Archive of Our Own ^beta

“They killd once an inglorious, but I

Crucify him daily, beeing now glorifyde.

Oh let me then his strange love still admyre: ” - John Donne

The sun kissed the horizon goodbye as she departed and took flight to meet the dawn. As she rose, she cast light and dispelled the shadows of the night, whisking them away with gentle fingers. But she created silhouettes as her beams shone down upon a cross erected in the field of rolling grass, swaying in the breeze which dried the cool morning dew. She touched the land and dragged her fingertips across the unfinished wood of the cross.

The sun did not recoil as the pads of her fingers brushed across the pallid skin of the boy crucified upon it.

Rubies dripped from his palms and the tops of his feet, staining his porcelain skin faster than the tears that rolled down his ruddy cheeks. His pink lips shuddered in the cold of dawn, shiny with snot that poured from his twitching nose. The sun illuminated the smooth expanse of his pale body which remained tense, every muscle clenched. Red dragged down the pale of his arm, falling from his elbow and wetting the grass with blood as he revealed his glory to the world for all. To see. To experience. To tremble under the awe of Hannibal's divine beauty.

Will awoke with a start, rivulets of sweat pouring down his forehead into his hair. He gasped for breath, his lungs inflating harshly as cold air scraped into his lungs like water gushing down the throat of the drowned man. His heart clawed at the walls of his ribcage, screaming to be let out of its mortal prison. He grasped at the growing pressure in his chest, fingers finding the soft cotton fabric that clothed him, his other hand pulling at his dripping hair. When he blinked, he saw the outline of the boy trapped on the cross, his golden hair flopping over his eyes as he sobbed in silence and slowly relinquished his soul to sorrow and to death.

Chasing after his breath, Will sat up and yanked the t-shirt over his head to free himself from the torment the image of the boy brought him. He threw it to the corner of the room and picked himself up from the bed, swaying as he stood. After stripping the rest of his clothing until he was bare, Will made his way to the bathroom.

Without bothering to turn on the lights, he stepped into the shower and let the cold water spray down on him until goosebumps patterned his skin. Stirring from his sleepy affliction, he cleansed his body with soapy hands raking over sweaty pits and scratching at his greasy scalp. He closed his eyes, falling into his imagination that had always been quite vivid. The milky skin of thin arms enraptured his mind and the small, smooth palms of a child touched his shoulders, the essence of purity cleansing him of impurity. They slid down his arms, touching his own and wetting the meat of his body with the sweetest warmth. He continued to wash himself under the hail-like spray as he submerged himself into his mind.

All the while careful not to slip his fingers below his waist.

Although thoroughly washed, Will stood under the falling water, hands falling to his sides as he ceased to touch himself. The icy water lashed his chest, his body as tense as the boy on the cross. He lifted his arms to the side, face tilting upwards to face the punishment the frigid water doled out. Holding his arms out, he searched his mind for the fresh image it had provided him with—the boy on the cross.

He mirrored the boy, letting his arms relax only slightly to mimic how they appeared to him in the soft light of dawn, iron nails piercing through his palms to pin them to the splintered wood. The shower head rained down on him, the cold in the dark piercing like the metal nails in the boy's palms and his feet must have.

His empathy reached out like tendrils in the dark reaching for the emotions of another. Grasping onto the boy in a smoky hold, they wrapped around his body like a snake wraps around its prey. The boy's agony knocked into him like a wave crashing and battering the shore. His hands and feet ached. Warm blood ran down his wrists and feet like the boy's, warming his skin under the freezing water raining from the faucet. His arms began to tremble under the frigid water, impaling his skin like tiny thorns of a crown atop his head as they dug into the thin flesh of his forehead.

Gasping for breath, Will's nostrils quivered like Hannibal's stigmata, red and raw from the rusty nails that impaled him. The icy water shocked him back into the present, and he draped sheets over the mirrors in his mind. Pulling the coils of empathy away from the vision of the boy, Will's eyes shot open. He heaved as he coughed, bending over himself as he had a fit and expelling bad air from his lungs.

Reaching for the handle, Will quickly shut off the water and pulled at the shower curtain. Along with it, the tension rod fell from its place tucked in between the walls, hitting Will in the thigh. He cursed as it clattered to the floor, metal ringing against tile as they smacked into one another. Will took a step in the dark and his foot slipped out from under him as he reached to try and find a towel. He fell unceremoniously, more curses flying from his trembling lips, teeth clattering as he hit the floor with a heavy thunk. In the dark with his hands and knees on the cold tile floor, Will embraced the pain that blossomed in his knee and his thighs as well as the throbbing in his palms.

With one knee anchored to the floor, Will pushed himself back up onto his feet. He reached for the towel he knew would be hanging to his left and began to dry his shivering body. He ruffled his hair with the towel, drying his curly locks until they were no longer dripping with ice water. Then his neck, his back, arms and legs. He threw his towel to the floor after he was done and stared into the dark, swaying until his hands found the cool marble of the vanity. He pressed his fingertips into the countertop and looked up to where he knew the mirror was.

Fever kissed his forehead.

He squeezed his eyes shut until he saw colors. They bloomed in the dark, glimmering until they became beams of light. The sweet, familiar silhouette of a boy stood in the center of the shards of varied hues. Will reached to touch the mirror. He did not want to open his eyes. But the colors grew brighter and brighter, blinding him. Light shone overwhelmingly through his closed lids. The boy held something in his raised hand — the shadow of a rosary. Will's arm strained further, his palms aching. He would not open his eyes, but he did as the light was too strong.

Stained glass stared back at him, the morning sun shining through the decorative window. Hannibal stood in front of it, facing him with a rosary wrapped around his palm as he read his copy of the bible. Small and bound in Italian leather, the papyrus pages handmade. It had been a family heirloom, one of the only items the boy had remaining from his mother. Will remembered Hannibal's mother, a beautiful Italian woman. She had been so radiant during her pregnancy with Hannibal. He was so enraptured by the youth growing inside of her. A divine gift she was bringing into this world that Will wanted to be a part of.

Hannibal looked up from his mother's bible as he turned the page. The altar boy smiled at him, a small smile. The small smile that Mona Lisa copied from Hannibal's mother. Simonetta smiled the same smile when she first came to Father Graham thirteen years ago, pregnant and alone. How he missed her smile on those sweet lips. Those sweet lips that would form a perfect 'o' as he rubbed her heavy belly. Or when his fingers would slip underneath her sundress to find her burning lips, soaking and so swollen for him.

"Good morning, Father Graham," Hannibal greeted, breaking Will out of his memories. "Our morning prayers?"

"Yes, of course," He responded with a shaky nod. Staring down at his hands, he found he already held his bible and was dressed in his garb, ready to begin the day. Not remembering how he got there, Father Graham blinked away his confusion and followed Hannibal to their chapel. Taking a step forward, he tripped, a hand landing on the boy's shoulder to steady himself.

Hannibal's heat radiated through Father Graham’s palm – warm and familiar. Simonetta returned to Will's mind, the burning heat of her swollen cunt, ripe with life that he ached to touch each time he had thrusted into her. Came inside of her. Each time wishing to earn even just a stroke of the greatness that grew inside of her. His knees begged to fall to the ground, the mere memory dragging him down and demanding that he repent.

"Father Graham, are you alright?" Hannibal asked, pivoting on his heel to catch the man.

"I'm right as rain." Will steadied himself with Hannibal's help. "I just took a tumble this morning," Hannibal nodded and without another word made his way to the chapel.

“Is that where you got the bruises on your thighs?” Hannibal asked in a hushed tone. Father Graham stared down at him in shock. When had he seen them? He scoured his mind but found that he could not recall. He changed the subject.

"Did you sleep well?" He asked the boy, but he knew the answer.

Father Graham always saw Hannibal to bed to ensure that he got enough rest each night. Having baptized him as a baby, he cared a great deal for the golden haired boy. He always had a hand on him. Fixing his robes, cupping his cheek, rubbing his back. A hair was never out of place, even when they came from the chapel after having performed their prayers together. They did every morning. Always seen together, never separate, Father Graham had an incomparable hold on the boy. And Hannibal, sweet Hannibal with skin like mother pearl, found everything he needed from his mentor. Everything and more.

Hannibal entered the chapel first, Father Graham following behind on unsteady feet.

"Shall we begin?" Hannibal asked. He knelt and made the sign of the cross before he entered the pew, then flipped down the kneelers and sat back on his haunches. Father Graham met his gaze with a nod and made his way to kneel next to Hannibal. Taking his rosary out of his pocket, Father Graham clasped his hands together and bowed his head.

"Please, lead us in prayer, Hannibal." Father Graham's eyes fluttered shut as Hannibal began to recite the Lord's prayer with a steady voice. Clear and bright. Strong, but not forceful. Hannibal's voice rang through the chapel like a million angels singing in choir. The lights soon returned to Will's vision as he listened. He squeezed the lids of his shut eyes, watching the colors cloud his vision like they were shattered shards of glass.

Opening his eyes, he found himself alone in the chapel. Hannibal no longer knelt beside him. He sat alone in the pew, his rosary hanging from his thick wrist. Standing to his feet, vertigo twisted his vision, but he caught himself on the edge of the pew. Father Graham still knelt in prayer as he exited the pew. Making the sign of the cross, he stood and steadied himself. As he walked out of the chapel, he leaned on the pews as if they were a cane.

Father Graham found Hannibal in the kitchen with the rest of the youth group kids. The boy stood at the stove top stirring the pot of soup to be shared for the night while the others chopped vegetables, cleaned up the kitchen, and ran in and out as they set up the dinner table. Father Graham watched as Hannibal's thin, white arm worked at the pot, but his eyes soon traveled to the apron wrapped around his skinny waist.

The small waist he inherited from his dear mother. Father Graham blinked and Hannibal's hair grew before his eyes, angelic face softening just a touch and ample breasts filling out the apron until Simonetta stood before him, a thin-fingered hand resting on her baby bump. She stirred the pot on the stove, humming softly.

When she turned her head, the Virgin Mary smiled at him. Her blonde locks darkened and a blue veil dressed them up, her smile warm in its soft embrace. The soft bump of her stomach was gone, covered by her white dress. She held up her arm, the blue scarf a shawl around her billowing in a non-existent breeze to reveal her smooth, white palm to Father Graham. The rancid odor of burning flesh rushed into his nostrils. The crackling of a fire erupted in his ears.

He watched in abject horror as flames licked at her feet, climbing up the white satin dress. She smiled with watery eyes as a hole burned into her palm, the white skin ugly and red, the edges of her flesh singed and puffy. Still, blood poured from her wound, feeding the flames that blazed like hellfire.

Black dripped from her tear ducts, glittering like obsidian rock. It trailed down her face and dripped to the floor, creating puddles of blood that fueled the fire. Through the crackling of the flames, a voice emerged, shrieking in wanton agony. Still, her smile remained bright and kind, burning brighter than the flames that consumed her. The shrieks grew louder, swelling as the flames climbed higher and higher, consuming the flesh of her breast. She opened her smiling mouth, rosy pink lips parting to speak.

"You seemed lost in thought." Hannibal noted, clicking off the flame of the stove. He gave the soup one last turn before setting the ladle inside the serving pot. Hannibal set a cutting board on the table so as to not burn it, then took the pot off of the stove.

"I was thinking about your mother." Father Graham smacked his lips, trying to dispel the dryness of his mouth. He gave Hannibal a licentious look, blinking away the image of Simonetta that he saw in the boy's face. The boy nodded solemnly, staring into the pot.

"I miss my mom." Hannibal's voice filled the room, a fragile, meek thing.

"I know you do, Hannibal. She was a wonderful woman and the church loved her. She was a dear friend to me. And she entrusted you with the church because she loved you," Father Graham met Hannibal at the edge of the table. He cupped the boy's cheek, still plump with baby fat. "Just as I do." Father Graham proclaimed with a wink and a kiss to the forehead.

"Do you want to see me before bed, again?" Hannibal looked up at Will with the wide eyes of a doe, dark and shining in the light as he gestured for the doors that would lead to Father Graham's quarters. His pink cheeks glowed under the fluorescent lighting as the priest caressed his plush skin with his thumb.

"Come find me later tonight, once they’ve all gone to sleep," Father Graham told him with a smile sweeter than sugar and crystalline eyes bluer than the sky on a cloudless day. Hannibal nodded, his pink tongue darting out of his mouth to lick his lips, wetting them so they shone like a freshly washed peach. Father Graham's hand slid down Hannibal's face, his thumb brushing over his full bottom lip. Pressing his thumb into the meaty flesh, Father Graham rubbed the pad of his finger against the sensitive, wet surface of Hannibal's tongue.

"Don't lick your lips, Hannibal." Father Graham pressed his thumb in further until he could feel Hannibal's tongue quiver and see his throat clench as he threatened to gag. "They'll get all chapped." Hannibal did not nod as Father Graham scolded him, but he trembled under the priest's grasp.

Father Graham released Hannibal's mouth from his grip with kind eyes.

"Now, go bring the others their dinner. It smells delicious. They’ll be grateful for you, Hannibal." The boy lifted the pot of soup off of the table and made his way to the swinging doors of the kitchen that lead to the chapel where the other kids had set up for the weekly youth group dinner. Father Graham pushed open the door for Hannibal. As he exited the kitchen, Father Graham placed a hand on Hannibal's waist.

"Tonight," Father Graham confirmed, his hand slipping up Hannibal’s shirt to rub his lower back.

"Yes, Father," Hannibal agreed with hollow eyes. Father Graham's own widened as he gazed upon Hannibal's eyeless face and deep into the dark caverns carved out in his skull.

"Go on, now," He said, his breath having escaped his body at the marvel of the child before him. Hannibal left the kitchen, the doors left swinging in his wake. Father Graham looked towards the ground. A pool of black blood stared up at him, as dark as the depths of the Devil's soul. He knelt to the floor as he studied the ichor, peering into the darkness until he fell in head first. Tumbling forward, he crashed into the insidious liquid, sinking until it filled his lungs and penetrated every pore of his being.

Father Graham fell deeper, his eyes blind and his ears deaf as ungodly thoughts invaded him and consumed him from the inside out. The wave of wicked waters tossed him to and fro until he washed up on the shore of salvation, eager and ready to confess.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It's been a week since my last confession." Will clutched his hands together in prayer as he sat in the dark of the booth, squeezing his fingers and picking at his palms.

"The Lord is with you. He will guide you as you repent your sins," Father Crawford responded, his voice not gentle, nor booming.

"I've been having visions, Father. Terrible visions." Wringing his hands together, Will leaned forward in his seat, staring into the dark corner of the confessional booth.

"What of?" Father Crawford's voice remained steady, and calm. Like a beacon in the night. A lighthouse for the stranded sailor.

"Father, please I can't say," Will cried, a whine in his throat. Distress bubbled inside his gut and traveled, tingling up his arms and into his fingers that pulled at his hair.

"Father Graham?"

Will choked on a sob, yanking at his hair.

"I've been having unholy visions, Father. I've sinned, I've sinned, I've sinned!" Will squalled, his voice cracking as he repeated himself. The words flew from his mouth faster than he could control them.

"Surely they are things the Lord wishes for you to see, Will." Jack's voice softened, "Your job is to fulfill your heavenly duties. If the Lord shows you these images, then why are you so distressed?" Father Crawford reasoned, his voice held steady and firm.

"How do I know it's not the Devil clouding my mind?" Will caught his breath, asking after a pregnant pause, the air only filled with his heavy breathing as he gathered his composure.

"The Lord has blessed you with divine sight. Although it might be scary, or difficult to discern, what you have is a gift. Now, if you really think your visions are sinful, I will tell you to say the Lord's prayer five times on the steps of the altar. You are a good man, Father Graham, a man of God. Go, speak in the name of the Lord."

Father Graham remained silent, hands clutching at his robes. He pulled at the fabric, fingering a loose string. The words tickled the back of his head, like spiders running up his scalp. He sat there playing with the string, looping it around his finger until the tip bulged red, then purple. His eyes glazed over as fever took claim over his mind once more.

Speak in the name of the Lord.

Will's eyes flitted upwards to the confession window.

"Did you just say something?" Silence. Standing to his feet, Will pushed open the booth door and stumbled out. His head felt warm, his face burning. Sweat trickled down his brow. He wiped it away. The cathedral stood empty, but Father Graham was not alone when he was surrounded by the portraits immortalized in stained glass.

"Hello? Who's there?"

Light no longer shone through the windows, the cathedral falling into darkness.

I'm here. Where else would I be?

The voice crawled up his spine and perched itself on Father Graham's shoulder. It did not echo through the cathedral, but thundered in the bone arena of his skull. He pivoted on his heels, searching for the source of the melodic tone.

You will find me here, but you will not see me until you arrive at my gates.

Will's eyes glistened in the shadows of the cathedral like a frozen lake on a winter's night. He swallowed thickly, turning his head upwards to the ceiling. The moon shone brightly through the skylight in all her full glory. Silver beams caressed him, and he felt a soft breeze graze his skin.

"God?"

The candles that illuminated the cathedral extinguished, leaving Father Graham in utter darkness. Shadows inched towards him, wrapping around his ankles and crept up his legs like vines that wrapped around a tree and choked it. Shadow engulfed him. Fever overwhelmed him. They pulled at him, as if they wanted to rip him limb from limb. Father Graham's knees buckled and he fell, yanked to the ground by the smoke-like tendrils. His knees hit the floor first, slamming into the marble expanse and aggravating his bruises. His palms hit the floor next, fingers curling to grip something that was not there.

"What do you want from me?"

You know who I want .

The voice whispered to him, sending a buzzing swarm of bees down his ear canal. He cried out in alarm, his hands pulling at his ears. He needed to get them off. Get them out. Why wouldn't they come out?

You will give him to me .

"No, no, please. Leave me alone!" Father Graham screamed until his throat stripped itself raw. He curled into himself, his knees pressed to his chest. The cold marble chilled him even through the fabric of his robes. He pressed his forehead to the tile. The cold felt nice.

You will obey your Lord, your God Almighty.

Father Graham shivered in place, pushing his head up from the floor. He glanced around, searching the dark for the voice.

"Please, where are you?" He croaked, his voice echoing through the empty cathedral.

Come join me at the altar, would you?

Standing up on his feet again, Father Graham stumbled down the procession between the pews, the sweet moon illuminating the cathedral in blissful silver light. As he walked down the center aisle, he felt the cool light of the moon follow him like a spotlight. It followed until it was ahead of him, casting silver light upon the altar.

Skinny bones, but plush in the hips. Golden strands of hair strewn under his head like a pillow, wispy lashes like spider's legs against his rosy cheeks, and soft pink lips parting slightly as he slept atop the altar nude. Stigmata decorated his long-fingered hands and bony, perfectly arched feet. Oh, how the arches were perfect.

Hannibal draped lovely across the altar, his body a perfect covering. An offering.

See?

At the sight, Father Graham fell to his knees, hands clasping together in prayer.

Closing his eyes, the colors returned. He watched them swirl around his vision, letting the shards float in the dark of his closed lids. When he opened them, Father Graham found himself  facing the familiar book on the altar. 

He ran the pads of his fingers down the seam of the bible, splitting open the thin pages with care. Using his two fingers to pull apart the two folds of the book, Father Graham gingerly held it open with the thumb of his other hand while he wet his fingers to peel back another page until he reached the Book of the Thessalonians.

Father Graham leaned close to the book, nostrils flaring as he smelled the dusty scent of the bible, inhaling the lessons of the Lord. His tongue peeked out from between his lips as he draped the wet thing over the pages, licking at the inked words like he could consume the Word of God. As his tongue reached the top of the page, Father Graham opened his mouth like a snake unhinges its jaws and ripped off a chunk of the glossy pages with his crooked teeth, his fingers finding his lips to shove the crinkled paper in deeper until the Lord filled his mouth.

Bitterness bloomed on his taste buds. It stung as the edges sliced up the soft muscle, the taste of metal overwhelming the ink as papercuts littered his cheeks and tongue. Yet, he chewed and chewed, but swallowed prematurely, choking on the paper lodged in his throat. Still, he ripped another chunk of pages from the book and pushed it into his mouth. Swallowing forcefully, he made room in his mouth, the muscles in his throat working to push the crumpled paper down his esophagus.

As he consumed the bible, the words on the pages flooded his mind. He watched as the teachings of the Thessalonians clouded his vision, the words appearing before him and every time he blinked. Tearing another page from the bible with his hands, Father Graham shoved it into his full mouth, only making himself cough.

He spat out the wet bits of crumpled paper, saliva dripping from his lips as he hacked up the rejected liturgy. They hit the altar with a splat, spit sullying the red cloth. Father Graham heaved, his back hunched over the holy table as he gagged, throwing up the barely digested pages. A hand reached to grip his cassock, then to his collar as he pulled it down, trying to free his throat from its divine prison.

Choking on the Lord, Father Graham stumbled backwards. He dropped to his knees, hitting the floor with a thunk and the force tingled up his legs like a thousand centipedes crawling up his legs. His hands landed on the plush carpet, fibers curling between his fingers as he gripped and pulled at the fabric. His cassock billowed around him, the black fabric a sharp contrast against the red carpet. Agony ran from his lips as if he was preaching about the woes of torment. Father Graham banged his head into the floor, his mouth burning. Blood dribbled down his lips, trickling onto the carpet and blending with the crimson rug.

Father Graham blinked, and a child was held in front of him, dressed in white. Stuttering to take note of the situation with the taste of ink still tainting mouth, Father Graham gathered his composure and recited the familiar lines. Just as he had thirteen years ago during his first baptism. When he baptized Simonetta's son.

"I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," Father Graham sprinkled holy water atop the head of the babe held in front of him. The little, helpless thing squirmed in his mother's arm. Will took one look at her and decided she was a godless woman. The supple skin of her breasts peeking over the heart shaped neckline of her sundress, her bare, tanned arms dark against the stark white. What a blasphemous woman. A whore is not fit to be a mother.

Will's gaze wandered to the entrance to the cathedral ahead of him, looking past all the congregants. Pale skin caught his eye, dragging his gaze along as if he was its prisoner. The boy stood barely nude and barefoot in the doorway, skin pallid and unblemished with a cloth around his waist. His golden hair cascaded down his forehead, a crown of thorns atop his head so large it fell over his eyes– the thorns punctured them. Oedipal blood dripped down his cheeks as he cried rubied tears. He slowly raised his hands, showcasing twitching, red holes pooling with pus and blood. He fell to his knees, bringing his wounded hands together as he cowered in blind prayer. Father Graham watched with rapt attention as the boy’s lips moved silently.

It has to happen. You know it is inevitable.

The voice returned, knocking around the hollow of his bones.

"Father Graham!" An angel's voice washed over him like a cool summer breeze, whisking him back along with a soft touch to his forearm. Father Graham glanced next to him, catching Hannibal's maroon eyes shining in the lights of the cathedral. Hannibal held his arm, his thin, lithe fingers gently gripping him. Grounding him. Arousing him.

"Father Graham, the child," Hannibal gestured to the infant in front of him. Father Graham pulled his gaze away from Hannibal and towards the crowd of people, watching him with confused looks.

"R-right." Will cleared his throat and tipped the carafe of holy water over the baby, letting the rest pour over the child's forehead.

The boy must be elevated from this life.

As the voice returned, screaming at him with vigor, Father Graham watched the clear water pour over the infant's forehead and down into the bowl below. Purifying the evil and banishing it from the child. Father Graham smiled as he focused on the ghost of Hannibal's hand on his forearm. A warm and steady touch of purity.

He is not who you think he is.

God whispered in his ear, wrapping his hand around Father Graham's throat. Or maybe it was something else. 

Father Graham dropped the carafe.

I am not the Devil, my child.

Vertigo overtook Father Graham's vision. He slumped to his knees, falling with the grace of a violin crescendo as it swells and overwhelms the crowd. Looking out to the crowd with his hand pressed to his ears, Father Graham watched as the women in the crowd unhinged their jaws and he cringed as blood-curdling screams permeated through the cathedral, echoing off of the great stone walls and bombarding him. A tragic wail slipped from his lips and his face contorted in upset. His torso fell forward, his forehead pressing into the ground as if he would fall through if he pressed hard enough.

He must come join me at my right-hand side.

As he blinked, his wails morphed into screams, his eyes squeezing shut as the voice of God left his ears ringing. He rocked himself into the ground, screeching such that a banshee would blush. His head pounded, throbbing as if the organ slammed into the bony walls of his skull. Father Graham's body shook, convulsing as if he was left naked in the arctic. But a warmness approached him, the light illuminating even the dark of his closed eyes.

"Father Graham," An angel pleaded. A scalding hot hand touching his arm.  The heat traveled up his arm and landed in his core, warming his soul. When he slowly opened his eyes, he found himself face to face with the floor. He took a breath, his exhale blowing a bit of dust away. "Father Graham!" The voice pleaded again, louder, but not a scream. That soft voice of an angel could never be confused with an agent of Hell. Father Graham let the hands blazing with divine power pull him up until he was sitting on his haunches.

Light shone behind Hannibal, framing him like he wore a halo. Hannibal presented a worried expression, his blonde eyebrows scrunched up in consternation, a wrinkle in the crook of his lips. Golden string outlined his small frame, bright against the black and white of his altar boy uniform. He reached a healing hand out to Father Graham, his soft Mona Lisa smile a glimmer brighter than the stars. White light shone from behind his teeth, illuminating the dark shadows of the cathedral while a baby cried.

His head no longer throbbed.

Father Graham gazed upon the angel of healing, enraptured by his power and his beauty. The compassion he showed him was unmatched. Taking his hand into his, Father Graham moaned at the soft, familiar touch of the boy's hands.

"You took quite a fall. Are you sure everything’s alright?" The boy whispered. Father Graham looked out onto the crowd. Hannibal reached down to grab the carafe off of the floor. Refilling it, he handed it to Father Graham.

He is one with Christ.

Father Graham swallowed thickly and licked his lips.

Bring him to me.

"Behold the Lamb of God," Taking the host, Father Graham raised it over the pyx. Holding it out to the people, he continued. "Behold him who takes away the sins of the world. Blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb."

"Lord, I am not worthy," The congregants began in unison, but Father Graham could only hear Hannibal's sweet, boyish voice singing as he recited, "that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed."

Father Graham prepared communion, blessing the body and blood with a wave of the hand. Eyes fluttering shut, he placed the communion on his tongue, tasting the body of the Lord. He raised the golden chalice. He placed his lips upon the rim and tilted the sumptuous cup, letting the blood paint his mouth red as he suckled on the essence of his god.

"May the body of Christ bring me to everlasting life," His whispers oozed from his lips like dregs of poison. Taking the pyx from the altar, he passed by Hannibal who stood before the microphone. Touching his shoulder as he passed by to give communion to the congregants, Hannibal began to sing.

"In my heart's sequestered chambers lie truths stripped of poet's gloss. Words alone are vain and vacant, and my heart is mute." Euphoria lifted Father Graham until he felt like he was floating, his bones hollow like a dove's and his breath lighter than her feather.

"The body of Christ," Father Graham rasped out, blinking rapidly and speaking like he tried to catch his breath. He gave the whore in front of him the host and she placed it on her tongue, then waltzed to Father Crawford for the blood of Christ.

"In response to aching silence, memory summons half-heard voices, and my soul finds primal eloquence and wraps me in song." Hannibal's angelic voice continued to ring through the cathedral, echoing off the stone walls and drifting atop the air until it tumbled into the ears of the congregants, having gathered for mass.

"Wraps me in song. If you would comfort me, sing me a lullaby. If you would win my heart, sing me a love song." Hannibal opened his mouth wide, his voice lilting in a crescendo as he led the church in song with his steady, ethereal tone. His soprano vocals rose higher, clear like a crystal glass ringing after it's been struck. "If you would mourn me and bring me to God, sing me a requiem."

The sweet vocals of the altar boy who sang stuffed his ears, the sound shooting down every nerve and possessing his own blood as it rushed downwards. Covered in his robes and cassock, nobody would know the euphoria felt by Father Graham. Not until the dead of night.

"Sing me to heaven!"

Father Graham opened his eyes, met with the haze of dusk and the silence of the mind.

"God loves you, Hannibal." Father Graham gazed upon his work with glassy eyes and the blade of a knife pressed to his throat.

Hannibal drooped limp up on the cross, his head falling forward and his golden locks covering his brow. His rosary hung from his trembling fingers, dangling in the soft breeze and his bible laid crumpled at the base of his cross. Viscous crimson trailed down his palms, wrists, and feet like they were veins crawling down his supple flesh, bejeweling his body in the most precious essence of life.

"Not enough," Hannibal whispered.

"God loves you, Saint Hannibal. Now sing, sing for me as we approach heaven together."

Hannibal sobbed, but opened his mouth, tongue quivering in the dark and wet cavern. Father Graham knew it well.

"Touch in me all love and passion," Hannibal hiccuped through the words. Always the follower. Mucus oozed from his nostrils and coating his sweet pink lips as he sang, "Pain and pleasure, touch." Father Graham hummed the tune, gazing up at Hannibal from where he lay on the ground with the blade of a knife pressing into the skin of his neck until blood blossomed upon his skin.

"Deliver us from evil," Father Graham whimpered as the tip of the blade dug deeper into his throat.

"Sing me to heaven. Touch in me all love and passion. Pain and pleasure, touch." Hannibal's bare body shivered as the wind picked up, his voice shuddering as he sang. His yelps punctuated the words he sang as the rusty nails embedded in his hands and feet caught on the raw wounds. He watched from his rightful place on the cross as Father Graham dragged the blade across his own throat. Father Graham's body crumpled to the floor in a heap of flesh and blood-stained robes.

"Touch in me grief and comfort, love and passion, pain and pleasure. Sing me a lullaby, a love song, a requiem." Thick blood sprayed from the self-inflicted slash in Father Graham's neck, mottling the lush green moss and dewy blades of grass. Hannibal’s petal pink lips quivered as he sang the familiar hymn.

"Love me. Comfort me. Bring me to God. Sing me a love song."

Father Graham choked, blood spurting from his neck and onto the patch of dirt where Hannibal's cross sat, dug into the earth. Father Graham's gaping mouth trembled as he tried to sing, but only a soft rasp left his shaking lips.

"Sing me to--" Father Graham's head collapsed, lolling into the puddle of red rubies, not another word to be spoken, nor sung.