Sos Eta Hannibal!
Hannibal
"You ass-kissing son of a bitch!"
Hannibal snapped his head around and ducked just in time to avoid the hammer that Menoetius had thrown at his head. Hannibal dodged to the side to avoid another attack from his older brother before Menoetius released an angry roar and whirled, breathing heavily, dark eyes wild with hatred as he inched toward him. Menoetius looked crazier than usual, Hannibal noted at Menoetius's wild curly hair sticking up everywhere, and his burgundy and black armor stained in blood.
"What now?" Hannibal asked, frowning as he avoided Menoetius throwing a book at him. Menoetius curled his lip in repugnance.
"You invaded my city! That was my city! Father ordered me to invade Osteria, you slimy little harlot!" He snarled, lunging for Hannibal again, but Hannibal spun out of the way and kicked Menoetius in the ass so he fell to the floor of the large elaborate burgundy tent. Hannibal narrowed his eyes down at Menoetius, who let loose another furious cry at being once again shoved in the dirt.
He could feel it; the power pulsing through his veins of his tainted bloodline. He noticed, the harder he fought, the more anger he poured into his blows, the faster his enemies fell. The faster they collapsed to their knees and wept, the faster they bled.
When the war against the Atlanteans had begun, his stomach had churned as he cut down man after man, creature after creature. His stomach twisted as he was forced to take the lives of people he'd never even met, innocent people, who were a victim of his father's blood thirst. He ached, knowing that the people he cut down were also his people. Both Greek and Atlantean blood flowed through his veins, and yet, if he dared step across the line to the Atlanteans, he would suffer greater torment than he did now. At least the Greeks left him alone in fear of his growing wrath. The Atlanteans would be a fresh start, a whole new nightmare trying to make them see him for what he was.
Was.
Now he wasn't so sure what he was anymore. In the beginning, he was merely a hybrid god. He wasn't even given a name. He was only called hybrid, mongrel, anything that placed him on a lower level than those around him.
But it wasn't until he slit the throat of the Atlantean man named Hannibal. A young man, about the hybrid's age, strong and powerful. And with his dying breath, he wished for the hybrid to seek peace and the hybrid felt a kick in the gut at those whispered words. Of all the things the Atlantean soldier could have spat at him with his final words, it was that he hoped his killer would seek peace. And that was when the hybrid realized... He wanted to be Hannibal.
However, that had been the beginning of the war. When Hannibal had almost wept for the soldiers he killed. Now, he took a sick angry thrill from watching the ground run red with blood, the way his boots sank into it and his power lashed out, killing those who opposed his father. A father who, no matter what Hannibal did, would loathe him for eternity. Hannibal wasn't sure why he even still bothered. There was a flame of loyalty that burned hard inside him and oh how he wished he could extinguish that pathetic flame of hope.
Hannibal zoned back into the cold hard reality, staring down at his once proud brother, who now screamed in a fit of rage and lunged to his feet, making another move for him. Hannibal narrowed his eyes, suddenly remembering all the times Menoetius had kicked him and stripped him and beat him and killed anything he had a remote connection to, including the puppy he'd rescued from the nearby village. A sudden wave of fury wracked him and he curled his lip as Menoetius went to grab him by the throat.
Hannibal whipped out of the way, got behind Menoetius and grabbed a handful of thick dark curls before bashing Menoetius's face down on the desk. Menoetius gasped and snarled in pain, his nose breaking on impact and gushing blood down a handsome, stubbled face. He wrenched out of Hannibal's grip and grabbed his brother by the shoulders, shoving him in an attempt to knock him to the ground, which was usually all it took.
But it was different.
Hannibal didn't fall. Merely took two steps back, watching, waiting, loathing. Menoetius hesitated, staring into his brother's mismatched eyes. The eerie cold blue he'd inherited from their father, and the milky white that he'd given his brother as punishment for giving himself a name. He could feel the hatred boiling off Hannibal in waves and it sent a sick thrill through him. As the god of anger, he thrived on the negative emotions behind it. Betrayal, pain, and especially hatred.
"You're feeding me, you know," Menoetius sneered, making Hannibal take a step back when he took one forward, "All that hatred? You're pouring it into me." Hannibal said nothing, just watched Menoetius with a steady glare. He knew very well what Menoetius was trying to do. He was using that manipulative tone of his to get Hannibal to back down, but Hannibal wouldn't fall for it. Not this time. Seconds away from ripping his sword out and planning to plunge it into Menoetius's lying mouth, the moment was interrupted when the tent flap opened and Iapetus made his presence known with a heavy weight of power in the tent that almost knocked both brothers onto their knees.
"Enough," Iapetus snarled at them both, "You can bitch fight later. Right now, we have Atlantean ranks piling up against us. Get your asses out there." Menoetius cast Hannibal a deadly glare before stalking out of the tent. Hannibal shook his head, lifted his hand off his sword and went to go with him to the field when Iapetus caught him by the elbow and reeled him back. Hannibal clenched his teeth as Iapetus blocked his path like an everlasting shadow of misery and terror.
Oh, the dreams Hannibal had of ripping the titan's throat open and bathing in his blood. This monster had been the bastard who raped his mother, the one who resulted in her obscene hatred for the bastard son she refused to mother. No, instead, the Atlantean goddess Lea threw Hannibal at Iapetus as punishment for defiling her. And now Hannibal was stuck with yet another stuck up asshole god spitting in his face and daring him to fight back, but Hannibal knew better. As powerful as he was, he couldn't stand up to Iapetus.
Not with that damned flame of hope inside him that one day, Iapetus would see him as more than a bastard child.
"You are not to step foot on Atlantean soil," Iapetus warned, making Hannibal narrow his eyes ever so slightly, but slightly enough to anger Iapetus, who delivered a sharp backhand to Hannibal's face before he grabbed the hybrid god by the front of his uniform, "If I find out you so much as glanced in the direction of Atlantis, I will do things to you that will make what your brothers have done a walk through a flowery field, do you fucking understand me, hybrid?" Hannibal merely gave him a short nod and Iapetus roughly released him, stepping aside.
"Then get out there and continue the battle. Maybe once this is all over, I'll consider giving you a bedroom again." Iapetus said mockingly. Hannibal resisted the urge to flinch as he left the tent and proceeded to make his way toward the troops that were beginning to march toward the small peninsula that jutted out toward Atlantis. This was the closest they'd gotten to the land, and even though Iapetus had warned against it, Hannibal couldn't resist staring out at the gigantic land mass that had been his birthplace. And up until recently, he'd only ever spoken Atlantean. He had difficulties learning Greek, and even now, there were words that confused him, even if they were close to Atlantean.
While the troops around him roared and whooped excitedly for the chance to cut down Atlanteans, Hannibal stood on the shoreline, staring out at the land. The salty sea wind whipped his hair around his face, his cape fluttering behind him, and the scent of spices managed to ride the breeze and blow gently in Hannibal's face.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and in one moment of utter peace, he wondered briefly what it would have been like had he had a normal life. What would it be like to actually sit down to dinner with other people? To be able to speak to his parents on friendly terms? To have his own bedroom? To have brothers who weren't constantly trying to murder him?
He opened his eyes slowly and stared at the reality that felt the need to always slap him across the face.
You will never have what we have, Iapetus had told him once night when he was no older than five. No, more like, spat it in his face and shoved him in the dirt outside the temple. Hannibal had slept under the kitchen window that night, and woken up to his brothers laughing wildly as they splashed water on top of him. Icy cold water and had soaked his only pair of clothing, clothing they had later stolen from him and burned because they were Atlantean rags.
A fierce wave of fury tore through him at that and he clenched his teeth, letting the anger swallow him as they prepared for war that came sooner rather than later. In as little as two hours, Hannibal found him once again slaying Atlantean soldiers. This time, they were also attacked by the gods, who had taken up arms against them.
Hannibal twirled his sword with expertise and whirled around, beheading a soldier and moving in for another that was struggling to crawl away from the fray. Hannibal raised his sword to put the soldier out of his misery when someone barreled into him so hard that it knocked his breath away as he struck the ground. Hannibal cursed and writhed as the attacking soldiers struggled to wrestle his sword away.
"Die, Greek scum!" A woman's voice? Hannibal scowled, bringing his elbow up sharply and bashing the woman in the face, causing her helmet to fly back off her head, allowing thick black curly hair to fall around a beautiful, but hauntingly familiar face. Hannibal froze as the woman panted hard, glaring down at him. A deep gash swept across her brow over her right eye, eyes as dark as freshly tilled soil, and she looked stunningly beautiful in her Atlantean armor, the armor of their gods.
"Die!" She shouted instantly and whipped out a dagger, moving to stab it into Hannibal's face, but Hannibal caught her wrist and continued to stare at her for the longest time, making sure he wasn't seeing a ghost. But no, he knew that face. He'd seen statues of her in one of the Atlantean villages they had destroyed on their way to the shoreline.
Lea, goddess of curses, battle, and strategy.
Hannibal twisted the dagger away and kicked her off him, sending her flying through the dirt, but she shot back to her feet and ran at him, snatching a sword up from the ground. Hannibal was on his feet an instant later, grabbing his sword and just barely defending her attack as she slashed at him violently and ruthlessly. He struggled to keep up with her incredible speed, mostly because he was distracted by her.
She was tall, nearly as tall as him and that was quite a feet, because at age sixteen, he was well over the average height of gods his age. She was also muscular and voluptuous. Build like a warrior, a beautiful warrior.
And for a moment, Hannibal didn't want to kill her. He'd never really met the goddess before. Only seen her statues, and occasional curses about her from his father and his step-mother. He wanted to know her.
But she obviously didn't want to know him as she continued to cut at him with a rage that almost surpassed his own. She twirled and stabbed the sword at his gut, but he parried the attack and spun around, jamming his elbow into the side of her head, causing her to stumble before she caught herself and slashed at him, this time a smirk curving the corner of her lips.
"You fight well, Greek bastard," She sneered, moving to cut his head off, but Hannibal pulled back out of the way before ducking another slash, "What are you called?" Hannibal almost hesitated in telling her his name, but why should he? She had no idea he had named himself Hannibal. She probably still knew him as hybrid. And she didn't seem to recognize him, and why should she? The last time she'd seen the infant she'd been forced to give birth to, he was practically the size of a kitten.
"Sos eta Hannibal." He spoke in perfect Atlantean. Lea paused at that for a moment. Hannibal took his chance and snatched her sword, bashing her in the face with the handle. Lea cursed, clutching her bloody nose as her dark eyes whipped with rage.
"Aunt Lea!" A voice shouted. Hannibal snapped his head in time to barely dodge an attack from an on-coming Atlantean god. He cursed and spun out of the way as the god took up position in front of Lea, who raised an eyebrow at her nephew. Hannibal had seen him before, he realized. The god was freakishly tall, his height, with black hair and brilliant white eyes, dressed in the gold armor of the Atlanteans. If Hannibal remembered correctly, he'd heard the other gods call this one Xenon, the Atlantean Khalian of rebirth.
"Xenon," Lea scolded, "I don't need your help."
"This one isn't normal," Xenon snapped at her impatiently, making Lea frown slowly, "He's of Atlantean blood." Lea's eyes widened slightly and she pinned Hannibal with a long hard stare.
"Who is your father?" She demanded, moving to stand beside Xenon, who frowned at her in confusion. Hannibal narrowed his eyes. He wasn't going to tell her anything. Not that he had to worry because someone slammed into his shoulder hard and he turned to see Iapetus there with his sword drawn, and wicked smirk on his face.
"Hello, Lea." He greeted. Lea paled at the sight of him and Xenon narrowed his eyes, gripping his sword tightly. His reaction meant he knew exactly what Iapetus had done to his aunt. Hannibal held his breath as Lea stared at Iapetus, then at Hannibal, then back again before her eyes widened.
"No." She stated. Iapetus smirked, glancing at Hannibal.
"Look at that. Not even your mother wants you, hybrid." He said as if it were a joke. Hannibal stared at him for a moment. And his nightmare began to fade. From the battle field between the Titans and the Atlanteans, all the way to the very end of the Titanomachy, when Hannibal's father had handed Hannibal over, gift-wrapped practically, to Zeus, the new King of the Greek Pantheon.
Zeus was devastatingly handsome with his thick blonde hair in waves almost to his shoulders, stormy blue eyes flashing like the lightning bolts he'd used to take down the Titans. He wore a white, gold trimmed chiton with leather sandals that wrapped all the way to his knees.
And he walked a circle around Hannibal like a vulture. Hannibal stood rigid in the room that was overcrowded with gods and prisoners taken from the Titanomachy war. The other prisoners had singled him out and shoved him forward the moment Zeus had made his presence known, and now Hannibal stood an object on display as Zeus walked around him, scanning him from head to toe as if determining his worth. Hannibal said nothing, moved nothing, only stood with his hands tied tight behind him with a pair of gold god restraint cuffs that belonged to the maker of them, the infamous god killer, who stood at the back of the room beside Hera and Apollo, with a fierce expression of raw hatred as his own hands were bound in his own power.
Hannibal was wary, tired. He wanted to sleep. The urge to crumple to the floor and pass out was oh so tempting, but with this many gods watching him with hungry or disgusted eyes, he didn't chance it. And he was used to standing in front of hundreds of people stark naked. His brothers had taught him well.
"Huh," Zeus said after a while, tilting his head as he stood in front of Hannibal now, trying to meet those mismatched eyes, but Hannibal only stared past him, "Are you blind in that eye?" Hannibal gave him a blank stare.
"You're a god, can't you tell?" He returned arrogantly. Zeus's eyes flared angrily and Apollo choked on a laugh that resulted in Artemis smacking him upside the head. Zeus came forward and grabbed Hannibal's throat in a death grip. Hannibal fought the urge to wince as his windpipe clamped shut under Zeus's beefy fist. His lungs clenched and his chest tightened in pain, but still, he didn't flinch. Just stood still as Zeus leaned in close, finally meeting the mismatched gaze and concluding that the hybrid slave god was not blind, which increased his worth.
And that arrogance, Zeus noted. It reminded him of a certain someone and a smirk curved his lips.
"You will be my cup bearer." He stated, releasing Hannibal's throat. Hannibal crumpled to his knees, breathing raggedly and resisting the urge to call Zeus stupid. Why would he ever want a hybrid god as his cup-bearer? The title was high ranking, and only reserved for the most trustworthy of people. Surely Zeus wouldn't make the assumption that he wouldn't poison him...
And yet, Hannibal found himself not willing to poison Zeus. What purpose would it serve? If he got away from here, where would he go? He had nowhere. His family, for being stupid idiots, were thrust into Tartarus, despite offering him up to Zeus. And even if they hadn't been, they would never allow Hannibal back under their roof.
I'm alone.
The thought sent a chill through him as he was escorted away by a couple of nymphs, who washed him and gave him a fresh clean purple chiton, his hair braided down his back with gold tinsel that matched the permanent slave cuffs on his wrists and ankles. He wanted to rip the garbage off and leave, but again, that emptiness inside him forced him to remain absolutely still as he was brought to the throne room where the gods were beginning to meet for a council. He stood in the background, watching with narrowed and irritated eyes as the other slaves that had been captured were being forced to work, despite injuries. A few of the gods even chuckled whenever a slave limped or was purposely tripped.
And they think Titans are bad? He wondered.
"Cup-bearer," A voice snapped, making him blink and turn to see an irritated nymph there holding a pitcher of sweet smelling nectar, "You are to go around and pour this into each of their cups. If you attempt to take a sip, you will be beaten. If you drop it, you will be beaten. If you speak, you will be beaten. If you so much as pretend you have presence, you will be beaten. Do I make myself clear?" Hannibal debated throwing an insult in the young nymph's face, but what was the point? He'd only further the pain he was already in. Menoetius had been the one who'd come up behind him and nearly cracked his skull open to knock him out so they could bind him and send him to Zeus.
Then again, he was never one to sit down and obey stupidity.
"Matri koso." He replied to the nymph, whose cheeks reddened at the insult to her virginity. She slapped him hard and shoved the pitcher at him, wrapping her hand in his braid before shoving him out from their hidden spot. Hannibal cocked his head, feeling the burn of her slap on his cheek, but it was nothing compared to what he'd dealt with before. He debated just retreating, but he needed to heal if he was going to decide on staying or leaving. Because right now, leaving wasn't an option. Not with his injuries. So against the burn inside him to violently retaliate, he came forward with the pitcher to Zeus first, who held his goblet out while laughing at something Poseidon was joking about.
Hannibal poured the nectar into the goblet, waited for Zeus to find some kind of fault in his pouring, but much to his surprise, Zeus paid him no mind and took a swig of nectar, chuckling at Poseidon. Hannibal stepped back and poured some into Poseidon's goblet just as Zeus laughed at someone else, making him glance up.
"So good of you to join us, Hades. For a moment, I thought you'd actually decide to stay home in bed." Zeus snorted. Hannibal frowned, glancing out the corner of his eye as he poured nectar into Hera's goblet, his eyes locking on Zeus's other brother. Hades looked oddly pale and maybe even sick to his stomach, but he walked with his head high and arrogant glowing blue eyes pinning Zeus with a glare so hateful, Hannibal felt it to the core of his soul. Hades strode in wearing a flowing black chiton trimmed in silver, taking the seat beside Zeus and picking up a goblet.
Hannibal instantly went to his side to pour the nectar, listening to Zeus as he spoke to his brother in a tone Hannibal knew all too well.
Mockery.
"How're you feeling?" Zeus asked, though, the question was hardly concerned. Zeus sounded more amused than anything. Hades didn't answer, so Zeus decided to pressure him further.
"You must be quite sore. I can always soothe it before you go to your new home." Zeus drawled. The glare Hades pinned him with was cold as ice. His grip on the goblet tightened to the point where his knuckles turned white. Hannibal frowned further, then stumbled when someone bashed into him from behind and he snapped his head to glare at the nymph from before as she sauntered past him.
"Sloppy little shit!" Hades snarled abruptly. Hannibal stiffened and took one step back, but a moment later, Hades had bashed him upside the head so hard, the nectar splattered on the floor and Hannibal's head smacked into the marble floor that his vision blacked out for a moment. Zeus burst into laughter and Poseidon made a rude noise when the nectar splashed his foot. He slammed his foot down on Hannibal's back and Hannibal seethed in pain, blinking his vision back before peering up past his hair at Hades, who glared down at him.
"Clean this mess up, imbecile." Hades spat, then whipped around to shoot Zeus a dirty look, which Zeus swiftly ignored so he could get up and reach down to shove Hannibal's face in the mess.
"You heard him, slave, clean it up!" He urged with laughter. A few of the other gods chuckled, except Hades, who clenched his teeth as if he were resisting an urge to slap his brother. Hannibal choked at the pressure Zeus had shifted to his throat, applying almost enough pressure to collapse his throat if Zeus hadn't finally relented when Hades stormed out of the room. Zeus rolled his eyes and gave Hannibal's cheek a nudge with his foot.
"Get to it." He commanded, then went after Hades while Poseidon curled his lip in repugnance at the hybrid as he struggled to get up and clean the mess. Hannibal moved his hands across the wet floor, pausing to frown at his reflection in the golden liquid. A chill crept down his spine at the mismatched blue and white eyes that stared back at him, the savage scar that sliced through his left eye, dipping down and forking into the corner of his mouth, a mouth that could never smile, smaller scars criss-crossing a path down his throat to a whole new art board made entirely of scars.
"I want you." A voice murmured in Hannibal's ear and he shuddered, arching his back and shutting his eyes tightly, ducking his head down as the dream abruptly switched and he found himself in the same position on a different floor, at a different time. Blood was splattered across the floor, a deep rich red that pooled around his hands and ran down from his face and back that had been savagely torn open.
It was the kind of pain he'd inflict on anyone who so much as thought about doing the same thing to him. Whipping his back bloody, until the bone peered through shredded flesh. And yet, he couldn't find it in himself to tell Cain to stop.
He peered up through his loose black hair to see Cain standing over him, twirling the leather black whip with a wicked smirk on his face.
God, he was beautiful, dressed in a tight leather black corset with blood splattered across it, and his skinny black leather pants, matching knee-high boots that clicked whenever he walked. His dark hair was swept back sexily from his face that was aglow with sadistic pleasure. He wrapped the whip around his gloved hand, then snapped the whip to the side before he cracked it forward and hit Hannibal across the cheek. Hannibal hissed and ducked his head down.
"Don't look at me, unless I give you permission," Cain told him sternly, taking a few steps toward him, "Don't look at anyone, unless I give you permission."
Hannibal resisted the urge to tell him to fuck off. And it wasn't hard. This was the first person who ever said those three little words to him... I want you. Someone wanted him. He was tired of being passed around like some kind of game of hot potato. He wanted someone to want him, to want to keep him. Despite the blood and agony that swept around him, he held himself rigid on his hands and knees, stark naked, on the floor of Cain's throne room. A few other servants stood quivering near the door, holding supplies that would assist in healing the broken hybrid.
"Zelios says you've been awfully naughty lately," Cain continued, and began to walk a slow, predatory circle around the hybrid, who hissed out ragged breathes between tightly clenched teeth, "He says you've been poking fun at his little daemon. Or should I say oracle now? They think you did it. And you know what I think?" He paused in front of Hannibal, who didn't dare look up to meet those hateful blue eyes, blue eyes that only softened whenever he was around his damned brother.
It's not fair, Hannibal thought wrathfully. I've done everything this bastard wanted me to do. I've kissed his fucking feet for him. I've practically wiped his ass for him all these years. I was the only one he trusted to be around him when he broke down over that good for nothing piece of shit brother of his... And yet, he still wants Abel more than he wants me... It's not fair!
The whip cracked down on his back and his muscles snapped. Hannibal collapsed onto his stomach, breathing hard in pain as blood splattered across his cheeks and hair. He held his teeth together tight and struggled to lift himself, but his body refused to obey.
And the pain only worsened after Cain slapped his heeled boot down on Hannibal's back. Hannibal opened his mouth in a silent scream of agony before he drew his arm in close and clamped his teeth down on it, drawing more blood.
"I bet you did do it," Cain went on to say, grinding the heel of his boot into Hannibal's raw, bloody back, "I bet you loved it too. You've always hated Noe. The moment you met him, I saw the look on your face. Putrid hatred. You want him gone. So what better way they to use some kind of potion to make him an oracle? Or maybe you're getting in good with the Titans. Think they'd treat you better than I do? Nobody will treat you as well as I do, Hannibal. No one."
Nobody will treat you as well as I do. He was right, Hannibal knew grimly. This was considered cuddling and sweet compared to what his own family had done to him. This was nothing. He could handle this, no problem.
And the nightmare morphed into one that sent goosebumps flying across his skin, heart beating so quickly that it was any wonder he wasn't dead-- oh wait, the curse, right. His skin was chilled and feverish at the same time, and the wave of emotions that struck him all at once were enough to have him trembling. What made it all worse was the pair of bright, tearful blue eyes that stared up at him. They had yet to fall, those crystal tears, but they were present and accusing.
Stop, Hannibal. You're wrong. This is wrong!
Hannibal gritted his teeth, feeling grunts rumble in his throat as he struggled to shut out the conscience he really shouldn't have anymore. But it kept going. The voice in his head kept screaming for him to stop. Those blue eyes kept screaming at him to stop. He knew this was wrong. He had seen his brothers do it to countless people, men and women, force to serve them. But in the end, they had submitted. They stopped fighting and a couple of them even began to worship his piece of shit brothers.
What if it happened with Abel? And then Cain? And then he would have what he always wanted.
Eternal hatred, his conscience burned relentlessly. No one will love you after this. You know full well that those slaves never truly loved your brothers for what they'd done. They'd committed suicide just to get away. They made assassination attempts.
But no one will want me anyway, Hannibal thought desperately, then stopped his attack on Cain's twin, who bled and gasped for breath past the golden god restraint rope that he'd strapped over his mouth to shut him up. Shut him up why? Because Abel knew. Abel knew everything, because Abel had everything. Hannibal clenched his fists against the marble flooring as unimaginable pain tore through him.
This was wrong!
Abel lay with his head tilted back, pathetic whimpers of pain spilling past the rope. His leg was bent at an awkward angle, broken, his chest rising and falling. His muscles spasmed in pain, magic struggling to work past the god restraints to no avail.
"Nooo!" The scream of utter anguish sent ice over Hannibal as he jerked his head up in time to see Cain storm across the room. Hannibal shot to his feet and went to back up, trying to find words, but nothing came to mind. The one time he wanted to speak, there was nothing to be spoken. Cain grabbed him hard and rammed his head into the wall. Hannibal gasped, and that was all he managed as his skull split open and blood poured down the back of his neck and he hit the floor, a blanket of darkness consuming him.
And then his nightmare faded, growing darker and darker as images appeared. And soon, he found himself in front of Prometheus, who curled his lip at him in a demented smirk as he sat on the end of an extravagant bed of a beautiful hotel in the upper class part of Styx.
"Well, well, well. Look what the Fates dragged in like a wet kitten out of a gutter. Don't you look pathetic?" Prometheus chuckled, leaning back on his hands. Hannibal said nothing, only stared at Prometheus's feet. He wasn't sure how he felt. Mostly numb. Guilty. Sick. Miserable. Pathetic. He'd never wanted to die more than in that moment as he stood before one of his past tormentors, asking for a place in the world.
And he was sure it was quite a sight indeed. His long black hair was slick with rain water and blood, his long cloak still streaked with Abel's blood, his sleeveless turtleneck torn and jeans still only partially zipped, boots caked with filth. He dripped from the rain that beat the nearby floor to ceiling windows without mercy.
"Ugh," Prometheus said at last, getting up with grace as he went to one of the dressers and snatched up a towel before throwing it at Hannibal, "Clean yourself up. You're disgusting." Hannibal caught the towel against the side of his head and held it there for a moment, still caught in a trance. It was difficult to react to Prometheus, when normally he would have spat in his face and punched him in the nose.
He finally looked up.
"Prometheus." He stated. Prometheus, who'd moved to a bar to pour himself a drink, glanced over with a droll stare before he took out another glass and poured it.
"You've got a weird look on your face, hybrid." He said, turning and handing a drink to Hannibal, who took it without thinking, staring into the dark liquid inside. Hannibal felt a sudden ache, a sudden need to drown it out, so he threw his head back and drank the whole thing. Prometheus smirked and went back to the bar, grabbing the bottle of rum and handing it to his brother, who took it and took a deep gulp.
"Huh," Prometheus mused, swirling his drink in his glass, "I haven't seen someone drink like that in a while. Did you finally get yourself a girl? Or man? Or goat? I don't know what hybrids prefer."
"I raped someone." Hannibal's voice was hollow. Prometheus stared at him for a moment, then scoffed as he went and sat down on the bed again, taking a swallow before smirking at his brother.
"So? People have been doing it for years. In fact, I'm sure it was invented even before murder was. Hell, it's practically genetic in our pantheon. Don't get so down about it. Just look at Epimetheus; you don't actually think Rara is with him for his brains, do you? Epimetheus forced himself on her and she fell victim to her twisted excuses." He explained. Hannibal didn't reply. The alcohol wasn't helping, not really. It just made him feel a little dizzy, which was strange considering he was quite good at holding his liquor. He had to be. When Hannibal didn't reply, Prometheus rose to his feet.
"So what did you do with them afterwards? Kill them? Dump them in a gutter?" He asked. Hannibal blinked slowly and tried to look at Prometheus's face, but couldn't bring himself to do it. The shame felt like a blow to his stomach and a wave of nausea hit him. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and Prometheus tsked at him, reaching out to take his bottle, but Hannibal took a step away from him.
"Don't be such an infant, hybrid. And if you vomit on the floor, I'll smash your face in it... again. Get over it. I'm sure they deserved it--"
"No," Hannibal blurted suddenly, unable to contain the build of rage inside him as he glared at Prometheus, who frowned at him, "No, he didn't. I just... I don't know what happened. I don't know what I was thinking. I hurt him. He didn't deserve it. I just... It's not fair."
"What's not fair?" Prometheus asked with a wicked gleam in his eye, watching the laced alcohol take its effect. The bottle slipped through Hannibal's fingers and shattered to the floor, but Prometheus let it slide as he watched Hannibal tremble and rake a hand through his sticky wet hair.
"It's not fair," Hannibal repeated, voice strained, "Cain wanted me after Abel ditched him. Abel threw him away. And I was there for Cain, doing everything he asked. I threw away myself just so I could keep that-that piece of shit content."
"You were Cain's footstool. That's it."
"But I was there. Meanwhile, Abel was just-just," Hannibal stuttered, blinking quickly, stumbling for a moment before Prometheus caught his elbow to steady him, "He was whoring himself around. He didn't care about Cain at all. He still doesn't. He's just... No, that's not it. No, that's just it. I want Abel to be the bad guy."
"He is a bad guy." Prometheus assured, taking Hannibal by the elbow and leading him over to the bed. Hannibal stumbled and almost hit the floor, but Prometheus swung him around and shoved him back on the bed. Hannibal started to get up.
"Get out of my way," He growled, "I need to go back--"
"Are you stupid," Prometheus laughed, shoving Hannibal back, "If you go back there now, they'll kill you."
"Good, let them--"
"Oh no, not on my watch," Prometheus warned, reaching out to grab a handful of Hannibal's hair, wrenching it and forcing Hannibal's face near his, so those mismatched eyes had nowhere else to wonder, but his face, "You can die afterwards. Right now, as much as I'd like to see Cain gut your ass, I need your help."
"I'm not helping you release the Titans."
"Yes, you are," Prometheus said, making Hannibal narrow his eyes, though, he was still struggling to keep said eyes open, "And you won't even have to worry about dying at the hands of your beloved, because my plan will involve those pathetic little twins falling right into the palms of your hands. Literally, really." Hannibal scowled, shoving Prometheus back uselessly before slumping back against the bed, breathing labored.
"You did something to my drink."
"I always do something to your drink. You're just too blinded by stupidity to pay attention this time. Point is, sleep on it, hybrid. If you help me, you will get the love of not only your beloved Cain, but his slutty little twin too. How neat is that? A twin fantasy come true!"
Hannibal's tongue was too thick to speak as he passed out on the bed, only to awaken the next morning to Prometheus dumping ice water on him and kicking his ass into the bathroom to clean up. He felt as if the next few days, he was running on auto-pilot and a false hope implanted by his damned brother that he'd finally get to hold someone in his arms.
But it wasn't right, and he knew it. The conscience that shouldn't exist tormented his dreams with it.
And so he failed. And his brothers were once again thwarted and he was left living on the soiled filthy docks of Styx, sitting with his back against the inside of a rotten ticket booth, chewing on spoiled fruit peels. With only the shirt on his back and the pants on his legs, he had caved into temptation and wandered into the city, hoping and praying someone would find him and kill him, even though by then he knew very well that there was no such paradise.
He walked into the club that pulsed heavily with music, vibrated the very air around him, with beautiful lyrics he was sure was Atlantean without anyone even knowing. His mouth watered for a taste of enough alcohol to fry his liver for the night and keep him unconscious for a week. He moved for the bar, then stepped back as if he had touched fire when someone bumped into him, and a pair of right blue eyes rose to meet his, and his heart caught in his throat.
An angel?
No... But close enough.
"Oh, gosh, my bad." A beautiful voice murmured, voice a clear crisp American sort of accent. He was a beautiful thing too. Long, blonde almost white hair pulled into a beautiful fountain hairstyle with his hair clip, and enough Goth gear to supply Hot Topic for years. And those eyes...
"Hellooo." Those blue eyes flickered with interest and Hannibal held his breath.
Not in you, fool. No one has, or ever will be, interested in a monster like you.
Unable to stand the idea of another rejection slapping him across the face, Hannibal just gave him a short nod and went past him to the bar. Worst of all, he felt that glowing warm presence follow him.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name." That voice purred.
"Doesn't matter." Hannibal said through clenched teeth, wishing the temptation would fly away, but if anything, it only urged the man closer as he took a seat.
"My name's Akin." He introduced, and said something else, but Hannibal barely heard him over his own thoughts trembling at the name. It was such a beautiful name. So pure and sweet. Even though the man was obviously coming onto him strongly. Hannibal admired his guts. Most people turned away at the very sight of his numerous scars, freakish Atlantean height, and probably the smell of the docks. A poor people smell. He waited for Akin to leave him, but instead, the man actually bought him drinks, enough to give him a tender buzz, and invited him to dance.
We're both drunk. Hannibal assured himself as Akin danced incredibly close to him. Even so, Hannibal was entranced by the smooth movements. He found himself wanting to lick that pale throat, to taste it. His body reacted instantly when Akin took him by the belt loops and snatched him closer, making a rare gasp slip past Hannibal's lips.
"Dance for me, baby." He moaned. Hannibal trembled.
I'll do whatever you want.
That thought suddenly hurt him. No. It was the same feeling he'd gotten with Cain. The need, the burning ache, to do everything that was asked of him. To endure the most humiliating and degrading situation for his employer's enjoyment. He wanted to kick himself.
I'm pathetic.
"You're fucking adorable." Akin purred into his ear and Hannibal felt a strange emotion strike him. Adorable? Him? No one had ever called him such a thing. Hell, no on ever complimented him. What was he supposed to say to that?
And Hannibal found himself in Akin's bedroom after a couple more drinks and another round of erotic dancing he had no idea he could do. He laid on his back, hands handcuffed over his head to the headboard. He was too drunk to care about what was happening. All he felt was the most shocking thing that had ever happened in his life.
Pleasure.
He'd never felt it before. His muscles quivered and his breath left in soft gasps, and sweat poured down his face, droll sliding from the corner of his lips as Akin kissed at his scarred skin without a care in the world. Hannibal kept waiting for Akin to begin gutting him, maybe a trick sent by Cain to woo him before attempting to kill him. He kept waiting for Akin to start calling him an ugly monster, to rot in hell, but he never did. He was gifted with kisses, tender smacking that he would have killed anyone else over. Lord, Akin even kissed his toes and suckled his nipples.
And the moment Akin penetrated him, he was on cloud nine. He wanted to scream at the force of pleasure that flared through him like a rocket. He trembled and bit so hard on his tongue, it was a miracle it hadn't fallen off. He didn't want to scream, didn't want to let Akin know how much control he had over him without even realizing it. Hannibal felt tears prick his eyes for the first time in a long time.
Please, please, please, his mind pleaded desperately.
And he closed his eyes in bliss as Akin continued to torment him with pleasure all night and into the wee hours of the morning. He'd woken up with the worst hangover he'd had since the Titanomachy, but it was worth it.
For the first time in his eons of life, he'd experienced pleasure.
"Hey, Hannibal, could you do me a favor and come over here? I wanna talk about something."
And then it was over. Hannibal felt the strangest pain throb in his chest as he forced himself to walk over to the sofa where the angel he'd met, sat looking so content and powerful. But unlike Cain, who bathed in it and threw it in the faces of everyone around him, Akin was like a serene leopard sitting on the sofa, arm draped across the back of it with his legs tucked beneath him and his expression calm and relaxed.
But Hannibal felt it. He knew what was coming.
Get the fuck out of my house.
He lowered his eyes and prepared for the sting of rejection.
"I had a lot of fun last night. I really enjoyed my time with you. You seem like a very interesting person--"
"But you want me to get out." Hannibal finished for him. He didn't want to hear it after all. He'd rather beat this guy to the punch. For once, he wanted to be the first one. However, Akin gave him a confused stare.
"What? No, I was gonna ask you to stay."
Time froze. Hannibal stared back at those blue eyes that bored into his with an intensity that seared him to the marrow of his bones. Surely he hadn't heard correctly.
"What?" He asked stupidly. Akin tilted his head, an adorable confused gesture as he shifted on the sofa and repeated his earlier statement as well as following it up with the hobby Hannibal had picked up on last night, what with all the bondage and foreplay. However, Hannibal still had difficulties registering what the man had asked him. Surely he was joking.
"I like you, Hannibal." Akin said. Hannibal felt something inside him collapse. He wasn't sure if he was hearing this man correctly. He wondered briefly if he'd forgotten how to speak Greek again. He'd never heard those words combined in the same sentence before. He'd heard it spoken to other people, about other people, but him? No one liked him. It was like an instinctual response to his presence.
And before Hannibal knew what he was doing, he was agreeing to everything Akin wanted. And unlike Cain, who purposely made his demands outrageous and cruel, Akin's were different. His were gentle commands spoken in a loving tone that he'd only ever heard about in stories. Akin was kind and gentle and sweet and loving and caring.
He did everything Akin asked, not because he felt obligated, but because he wanted to. He wanted to hear Akin ask for more, so he could do more. He wanted to shower this beautiful creature with everything he could ever want, and it scared him, terrified him. For once, Hannibal found himself utterly vulnerable and fearful. His growing affection for Akin went far beyond that of simply wanting to be loved and to love. Akin was on a pedestal. If Hannibal could be religious, Akin would be his religion. The uncontrollable urge to nuzzle against Akin and listen to praise he'd never received, to be petted as if he were special.
Hannibal ached for it. How could he have gotten so lucky? How could a piece of shit like him ever be allowed to be so close to someone so perfect? Was this all a dream?
A dream that was shattered as he was forced to stare into those heavenly blue eyes that were overflowing with tears. Hannibal felt his heart splinter. Epimetheus had told Akin the worst nightmare Hannibal kept hidden. Hannibal had tried so hard to keep that nightmare a secret, but of course, his brothers gossiped like hens and of course they would be the ones to tell Akin about what he'd done to Abel.
And now he was watching the angel he worshiped weep.
Say something! Make him stop crying! This is your fault! How could you do this to the only person who's ever shown you the good in life!
"Akin," Hannibal managed, reaching for him, "Akin, I didn't--"
"Get out!" Hannibal yanked his hand back as if he'd been struck. And he felt like he had. His heart went beyond being broken. Now he understood all the songs about heartbreak, understood why Epimetheus had been so shattered by Rara's death, why his step-mother had been so hurt by her husband's betrayal, why the sons of Hades were broken, why Hades himself wallowed in misery. The pain that pierced him even out did the pain he'd experienced over his attack on Abel.
"What?" Hannibal asked, dazed by the pain that tore through his veins like hot ice. It got even worse when Akin choked on a sob of agony.
No, please, Akin, please don't cry.
Akin, please.
I'm so sorry.
"I said get the fuck out of my house! Get out! Get out!"
Hannibal couldn't move. He felt frozen solid. He wanted to speak, but his lips refused to move. He wanted to at least explain, but he couldn't. What could he say? Apologize? What good would that do? It wasn't Akin who needed an apology, not really, not over what he'd done to Abel. And yet, he found himself wanting to beg Akin for his forgiveness.
"Get out! You're a monster!"
You're a monster. Hannibal echoed internally, his breath knocked out of his lungs. He couldn't move, and Akin was sick of looking at him. Akin came forward and grabbed him in a vice grip that told Hannibal exactly how sick he'd made Akin. He was thrust from the house, memory wiped, and the moment he stepped off the property, which had been the next morning, he didn't know where Akin lived. He'd been forced to leave the property. The owner had threatened to call the authorities and Hannibal couldn't risk it. He didn't want to trouble Akin any further.
So he walked around Styx for days, feeling numb and cold. He'd never felt so empty in his entire life, and no matter what garbage he found on the street to eat, he only vomited it back up. He stumbled back to the ticket booth at the docks, but it had been overrun by rats and a couple of orphans. He wandered around the docks again.
He'll come back. He'll come back for me. He will.
He won't, Hannibal knew. Why should he? Akin was right. He was a monster. He knew it, and he always had. He just hoped for one moment, one little moment in his ridiculously long life, he had touched light and was allow to hold it in the palm of his hand... But it was too good to be true, and he knew it.
And yet, he still found himself returning to the bar where he'd met Akin, hoping and praying Akin would be there.
So what? He could apologize? No.
So he could nuzzle his feet again? No.
He didn't know why. And returning to the bar had been answered by the Fates when his drink had been heavily laced, and he'd fallen for it again, and woke up to dozens of men and women around him, inside him, on top of him.
There was no pleasure in their violent intrusions of his body, both with their own body parts, with toys, with filthy objects people brought in from the streets, or the needles used to inject him with drugs. Drugs that did nothing to ease the pain. No, it was just enough to keep him docile and weak, not that it mattered to him. He'd given up his struggle just minutes into the torture.
Because I deserve this. Hannibal decided, his eyes closed as he laid inside the dirty janitor's closet during the few hours when he wasn't being used. He laid there in silence, his hands forced behind his back, the collar Akin had gifted him with now used as his gag to keep him silent, even though he was heavily encouraged by his tormentors to make noise. He couldn't find it in him.
He didn't cry. He didn't scream.
Because I deserve this.
"God, you're one fugly little piece of shit," One of the men grunted as he slammed Hannibal into the wall, having paid for a full half hour with him, "I should put a bag over your head." Hannibal said nothing, merely stared through blank eyes as the man's friend came forward to join him. He could barely feel the tearing of his muscles anymore, barely feel the blood caking the insides of his legs, barely feel the cock stretching his mouth open to the point where his jaw dislocated to accommodate the size of the inhuman creature fucking his face.
The drugs buzzed through his system and the pulsing music outside the public restroom was a welcome distraction. He closed his eyes and worked to the beat of the music. But something felt off about this night.
Something was reaching out to him through the haze of the drugs. Something was different. Was it a new customer?
And suddenly the cock in his mouth was gone, so suddenly that he choked and fluids poured out of his mouth as he hunched over to fill his lungs with air. The man in front of him bashed him upside the head for puking in his lap in the middle of their orgy, but a moment later, he, too, was gone. And the other man behind him was also gone. With no support, he collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily. He blinked through the thick drug cocktail in his veins and tilted his head, seeing a face in the crowd of blurry faces.
And he swore he saw Akin. It made his heart beat even faster. He was rushing through the drugs faster than they could pump him full of it. He panted desperately, face against the bathroom floor one minute, and caressed by a soft tender hand the next. He waited for someone to shove their fingers in his mouth with the drug cocktail powdered on their fingers, but he got nothing.
Oh, right. He decided and slid his tongue out of his mouth, licking at the salty fingertips for the powder, but there was nothing there and a wave of disappointment spread through him.
Where are the drugs? Where's the powder? Please... Give me something... I'm starting to feel again.
His heart ached, and again, he swore he saw Akin's face above him, tear-stained, and agony tore through him.
You did that! You made him cry! You ruined a perfectly good person, you sick bastard! Why didn't you just stay at the docks that night? Why did you have to go into the bar? Why did you have to let him get you drunk? Why did you have to let him take you home?
Because I want to be loved too. Is that so wrong?
Yes. Because monsters like you? Don't get to be loved.
"Akriyo vas. Misko eta vos." Hannibal whispered, loathing the taste of Atlantean on his tongue, but he suddenly forgot what the Greek words were for his plea to whoever was struggling to balance him in their arms, their warm soft arms around him like a cage as he tilted his head in toward the sound of a beating heart. The Atlantean words meant please, master, love me again.
And then he woke up to Akin, again and again and again and again and again.
And he waited.
He waited to for Akin to kick him out, waited to be spat upon, waited to be hated, waited for what he waited for his entire life. Instead, Akin was always there to greet him in the morning, petting him and whispering good morning, loving him like he promised he always would.
And Hannibal woke up from the string of nightmares that had haunted his past. He woke in a cold sweat, breathing hard and moving his arms to squeeze Akin's waist when he realized Akin wasn't there and ice cold panic wracked his body. He was still beneath the blankets, wearing only a pair of black boxer-briefs. He blinked rapidly in the darkness, breathing hard as he shoved the blankets back, grasping at the bed for some kind of sign that Akin was there, but he wasn't.
The bed was cold and empty.
He threw the blankets back and climbed out of bed, slowing down when he heard the sound of the television downstairs in the living room of their new apartment. Hannibal blinked rapidly, moving for the stairs that led off the loft and down to the living room where Akin was sitting up, slightly slumped over, eyes closed and his long blonde hair in a sloppy bun. He was fast asleep, a pen in his hand, and papers scattered on the coffee table.
Hannibal relaxed as he approached silently, staring down at the papers. It was mostly papers for the marriage license Akin insisted upon, and papers involving the rent of their new apartment. Hannibal looked at Akin, who was still asleep. He took the pen from Akin's hand and set it on the coffee table, turning to look at the television that was flashing bright colors everywhere. He was tempted to turn it off, but Akin hadn't given him permission to use the television and he didn't mind. He didn't care for the contraption, never had.
He stared down at Akin, who continued to sleep peacefully, locks of blonde hair sliding across his face. Hannibal swallowed tightly at the sudden lump in his throat. Not wanting to go back to bed in fear of being attacked by nightmares, he climbed onto the sofa and curled up, laying with his head in Akin's lap. He reached up and pulled Akin's hand down to rest on his head, fingers sinking into his hair.
Hannibal closed his eyes, and finally fell asleep.
Akin woke up shortly before seven in the morning, exhausted and sore. He started to move when he felt a weight on him and blinked his eyes open sleepily, reaching up to knuckle at his eyes. He looked down, and a smile fell across his lips at the sight of Hannibal sleeping curled up against him like an over-sized kitten. Akin pet his hair gently and Hannibal's eyelids slid open tiredly before he tilted his head to look up at Akin as warm sunlight poured in through their floor to ceiling windows.
"Good morning, Hannibal." He greeted softly, a smile gracing his lips. Hannibal stared up into the light of his eternal darkness.
"Good morning, master."
FIN
A/N: Yeah, this was kind of depressing, but hey! Hey! It got good at the end :) Oddly enough, whenever I'm in some kind of rut, it's always Hannibal who's there to encourage me out of it. Something about these two~ Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed a little inside look at Hannibal and his past!
Quick Pronunciation Guide:
Menoetius: meh-nee-tee-ohs
Prometheus: proh-mee-thee-uhs
Epimetheus: eh-pih-mee-thee-uhs
Iapetus: E-yah-peh-tohs
Lea: Leh
Xenon: zee-nohn
Matri koso: mah-tree-kohs-oh
Sos eta Hannibal: sohs eh-tah hahn-ee-bahl
Akriyo vas. Misko eta vos: ah-kree-yoh vahs. mee-skoh eh-tah vohs.