Chapter Text
They say our fates are stitched in red,
A thread that knows the path ahead.
Through dreams and time, it pulls me through—
Across all storms and skies of blue.
No matter what I’m drawn into,
It’s always red lines that lead to you.
Hannibal’s POV
Šeduva - Lithuania, Late Autumn 1978
The garden had begun to rust.
Gold bled into red, red into brown. Leaves curled like old paper along the marble path, and dahlias nodded heavy-headed in the breeze, as if mourning something they could not name. Hannibal stepped carefully between the scattered petals, the heels of his polished shoes tapping like a metronome against the flagstones, soft and precise. He did not want to disturb the stillness. The garden had always belonged to Misha, in her way, and to tread too loudly felt like a trespass.
He carried a book tucked beneath one arm, Pliny the Elder, though he had no intention of reading it. It was a shield more than anything. Adults were less likely to interrupt a boy deep in study, and Hannibal liked being alone with the trees, with the low whistle of wind threading through bare branches, and the scent of earth beginning its long, slow sleep.
He came to rest beneath the black walnut tree, the one closest to the garden wall. Its trunk rose in a spiral, thick with moss, as though it had turned itself toward the sun and been caught mid-spin. Hannibal leaned back against it, letting the bark press cold against his spine. He tilted his head upward.
Above him, the sky was a sheet of faded parchment, scored with skeins of migrating birds. He watched them until they vanished beyond the tree line. A strange heaviness settled in his chest; the kind that comes with watching something leave, even if it was never yours to begin with.
In the distance, the manor house sat like a slumbering beast, half-shrouded in ivy, its windows catching slats of amber light. Smoke curled from the chimneys, promising warmth and the scent of cloves. Home. But still, Hannibal lingered. Something about this hour — this between-time — made the world feel suspended, as if the gods had paused to breathe.
He did not yet know that memory would one day paint this scene in gold leaf and shadow. That he would return to it again and again in dreams, peeling back time like a scab.
For now, it was just a quiet garden. A rustling breeze. And the sound of soft footsteps behind him.
-*-
A twig snapped behind him — not sharply, but like a question.
Hannibal didn’t turn right away. He heard the soft pad pad of shoes over fallen leaves, too light to belong to any adult. Then the unmistakable sound of a child humming off-key and entirely self-satisfied.
“Misha,” he said without looking. A small smile tugged at his mouth, reluctant and unguarded. “You were supposed to be with Mama.”
“She said I could find you,” came the reply, breathless, triumphant.
Misha barreled into view, arms flung wide like she meant to hug the whole world. Her boots were muddied, her golden ringlets had half-escaped the ribbon meant to tame them, and a single dahlia was tucked behind her ear, wilting, but still proud. She was the picture of disorder and joy.
“I brought you something,” she declared, thrusting a handful of slightly crushed petals under his nose. “Look! Asters. Purple ones. Like in the storybook.”
Hannibal took them carefully, rearranging the stems with gentle fingers, as if handling something sacred. “They’re beautiful,” he said. “You ruined them very thoughtfully.”
Misha giggled and flopped down beside him, her skirts puffing around her like a mushroom cloud of linen. “They needed picking. Flowers like to be admired.”
“Do they?” Hannibal raised an eyebrow, amused.
She nodded gravely. “They’re happier when someone sees how pretty they are. Papa says it’s like art. Art is for sharing.”
He didn’t argue. There was no point, and besides, she wasn’t wrong.
For a moment, they sat in silence, the wind threading its fingers through Misha’s hair and lifting the hem of Hannibal’s coat. The garden sang its quiet song; leaves rustling, a distant jay calling, the sleepy hum of insects preparing for the long sleep.
“I wish it could always be autumn,” Misha said suddenly, her voice small. “It’s the most beautiful time.”
Hannibal looked at her — really looked. Her cheeks were apple-pink, and her lashes cast tiny shadows on her face. She was the warmest thing in the garden. “You only think that because your nose hasn’t started running yet.”
She made a face at him. “Rude.”
He allowed himself a quiet laugh, soft and sharp like the break of ice. “You’re going to catch a cold with your hair wet like that.”
“You sound like Nanny,” she sniffed, plucking a blade of grass and tickling his cheek with it. “I like the rain. It makes the world smell like stories.”
Hannibal didn’t know what she meant, not really. But he could imagine it. That was the trick with Misha. You didn’t need to understand her for her words to matter.
He leaned his head against hers. “Tell me a story, then.”
She beamed, eyes going round and bright. “Once upon a time, there were two very important people who could talk to flowers…”
And Hannibal let her speak, her words bubbling up like a spring in the dark. As she spoke, he watched the light dance through the leaves — the way it haloed around her curls, the way it warmed the cold edges of the day.
She was his whole world.
And he didn’t yet know he was about to lose her.
-*-
Misha’s story trailed off somewhere between flower kingdoms and talking beetles, as she caught sight of movement near the manor house.
“There!” she whispered, eyes wide with excitement. “Look, look!”
Hannibal followed her gaze. Between the trimmed hedges and the skeletal trellis draped with the last stubborn clematis blooms, two figures moved, not hurried, not watching. Just… being.
“Mama and Papa,” Hannibal said quietly, but Misha was already scrambling to her feet.
“Let’s spy on them!”
She didn’t wait for permission. She rarely did. Hannibal sighed, exasperated, indulgent and followed her through the damp undergrowth, careful not to crush the petals still clutched in his hand. Misha dropped to her stomach behind a thick hedge, her skirts catching on brambles. Hannibal crouched beside her, more precise, brushing leaves from his sleeves with the same care he might use to sharpen a knife.
Through the branches, they watched.
Mykolas Lecter held his wife like she was music. One hand at her waist, the other cradling hers, fingers laced in effortless intimacy. Simonetta twirled beneath his arm, laughing softly, her golden hair catching the light like spun sugar. They were dancing; not to any audible tune, but to some rhythm only they could hear. The kind of dancing that came from years of knowing one another's steps.
Hannibal watched his father, upright, composed, but not stiff. A man of old-world elegance, all sharp tailoring and gentle eyes. His mother, radiant and quicksilver-bright, tilted her face up to his, and Hannibal caught the faintest echo of a smile in her eyes. A secret just for two.
Misha’s chin was propped on her hands, utterly spellbound. “They’re like a fairy tale,” she breathed. “Like the prince and the sorceress.”
“They’re soulmates,” Hannibal said, almost without thinking.
Misha turned to him, her face a question.
“It means they were… meant,” he explained, the way he might describe something from a textbook. “Their red threads match.”
Her eyes dropped to his wrists. “Like ours?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Ours haven’t shown yet.”
She frowned. “But I thought they came when you love someone the most.”
Hannibal looked back at the couple in the garden, now swaying gently, whispering things too soft to catch. “They come when the universe decides.”
He didn’t tell her he hoped his wouldn’t come. He didn’t say that the idea of someone replacing Misha in his affections made something in him turn cold. She was enough. She was everything.
“I want to be like Mama when I’m big,” Misha said with certainty. “And I hope my soulmate is funny. And kind. And doesn’t eat with his mouth open.”
Hannibal smirked. “You’re going to have to lower your standards.”
“Never!” she declared, then added, more quietly, “But what if mine never comes?”
The question hung in the air like mist. Hannibal hesitated. He could have told her the truth, that not everyone was granted a soulmate. That some people waited their entire lives for a red thread that never appeared. That some were simply… alone.
But Misha was still small enough to believe the world was just.
He swallowed the thought and shook his head gently. “Yours will.”
She looked at him with wide, unwavering trust. “How do you know?”
“Because the universe wouldn’t dare disappoint you.”
She was quiet for a moment and then asked, “Do you think your soulmate will be nice?”
“I don’t need one,” Hannibal replied.
She looked at him, puzzled. “Why not?”
He met her gaze, serious now. “Because I already have you.”
For once, Misha didn’t have a ready comeback. She just reached out and held his hand, her small fingers threading between his. Her skin was warm and sticky with sap and sugar.
In the garden, their parents kissed, soft and slow, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Later, Hannibal would remember that kiss more vividly than the murders. It would play again and again in his mind: the light, the laughter, the way love had looked when it was whole and unbroken.
The last golden afternoon.
-*-
A shrill whistle sliced through the air, sharp and urgent, like a knife against porcelain.
Hannibal sat up straighter in the undergrowth. Even Misha froze, her smile faltering as she turned toward the sound.
The garden gate creaked open, and a man in a dark waistcoat hurried across the lawn. It was Stasys, their butler; always precise, always composed. But now his hair was askew, and his cravat hung loose at his throat.
“Count Lecter!” he called breathlessly, skidding to a halt at the edge of the terrace. “My lord, it’s the Soviets. They’ve reached Šeduva. The market square’s in flames; people are being killed in the streets.”
Their father stilled, his hand still resting at Simonetta’s waist. “How far?”
“Too close,” Stasys said, and for the first time, Hannibal noticed the smudge of soot across his cheek. “They’ll come here next. Your title makes you a target.”
Simonetta’s hand flew to her mouth. “Mykolas—”
“I know,” their father murmured. Then, with a command sharp enough to cleave through the air: “Gather the staff. We leave for the hunting lodge. Now.”
Everything fractured at once. The warmth of the garden fled, chased off by the crackling spectre of fire and boots and blood.
Hannibal crouched lower, instinctively shielding Misha.
“What’s happening?” she whispered, clutching a sprig of aster she’d picked from the path.
“War,” Hannibal murmured, eyes fixed on their father’s retreating back. But what he meant was loss. He just didn’t know how much yet.
-*-
The manor had never known panic. It had known laughter and music, the clink of cutlery, the rustle of silk; but never raised voices, never slammed drawers or the dull, desperate thud of trunks being dragged across marble.
Hannibal held Misha’s hand tightly as they hurried through the hallways. Her legs struggled to keep up, and her cheeks were flushed, but she said nothing. Her wide eyes clung to every corner, every painting, every familiar shape as though she could press it all into memory.
“Mama said I could help decorate for the harvest festival,” she whispered. “We were going to dry the dahlias and—”
“I know,” Hannibal said, guiding her around a footman burdened with coats and bed linens. “We’ll dry them next year. You’ll show me how.”
She sniffled. “What if there isn’t a next year?”
He stopped. Just for a second. Crouched so they were eye to eye. Her curls were coming loose, and one had stuck to her damp cheek. “There is,” he said, with such conviction he almost believed it himself. “There is a next year, and it will be full of festivals and flowers and apple cakes so sweet they make your teeth hurt.”
Misha gave a watery giggle, which crumpled almost immediately back into tears. Hannibal reached into his pocket and pressed something into her hand, a small, smooth pebble from the garden path. She looked down at it, puzzled.
“It’s still warm,” he said. “From the sun.”
She clutched it like treasure. “You saved it?”
“I knew you'd miss home,” he said simply.
Their mother appeared at the landing, arms full of coats. “Hannibal, Misha — we must hurry. The horses are ready.”
Outside, smoke hung faintly in the far distance, a grey thread unravelling across the treeline. The horizon didn’t look like it belonged to them anymore.
The staff moved like ghosts, quiet and efficient, trying not to frighten the children. But Hannibal wasn’t looking at the fire, or the rushing servants, or even the manor house retreating behind them. He was looking at Misha.
She was still holding his hand.
-*-
The hunting lodge had once been a place of adventure. A distant outpost where Mykolas took Hannibal in the summer months to learn the quiet skills of waiting and watching. Now, it was a place of retreat. Of endurance. The rooms, though built of heavy timber, seemed smaller than Hannibal remembered, and colder too. The fire struggled to heat the corners. Every breath steamed.
The forest pressed in around them, tall and bristling with pine, the air thick with damp leaves and the ghost of woodsmoke. It smelled of bark and moss and something else—something raw, like the world was holding its breath.
Misha had found delight at first. She named the squirrels. She told Hannibal the birds sang differently here, more secretively, as if the woods had stories they would only tell if you were very, very quiet. He listened, of course. He always listened to Misha.
They built a little nest by the fireplace, old quilts and mismatched pillows, where she liked to sit with her dolls and make up stories. Hannibal fetched pinecones for her and made up names for them, just to hear her laugh. She smiled less easily now.
The days shortened. The snow came.
It arrived like a thief in the night: heavy and sudden, muting the world. By morning, the trees were bowed with it. The path to the well vanished beneath drifts. The chimney smoked sluggishly, and the windows gathered frost like lace.
Misha began to cough. Just a little, at first. Hannibal made her tea with honey and warmed her socks by the fire, but the chill didn’t quite leave her cheeks. Her nose stayed pink. Her smile wavered.
“I think the trees are sleeping,” she murmured one morning, nestled in his lap. “That’s why it’s so quiet.”
“They’ll wake in the spring,” he told her, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “So will we.”
She gave a tiny nod and closed her eyes, her head tucked beneath his chin. Hannibal held her tighter. He could feel the rasp of her breathing. Too shallow. Too slow.
Outside, the forest creaked in the wind. Inside, the fire hissed and spit, and the shadows grew longer.
-*-
It was snowing again the night they came.
At first, Hannibal thought it was the wind. A shift in the draft through the shutters. But then he heard it: the crunch of boots, deliberate, heavy, too many. Muffled voices barked in Russian.
His father was already at the window, rifle in hand. His mother, pale and quick, pressed Misha to her chest. "Hannibal," she said softly, but with urgency. "Come. Take your sister."
They knew. Of course they knew.
Simonetta led them to the back storeroom, where firewood was kept, stacked high against the walls. She moved aside a loose board. Behind it, a crawl space. Barely enough room for two small bodies.
“Misha, go with Hannibal,” she whispered. Misha clung to her, eyes wide and wet. “You must be quiet. You must not move until I come for you.”
Misha nodded, trembling. Hannibal didn’t. He looked at his mother. He knew. “Don’t let them find her,” was all he said. A soldier’s promise in a child’s voice.
She touched his cheek, her soulmark glowing faintly beneath the lace cuff of her sleeve. “I love you. So very much.”
Then she pushed the board shut. Hannibal crouched in the dark, holding Misha in his arms, her curls tickling his neck, her breath hot and shallow against his collarbone. He could see through a sliver between the boards. He didn’t want to. But he couldn’t look away.
The front door burst open with a savage crash, splintering the delicate frame. Soldiers poured in, their faces masked with cold cruelty, boots stamping the floor like thunder. Their voices barked orders in harsh, clipped syllables that his young ears couldn’t yet understand, but the menace behind them was unmistakable.
Hannibal’s father stepped forward, tall and resolute. But before he could react, a sharp crack split the air—a bullet tore into his neck. Blood spurted in thick, violent jets, splashing scarlet against the panelled walls. His body collapsed backwards, limbs twitching in sudden, horrifying stillness.
Hannibal’s breath caught, frozen in the nightmare unfolding before him.
His mother’s face twisted in shock and fury as a rough hand struck her across the forehead, leaving a deep cut that blossomed dark against her pale skin.
Gunfire erupted again, closer this time. His mother’s knees buckled as a bullet found her stomach. She fell slowly to the floor, eyes wide and glistening with tears, the agony etched in every shuddering breath. She desperately clutched at the wound, her once-pristine dress staining crimson, as she tried to keep the blood inside. Her breath hitched in pain, an anguished cry escaping her lips as her head thudded against the wooden floor. Hannibal could only watch, helpless, as life drained from her with cruel slowness.
Around them, the sounds of chaos filled the lodge: the terrified screams of servants, the echo of gunshots, the crushing thud of bodies falling one by one. Hannibal barely registered the details; their cries were distant thunder in the storm of his terror.
His small hands trembled, unable to move. The blood, the pain, the sudden silence—etched forever into his memory. Hannibal pressed his hand over Misha’s ears, over her mouth. She was crying now, silently, violently.
Time bled.
The soldiers shouted more, stomped through drawers and trunks, dragging out furs and linens, throwing cutlery into sacks. One popped open a jar of preserves and laughed as he dipped his fingers into the fruit. Another knocked over the grandfather clock, sending it crashing into the firewood stack.
They didn’t leave.
The storm outside howled louder. The cabin, now looted and dim, became their den.
Hannibal and Misha remained hidden. He held her when she whimpered, whispered lullabies he barely remembered the tune to.
Hannibal wasn’t sure how long they’d been hidden. Time had begun to blur at the edges, stretching thin and surreal. He focused only on Misha’s raspy breaths, the rise and fall of her fragile chest as he stroked her hair and rocked her gently, willing her to stay with him.
Their hiding place was temporary—he knew that. It wouldn’t hold forever. And Misha’s fever had begun to bloom, burning through her small body like wildfire. Her breathing grew shallow, uneven.
Then it happened.
A sneeze, soft but sharp in the silence. A tiny, involuntary thing. A sound that didn’t belong.
Footsteps. Close. Heavy.
Hannibal wrapped himself around her like armour. “Don’t make a sound,” he breathed.
The secret panel ripped open. Light poured in. A shape loomed. Rough hands grabbed Misha. She screamed.
“No!” Hannibal lunged, teeth bared, fists swinging. A soldier snarled in surprise, then raised the butt of his rifle.
A crack of pain—and then darkness.
-*-
Hannibal’s eyelids fluttered open.
The world was soft. Washed-out colours bled into one another; greys and blues, pale greens that faded like morning mist. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and something like burnt sugar, strange and unfamiliar.
He was alone.
The cold had gone, but so had everything else. No walls, no wood, no fire. Just a vast emptiness stretching beyond his sight, silent except for the distant trickle of water, like a stream somewhere far away.
Panic swelled in his chest.
“Misha?” His voice was a whisper, fragile and raw.
No answer.
He stood, legs trembling, and began walking toward the faint sound. The ground beneath his feet was soft and spongey, almost like moss. The sky above was the pale wash of dawn, but without a sun. Trees bare and skeletal rose on either side, their branches reaching out like fingers. A chill ran through him, but not the kind that froze; it prickled with unease.
Then, movement.
A small figure appeared behind a gnarled tree, a toddler, with curls like chocolate spun silk and wide, unblinking blue eyes. The child’s gaze found him immediately, unwavering and calm.
Hannibal’s breath caught. He stepped forward, heart pounding with a mix of relief and disbelief. “Misha?”
The child shook his head, lips curving into a soft smile.
“I… not Misha.”
The boy’s eyes twinkled like a secret. “I Will.”
And just like that, the dreamscape shifted—the colours brightened, the air filled with something tender and aching, a connection that hummed beneath the surface of this strange world.