The skull graved in the floor regarded him as he strode through the foyer, the Norman Chapel of Palermo, severe, beautiful and timeless, with a single reminder of mortality. There were new chambers with doors connecting them to the old ones. Cracks had formed in now crumling walls.

Wandering in the corridors of his memory palace, his fingertips were tracing the deep marks the Great Red Dragon had left on Will's body. His gaze was distant, his mind absent and his voice quiet: "Back then, I pleaded to God to spare my sister's life. I sank to my knees and implored him to take me instead. Nonetheless he made the wrong decision."

"It wasn't God who took your sister's life."

"Then he is either not almighty or rather, he likes to gloat. That day, I swore to myself I would never pray again. And I have always prided myself in being a man who never breaks a promise."

"But you did."

"Yes."

"What would have happened, if I had died?"

"You know what I became when I lost Mischa. If I loose you... What do you think I would do?"

Will closed his eyes.

"You would eat me, my heart, my brain, ... Nothing of me you'd let go to waste. No exhibition of your artistry this time. Nobody but you is allowed to see me this way, to touch me, to consume me. And after nothing of me is left, you would set the world on fire and everyone who's in it. You would stand there and listen to their agony, while everything is burning to the ground, just for you to walk into the flames to follow me."

The older man just smiled, calm and collected.

"Do you believe in Heaven and Hell, Hannibal?"

"No, because if they did exist, I would never see you again for eternity."

Will: "What god do you pray to?"

Hannibal: "I don't pray. I have not been bothered by any considerations of deity, other than to recognize how my own modest actions pale beside those of God. (...) God is beyond measure in wanton malice... and matchless in his irony." 2.11