milliways_bar | (no subject)

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sinric the wanderer

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The door opens to a cool breeze and moonlight playing on water. The figure who enters is dressed in simple dun-coloured peasants clothes, dusty from the road. A deep hood covers their face but they turn away from the light anyway, startled by the brightness of it.

After a moment to adjust, the figure lowers the hood to reveal the pale feature of Sinric the Wanderer. Looking tired and drawn, he makes his way to the bar.

(ooc: hey cats and kittens, I know it's been a while. Please go easy on me, it's been a rough ride but I'm back.)

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Dr. Hannibal Lecter is, at that very moment, busy extracting something very specific from a large, steaming Italian coffee machine.

He turns to Sinric and smiles.

"Hello Sinric! It's so good to see you. You're just in time for a caffé latte with one or two extra espressi."

He lowers his hands, fingers dry and rough, and smiles. "As if no time at all has passed." He comes to lean on the bar, head cocked as he takes Hannibal in. "Some water if you please, my friend. It's been some time. I'm not sure how well I would take coffee any more."

"Water first, of course," Hannibal says, turning to serve him a large glass of it. "You look as if a lot of time had passed, to be honest."

He takes a slow sip, relishing the clean, coldness of it. "Some years." He admits. "The door has been... conspicuously absent."

"I am so sorry to hear that," Hannibal says. "Where have you been? What did you witness?"

He gets a double espresso for himself from the machine.

"War and illness and folly and hardship." He sighs and shakes his head. "Forgive me, Hannibal. The door found me in a melancholy mood."

"I followed the rivers east, through the lands of the Avers. For a while I even settled. A little village on the boarders of the Magyars and the Bulgars. But sadly it was not to last."

"Magyars came?" Hannibal guesses.

"No. It was a peaceful place that traded well with both." He shook his head. "An illness. A fever swept through the village and felled those of both Bulgar and Magyar blood without fear or favour."

"I am sorry to hear that," Hannibal says softly. "The other inhabitants survived?"

He shook his head, lowing his eyes to hide welling tears. "No-one. No-one but me."

Hannibal reaches out to take Sinric's hand.

Sinric squeezes it softly. His fingers are thin, the skin dry and callused from travel and hard work. Old blisters scar his palms. A long way from the delicate creature of the Byzantine Court.

"I don't know but I knew. I knew it couldn't hurt me. Something the bar did, something you did, something to do with time or magic. I knew I would survive unscathed. But-"

"You knew you'd still have things to do you already seen the results of," Hannibal says, stroking Sinric's scarred palm with his thumb. "But it must have been very painful. They were your friends."

"I sung a few to sleep." He admits in a voice barely softer than a breath. "The youngest. Those suffering most. I couldn't heal them, but I could ease their way."

He would never admit that to anyone else. Anyone but Hannibal.

"You did the right thing," Hannibal says, squeezing Sinric's fingers. "But it cost you, I know that. I'll do my best to help you regain your equilibrium und your energy while you are here."

"I wish I knew where to start. After so long, even the lights are too bright. I've forgotten who I was here."

"Ah, but I haven't."

"Remind me?" He begs softly. "Remind me who Sinric was through your eyes."

"A hub node of history and destiny," Hannibal says. "A unique combination of knowledge and skills from all the known world. A fearless and lovely friend, loyalty and foreshadowing. A unique beauty of body and soul, a taste unlike any other on my tongue. One that dared to go everywhere, and even to see me for all I am."

"I thought of you, on the last day. The priest was the last to die. We had worked side by side. He praised the peace my song brought, without ever understanding the fatal truth of it."

"The ground was too frozen to dig and I had no strength left for it. I laid them in the church. All those who won't aready in the earth. I built them a pyre out of god's house, surrounded them in flowers and all their favourite things."

"It was beautiful, the fire. The way it reflected off the snow. It felt like you were there, watching it with me."

"I wish I had been," Hannibal says, "and in a way, I was. I would have watched the roof cave in, in a shower of ascending sparks, tucking them in to rest forever."

Sinric reaches up to touch Hannibal's cheek. "I suppose you were."

There's a slight tremble to his hand as he reaches for the glass again. "They were good people. They deserved better than a god's indifference.

"But I am afraid that is all they and we will ever get," Hannibal says quietly, stroking Sinric's thumb. "Unless we have the privilege of meeting a deity here."

"Or wake them with stolen passion." There's a little glint of old mischief in Sinric's eyes. A glimmer of gold in the dulled brown.

Hannibal smiles into Sinric's eyes. "Even better, if we can."

He pauses, and sighs deeply. "You have given all, and are depleted. It's good the door found you, so I and all the gods and marvels of this place can help replenish you so you can once more sparkle."