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Will woke up.
His forehead was burning, his temples throbbing with a dull ache.It was the fever caused by encephalitis. He was tied to a chair,with a ceramic plate and a pair of nickel-silver cutlery at his side,undoubtedly heralding the beginning of a feast—though he knew all too well that he himself was the feast.
Will could clearly feel the breathing of the person behind him, a steady pulse against his neck, like a stalking beast lurking and peeping. He thought, unbidden, of what Jack had said: when Hannibal killed that nurse, his heart rate had never exceeded eighty-five. So he asked, "Dr. Lecter, will your heart beat faster when you eat me?"
Hannibal did not answer. His palm slid over the back of the chair, and he bent down, guiding Will's hand inside his waistcoat. The scent of brandy and cologne filled Will's nostrils. Through the thin layer of his shirt, the pulse of blood beneath Will's fingertips told him that Hannibal's heart was pounding hard. Will's mouth twitched in a faint smile. "You're punishing me."
"I trusted you, and you betrayed me," Hannibal said, meeting his eyes. "I had thought you would leave this place with me."
Will held his gaze. "That's why you're going to eat me?"
"No. This is not a punishment, but the highest form of love. People hide their true thoughts in their brains, yet their words and actions contradict them. Your soul is fractured, Will. You were supposed to bring me to justice, but I know your secret longing—the same longing I have." Hannibal raised a hand and brushed his fingertips lightly across Will's forehead. "I know your dark side. You should not be governed by anything. Your most authentic self is right in here."
Will closed his eyes in despair.
They had known each other too long.From their first meeting at the FBI to their reunion at the Baltimore asylum. Countless betrayals and entanglements lay between them, debts that could never be settled. Hannibal was a patient hunter lurking in the birch forest, a proud king upon the gallows, an antlered wendigo of evil, the creator adding the final stroke to a mural, tipping the scales of justice with a human heart as a chip. From the moment Will first saw that sonnet written in blood and bone, he had been certain that past grievances no longer concerned them. What remained of Hannibal now was nothing but the purest, most relentless desire. And that desire would come for him in the form of appetite.
In this moment between life and death, Will made peace with himself. Hannibal was far crueler than the Minnesota Shrike or Buffalo Bill. He was such a heinous criminal, yet Will's heart swelled with an irrepressible longing. For the very first time in his life, he wanted to curse the world's black-and-white morality.
"I can't stop falling, and I can't confess my heart," Will said, his voice hoarse. "I can't think anymore. If you're going to eat me, then do it quickly. Don't play cat and mouse."
Hannibal could smell the encephalitis on him—warm and sorrowful, the breath of death in his soul. Rather than watch him tortured by the illness, Hannibal fancied himself the best choice to play the reaper—and he was indeed eager to do the job. Gently, he straightened Will's head and pressed a kiss on his forehead. "Don't worry. It will hurt a little."
The whine of the circular saw was close at hand. Hannibal held him from behind. It reminded Will of the time he had been stabbed—Hannibal had embraced him in the same way, like a python constricting its prey, savoring the death throes. A sharp, piercing pain stabbed through his temple.The teeth of the saw biting into his forehead, skin and flesh blooming like petals, cobalt and crimson vessels intertwining, exploding like underwater fireworks beneath the blade, blood trailing down his jaw, his neck turning slick and wet. Before his vision was swallowed by red, the last thing Will saw was a fragment of skull splattering against an alabaster statue beside the dining table.
The red-hot silver spoon, wisps of smoke rising from its furrows—melting slowly, like butter. He tasted gelatinous and ambiguous, faintly bloody, morbidly sweet. Will's eyes snapped wide open, his blue-green irises like glass beads seeming to bulge from their sockets. He scratched the armrest of the chair with his nails ,nerves twitching uncontrollably, and words of low murmurs and groans escaped from his lips involuntarily. Hannibal caught the ecstatic agony look on his face，could not resist leaning down to kiss him.
"Sorry," Hannibal whispered, rubbing his thumb over Will's lips. "Your expression is just too adorable."
Will hovered at the edge of consciousness. In his delirium, he returned to the church in Florence. He lay supine on the skull-patterned floor, surrounded by white orange blossoms beaded with the dew of death, the candelabras casting dim yellow shadows. He gazed up at the intricate dome, at the relief of the prophet holding a screaming lamb, the light of mercy and wisdom shining upon all.
In that instant before consciousness dissolved, pleasure surged to its peak, irrigated by blood. The fire of Judgment Day devoured him. He was the martyr on the cross, crowned with thorns, willingly sacrificing his soul to usher in the final feast.
He was the feast on God's plate.