Silly redraw for AU where Hughes is alive (because the whole fandom loves that one yes? yes); it’s about 1920 and Roy is posing for pictures for his campaign as East City governor. And Hughes is inopportune.
are you pasturing your flock, O good Shepherd, who carry the whole
flock on your shoulders? (For the whole of human nature is one sheep and
you have lifted it onto your shoulders). Show me the place of peace,
lead me to the good grass that will nourish me, call me by name so that
I, your sheep, hear your voice, and by your speech give me eternal life.
Answer me, you whom my soul loves.
I give you the name ‘you whom
my soul loves’ because your name is above every name and above all
understanding and there is no rational nature that can utter it or
comprehend it. Therefore your name, by which your goodness is known, is
simply the love my soul has for you. How could I not love you, when you
loved me so much, even though I was black, that you laid down your life
for the sheep of your flock? A greater love cannot be imagined, than
exchanging your life for my salvation.
Show me then (my soul says)
where you pasture your flock, so that I can find that saving pasture
too, and fill myself with the food of heaven without which no-one can
come to eternal life, and run to the spring and fill myself with the
drink of God. You give it, as from a spring, to those who thirst – water
pouring from your side cut open by the lance, water that, to whoever
drinks it, is a spring of water welling up to eternal life.
lead me to pasture here, you will make me lie down at noon, sleeping at
peace and taking my rest in light unstained by any shade. For the noon
has no shade and the sun stands far above the mountain peaks. You bring
your flock to lie in this light when you bring your children to rest
with you in your bed. But no-one can be judged worthy of this noonday
rest who is not a child of light and a child of the day. Whoever has
separated himself equally from the shadows of evening and morning, from
where evil begins and evil ends, at noon he will lie down and the sun of
righteousness will shine on him.
Show me, then (my soul says),
how I should sleep and how I should graze, and where the path is to my
noonday rest. Do not let me fall away from your flock because of
ignorance, and find myself one of a flock of sheep that are not yours.”
~Excerpt from St. Gregory of Nyssa’s commentary on the Song of Songs, using the imagery of Psalm 23
What is the cross of Jesus for the person who wants to go the path of the mysteries? If this question were put to various candidates, would the answer be the same? Would they testify of a clear insight experienced from within? There are reasons to doubt this. Jesus Christ often put such questions to his students and the answers showed how much their insight was broken and divided.
When one has difficulties with another person, one sighs, “What a cross I have to bear,” and tears flow in self-pity. When the passionate urges of the ego are thwarted in some way or another, one mystifies one’s experiences as a way of the cross.
Others spread their arms and say, “Look at me, I am the cross and I will propel this cross to victory. I have the power to do so, for aren’t there latent within me the seven potentialities, the seven power centers, the seven endocrine glands? See, I put them around the heart of the cross like seven roses and I will make them flower and give off fragrance like precious nard, and thus I will celebrate my resurrection. Brothers and sisters, do as I do—may the roses flower on your cross.”
Then there are those who tell how Jesus Christ, by his blood sacrifice for world and humankind, purified and sanctified the sphere of the planetary cosmos, and how we can now ascend the path upward because of this process of salvation.
This view is close to that of our orthodox brothers and sisters, who adapt their lives to the belief that Jesus Christ has delivered us from our sins and has paid for them, that he has arranged an eternal bliss for us and that we can entrust ourselves completely to his heart of love. The orthodox brother or sister sticks to their church or their Bible, and the esoteric brother or sister to their spiritual school, their sense centers, and their hormone producing organs.
The cross is understood in many ways—romantically, symbolically, esoterically, and literally. In accordance with your inclinations you seek contact, during the years, with certain aspects in order to drug yourself, and so your life passes away to end as it began.
Therefore, it is not without sense to ask: What is the cross of Jesus for a student of the mysteries? Something essential must exist in the multiplicity of aspects of the cross. There must be an essence, a certainty. Of what use is the edifying, the mystical, the romantic, the speculative? It satisfies for a moment, it gives a brief stimulus, a mood, and that is all.
We need something else in a raging, desperate world. You should no longer drug yourself with moods; that is an abuse of civilization. It is the whitewashing of a grave full of lies and corruption.
The candidate must grasp a reality and live in this reality from day to day. Then you will surmount the moods and speculations. Then the facts of salvation will become focal points in your life and will no longer be moments of mystical climax to which you exalt meditatively.
When you take the Bible to read about Good Friday and the meaning of the events on Golgotha, you do not yet testify from your own being. You do not allow the Bible to speak from your heart’s blood, but view it with an esoteric magnifying glass. You want to rob the Universal Doctrine of the secret of life. If it is asked, “What is the cross of Jesus to you?”, it can be discerned clearly from your answer whether you speak from an inner possession or whether you are repeating the words of the Bible with an idea distilled from it.
Those who possess the inner treasure understand one another and know themselves to be participants in the great brotherhood of humankind that is not of this world. They experience Good Friday in a daily rendering of service, and the events of Golgotha as an inner process. This is what needs to be discussed, not with the intention of enlarging your wealth of ideas, for you are not in need of that, but if possible, to make you conscious of yourself.
It can happen that one word can open a door for your consciousness and cause you to see and to recognize. This is the purpose, and to everyone who can understand these words only as another idea, another view, the advice is given—free yourself of it, because for you it is useless, just ballast.
Summary: When did Will decide to free Hannibal from prison? He wasn’t sure himself, until Francis Dolarhyde helped him make the decision.
Chiyoh adjusted the blinds in the safe house as the brightness still bothered Hannibal’s eyes. He grunted softly in protest as she loomed over Hannibal’s bed, and wiped at his forehead with a cool, wet towel.
Lying in the other bed in the room, Will Graham craned his neck to peer at Hannibal’s figure. Bandaged and bruised, how small Hannibal appeared. How fragile, as he hardly stirred, recovering from the wounds both Dolarhyde and Will had inflicted on him.
The sound of the rain outside beat against the windows that surrounded the tiny house. It both soothed and agitated Will. But he was accustomed to his constant contradictory state, as he had lived most of his life that way. Struggling, fighting against himself. Until now. Now he finally accepted who he was. He stared at Hannibal, as Chiyoh, in turn, studied him with caution.
“If you leave this bed – if you approach Hannibal – I will break your legs.”
Will remained silent and gave her a curt nod.
“I will not hesitate,” she said as she walked to the door and slowly closed it partially behind her.
Will listened to Hannibal’s shallow, slow breaths. They became a metronome that kept him in time with his memories. Memories that haunted him, memories he’d rather forget – save for a few…
The thought never occurred to him. Not really. Even as he sat in the quiet solace (as false as it was) of the cabin he shared with Molly, and re-read Hannibal’s letter for the fiftieth time did it ever enter his mind. He never considered helping Hannibal escape.
Will Graham watched the letter burn after he threw it into the fireplace, and with it any remaining deeply hidden thoughts or emotions he had felt about the man. At least that’s what he told himself.
And so, Will clutched his person suit tightly about himself, swallowed thickly, and continued along his days, his nights, in this old new life with Molly. He continued and didn’t think about Hannibal Lecter.
When Molly said he should go with Jack, he should help and make a difference, she had no idea how much would change. Even as Will assured her he would be different, she still had no clue. How could she?
How could she see that the man she married was a fiction– a version of Will Graham he’d made up to fit into Molly’s life, Molly’s expectations. Oh, how he so wanted to fit. The Will Graham he’d made up caught fish for his wife to fry and laughed as it stunk up the entire cabin; the Will Graham he invented wore hand-knitted sweaters with dropped stitches; the Will Graham he gave birth to taught Walter how to solve algebraic equations; he would sit with his wife’s feet in his lap as he worked on the New York Times crossword puzzle.
How he wanted to be that Will Graham, instead of this one, who at the moment struggled with the Tooth Fairy, in a cheap motel room, for breath and dominance; the Will Graham who wasn’t sure yet if he’d help Hannibal escape.
Just before his mind went blank, as Francis Dolarhyde smothered his face with a chloroformed washcloth, Will’s thoughts reached out like tendrils – like desperate hands searching for one final life preserver – and what he found was one quick memory. A snippet of a conversation between he and Hannibal. Grasping and remembering…
“Tell me, did your heart race when you murdered her?”
“No, it didn’t.”
“A low heart rate is a true indicator of one’s capacity for violence. Your design is evolving.”
And as his eyes began to close, in this losing battle, he noticed that his heartbeat remained steady and low as he fell deep into the unknown.
The road that led him to that moment seemed to have been coming almost his entire life. How different would he had been had his mother stuck around? If his father had been more reliable? If he hadn’t been cursed with his so-called gift. (Was it a gift really, if you could tell that your second grade teacher pitied and feared you? You stared just a little too much, a little too hard for her taste.)
Seeing Hannibal again after all those years was a bit of a shock – but not because he was afraid – well, in truth he was – but because he knew Hannibal understood him still. Even with the distance and the time.
“Are we no longer on a first name basis?”
No, I would like that very much. Once more. Just once, forever.
“I’m more comfortable the less personal we are.”
It was a lie, however. Will already began to feel whole again, real – and god knows he hated himself for it. Molly and Walter deserved better.
This dullness he felt, had felt for the last three years, was eating away at him like rust on fine steel, like maggots on old meat. The mere sound of Hannibal’s voice began to pull Will out of the dullness. Good god, the soul crushing dullness.
He woke with a startle as Francis doused him with water; a quick baptism.
“Breathe deeply. Do you think you can sit up? Try to sit up.”
Will obliged, grateful he could still move. He sat patiently and listened as Francis explained himself, his grand mission. Will nodded, heartbeat steady and low.
“You think you understand, don’t you?” Francis asked.
“I understand that blood and breath are only elements undergoing change to fuel your radiance. Hannibal said those words to me.”
(First name basis, once again.)
“I want to meet Lecter. How do I manage that?”
And it was then, right then when Will Graham decided. If anyone was going to meet Hannibal, it would be him. Only him. His plan to free Hannibal was born, easily and without doubt.
His final change, his true radiance – a leap from the lackluster, from the maddening politeness – would finally be welcome. Will would accept this as his fate.
He’d always known, anyhow.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle as it caressed the windows of the safe house, and Will could see that Hannibal had fallen into a deeper sleep. Will sighed contentedly knowing that fate had smiled upon him once again. How very fortunate they had been to have survived. Together. And whether it was at the gates of Hell or the halls of Valhalla, it would be Will and Hannibal together. Eternally.
Will Graham accepted that his design had evolved yet again, and his radiance?
No matter how dark or how hard things are right now, when you surrender all to Christ, and trust in God wholeheartedly. Know this, that God is going to change this situation around for His Glory and your good. Don’t worry about it. God is in control, and taking care of it. God bless you.