Disclaimer: Hannibal Lector is not my character and belongs to Thomas Harris. The idea of this story was, however created by me, excluding some quotes and parts you may recognize from the book, and/or the movie. Understand this—I have not claimed the character nor the original idea.

FLESH FOR FLESH

It was a nice day, the wind was cool, the sun was out—you could hear the birds chirping gaily, the squirrels tittering about the woods and the screams of a full-grown man.

Hannibal pushed the remaining dirt over Mischa's grave, said a prayer and a few words of goodbye and as he began to leave he remembered in his pocket his mother's pearl hairpin and left it for her knowing no one would take it. Her grave, like his parents lodge was in the middle of the woods, some few miles from Castle Lector—not a place many traveled to. He had to return, had to look for her remains and some clue to her killers names'—he remembered their faces, but not their names. So as it happened he took the train from Paris to the old lodge, found his old horse, Caesar, and walked on foot to the lodge—where it all had happened—the traumatizing event from his childhood. An event he could never forget—every night since, he would toss and turn, tormented by that horrible day—the day he witnessed the consumption of his sister, Mischa. They would pay for it. They would all pay.

"What is it you want with me!?" "Why can't you just let us go!?! Please!?" The man wouldn't stay quiet, but would you if you were tied to a tree, knowing that your captor could kill you at any moment? You might not, but the young woman beside him did. She, like he, was tied to an opposite tree—the rope chaffed her neck, and rubbed uncomfortably against her arms and abdomen. She knew she was in the middle of nowhere. She knew it was outside of Paris and that no one would be able to help her, but what she didn't know was the who the man who had her was or what he wanted with her…and her father.

"Ah! Herr Dortlich! And his daughter, I presume? You may wonder why you're both tied to trees?" Hannibal stepped out of nowhere and began walking towards Dortlich, his hair falling smoothly across his eye.

"What is it you want?!" Asked Dortlich, his voice raspy at the severe lack of oxygen due to the rope stretched across his neck. Hannibal grinned; his piercing blue eyes glinted with malice.

Charlotte struggled with her bindings and tried pulling her arms out from underneath the tight rope, but to no avail all she could move were her shoulders.

"What I want, Herr Dortlich, is vengeance—vengeance for my sister—do you remember her!?! I bet you remember her taste, Herr Dortlich!" Dortlich sat there, looking incredulous, as if he knew not of what Hannibal accused him of but knew exactly what Hannibal was talking about--he remembered exactly who he was—that was the reason he was in this mess in the first place. To kill Lector before he killed him.

"You remember now, don't you, Herr Dortlich? Give me the names and the locations of your friends—all of the men who were there that day." Dortlich looked side to side, wondering if he should betray his friends and give the information to Lector. Dortlich glanced occasionally at his daughter. He felt bad about getting his only daughter into this as well. He should've known better.

"I-I don't know! After the war—we-we lost touch—we were separated! I swear!"

Hannibal, unsatisfied crouched down in front of Dortlich and rummaged through his messenger bag and pulled out a bundle of paper wrapping. Inside was a sandwich, loaded down with turkey and mayonnaise.

"So much mayonnaise, Herr Dortlich. How unhealthy," he said as he threw the top piece of bread on the ground and rubbed the mayonnaise on some of the rope around Dortlich's torso.

"What-what're you doing!?" Dortlich yelled at Hannibal, who had stood back up and turned to walk over to Caesar. Hannibal grinned and cocked his head.

"You'll see." Dortlich began whimpering. His eyes followed the rope that tied him to the base of the tree. At least two yards of it was coiled at his feet, and the rest followed Hannibal on the ground to his horse—the end was tied to its saddle.

Charlotte followed her father's eyes and noticed the rope that bound him to the tree was tied to that horse the man was walking towards. That man was going to kill her father—she might not have liked her father very much, but she'd be damned to watch some stranger with, what little she'd overheard, some vendetta murder her father. She struggled even fiercely with her bindings now and shouted at their captor.

"Please stop!" She shouted. Hannibal dropped the rope and turned to the young woman behind him.

"You are next, kleines mädchen." Hannibal glared at her, and then stopped beside his horse.

Charlotte stopped trying after that. She knew she was next, but it seemed after he told her she would be, that she gave up all hope of getting out of this alive. She slumped back against the rough bark of the tree and cast her eyes downward. She had once overheard a conversation with her mother and her grandmother about her father—apparently her father, a soldier in the war, had done many atrocious things: looted the dead, killed women and children, served the Nazis, and many other horrendous acts. Her father was getting what he deserved, and yet she couldn't help but feel a bit sad…her father was going to be murdered in front of her.

"Now, Herr Dortlich, tell me what you know and I'll give you a somewhat quicker death." Hannibal stood ready with the rope in his hands next to Caesar—the faithful steed that'd pulled him and his family to the lodge that fateful day, the only real part of his family that was still alive, besides Madame Murasaki. Dortlich, despite the rope that was steadily tightening over his neck, still refused to tell the truth.

"I swear I don't know!"

"Very well, Herr Dortlich." He gave a slap on Caesar's hindquarter—the horse whinnied and began to tread forward slowly. The rope cracked as it stretched tight in mid-air. Dortlich's eyes began to bulge out of their sockets as he decided to give Hannibal the information. Hannibal pulled on Caesar's bridle.

Charlotte felt sick to her stomach. The torture was evil and sickening—she thought that as this was getting his revenge, she too was being avenged, unbeknownst to her and her father's captor. During her childhood, she had had a few unfortunate run ins with her drunken father. Every Friday night of her life until her parents divorced, he would get drunk and burst through the door, yell at her mother and break things throughout the house. As a little girl it scared her to tears.

"They're all in Paris! All of them!" Dortlich's voice was now a hoarse whisper, but Hannibal heard it all the same. All in Paris—how fortunate for him.

"Let's sing a song for Mischa, Herr Dortlich-do you know this song," and he began to sing:

"Ein Mannlein steht im Walde ganz still und stumm—I don't hear you, Herr Dortlich. Es hat von lauter Purpur ein Mantlein um." Dortlich began to sing—tried to sing anyways, the rope was tightening as they sung—he sung in hopes it would save his neck.

She remembered that song. Her father had taught it to her when she was a child. This was one of the only good things he'd done for her.

"Sagt, wer mag das Mannlein sein. Das sa steht im Wald allein…" Hannibal kept walking along with Caesar, the rope loosing most of its slack.

Charlotte's heart was pounding in her head—her father was smart to finally tell the man, but she felt that this young man was not going to stop there.

"And their names, Herr Dortlich! Tell me their names!" Hannibal shouted as he took a hold of the rope, pulling the remaining slack out of the rope as he pulled himself to Dortlich. Dortlich was beginning to black out due to lack of air. Dortlich paused for a moment…wondering if it was really worth it all.

"Only a few more verses left, Herr Dortlich, Das da steht im Walde allein—"

But decided it was and one-by-one began rasping out names—four names:
Zigmas Milko, Bronys Grents, Pertas Kolnas, and Valdis Grutas, and himself.

"I could testify against them—every one of them! If you kept me alive—I could testify!" Dortlich said anything to keep alive. Hannibal ignored his attempts.

"Thank you, Herr Dortlich—now, if you will, one last verse, for Mischa—" He screamed in Dortlich's face,

"Das Mannlein steht in Walde allein,

Mit dem purporroten Mantelein!"

Hannibal pulled the tight rope with one final jerk that broke Dortlich's neck, his face blue with lack of oxygen. Hannibal winced as Dortlich's blood splattered on the side of his face. He wondered curiously, running his gloved hand down his cheek and licked the blood from it. He grinned at the taste—how sweet revenge tasted.

"Das purporroten Mantelein, indeed." Hannibal looked through Dortlich's messenger bag again, and found a book of matches, began to gather some sticks and mushrooms—Dortlich's cheeks would make a nice bruschetta.

Charlotte watched as her father gasped for his very last breath and as Hannibal pulled the rope. She knew her father wouldn't live through this one anyways. She didn't cry for him, didn't grieve at the moment. He wasn't worth it—the only reason she was here now was because her mother, after the divorce, had urged her father to spend more time with his daughter—they were traveling around France for some nice colleges, which they'd found, but he had to take the detour to "check on things." He'd lied, she realized—he'd gotten a call from one of his guy's, telling him that some kid was going to the Castle Lector. She'd known that something bad happened down here, but never knew exactly what, just that her father had done something bad and that she wasn't supposed to know the rest. So here they were, or rather, he was, between a rock and a hard place, waiting for her impending murder. How was she going to get out of this?

Hannibal walked towards Caesar and rummaged through the saddlebags, pulling out his surgeon's knife—he'd been clever and hidden it in the lining of his thick jacket. As he stalked back towards the corpse, he glanced at Dortlich's daughter, almost forgetting she was there. What was he going to do her? He didn't plan on her being there with Dortlich—he didn't even know the bastard had a daughter. But she'd seen too much already—he couldn't just let her leave—she could go straight to the police. No…she had to die, much to his dislike—he never killed unless he had to, but then again, he had a feeling he'd still be hungry after Dortlich.

"You plan to kill me now?" She asked Hannibal. He was pinching at one of Dortlich's cheeks, pulling the skin taught to cut one off as he glanced behind him at the girl.

"If I'm still hungry." He smirked at her, and then continued to prepare his lunch.

Charlotte wanted a quick death—she didn't want to go like her father—no she'd always imagined of dying of old age, in her sleep or something—never to wake up. She never planned to watch some stranger cut her father apart and eat him. It was strange, she thought, that she wasn't getting sick at the thought—maybe it was because of her extreme dislike for her father…could that be the reason? Was she sick too? She watched the young man stand up and walk towards his crude spit and push the small chunks of meat onto a thin stick and stick them over the small fire that cracked every once in a while. The sound filled the uncomfortable silence. Soon the smell of her fathers cooking cheeks filled her nostrils—oddly the smell made her mouth water. God, she was sick. Course she'd never dream of eating human flesh. As the meat finished cooking, she watched as Hannibal pulled it off the spit and plop them one after the other into his mouth—chewing on them as if they were small piece of beef. As he finished masticating, he turned his attention to her, and began towards her small form.

She was a small thing—couldn't be more than 18. Her hair which held curls nicely was black and shined nicely. He found himself wondering if it was as soft as it looked. She was nicely tanned—not like her father—and she wore a pretty little white dress. They were probably on some father/daughter outing when Dortlich decided to check out the lodge. Hannibal knew that the man at the train station would contact someone. He wondered why this girl didn't scream or why he saw no tears on her face—was Dortlich her father? Shouldn't a girl cry if she just witnessed her father's gruesome murder? This girl interested him.

"Do you grieve for your father?" He asked her, crouching in front of her. She looked at him for a few seconds.

"No." Her face showed no emotion. It almost reminded him of him.

"Why?" He was curious.

"He was a bad man—and a shoddy father—wasn't exactly there for me, if you know what I mean," she looked away, pretending to stare at something else. This guy's stare was chilly and gave her gooseflesh. It unnerved her somewhat.

"But," she continued," that doesn't mean that he should've been killed in such a despicable manner—he was a bastard but he didn't deserve such a fate—you promised to make it quick, but you lied—you ate him—only a monster could eat a man!" Charlotte's face became enraged. She didn't care much for her father, but no one deserved such a horrendous death.

Hannibal lowered his head and gazed to the ground. This girl had no idea what her father had done, had she? He raised his head back up and grasped the girl's throat—

"This man killed my sister—I was forced to stand by as he and his friends took my sister outside and murdered her! It was freezing and we all had nothing to eat! We were helpless little children—they felt our arms and our cheeks—they decided that she was the best to eat. They killed her, cooked her, and ate her! Your father—all of his friends—became cannibals that day! You tell me, does such a man, ruthless enough to eat an innocent child, deserve to die as your father did!?!" Hannibal's face was red with anger, his grip tightened at the thought of Mischa. Charlotte's face also red, her eyes filling with tears. She choked a strangled cry. She didn't know what to feel now.

"Flesh for flesh."

Hannibal loosened his grip and regained his composure. He sat upright and gripped his surgeon's knife, raising it up to her throat.

"You have to kill me?" There was no harm in asking—anything to save her life. He nodded yes.

"Because—"

"I know too much." She interrupted him, casting her gaze to the ground. Hannibal felt guilty, but it had to be done. No loose ends. She looked into his eyes. He leaned in to her to cut her jugular—

"Wait!" Hannibal pulled back and raised his brow.

"I cannot let you go, you already know too—"

"I know…I was going to ask…for a last request." She felt silly, but she thought it was reasonable. Hannibal looked at her, pondering for a few moments.

"For you, for your murder, and that you had to watch your father's murder—I will grant you a last request, within reason." He pulled the knife away from her throat and wait for her request. She looked to the ground as if she were waiting to think of the right way to ask.

"I…I want you…to kiss me. I am only 18, and I have not yet got to experience the things I would've liked to—I know this is such a ridiculous request but I have never…" She trailed off, finding herself turn red with embarrassment. She might as well go out with a kiss. No matter whom it was from—she never had been truly kissed before—not by a boy anyways. That was something she'd always wanted to experience, but never before had the time. She was always too focused on her studies to make time for boys and relationships. She had had better things to do, but now, there was nothing, a most opportune moment.

Hannibal couldn't believe his ears—had this girl just asked him for a kiss? She saw him kill and eat her father, and she was asking him to make contact with her—physical contact—intimate contact, but a last request. For a girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, he would, as he said, grant her this last request.

"I will grant you this request…" and he leant in closer to Charlotte's—their noses almost touching. He could hear her heart thumping beneath her chest.

She didn't think he would, but here he was, getting ready to kiss her—she was thankful, but scared. This was a killer and a cannibal who was going to kiss her. This was not as she imagined her first kiss would be like, but then again, nothing seemed to be going as she planned as of late.

"Let me remember it in death, make me forget the bad memories." She added, and closed her eyes.

"Enrikas! Get out, you're drunk! The man, Enrikas, father and husband, stormed through the house, finding things to destroy. He turned to his wife and grabbed her chin pulling her in for a kiss. She slapped at him and he slapped her.

"Bitch! You're my wife! I get to fuck you anytime! He slammed her into the wall and began lazily pulling up her skirt and shoving his fingers in her. She screamed and a little girl above the stairs saw her mother in pain. She screamed from the stairway, "Stop it Daddy! Stop it!" Both her mother and father looked up the stairs at a little child, no older than 6 with tears running down her face.

"Sweetie, go back to bed!" Her mother screamed at her between sobs.

"Look what you did, wench, you woke Charlotte!" The man whispered harshly into his wife's ear. He pulled his fingers out of her and she remained against the wall. The man began walking to the door.

"'Night sweetheart." He walked out the door.

"Mommy!" Her mother fell to the floor, crying—ashamed of what her daughter had just witnessed.

Hannibal felt her breath on his lips; he paused to gaze at her soft pink lips and into her innocent green eyes. On pure impulse he raised the back of his hand to her cheek and grazed it softly.

She wasn't expecting that, so out of pure unexpectedness, she gasped, not in surprise, but at his gentle touch—the touch of a killer.

A jolt of nervous excitement trilled down his spine and made his stomach tingle in anticipation. What could he do next to make her elicit such sounds? But he shouldn't have touched her—it was not part of the request—but would she remember this? He never got this close to a female. Except for Madame Murasaki, the woman who was his companion and aunt—their relationship, he knew, was almost a mother/son relationship. She was so loving and caring—he never got to know his mother. She died the same day as his father—and as Mischa. Casting his thoughts aside for the moment he decided that now might be the best moment to kiss this stranger.

This was it—the kiss would last not but a few moments, but she was ready—she had to be ready. He pulled the glove off his hand with his teeth.

Hannibal came closer, holding the back of Charlotte's head and secretly grasped a few of her curls, feeling them crush beneath his naked fingers and looked back to her closed eyes. There couldn't be a better time. He pressed his lips against hers and she exhaled in relief. The kiss was chaste and bittersweet, she was amaze at his gentleness, and yet couldn't believe that what she wanted more than ever was for him to deepen the kiss.

Hannibal was blissful—who knew that he could ever feel this way—in al of his eighteen years, he'd never felt anything like it. He thought he was devoid of all emotion—a rock, to simply put it, but he found himself loving every moment of this. He couldn't help himself, but he had to have more—he put both hand on each side of her face and pressed his lips harder against hers—she was responding to the kiss, so he knew she wanted this also, but to remember it—he would make her remember it.

No one had ever kissed her this way. Out of instinct he pushed his tongue between her lips and began to message her tongue with his. She felt a little odd, but it felt comfortable and it soon felt as if their tongues were fighting a battle within each others mouths. She felt bad but realized that it was time.

Hannibal pulled away and picked up his knife. He gazed into her eyes and saw a stray tear fall down her cheek. He lifted his hand up to catch it.

"I'm, sorry." She said and with her newly freed arm cracked the large rock against Hannibal's skull, he fell to the ground.

She'd realized that, before her father was killed, while struggling with her restraints that they became loose—she hadn't made it apparent though—she told herself that shed wait for the perfect moment to kill him with a rock, or at least knock him unconscious enough to escape. She found that by asking him to kiss her was the only way to distract him, and was the only way to get him close enough to hit. She was sorry, but she now had a chance to run. And she did.

A week later after some close residents had noticed flocks of buzzards, flying around a spot in the woods. The police said that the couple found the body, the spit, and the head with the missing cheeks of her father and reported it to the local police department. A few days later they identified him and found Charlotte—they asked her if she knew who his killer was.

She never told them.

LE FIN

A.N.-- I hope you enjoyed the story--i kept looking for some Hannibal Rising fanfiction, but there were only a few (all good) and i thought, "hey! maybe i should write one!" Im currently working on the part deux, yeah--if you were looking for some Hannibal/Charlotte action, part deux will have it:D Anyways, not really counting on reviews, but they are always welcome--and dont bother if you plan to comment badly. I dont appreciate bad reviews, so keep them to yourself please. IF you have any questions, ask. Ill try to be on here more, but i dont get on the computer much, so understand if i dont get back to you--your reviews are very greatly appreciated though!