Clarice dreams.
She is on a frigid plain-- Norway. The wind cuts across her face, and she can hardly see for the brilliant sunlight reflecting off the snow. She becomes cognizant of someone standing a little ways away from her, maybe thirty yards: It's the figure of a man dressed in swirling robes.
"Hello, Clarice," he says. And despite the howling wind, she can hear his voice as if it's at her ear.
"What are you doing here?" she shouts; her voice does not carry.
"I'm here to teach you."
Clarice sees him waving his arm-- no, he's not waving it. He's drawing. Bright shapes appear in the air, like Svava's runes. She tries to run forward to stop him, but she doesn't get more than a few steps before the rune blazes bright in the air and she's frozen to the spot. Lecter draws another rune, this one blood-red, and points at her. The image erupts into crimson flames that begin to shoot towards her across the snow. Clarice can't even scream. The fire swirls around her, nearer and nearer to her skin. Just as she feels the flames touch her, they turn cool and soft, like the fluttering of thousands of petals. Roses.
Clarice still can't move. She watches helplessly as Lecter approaches her: slowly, deliberately. He has another rose in his hand, this one so red it's almost black. He hands it to her, but her arms are paralyzed like the rest of her. Lecter smirks-- but something strange is happening to his face. His teeth seem to stretch and stretch until they are too sharp and long for his mouth. Stripes appear on his skin. Before Clarice realizes what's happening, he has turned into a giant sabre-tooth tiger.
Lecter casts one last amused, feline look at her before leaping up into the air-- higher, higher, higher, until it seems he's blotting out the sun. But no, Clarice realizes, that's not what's he's doing. He isn't obscuring the sun.
He's devouring it.
The world plunges into darkness like someone flipped the lightswitch on it. The wind is screaming in her ears and then the screaming rises like the cries of children-- no, not children!
Like the screaming of the lambs.
"Hello, Clarice," he says. And despite the howling wind, she can hear his voice as if it's at her ear.
"What are you doing here?" she shouts; her voice does not carry.
"I'm here to teach you."
Clarice sees him waving his arm-- no, he's not waving it. He's drawing. Bright shapes appear in the air, like Svava's runes. She tries to run forward to stop him, but she doesn't get more than a few steps before the rune blazes bright in the air and she's frozen to the spot. Lecter draws another rune, this one blood-red, and points at her. The image erupts into crimson flames that begin to shoot towards her across the snow. Clarice can't even scream. The fire swirls around her, nearer and nearer to her skin. Just as she feels the flames touch her, they turn cool and soft, like the fluttering of thousands of petals. Roses.
Clarice still can't move. She watches helplessly as Lecter approaches her: slowly, deliberately. He has another rose in his hand, this one so red it's almost black. He hands it to her, but her arms are paralyzed like the rest of her. Lecter smirks-- but something strange is happening to his face. His teeth seem to stretch and stretch until they are too sharp and long for his mouth. Stripes appear on his skin. Before Clarice realizes what's happening, he has turned into a giant sabre-tooth tiger.
Lecter casts one last amused, feline look at her before leaping up into the air-- higher, higher, higher, until it seems he's blotting out the sun. But no, Clarice realizes, that's not what's he's doing. He isn't obscuring the sun.
He's devouring it.
The world plunges into darkness like someone flipped the lightswitch on it. The wind is screaming in her ears and then the screaming rises like the cries of children-- no, not children!
Like the screaming of the lambs.