[ Hannibal always knew the end would come for him, but he didn't expect it twiceover, admittedly. Yet, there's something fitting about the idea of it, something universally just and poetic about someone like him dying twice. He held no regrets the first time, and he holds none this time. Just as he had the sensation of falling in Will's embrace with a sense of peace, he feels one here too as he lies bleeding and broken on the ground. He knows this is not the end, yet even if it were, it wouldn't particularly matter to him. The only thing he feels a slight regret for is the fact that Will isn't here with him.
She musters up her courage, but Hannibal is far away, deep within the confines of his memory palace as he waits. He has nothing more to taunt her or tease her with, and so in his imagination, he sits in an art gallery, looking up at a painting that he's admired since he was a young man. And next to him sits Will Graham. As he had promised, that is the time he remembers.
The quiet reverie is broken by the shot, and Hannibal's eyes open again, wide, but glassy as he looks up at the sky. It's painful, but pain mixes together easily now. Her first shot isn't accurate, puncturing through his right lung, and he can immediately feel blood wettening his breath. Each shot after is similar, and though she never hits his heart to give him that merciful end, it's not what he would want anyways. He lays bleeding out in the dirt, and it will come quickly.
But he speaks again, one last time, though it's a soft, wet whisper: ]
It could have ended with me. It will not.
[ If she knows what he's referring to, then those parting words will be the last knife he twists in her heart. Hannibal's role held more importance than simply putting people in the stocks or the cells, and if she knows that, he wants her to regret it. But, then again, this has to be entertaining too. He thinks for just a moment that what's watching them should enjoy what's to follow.
Hannibal takes his last breath with a peaceful look on his face. ]
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She musters up her courage, but Hannibal is far away, deep within the confines of his memory palace as he waits. He has nothing more to taunt her or tease her with, and so in his imagination, he sits in an art gallery, looking up at a painting that he's admired since he was a young man. And next to him sits Will Graham. As he had promised, that is the time he remembers.
The quiet reverie is broken by the shot, and Hannibal's eyes open again, wide, but glassy as he looks up at the sky. It's painful, but pain mixes together easily now. Her first shot isn't accurate, puncturing through his right lung, and he can immediately feel blood wettening his breath. Each shot after is similar, and though she never hits his heart to give him that merciful end, it's not what he would want anyways. He lays bleeding out in the dirt, and it will come quickly.
But he speaks again, one last time, though it's a soft, wet whisper: ]
It could have ended with me. It will not.
[ If she knows what he's referring to, then those parting words will be the last knife he twists in her heart. Hannibal's role held more importance than simply putting people in the stocks or the cells, and if she knows that, he wants her to regret it. But, then again, this has to be entertaining too. He thinks for just a moment that what's watching them should enjoy what's to follow.
Hannibal takes his last breath with a peaceful look on his face. ]