock at the feel ofhim.

He must make some noise, perhaps not a word. Hannibal pushes his face into the back of his neck, rumbling softly. Will takes a few steadying breaths. His grasp of the language has momentarily escaped him. But it doesn't seem particularly necessary at the moment. He slides onto his stomach, shivery and exhausted, warm with it. He lets himself be touched, be tended.

Hannibal smears his mouth against his shoulder, teeth pressing like he's half tempted to devour him. Will wouldn't be at all surprised. Still, he cranes into it. He might protest - violently - if it were to stop. Eventually, Hannibal sinks down against him, heavy and hot. He encloses Will in his arms. His licks the nape of Will's neck, tasting him.

"You are lovely," he murmurs.

"That's not exactly what I'd call you," Will chuckles.

"No," Hannibal agrees amiably. He kisses his shoulder and then slides off of him. He doesn't ask anything more. Just cleans him up and then slides back against him, tugging Will into his arms. "We must return to the feast soon."

"Why," Will sighs.

"Because it's in my honour, and to thank the gods for a bountiful raid."

Will wants to protest that he doesn't care about that. "I want to thank the gods for you, here."

"As much as I approve..." Hannibal trails off.

Will cranes closer, nosing at him. He can be plenty persuasive.

"It would be disrespectful not to attend," Hannibal offers again.

Will sighs. "I want you again," he wheedles.

"You might need to employ a little more patience."

Will growls softly. Hannibal chuckles and growls back. He quiets momentarily when Will swings up onto his lap, arching their bodies together. Hannibal isn't wrong - it's too soon - but it still feels too good. He bends to kiss him, humming plaintively. Hannibal gathers him close, like a treasure.

"We can give thanks in our own way," Will murmurs, kissing his throat, He thinks he can convince him.

Hannibal makes a considering noise. Will kisses again. Down his chest, back down his belly. Hannibal makes no move to stop him. Will kisses the insides of his thighs, and then begins to suck gently at the velvety skin of his soft, flushed cock. The taste of him hits like strong wine. He touches Will's hair, luxuriating. He sifts long locks through his fingers, seeming to automatically match Will's rhythm.

Will lips him soft into his mouth and sucks. Hannibal sighs gently above him. He murmurs Will's name again. Will responds by swirling his tongue, caressing his warm skin. He thinks he's winning him round. It's certainly an enjoyable argument. It feels more intimate than anything, experiencing him like this. He hopes his husband is half as transfixed. He seems it. The steady hands in his hair make him hum deep in his throat.

"Will," Hannibal purrs. He sounds quite satisfied. Will can feel that he's starting to fill out against his tongue, though he's still velvety. He moves his hips gently.

Will lets him, sighing. He's mostly still in charge. Or Hannibal is letting him think he is. He'll take the illusion, he supposes. It will give way to the real thing eventually. He's confident in his own power. He's seen flashes of the future. Enough to believe in it.

He hums at the thought, and digs his nails into Hannibal's thighs. It earns him a hiss. Hannibal snatching at his hair. But he doesn't pull him away. Will hums in satisfaction at the feeling of him fattening against Will's tongue. Hannibal likes it, he can guess. He digs in tighter and gasps when he's snatched closer. But he goes gladly.

Will hums and strokes with his thumbs as he sucks quicker. As he feels Hannibal harden between his lips.

"Will," he sighs. Hoping for a bit of praise, Will glances up. "Persuasive boy."

Will raises a brow. Hannibal urges him up. He can feel the swollenness of his lips when he pulls off. Hannibal's kiss only enhances it. Their mouths seal together hungrily. Will cups Hannibal's cheeks and presses into it with desperation. Hannibal has to guide him back before he can speak.

"Will..." his voice sounds gently coaxing. Will grumbles, and Hannibal touches his lips. "The ceremony. The gods."

"I have been without you for months."

"I will give you three days and nights as a boon, after the ceremony," Hannibal murmurs.

“And you’ll say we’re not to be disturbed?”

“Unless there is an emergency, yes.”

Considering, Will bites his lip, and then relents. "Very well."

He pushes himself to his feet. He's not unaffected - neither of them are - and he pulls his undershirt on quickly. He's not sure why he's trying to hide himself. Maybe because he'd been so sure he'd won. Only to be rebuffed. But Hannibal hasn't taken his eyes off of him, though he does move slowly to dress in kind. He tugs Will in to kiss him several times.

He swirls Will's wedding cloak around his shoulders at the end. Draws him in, touching his hair. "You need a new braid."

"You will give me one?" Will asks, deliberately unconcernedly.

"I will." Hannibal nods approvingly. "But for now, let's go to the ceremony."

His own clothes, Will realises, are unusually informal for him - presumably to be removed for the sacrifice, so the blood touches his skin.

He reaches out a hand for Will. Will takes it, and Fen jumps up off her bed to follow them when he whistles. Hannibal doesn't look back; he seems to have grown used to their shadow.

When they enter the keep, a chorus of cheers go up for Hannibal. Will hides his flinch well enough. Hannibal keeps him close as he raises his hand. He addresses his people, a formal tone in his voice as he begins an unfamiliar invocation. Will can't entirely follow it, but he knows it speaks of thanks. A solemnification, he thinks, of the riches they've brought home.

He raises his hands with the others, speaking the words, and he watches dutifully from behind Hannibal as the chosen beasts are given to the gods, blood gushing into bowls; rolling over the lip in heavy waves to splatter the floor.

It nearly startles him when Hannibal's clothing ripples down to join it. And the sheet of crimson that comes toward him, redressing him in a sheen of fire-lit red. The spray hits Will behind him, his furs, and he bears it silently. It dries quickly on his skin, a constellation of gore, and he holds his breath as Hannibal turns.

It's everywhere, in his silver hair and on his chest, staining the bottom half of his face as if he were wearing a mask. His arm muscles seem picked out by it, trickles running into the fabric of his breeches; over his belt. Automatically, Will reaches out and, using his thumb, collects some of the blood and smears it against Hannibal's forehead. He traces the faint lines between his brows, the bridge of his nose. Then he leans in and lets Hannibal do the same for him.

Hannibal licks his thumb absently when he's done. Will can't take his eyes off him. He knows the others are bathing and marking too, thanking the gods. He whispers a prayer of his own, watching runnels of blood stripe Hannibal's skin. And then he closes his eyes when Hannibal presses in to kiss him.

He doesn't hold back for the audience or the mess. Will tastes blood, nostrils filled with the copper of it. He whines softly in the back of his throat, feeling their skin slide. Hannibal smiles against his lips.

"Can you taste it?"

Will nods hard.

"Will you drink from the cup?"

"I will."

Hannibal reaches a hand back without even looking and draws it forward again, a deeply polished drinking horn cupped in his palm. Will holds his gaze as he takes a sip, and then holds the cup to Will's lips. He lets Hannibal tip it back, swallowing the mouthful of warm liquid without looking away.

Hannibal gives him a smile. Teeth picked out in red. Will kisses him again quickly. He hasn't forgotten what they were doing just a short while ago. He'd like to be doing it again shortly. His eyes climb back up the blood-streaked chest to dark eyes.

"We'll stay a short while and celebrate," Hannibal tells him quietly.

"What kind of celebration?" Will grumbles.

Hannibal curls an arm around him and gestures. Around them, ale is being passed around, and plates of dried mushrooms. Will can already see the flicker of dancing bodies silhouetted by the many fires. Some that don't look precisely to be dancing.

"Your people are spirited," Will observes.

"As are you."

The altar has been cleared, the dirt turned over on the shed blood and the carcasses taken to be displayed. Will looks up at the stars from under the canopy, heart beating fast. He looks up at Hannibal, who's waiting for the approach of the trays of mushrooms.

The grinning man, Matthew, totes one toward them, and Hannibal takes it and then gestures him away before returning his attention to Will.

"Would you like to see the gods, Will?"

"Yes," Will whispers honestly.

Hannibal takes a small piece from the tray, holding it out to him, the smell earthy and medicinal. Will parts his lips so Hannibal can slip it between them. He chews; washes it down with ale as Hannibal takes his own piece. Will can't look away from his lips. So red, even cleared of some of the blood. Some, not all. Will licks his own automatically.

"Come, Will," Hannibal whispers, already sounding far away, "let me show you the woods, where the stories hide."

He's seen the woods, he wants to protest. But with Peter. Not with his husband. He follows him, Fen bumping under his free hand, the other interlocked with Hannibal's. He can feel the magic working inside his body. When he raises his eyes, the stars are starting to trail down through the sky.

He gasps. "Oh - Hannibal -"

"It's all right," Hannibal promises. "I'm here."

Will lets himself be led through the trees, watching them suspiciously; the way they seem to breathe. He hears the sound of hooves echoing through the trunks. Overhead, clouds are suddenly forming.

"Hannibal," he whispers again.

"I have you." Hannibal puts an arm round him. "They will not touch you."

Will closes his eyes now as they walk, letting Hannibal guide him altogether. The hoof beats are louder, then softer. Will feels the breath of some great beast on the back of his neck. He clings tightly to Hannibal's hand.

"Can you hear him coming, Will?"

"Hannibal," he whispers tightly. "What is he?"

"He's a god."

"Not one I know," he whispers.

"You will know him, soon. And he knows you. Don't be afraid." Hannibal pulls him in, cups his cheek in one bloodstained palm. He doesn't even seem to mind that Will is clinging to him. "Turn around," he whispers.

Will does as he's told, breaths coming quick. Hannibal's warm hands don't leave him. He presses to Will's back as they both look up at the sky.

"Show him your face," Hannibal murmurs.

"How?" Will whispers.

"Look into his eyes."

Will looks, and looks, until he sees. He makes a soft, wondering noise. The great stag has white eyes and a long, tangled mane of feathers. He gazes into the piercing, blind eyes until he can feel himself sway. The great stag rears, and then the huge hooves come down with a crash of thunder, and it careens away as if carried on the tide of the clouds.

"Where is he going?" Will whispers.

"To attend his many duties, and to leave me to attend mine." Hannibal kisses beneath his ear. It thrums over his skin like a drumbeat. He shivers, eyes still fixed on the clouds.

"What does he want from me?"

"Nothing but devotion."

"How convenient," he says dreamily. "That's what you want too."

"Isn't that what any of us want?" He can feel Hannibal's voice like waves. "Isn't that what you want, Will?"

A huff of breath ruffles his curls. The beast isn't gone, is he? Will closes his eyes, weaving where he stands.

"Tell me what you want," says Hannibal. Or is it Hannibal?

"Maybe to lie down," Will chuckles.

"Lie down here. The moss is soft and sweet."

Will goes where he's directed, shivering a little, though not precisely from the cold. "Hannibal," he whispers. When he looks up, Hannibal is silhouetted by a floating bank of mist, the shadow of antlers looming behind him. Fear feels further away now, and Will reaches to touch them hazily. "Oh," he whispers.

"What is it?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Your antlers, husband," Will says dreamily.

Hannibal smiles at that, revealing sharp teeth.

"Oh," Will whispers. He accepts a long, deep kiss from his husband's predator's mouth. "What do you see?" he asks him, when Hannibal draws back.

"A chrysalis, with a beating heart inside," Hannibal murmurs.

"What will come out of it?"

"I wish nothing more than to know that."

Will smiles helplessly. "Then keep it by your side."

"Rest assured I will."

Will still smiles up at his face, admiring the strange foggy glow around him. "You look like you were spun from stars," he tells him softly.

"Do I?"

"You do." His hands grasp greedily for his husband.

Hannibal leans down to kiss him. "I see them in your eyes."

"Hannibal-" Will clings. His body feels like it's spinning into the sky. Light as air, electric as lightning. Infinite and open. He can sense Fen nearby, keeping watch. So he merely holds on to Hannibal. Lets him kiss down his throat. The moss is soft, and sweet smelling. The stars are watching, many milky eyes like the great stag’s.

He lifts his hand to Hannibal's face. The blood staining them both looks black as the night sky.

"This is strange," he tells Hannibal, who laughs.

"Only as strange as you make it."

"What do you see?" Will asks, distracted by the distant glow of eyes in the trees.

"Teeth," Hannibal murmurs.

"Where?"

"Everywhere."

“Like when Mischa was killed.”

Hannibal’s eyes shine at that. “You saw her, that first night.”

“I did.” Will closes his eyes, remembering. “She asked me to give you a message.”

“What was it?” The eyes taken on the raven-keenness Will has seen before.

“She said only to tell you that she is well, and whole, and waits for you.”

“Waits for me.” Hannibal raises his eyes to the heavens. Will thinks his eyes are shining with tears, reflecting the stars – perhaps teeth, to his eyes.

Will swallows heavily. "Does it scare you?"

"Not at all. It makes me feel at home."

"At home?" Will can't help but smile. "Among teeth?"

Hannibal smiles back, showing his own. "So it seems." Then he bites at Will's soft throat. He gasps automatically. "Is it so bad?" Hannibal whispers.

"No," Will shakes his head quickly. "Not bad, not bad at all." He gasps, pulling Hannibal in. He can hear the sensations. Hear the earth swelling under them like a great ocean wave. He's not afraid. They're riding it together.

He can feel Hannibal against him, hard and supple. He wants more. He wants to sink into the Earth with him; be entombed forever. Let it cradle them together. That's a turnabout, he thinks. A vision he didn't expect.

"Hannibal," he sighs. His hands move dreamily over the body next to him. He's engulfed in a kiss. A kiss like a wave of dark water. He clutches Hannibal to stay afloat. His fingers twine like vines.

"I didn't think you would miss me so much," Hannibal murmurs.

"Why?" Will asks.

"You did not wish to marry me."

"I didn't wish to marry anyone."

"And now?"

"I claim you as mine," Will growls softly.

"What changed your mind?"

Will isn't sure how to explain. "I'm not exactly sure." He's never sure how to explain dreams. "I just Saw that we would be good together," he admits finally.

"Mm, I agree," his husband purrs. Will can't help but smile at how confident he sounds. He feels it creep under his skin like a wash of warmth.

"Why am I lying in the dirt, husband?" he asks him.

"To feel its heart."

Will smiles. "I can feel your heart."

"What does it tell you?"

Will concentrates for a moment. The beat seems loud and encompassing. "That the world beats along with it."

"It does if it knows what's good for it." He smiles again, white and dangerous. Will can't help but smile back. He knows his own is dreamy and slow. He kisses him again. Hannibal's hands find his hair. He's deliciously ungentle. He pulls Will exactly where he wants him to be. Will lets it happen. He'll let Hannibal guide him this time.

He clutches him tight all the while. Hannibal's mouth moves with abandon over his body. He's unfastening Will's cloak, easing one hot hand beneath his undershirt. He licks delicately at the spatters of blood on his neck. Will shudders, craning into it. It feels better than it has any right to.

"Hannibal," he pleads. He can't say any more than that, but Hannibal doesn't seem to need words. He pushes his clothes up to bite at his chest. It's more of a sting than he expected, and he thinks it will leave marks. When he looks down, Hannibal's face seems distorted. He thinks he sees those antlers again, his hair streaming away like rivulets of moonlight. Will has to reach to see if he can feel them.

Hannibal just kisses his throat again. He doesn't dissuade Will from trailing his fingers against his scalp. He swears he feels bone. But at the angle of Hannibal's head, the antlers would be piercing him. Is he pierced?

"Husband," he whispers.

Hannibal raises his head. Will gasps. He doesn't know what's real anymore.

"What is it?" Hannibal whispers.

"Antlers," he murmurs back.

Hannibal only smiles. "Kiss me, husband."

Will can only comply. He is greedy with it, in fact. Wanting Hannibal is the only certainty he knows. He wonders if it is enough. He hopes so.

He kisses him until his lips feel swollen and slow. Until he's sure they're sinking into one another, into the soil, moss and lichen and toadstools sprouting from their flesh. Life is theirs, and it is from them. They feed it, and in turn it feeds them. Sighing, Will rolls his hips. Every motion is met in kind. Their breath curls between their lips, equally shared. Will wants more.

"Hannibal, take me," he whispers.

"Here in the dirt?" He smiles. "That's not how you felt last time."

Will growls. "Circumstances have changed."

"Oh?" Hannibal hums.

"You left me for months."

"We've argued about this already, my treasure."

"I know that."

"Let's go home," Hannibal murmurs, cradling him close. "Where I can take you in a bed."

Will sighs, slowly. "All right," he murmurs, letting Hannibal draw him up from the clinging hands of the floor. He's not sure how they get home, either, only that Hannibal sees him safely there, and swiftly to their big bed.

The next morning, Will wakes with a full-body ache. He dreamed of the serpent again, roiling, snapping its jaws at Will’s exposed skin. This time in the dream, when it had wound around his calf, Will had found the dagger Hannibal had given him. Finally, grin triumphant, he’d cleaved the snake’s head off; watched the body writhe and fall with relief washing over him.

Now, when he tentatively lifts the furs, he can see he's littered with bite marks – though not from any snake. He reaches to touch one, savouring the sting. He left a few of his own, he knows. With a sigh, he rises nude to feed Fen, noticing with faint surprise that Hannibal is gone.

He did rather monopolize the jarl after his return, however. He supposes he must have gone to attend business following his return. Will sighs and pads back to the bed. He was promised three days. He hopes they start soon. He lies back on his front, closing his eyes and revelling in the warmth of the roaring fire in the pit, presumably lit this morning by Hannibal before he left. It smells like sweet herbs have been burning in it. Will smiles, letting himself doze to the image of Hannibal blessing their sacred space.

The clink of pottery and a soft growl from Fen rouses him a while later. "Who dared drag you away from me?" Will murmurs drowsily into his pillow, without bothering to open his eyes.

The laugh that follows his words banishes all traces. That's not his husband. He sits up sharply, hand swiping under the pillow and staying there. Matthew stands by the end of the bed, a tray placed haphazardly on the trunk there. His smile could make the fjord waters shiver.

"Great question, little prince," he drawls.

Will draws his chin up. "Get out. I don't want you in here."

"I suppose you want this breakfast that your loving husband prepared for you, though."

"Take it if it means so much to you." Will keeps his voice curt.

Matthew laughs again. "I'd rather watch you eat it."

Will grabs his breeches from the end of the bed and pulls them on swiftly, fastening them quickly. Matthew watches intently, and then steps closer, heedless of Will's snarl. There's a momentary distraction in the form of Peter, stumbling in the door calling Will's name. Will looks toward him; sees from his countenance that he's been unsettled.

"Are you all right, Peter?"

"Will, I - your breakfast -"

"It's all right, don't worry. I know exactly what happened. You go and rest, I just need to talk to Matthew."

"You get it, you stuttering creature? You're not needed," Matthew singsongs.

Will sets his jaw. "Stay your tongue or I will cut it out." He slips the dagger free from beneath his pillow, holding it loosely at his side.

Matthew glances at it, then laughs. "I don't think you have it in you, princess, but I do. The Jarl doesn't value you for anything outside of what you can give him. He's getting long in the tooth, he won't be able to protect you for long. I can."

Will's mouth drops open in soundless rage. "Doubt me at your own peril, you rodent."

That just gets a laugh. "Doubt you? I'm offering you a chance to climb the ladder of greatness."

"If that means climbing you, I'll pass."

Matthew advances again, eyes flashing now. "You can go under me if you prefer."

"If you come any closer, I will remove a piece of you," Will murmurs dangerously.

"You look so beautiful when you're angry," Matthew drawls, and then he reaches out, and Will can't hold back. He knocks his hand away, elbows him sharply in the throat, and while he's bent over, gasping, removes the soft shell of his ear with a silvery-quick flash of his blade.

Matthew screams, snatching for Will then, but the shock has unbalanced him and he stumbles to his knees.

"Maybe now you'll learn to listen better," Will hisses, and he throws the wet lump of cartilage into the fire. "Get out." Peter has already fled. Matthew scrambles to back away, neck and shoulder stained crimson. "Out!" Will bellows, and now he runs.

Will stands in the center of the room, chest heaving. Then, he swings on a robe and storms toward the keep, Fen on his heels. He doesn't get far - Hannibal is there suddenly, Peter behind him. They meet on the path in a shaft of sunlight, Will half-dressed and spattered with crimson.

Hannibal's eyes are like Will has never seen them before, illuminated gold in the light, something about the set of his shoulders that speaks of incandescent rage.

"Are you hurt?"

"Don't worry," Will purrs. "It's not mine."

Hannibal cups his cheek. "Thank the gods."

Will has no idea where Matthew has gone, but it's hard to care, with his pulse thrumming through his skin. He disengages from Hannibal briefly to go to Peter. "Are you well?"

Peter nods, face still twisted with worry. And well he might - Matthew has proven that he's a bully, and dangerously overconfident as well. Though Will imagines he'll have retreated for the time being. "He took the tray, forgive me-"

"There's nothing to forgive," Will soothes.

"But the Jarl had asked me..."

"It isn't your fault, Peter." He takes the man's hands, squeezes gently. "Go to where you'll be safe. Take one of your birds to keep watch. Lie down."

Peter bows his head, and Will squeezes one more time before he lets him go. Then he turns back to Hannibal, as a flower to the sun.

He looks only slightly calmer now. Will is calm. Entirely calm. He's never been more so.

"He came to proposition me," he tells Hannibal, matter-of-fact.

"I don't need to ask what your answer was," Hannibal replies softly, eyes on the spray of blood decorating his chest.

Will smiles. "You shouldn't need to, husband."

Hannibal cups his face again. "I will punish him. Let me."

"I will kill him. Let me."

Hannibal takes a breath. "A trial would be usual protocol..."

"Trial by combat," Will growls.

"He does not deserve to ask for the gods' favour. He will face a trial by peers, including you and I. He will die smiling for the gods. You will execute him." It's enough to dissipate the red haze in Will's vision. Barely. "You have already bested him," Hannibal adds.

It's conciliatory. Will still sets his jaw at the thought, but he realizes Hannibal must feel similarly. "We have to find him first."

"Why don't you ask Fen to sniff him out?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Because I don't want him to hurt her. Don't worry, I can find him."

"Let me join you."

Will smiles. "I just need to concentrate."

Hannibal still has his hands on him. "You could See him?"

"I can See anything, if I have a focus," Will hums.

Hannibal's gaze turns admiring. "Show me, husband."

Will nods. "I will. I need quiet."

Hannibal draws him back into their dwelling, ignoring the splashes of blood on the floor. They both sink to their knees before the fire. Dipping his fingers into the droplet of blood, Will licks the pad clean and focuses. He settles deep within his own mind, past the fences and the noise. A shiver climbs up his spine.

Matthew's energy leaves a trace like snail slime in his mind. Will spins spider silk, and casts it, gossamer and canny. He watches lights dance behind his eyelids. A swinging shaft of light. Then, motes gathering to mark the trail.

"In the woods," he murmurs, "he'll stop in the mouth of a cave that looks like a wailing crone."

"I know it," Hannibal answers, but he makes no move, letting Will be the first to stand.

Will just goes to retrieve his clothes, in no rush. He's never had cause to distrust his visions, and he doesn't now. As he dresses he hears Hannibal instructing a servant in a low voice to clean up the blood in their room.

Before they leave, Will stays Fen on her bed, scratching behind her ears to steady her nerves.

"Are you sure you wish to come?" Hannibal asks.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"No reason. You are always welcome."

"I told you I want to be by your side."

"Yes. Come, then." Hannibal smiles, a feral light gleaming faintly in his eyes.

Will smiles back, with teeth. They stride into the morning sun together.

Will's senses are correct: through the reaching fingers of the trees, the crone yawns wide, and there is blood on her lips. Hannibal and his warriors move in quickly like the wolves they are. Though of course, Will is the one with the insignia. He hangs back as they seize Matthew where he's cornered and bleeding.

A sharp, white smile wreathes Will’s own face. There's a savage sort of pleasure in showing his strength; his commitment. Their partnership. It's the first real flash of it outside their bed. The first since Hannibal returned to him.

Will supposes he should be grateful to Matthew for the opportunity. Not, he reflects, for anything else but the sight of his blood.

The thought carries him back to the town; back to the keep. Carries him triumphantly. Beside him, Hannibal is fierce and resplendent, godtouched in his great fur cloak.

When they return to the keep, the meeting horn is blown, and when everyone is gathered Hannibal raises his hand to command silence over the rabbling crowd. It falls immediately. Will steps to his side, and Hannibal allows him his place.

"My friends, I have called you all from your homes this cold morning for a matter of great importance.” He gestures toward Matthew, sagging in the arms of the warriors, his pale, pale eyes still fixed on Will. “This man stands accused of plotting against me, and attacking my husband. He will stand before you all tomorrow, and you can decide for yourselves if he is guilty."

"So speaks the Jarl," many throats call.

Hannibal smiles. "So speaks the Jarl. And his husband."

Will smiles at him. Good, he thinks warmly.

Taking Hannibal's hand, he watches as Matthew is led toward the cells. He feels...triumphant, no matter the verdict. He feels certain what it will be. He trusts the loyalty of Hannibal's people. Strange, that he started from a place of so little trust. It's apparent that they're among their own here, though. And in the meantime...he would very much like his husband's attention for the rest of the morning.

"Three days, you promised me," he tells him.

"I have not forgotten," Hannibal murmurs. Will leans into him. "We have an obligation tomorrow," Hannibal reminds him.

"So you're saying your mad dog has robbed me of my three days."

"I will make it four," Hannibal offers with some amusement.

"In that case, he has made himself useful." He eyes Hannibal meaningfully. "And the first starts now."

"Duly noted, husband."

A hand snakes down to his waist, and Hannibal turns him back toward their own dwelling. They're partially undressed and in their bed before Hannibal speaks again.

"He offered you a deal, to overthrow me. And you cut off his ear."

"Yes," Will murmurs. "I did."

"Is it loyalty to me, or loathing for him? You've always mistrusted him."

"Must you ask, husband?"

"I'm curious."

"I owed you my loyalty. You earned more than that."

"How did I earn it?"

"You accepted me as more than a prize, Hannibal," Will murmurs.

"After some persuasion."

"Yes," Will smiles. "You weren't so hard to persuade."

"You were very persuasive."

Will lets his smile grow. He leans to kiss Hannibal. He's savagely glad. It's so essential, to acknowledge the sway he's developing over his brutal warlord husband. They are still two. But becoming one. Perhaps that's for the best. As long as they both want it.

Will thinks they do. He's looking forward to his three - no, four - days. And of course, he's decided yesterday didn't count. He'll make the rest of them count double.

He's aching and thoroughly satisfied the next morning, waking curled up in the warm bracket of Hannibal's body, Fen at their feet. He’s never felt more powerful, he reflects. He's proved himself valuable, indispensable. Cherished, as well. He's fought his way into Hannibal's priorities, and he'll defend his place there.

He turns now, peering at Hannibal as he sleeps. The bloodthirstiness feels earned: his husband is a brute, and a monster, but he’s not with Will. At the thought, Will strokes his silver eyelashes with a gentle thumb. He knows Hannibal would wake instantly if he considered his presence a threat, but he trusts Will. Truly a gift from his fearsome husband.

"Good morning, beloved," Will whispers.

Now, at his voice, Hannibal stirs.

Will beams softly, watches the lashes lift. "Such a gift, to call you away from your dreams."

"I seem to have found you in both," Hannibal replies.

Will beams softly. "Did you see what I saw?"

"Did I? Tell me what you saw?"

"I saw you, overlooking an ocean of stars."

Hannibal's eyes go far away for a moment. "You were on the other side. And as I stepped out, the back of a great serpent broke the surface, making a bridge to you."

"Yes," Will murmurs.

Hannibal bites his lip. "You can see my dreams."

Will smiles. "You still doubt me?"

"No. I'm merely in awe of you."

Will savors the power in it. He kisses Hannibal gently.

"And soon, everyone will see it," his husband adds.

"I only need you to."

"Oh, beloved, I do."

Will beams, and then a soft knock at the door rouses them: a housecarl with breakfast for them.

"Enter," Hannibal calls, and he slips out of bed.

He takes the tray, unconcernedly naked, and brings it to the bed himself, Will watching him appreciatively. He smiles as Hannibal dismisses the attendant and starts serving Will himself.

"Beautiful," he murmurs.

Will leans against the piled furs and grins. "I was thinking the same thing." He pushes his hair back out of his face. "Also I was thinking you should braid my hair."

"Then I shall."

He comes over and gently turns Will, then hands him a wooden plate. "You eat."

Allowing himself to be steered, Will does as he's told. He takes small, slow bites of his food, feeling Hannibal's deft fingers sift through his hair. He's pulled close the tray of grooming tools, and Will can feel him twisting leather to wind among the braids; working in cuffs as he goes. Will thinks they're both enjoying this very much. He certainly is.

Finally, Hannibal sets him loose, and goes for a plate of his own.

Will takes his turn behind him now. He doesn't want to bind the silvery hair, once he has it combed loose, but it's traditional. As a compromise, he takes his time, making it as beautiful as he knows how. Though of course, nothing can do Hannibal justice.

Will runs gentle fingers over the shaved sides; the tattoos. He leans and kisses the winding ink lines, Hannibal's strong shoulders holding his weight easily.

"Nearly time?" Will asks.

"It is. Then we can be alone again, husband."

"Good." He takes the empty plate from Hannibal's hand. "Time to dress."

They wash and dress together, and then Will feeds Fen, spending a while just stroking behind her ears.

He's finding the strength in his core, pricked by the knowledge of what's to come. There's no doubt in Will's mind about the outcome of the trial. The gods have promised him.

When it's time, they walk silently to the keep, flanked by various members of Hannibal’s court. Will can't stop looking at his husband, solemn and regal beside him. He feels strangely grateful for him, now. It took a while for his mind to be made up, but now, he's certain this is his place, beside him.

In the keep, the bell is ringing for the trial to commence, and the people are gathering. The room is unusually bright, several torches burning even with the daylight, illuminating the many skulls that leer at them from the ceiling. Will fancies he sees them muttering to one another as the shadows dance.

A grim set to his face, Will stands with Hannibal at the Jarl’s seats, at his right hand, and watches the guards escort Matthew from his cell. A chorus of hisses rise at his entrance, and that more than anything signals the likely outcome of the Moot.

When everyone is assembled, Hannibal raises his hands.

“I ask you here today, before the eyes of the gods, to decide the fate of the accused. Matthew, who has been the recipient of our kindness, and has benefitted from our raids, and our farming endeavours, has conspired against me behind my back – and attempted to draw my husband into his plans of treason.”

The mere words incite cries of rage, and one bellows, “Trickster! Serpent!”, which triggers a series of low hisses resounding through the crowd. Will watches it shiver, like the scales on the belly of a snake, twitching with movement. When he looks to Matthew, he’s staring right back.

“He slunk into my chambers, where my husband slept,” Hannibal continues, “and threatened him. When he was rebuffed, he fled. Like a coward. Ask any questions you need, and we will answer. But decide.”

Will thinks the verdict will be reached then, but Hannibal follows the tradition. He asks both Will and Peter to corroborate his story – which they do, Will all too gladly. Finally, when the evidence has been presented, he asks the jarls to vote. There is a susurrus of hushed deliberation among every person in the tent, and then the head of each family steps forward to give their verdict, stepping up to the bench.

With trembling hands, Peter counts each verdict with metal coins, divided between two pots.

As he knew he would be, Will is satisfied with the verdict. A savage prickle of pleasure flashes through him like lightning as he watches it wash over Matthew's face, Peter’s hands moving to count each coin.

Finally, he speaks softly. “The majority vote guilty.”

"Guilty," Hannibal reiterates, his maroon eyes dark with pleasure as they too find Matthew. "Your sentence will be death," he proclaims. "My husband will perform the execution."

Will meets Matthew's eyes once more as he looks up, and he smiles. His own shine with a righteous sort of pleasure. I warned you, that you would regret the day you crossed me.

He'll regret it today, and he'll pay for it with his head.

"The execution will be tonight," Hannibal murmurs. A murmur goes through those gathered: it's quick, unusually so. But Hannibal made Will a promise, and he's honoring it.

"Thank you," Will tells him softly.

Then - Hannibal bows his head to him, and Will kisses the crown, pressing close for a moment. When Hannibal straightens, he offers his hand. They turn together.

"The sentence is served. Eat, my friends, and thank the gods for justice."

Hannibal escorts Will back to the high seats as Matthew is led from the room.

The barrels are tapped, and the fires stoked. Will relaxes in his seat, chuckling when Fen drapes herself across his lap.

Hannibal's lips are touched with a smile. "She's coming into her own."

"She's shameless as ever."

"It's what dogs are for." Hannibal scratches behind her ears. He looks very much at his ease as well, and Will enjoys seeing it.

"How will you do it?" Hannibal asks leisurely, handing him a drinking horn.

Will sips as he considers. He's not proficient with the sword or the axe, though with a properly honed blade it will matter little.

"With my hands," he mutters.

"Oh?"

Will nods.

"I will be displeased if you hurt yourself in the process," Hannibal tells him.

"Don't worry." Will is only serene. He leans to kiss Hannibal gently.

It's Hannibal who holds him close. "Beloved," he rumbles.

"Soon, my love," Will tells him. He's feeling plenty impatient too. But first, the feast, and the solemnization in the temple. Whatever impatience Will feels, it doesn't eclipse his need to thank the gods for granting him the strength to do this. He can already feel it building, the fruit of Hannibal's proclamation, of their people's adoration. They're going to do good things together.

After the feast, after the temple, they return to the square where a crows is once more gathering. Torches have been lit, and a podium quickly erected.

When Hannibal signals, the drums are beaten; horns sounded. The guards bring their prisoner back from the cell. He's untouched, but still looks somehow worse for wear. His hands are unbound when he's put on his knees on the platform: he will face his punishment with pride. It remains to be seen if he will face it with honor.

Hannibal leads Will up to the platform, where he waits for the cries and drums to die down before finally raising his hands for silence.

"You have judged this man guilty of conspiracy of treason. The forfeit is his life. Pray for him that he dies well." Then he bows deeply to Will, and steps aside.

Will feels strangely calm. Matthew's eyes are bottomless, his grin strangely eerie. When Will steps around his back and grips his jaw, he feels it disappear. One fast, hard wrench, and he hears his spine crack. The people gathered gasp, as one. Will looks to the heavens, and smiles.

He lets Matthew's body fall to the stained podium, and steps over it to rejoin his husband. His arm immediately comes around Will, his body so very warm against his.

"The gods have blessed me," he murmurs.

Will looks up at Hannibal, smiling.

"The gods have blessed us both."

"I shall thank them," Hannibal whispers, "with every kiss you give me."

"Then you will thank them as if for every star above us."

"I will."

"Then take me to bed," Will orders.

With pleasure evident on his features, Hannibal takes his hand, and they go. Everything else simply fades away.

The air in their dwelling has the same feel of the temple, reverent and expectant. Will feels it wash over him as he sheds his cloak; his boots. All at once, Hannibal picks him up, carrying him to their bed like he can't wait a moment longer, and Will gasps with surprise, gripping his shoulders to keep close as he’s borne to the mattress.

"Divine," Hannibal praises, bowing his head to kiss his throat, starting to pull at Will's trousers with urgency.

Will helps with shaking hands. He's already hard, shaking with barely released adrenaline. He's sure it didn't show; as he's sure Hannibal knew.

He takes Will in hand now, breeches still around his thighs, and quickly strokes. Hissing, Will presses greedily into it.

"What can I give you, love?" Hannibal whispers.

What a question. Will licks his lips. "I want everything."

"Undress me then."

He does, with clumsy, desperate hands, baring every inch with greedy eyes to rake the skin. And when they're both naked, he crawls down until he's on his side; feels Hannibal mirroring his actions until they can both taste one another. Their groans are twins.

Will is desperate for the taste of him, and the heat of his throat around Will in turn is transcendent. Why have they never done this before? He can feel everything Hannibal does, all while he's buried deep in Will's throat. It's the most sublime reward he can think of, a circle of firing nerves.

Hannibal is hardly immune. His own moans vibrate softly around Will's cock, his hands on his thighs desperate. They both are, pulling each other in, glutting themselves on the taste of one another.

Will lets his hips pulse forward without a care. In turn he’s taking Hannibal deep, choking himself, swallowing over and over. He feels wild. Craven. He drools and clutches and groans, all the heat rushing up in him, a fiery column.

Finally he has to pull off.

"I want more," he gasps.

He hears his husband groan softly in response.

"What do you want?"

"I need something in me, Hannibal."

"Of course. Come up."

Will scrambles to get close.They're both breathing hard, moving together fast and urgent. With a soft murmur of his name, Hannibal guides himself between Will's thighs and lets him sink down onto him with a gasp.

He's rocking almost immediately, taking in as much as he can.

"Will," Hannibal gasps softly.

Will meets his eyes. He can see awe in his expression. "Tell me."

"I didn't know..."

"What didn't you know?" Will whispers back.

"That you would exceed every hope I had."

"I hope you're pleased," Will murmurs.

"Pleased doesn't quite cover it."

"Then tell me what does," Will breathes.

"Rhapsodic," Hannibal whispers.

"Poetic," Will murmurs.

"You disapprove?"

"Not in the slightest, my love," Will touches his chest gently. He breathes out and works his hips in circles. It feels so good. Hannibal, it seems, knows exactly what he needs. He's guiding Will quicker, their joining almost vicious. Will bares his teeth and braces to let Hannibal fuck him as he pleases, floored by the sight. He's so completely animal, sharp teeth bared and his hair falling into his eyes.

Will thinks of their vision, of the creature that stalked his footsteps. He knows now that Hannibal walks his dreams as Will's own private god - a great black stag that sometimes takes the shape of a man. He can see him now, wreathed in smoke. He's so incredibly special; the partner Will had always, if unknowingly, longed for - and rightly feared. Perhaps that part is mutual as well.

It’s soon apparent he’s thinking too plainly, because Hannibal bites him now, a tease, but certainly not meant to be gentle. With a hiss, Will snaps his hips down, sending a shock of something like lightning up his spine.

"Fuck," he snarls.

He feels every inch of Hannibal now. It's enough to make his thighs tremble. As he bends forward to receive him, his braids cascade over his shoulders, and Hannibal can't take his eyes off him. Will knows like he knows how his own breath is short. Like he knows his own heart.

Heart racing, he leans down for another fierce kiss, and Hannibal grasps his face gently. It's as cherishing as his earlier bite.

"Let me see you, beautiful."

Look your fill," Will murmurs.

Hannibal does, but Will knows he wants to see something specific.

He holds his husband's gaze as Hannibal curls a hand around his cock.

"You want to watch me come?" Will murmurs.

"Always."

"Then watch, husband," Will replies, speeding up with a satisfied grin.

Hannibal mirrors the expression. "Always."

He strokes in tandem with Will's harsh, quick motions now, teeth bared so that Will can all too easily imagine them picked out in red – as in his dreams. He knows he'd look beautiful.

The thought has him Will shoving down on him recklessly, chasing his pleasure, chasing that complete sense of being owned and owning in turn. He wants to show him what he does to him. He's certain he has his husband's attention, hard won as it is, and he intends to keep it.

And he has his body as well, Will acknowledges, a prize all of its own.

"Harder," he growls softly.

Hannibal obliges him as best he can, both of them sweat-misted and glowing now, the wooden bed creaking, the frame thudding against the wall.

With his pupils blown wide, Hannibal’s muscles jump under his skin. He's stroking Will faster in turn, slick and rough, and the punishing pace finally wrings a groan out of them both.

Will tips his head back and swears. It's coming, he can feel it. His breath snares in his throat.

"Hannibal-" he hisses, clutching at his chest, fingernails digging into muscle and hair.

"Yes, my love. Whenever you're ready."

"Now - Gods, Hannibal." He grits his teeth and rides down. The air around them seems to crackle, and finally Will cries out as he starts to come, striping Hannibal's inked, furred chest with white.

Hannibal never looks away, upper lip twitching in a snarl. "Stunning. Perfect. Beloved," he adds in a whisper.

Shuddering, Will bends to kiss him, panting softly. It lasts a very long time, then, Will slips off his lap.

"What can I do for you-?" Will asks.

"Stay close. Put your hands on me."

Will does, pressing in to kiss his throat hungrily, nipping at his collarbone, hands smoothing down his stomach. He curls both around Hannibal’s length slowly and strokes him. It's as possessive as he can make it, his mouth on Hannibal's pulse and his hands tight.

Hannibal's hands are tight on him in return. He tugs their mouths together; kisses Will until he feels dizzy.

Feeling Hannibal starting to tense, Will keeps his hands busy, murmuring encouragements against his lips.

Hannibal kisses him even as he spills, and Will feels his moan spill into his parted lips in turn. He loves the feel of it. He loves Hannibal.

That thought nearly shocks him, but then it doesn’t. It had started, even that first night back in the village. He knows how to say it in his own language. He's not sure, in Norse. It hasn't quite...come up.

Now, with a sigh, he tucks his face into Hannibal's neck, settling against him, and mumbles it the only way he knows how. When he feels a hand touch his chin, he looks up, heart pounding.

"I love you too," Hannibal says, in Will's language.

Will's mouth opens slowly.

"Peter-?"

Hannibal traces down the bridge of his nose. "Yes."

He's being so gentle, eyes warm with amusement, his smile soft. He strokes Will’s hair back; winds a few strands around his fingers until their eyes catch. "Pretty thing.”

"Yours," Will replies.

"Mine," Hannibal agrees. "My beloved."

A sigh escapes Will, mingled content and satisfaction. With warmth blossoming in his chest, he closes his eyes again, tucking his face against Hannibal's pulse. It feels safest here, like they're truly one.

He knows that together, they make something not entirely natural. It doesn't matter. They have the gods behind them, and he knows, whatever happens, it will take divine intervention to break their bond. To shatter their alliance, and the future they’ll build.

Maybe they're godtouched themselves.