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🍴 ( 009 ) Video
[Hannibal is seated at his desk, the camera balanced against something there: he is dressed in a tux, legs crossed, a glass of champagne in his hand. He sips it gracefully.]
Consider the ortolan.
[He smiles faintly, as if it's a joke he knows no one will realize.]
It was the practice of certain gourmets to eat these small birds for centuries. A rite of passage, of sorts, where one must hunt but not kill. Capture it alive and keep it so, for a time. It was best to blind the bird, placing it in a small cage filled with grain. Its reaction to the darkness is to gorge itself. If you were particularly thoughtful, you would add oats and figs to this diet as well. Once it had fattened itself, these gourmets would drown it in brandy - Armagnac, preferably. On high heat, roast it whole for six to eight minutes.
There is a tradition for consumption as well; of course there is. You would place a cloth over your head, to contain the aroma, to make it last, but also to hide your soon-to-be atrocity from God.
[He smiles again.]
Place the bird in your mouth, with only its beak escaping your lips. Bite down, and place the beak in your place. Chew slowly. Savor it. There is the sweetness of the flesh and fat, the brandy and the fig you have forced it to eat: this is God in all His wonder, from whom you must hide this act. I wonder if they tasted shame, too. Next there is the bitterness of untended innards, of organs uncleaned: this is the suffering of the Son, His blood on your tongue. It will soon be joined by your own, as your teeth crack hollow bones, as those bones slice your gums. Your blood, the sweetness, the bitterness - this is the Holy Spirit, and the Trinity come together in one mouth. A rite of passage, a mystery revealed.
It is terribly cruel. And terribly delicious.
[Spam for Ned]
[Shortly after his post, Hannibal heads for the pub sans champagne but still wearing his tux, and knocks at the door. He's already begun the set up, but there is one thing he still requires.]
[Open Gallery Spam on the Deck]
[Hannibal has been hard at work. With little to do between death tolls and less to occupy himself, he has been drawing. Mal was kind enough to supply him with tools enough for his art, though his pencils are never quite sharp enough without a scalpel to do the job. When he has finished, there is only one thing to do with his art.
Setting up takes time, but he goes as quickly as he can manage: Mal requested presentation dividers, which makes it feel just professional enough to satisfy Hannibal. The sketches and portraits are spaced out on the deck, providing plenty of room to walk around and observe. There is a small table near the pub entrance with glasses of champagne, and a very serious pie maker making certain that nobody does anything untoward to the champagne.
Hannibal himself can be found wandering through the little corridors he's made, observing his art on occasion but mostly observing those who have come to look.
It's opening night.]
(Hannibal is paraphrasing from Brendan Kiley's The Urban Hunt.)
Consider the ortolan.
[He smiles faintly, as if it's a joke he knows no one will realize.]
It was the practice of certain gourmets to eat these small birds for centuries. A rite of passage, of sorts, where one must hunt but not kill. Capture it alive and keep it so, for a time. It was best to blind the bird, placing it in a small cage filled with grain. Its reaction to the darkness is to gorge itself. If you were particularly thoughtful, you would add oats and figs to this diet as well. Once it had fattened itself, these gourmets would drown it in brandy - Armagnac, preferably. On high heat, roast it whole for six to eight minutes.
There is a tradition for consumption as well; of course there is. You would place a cloth over your head, to contain the aroma, to make it last, but also to hide your soon-to-be atrocity from God.
[He smiles again.]
Place the bird in your mouth, with only its beak escaping your lips. Bite down, and place the beak in your place. Chew slowly. Savor it. There is the sweetness of the flesh and fat, the brandy and the fig you have forced it to eat: this is God in all His wonder, from whom you must hide this act. I wonder if they tasted shame, too. Next there is the bitterness of untended innards, of organs uncleaned: this is the suffering of the Son, His blood on your tongue. It will soon be joined by your own, as your teeth crack hollow bones, as those bones slice your gums. Your blood, the sweetness, the bitterness - this is the Holy Spirit, and the Trinity come together in one mouth. A rite of passage, a mystery revealed.
It is terribly cruel. And terribly delicious.
[Spam for Ned]
[Shortly after his post, Hannibal heads for the pub sans champagne but still wearing his tux, and knocks at the door. He's already begun the set up, but there is one thing he still requires.]
[Open Gallery Spam on the Deck]
[Hannibal has been hard at work. With little to do between death tolls and less to occupy himself, he has been drawing. Mal was kind enough to supply him with tools enough for his art, though his pencils are never quite sharp enough without a scalpel to do the job. When he has finished, there is only one thing to do with his art.
Setting up takes time, but he goes as quickly as he can manage: Mal requested presentation dividers, which makes it feel just professional enough to satisfy Hannibal. The sketches and portraits are spaced out on the deck, providing plenty of room to walk around and observe. There is a small table near the pub entrance with glasses of champagne, and a very serious pie maker making certain that nobody does anything untoward to the champagne.
Hannibal himself can be found wandering through the little corridors he's made, observing his art on occasion but mostly observing those who have come to look.
It's opening night.]
(Hannibal is paraphrasing from Brendan Kiley's The Urban Hunt.)
no subject
I doubt anyone will, Hannibal. And whether it's what you really want or not, [she says, turning to face him.] You stand out.
I'm sure you think of that as a good thing. You'd put the dogs in the picture before you'd ever place yourself because in your mind you're an artist. You're superior in ways no one can ever hope to match. Not even the people you feign respect for.
[She pauses, looking at the sketch for a moment longer.]
It must be lonely. [Alana looks back at Hannibal.] I'd pity you, but that would require you to have a shred of humanity. You faked it well, but... [She shakes her head.] Beyond that, quite frankly, I've decided you're not worth it.
[She hands him her champagne glass.]
My only piece of advice for you, Hannibal, is to be careful how much you decide to play at being God. Tends to not end well.
[Alana turns to leave.]
tw for brains
For the first time, he thinks it was a good thing that he watched those movies about "his" life. It would be beautifully poetic and referential, to serve her lightly sauteed brain cut from her own cranium. The perfect last supper, for the last time she's invited to table.
Haydn's Farewell floats through his thoughts, and he toasts her but does not drink before she turns away completely.]
We all play at being God, Alana. Even you.
no subject
If you think that, you never really knew me any better than I thought I knew you.
[Alana has no interest in playing God. She has no interest in manipulating the vulnerable or the weak the way he does. All she wants to do is to protect and save. Maybe it's a hopeless endeavor to even bother trying to help others learn to stand on their own two feet. Maybe she can't save everyone. Maybe she can't save Abigail Hobbs. Maybe she can't even save Will Graham. But she will never stop trying. Alana will not allow herself to submit to Hannibal and his nudging, pushing, and pulling. It's a dangerous game to play, she realizes. But she will struggle with even her last breath if that's what it takes.]
[She turns her back to him again.]
Goodbye, Dr. Lecter.
[And then she's gone.]
no subject
Then why are you here?
[The Admiral plays at being God, too, and all his wardens only want a bit of that power, for one reason or another. He smiles at her back, and turns again to admire his art. Yes - he should have included the dogs.]