The Lecter Variations

Shepard's Lamb
Part II in "The Lecter Variations"
By: TheGoddessofDeath

Many moons have waxed and waned since the night the lamb was taken by the wolf for his own; the night that Mischa lost herself to her elder brother. It was not as if the now woman regretted it. Far from it actually. However, it was just a joke to her brother. It upset her, really. She wanted to be something to him, not just some convenient fuck.

It was as if Mischa was a possession of her brother's; some trophy in which she was to sit at his side. Hannibal was possessive, but he let her be her own person when he could not keep his hawk eyes on her. The blonde female wanted to cavort with other males as she reached adulthood, but her elder brother was not going to let her do such a thing. Whenever she did manage to sneak off with some other male, the next day they were reported by the local newspapers to be missing or found dead in a ditch on the outskirts of the city.
Mischa could not refuse Hannibal's advances. If she did, she was faced with a knife or some other similar sharp object. She was disgusted by him, wondering when the sweet boy she had known years ago had went off the deep end.

When she had lived with Hannibal torturing her this way for a year, Mischa faces a predicament. There is always that slim chance she can get away, but Hannibal is tightening his grip. When he wants something, he gets it.

At the age of sixteen, Mischa does not think she should be pregnant with her brother's child. At any age she does not think she should have his child. However, the first child has been conceived. It was rape, and there was nothing she could do about it. Now that she was pregnant, Hannibal has her locked in a room very distant from the main part of their Aunt's home. He says it is because no one should know of the monster she is growing within her.

It is hard for Mischa to think of the unborn life within her as a monster, but when she goes into labor six months early, she cannot help but think the name fitting. Hannibal is there for the birth, though it is simple enough and the fetus slips from her. The red blob that she was sure would have grown to be a baby if her body had permitted it to do such. She watches her brother pick up the lifeless mess as tears stream from her eyes. "What do you plan on doing with it?" she manages to choke out as he puts it in a towel and wraps it up so it is no longer visible.

"Keep it for research," is all he says before turning and walking out of the room, the sounds of his younger sister's wails barely reaching his ears.

He returns hours later to find her asleep. The smell of her blood and fluids still is prominent in the air, and it makes his hormones go haywire. Even though he knows Mischa has had a rough day, he still wants to join with her intimately again. Taking his trusty knife from his pocket, he lifts her skirt and pulls her undergarments down to her knees. There is still traces of the blood around her nether region, and Hannibal delights in prodding the knife's handle inbetween the labia's lips. She moves only slightly with the contact of the metal object, moaning lightly in her sleep. No doubt dreams of that monster she birthed, he thinks to himself, the handle running up and down her entire inner works now, touching her clit and teasing the entrance of the vagina. Hannibal can only hope she awakens soon enough.

She does soon enough, waking up when the rigid object enters her. "Hannibal!" she screeches, but he continues. Memories come flooding back of last year, and she whimpers at the way the now-heated metal pumps in and out of her, and she craves the real thing.

Within moments, Hannibal is pounding in and out of her at full throttle, both of them eager to feel the other completely and come to that completion they know is waiting.

It comes a minute later, the siblings letting out chortled screams of adoration, and Mischa is not quite sure but she knows she will have to become the support of another "monster" soon enough.

It is not even two weeks when the feeling of motherhood washes over her again.

Yet again she goes into labor six months early, and the distorted baby falls from her, dead.

He takes this one as well.

The night he is within her again, and the vicious cycles continues.

The next baby also comes six months early. She has had three babies in the time it should normally take to have one.

Hannibal is not giving up, however.

Mischa is impregnated again, and she almost feels like a machine built just for him.

Three months pass, and no baby. Four months. Five months. Six months. Seven months. Still no baby. This one is growing normally, and she almost cries in relief.

This one came out in eight months and thirteen days. Even though she does not have a calendar like she has in her own room, she knows. It will be a hard birth and she is alone in the room when the contractions hit her. She wants to run to her brother and cry for help, and she probably could, but she is bleeding and there is always the chance that her aunt could see her in her current state and ask a ton of questions.

Then there is always that point that she is locked in this room with only one window. Sometimes she wishes her aunt had a smaller house, so that she would know that Mischa was missing. Hannibal just claimed his sister was too ill to be seen by others, and that she should be left alone. And that's what happened. Not once did her aunt ever come to check on how her only niece was doing with this so-called disease she had. No. Only Hannibal was allowed to see her. She would admit, for this whole thing, he was very kind to her. Loving might be kind of a stretch, but he seemed to care about her.

Now here she is, alone in this room and she is scared of the death she knows awaits her. It's all right, she tells herself, as long as my baby survives.

She feels the baby's head pushing, straining, trying to get through the what seemed like a much smaller cervix. Mischa lets out a strangled cry, tears forming in her eyes as she tries to help the baby through. She doesn't hear the baby screaming yet, so she clenches her stomach muscles harder, gritting her teeth, sweat forming on her now flushed face. She much preferred giving birth to the three month old babies. Even though each one came out dead and she cried over them, she never felt as if her entire being would be split in two from giving life to them.

It's then she can feel it, the weight slipping through her and out onto the bed. Still, there in no crying amidst the blood thundering in her ears. With one final push, she feels the body slip from her completely, and the afterbirth seeping out of her slowly onto the now-crimson stained sheets.

Mischa never felt herself move as fast as she did now. Between her legs sits a bloody mess, but the baby is there, choking and sputtering. Not knowing what to do, she rips the umbilical cord from his stomach and discovers it is around his neck. Not only that, but his head is toward her. "Isn't the baby supposed to come out the other way?" she mutters to herself, grabbing a towel Hannibal so conveniently put next to her bed if such was to occur. She wipes the newborn boy quickly before listening to him sputter. Instinct took over and all she could do was put her mouth to his and suck the fluid from his tiny lungs and into her mouth. She spit it onto the towel between her legs before sucking it out of his nose and spitting again. It was salty and thick, but she is all too happy to finally hear the cry of the newborn. It is not as shrill as she first imagined it would be, but it is still a healthy baby. And best of all, she is not dead.

The first thing that comes to her mind is how she wants to wash herself and change the bed, but she cannot even do that. Mischa takes the water jug near the towels and saturates one of the remaining towels with half of its contents and rubs it against the tender skin of the infant, only at ease when he settles down a bit and gazes up at her with blue eyes. It seems almost a serene feeling to her. Is this what it's like to be a mother?

Getting back on the dirty bed, she cradles the boy close to her chest and lets him suckle from the right breast in which he cannot seem to find himself. She helps guide him to it, seeming lost in a haze, and all she can wonder as the room goes dim is where her brother is.

* * *

Hannibal is across town as the sun sinks beyond the farthest point of the horizon and the stars kiss the last purple clouds goodnight. Not in the lab with the knife and the dead body he is supposed to be examining on a cold, hard metallic table. He is in the arms of some nameless woman whom only speaks french, painted red lips now smeared and he is sure the traces of the makeup are on his face, lips and neck.

A cold feeling spreads through him, and he pushes up from the small bed they found refuge from prying eyes in a dank motel. He roughly pushes the female off of him, and starts to dress.

"Leaving so soon?" Her voice carries an almost nasty tone to it, and Hannibal cannot help but frown at her.

"Yes. My sister is sick and I have a feeling she is not doing too well." His shirt is buttoned and he runs his lithe fingers through thick hair.

There is a smug look on the woman's face, an auburn eyebrow raised. "So, you're out fucking me while your sister is ill. Some brother you are."

It sends off some sort of spark within Hannibal, something that makes him snap. "How dare you speak to me in that way, you insolent slut. I do not think anyone gave you the right."

"Yeah, yeah," she says, brushing his words off as if they are not relevant to the task at hand. "Just gimme the payment and you can go to your sister."

Looking to the woman again, he notes how her breasts are bared to him. The moonlight filtering in from the slightly open window outlines then, and he has a hunger in the pit of his stomach surfaces.

"Here is your payment!" he roars, teeth coming down on her left nipple and tearing it from her chest in an agonizing tug, a screech from the female below him. Hannibal swallows the mouthful of flesh, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. "Thank you, ma'am," he says with a smirk, and the lady he was in the company of falls limp to the bed.

Lady Murasaki is sitting in the kitchen, sipping on a half empty glass of wine when Hannibal walks through the door. "Good evening, Lady Murasaki."

"Hannibal!" she jumps up from the chair, trying to throw her arms around him but he shoves her away. She does not think much of it. "Why are you home so late?"

"None of your business. I must see to Mischa."

Before she can say anything more, Hannibal storms up the stairs in a rage from the encounter with the harlot.

Mischa is jarred from her sleep by the sound of that familiar key in the lock. "Hannibal...?"

The infant is asleep on her bare chest, and the dim light from the hallway filters in the room. The tall male enters, fumbling for the matches that lie in his pocket and lights the gas lamp.

He says nothing, looking at Mischa and the infant, both naked as can be on the stained linens. There are a few of the soiled towels on the floor, still damp with water, blood and afterbirth. All Hannibal can do is kick them off to the far right corner of the room as he approaches his sister. The stench of amniotic fluids still taints the air, and he notes that Mischa's thighs are caked with a layer of dried blood.

"Where have you been?" Mischa decides to start the conversation, since Hannibal is giving her a look of "explain yourself", but she is not going to until he does first.

"I was in the company of another woman. I was growing quite restless of you cutting me off when I tried to be intimate with you."

Mischa's brown eyes flash a shade of amber. "You were in the company of a whore while I was giving birth to your son?"

The male's eyes cannot help but wander to the infant that lies asleep across his sister's chest. "Yes, I was," he says simply, stepping toward Mischa and his son, but the blond female hides him from her brother.

"You will not touch him until you come up with a better explanation than that."

A smirk crosses the elder male's face, and he chuckles. "Well, what do you think you are to me, hm? You are my Mischa, my sister, my mate, my whore."

Her eyes well up with tears as she sighs, still cradling her son close.

"Now, let me see my son."

His sister is unwilling to give the newborn up, but he wrenches him from her grasp, ultimately waking the infant and a shriek as his award.

"My, my, my, Mischa. What a beautiful baby. However, there is one slight problem."

Mischa feels her heart tighten in her chest, and she is finding it difficult to breathe. "W-what?"

"He seems to be slow. In a more fitting word, retarded."

Mischa can only swallow, trying not to throw up. "W-well, he did come out feet first, and the cord was wrapped around his neck..."

Hannibal gives the baby one more look over, nodding his head with a smirk. "A breech birth. I see. Do you know why this baby is retarded, Mischa?"

She adopted a look of confusion to her face, shaking her head and trying to fight back tears as hard as she could. "N-no, I don't."

"It is because you are a terrible mother. A dirty whore who fucks her brother and sows his seed in her womb to create failures. You carry this failure of a human being for months and birth it wrong. What a pity, what a waste of lives. His and yours."

The infant is still screeching at the top of his lungs, and Hannibal draw a knife from his pocket. The same knife he used two years prior in his first encounter with his sister. "Say goodbye, Mischa."

Hannibal holds the child by his ankles, dangling him upside down and he screeches louder. With one swift movement of her brother's hand, the screeching abruptly stops and Mischa can only watch as her son's head falls to the floor in a pool of blood.

She turns white as the walls surrounding them, the anger in her coming to a full hilt. Tears stream down her cheeks, and she screams as loud as she can. "You killed my baby, you monster! YOU KILLED MY BABY YOU FUCKING MONSTER!"

"Shut up," he growls at her, pointing the bloody blade in her face. "Weep if you so desire, but his life is now mine. He is dead, and you cannot bring back the dead. Now," Hannibal places the knife in his pocket and picks up the head of the now dead infant, going toward the door, "this baby shall make a lovely supper for me."

All Mischa can do is scream, "NO! NOT MY BABY! NO!" over and over again, hysteric sobs wracking through her being as the door shuts behind the monster she called "Hannibal" and "Brother", and the all too familiar click of the lock is drowned out by the sound of the lamb screaming.

* * *

The trail behind Hannibal is that of his son's blood, dripping across the wooden slats as he makes his way to the kitchen. The cooks are all asleep for the evening, and Lady Murasaki has retired to her bedchamber. Perfect.

Dragging out a cutting board and putting it on the counter, Hannibal places the tiny body on the board. It fits almost perfectly.

Taking the bloody knife from his pocket, he grins almost maniacally. "Now then. Let us see here."

Making a clean slice down the chest and stomach down to the groin of his son, he peels the skin back and licks his lips at what greets him. After picking off the chest muscles and abdominal muscles, he can see his prizes: the heart, the liver, the lungs, the stomach, the intestines, the kidneys, the testes... all there for him to enjoy.

"And for this..." he smirks, taking the decapitated head and cutting the top of the skull clean off. It was so much easier to do, considering this was only a six hour old infant and the structure of the innards were not developed so much as an adult's. The brain he retracted with a tug, the nerves stretching and finally snapping.

Taking out a soup pot and a frying pan, he happily places the carcass and empty head into the pot and his prized innards one by one in a row to be sauteed in the pan. The pot was put on the stove and almost a gallon of water was put in with the carcass. "It should do nicely to simmer in its own juices," he smirked to himself, going over to the pan and turning on the burner, coating the pan with a nice layer of olive oil.

The sizzling and popping of the oil in the pan when the first organ, the brain, hits the frying pan, the smell thrills him. He flash fries it until the brain turns grey and he puts it on a platter in which he would arrange the organs one by one as they were cooked.

One by one the organs are placed into the pan, cooked until done and placed neatly in a circle around the silver platter. Satisfied with his work, Hannibal takes the organs one by one and slices some, dices others, and arranges them once again on the platter.

In the meanwhile the carcass and head has boiled, the broth around them a scarlet red, the smell of something that smelled of the mix of lamb and chicken hangs in the air. "Just lovely," he mutters, turning the heat down to let it simmer. After a short time, he finally turns the stove off.

Pulling the carcass out with tongs, he places the now cooked boy on the cutting board. The muscle is no longer red, but a pale beige; the color of a porkchop. It almost falls off the bone as he carves the meat and puts it in the middle of the arrangement of sliced and diced organs. Placing the bones back in the pot, he smiles and puts a piece of thigh meat on his tongue, chewing and swallowing. "Magnifiique."

Picking the platter up by its handles, he walks to the biggest bedroom in the house, knocking politely. "Lady Murasaki?"

"Hannibal? Come on in," he hears from the other side, and he pushes the door open.

"Lady, I brought you some dinner. I got a young lamb from market today and cooked him just now. Would you like some?"

Lady Murasaki smells the food before her, licking her lips. "It smells divine, Hannibal. Yes, I would love to try some. Would you mind tell me what is what?"

By the time Hannibal leaves the room, the entire platter is clean.

* * *

After crying until her throat was raw and her head hurt, Mischa fell into an unwilling sleep. She dreams of her baby crying for her to help. Not just the screeching he had done earlier, but crying, "Mama! MAMA!" loudly.

She awakens with a start, tears streaming down her face. The flame in the gas lamp is still burning dimly, her eyes scouring with an unknown heat. She feels dirty, wanting to bathe and get the remitments of birth off of her.

The lock is being worked again, and she does not even react to it this time. The male walks in, wiping the trail of blood from the wooden floor. He finishes his task, throwing the towel he has been using in the corner with the other soiled pieces of cloth. Mischa turns from him as he advances, the tears still steadily flowing from her eyes.

"You're still crying for that brat, Mischa? Come now. He was going to die anyway. How long do you think he would have lasted?"

There is no answer from the female, her back still to him as silent tears still fall onto the mattress.

"Answer me, Mischa."

Her voice, when it does sound, is filled with hatred and disgust. "You are the sickest bastard I know."

Hannibal's lithe fingers wrap around her shoulders, forcing her to look at him as he sits on the bed next to her. "I wish I had left some of him for you to try. He was quite small, but I think I am quite fond of infant now."

A wail could not help but surface from the blonde female's throat, and Hannibal shushes her by stroking her hair gently. She screams at him to get away from her, but he only moves closer to her, shushing her the entire time, and a song she has almost forgotten falls from his lips.

Ein Maennlein steht im Walde ganz still und stumm
Es hat von lauter Purpur ein Mantlein um
Sagt, wer mag das Maennlein sein
Das da steht im Walde allein
Mit dem purporroten Mantelein


Mischa finally calms herself and falls quiet as the words touch an unknown chord within her, breathing steadying to a normal rate before she looked to him again with love.

Moving over her, Hannibal grins and pushes her to the mattress. He disregards the mess still laying on the sheets, only concentrated on his sister. "Here, taste your son."

In the next moment his lips are over hers, tongue urging her lips to part for him. When she does, their tongues merge like dancers, brother and sister made to come together and fit almost symmetrically. Mischa can taste the bite of the human flesh on her brother's slick muscle, and she finds herself craving more.

Hannibal keeps them locked together until neither can breathe. When he pulls away, Mischa is busy trying to loosen the belt around his hips.

"I knew you were Brother's little whore," he whispers heavily, almost too eager to begin mating with his sister once more.

"Yes, anything you want. I just need you."

His pants are not even halfway down his thighs as he dives into her. The fluids from the birth that had happened earlier help Hannibal move swiftly, grasping the cloth that is underneath them. The pain from earlier seems almost obsolete as her elder brother moves faster and faster within her, hitting the very core of her with every thrust.

"Hm, you are a little slut, aren't you, Mischa? You just love feeling me in you..."

The blonde underneath him yowls, fingernails clawing at his shoulders and neck until they draw the scarlet blood she seeks. Lifting her head, her tongue laps at the red droplets, savoring their almost metallic taste. The pain sends a rush through Hannibal and he lowers his teeth to the juncture of her neck and shoulder, biting hard until she bleeds. Her piercing cry echoes through the room and, he is sure, down the hallway.

The bite sends a surge of pleasure and pain through her, causing her to clamp her inner muscles around Hannibal's cock. The taste of his sister's sweet blood, combined with the scream and the movement causes him to orgasm, a heat passing from him into her.

Mischa has come with him, and he knows; her head is lolling back to hit the pillow, both of them panting hard.

"There," Hannibal says suddenly, pulling out of her. "I consumed our son in the hopes that perhaps I could let our next baby come out just like him. Now, I think you need to bathe and I'll change the bed while you do such."

Leading his sister to the bathroom and drawing a hot bath for her, she thanks him with a kiss and gets in. Getting a new set of sheets from the closet down the hall, he returns to the room to perhaps erase the smell of amniotic fluid and cum from the air.

* * *

The next baby arrives a week shy of nine months, and the birth is surprisingly easy. Hannibal is here this time to help her deliver it, and he hands her the infant after fluid is removed from her lungs and nasal passages. A girl. A healthy daughter.

The fussing from the newborn that laid in her arms was minimal; a few whimpers here and there but not much. Finally, not some distorted face looked up at her. Not some misshapen prey for her brother. This one was normal. This was the baby they had been waiting for.

Mischa looks over her shoulder as her brother approaches, looking to the baby within the female's arms. "Hannibal, come meet your new daughter."

Curious baby blue eyes peered at the girl, an eyebrow quirked. "Suppose there's no chance of me getting a second helping."

Remembering the meal her beloved had made out of the previous baby, Mischa involuntarily shivers. "No, Hannibal. She's fine."

Without warning, the elder male takes the baby, examining it like a doctor should. "Hm, you are correct. She seems to be a normal baby this time."

"I told you," Mischa scolds softly, taking the baby girl back into her arms. The newborn female gurgles and looked up to the adults, especially her mother, with soulful eyes. It's almost as to ask, "Why am I here?"

Hannibal smiles upon her, looking to his sister and nuzzling her hair. "Finally," is the only word he can say.

The baby searches for a source of food she knows instinctively is close by. Mischa opens the dress shirt Hannibal put on her earlier, bringing the child to her right breast and letting her latch to the nipple. She feeds greedily on her first taste of her mother's milk, her small lungs working well and fine as she sucks.

"She needs a name," Mischa says softly, looking to Hannibal again. "Do you have an idea for one?"

He is silent for a moment, thinking intently.

"Clarice," he says suddenly, his smirk a little unsettling to Mischa's stomach. "I like the way it rolls off my tongue."