(i wrote this post to this)
Logically, Lecter had accepted that he would lose Jinx. And yet, whatever small iota of him that had resigned her to such a fate was not strong enough to stand against the demands of his mind, the twinned flames of ire and of grief that burned simultaneously within him.
Too young, too young; the shaman would gladly trade whatever remaining months he had left to himself if only it would break the shadow of madness from overtop her head and breathe new life into her.
In the sleepless nights that followed upon the heels of her deterioration, Lecter lay encased in his brew of opiate and mushroom, breathing somewhat laboured, agonal in the testament of his everlasting love for Jinx. It occurred to him to poison her utterly, to allow her a quick respite against the thirst and the denial that would consume her at the end, but the hot sting of tears against his eyelids, surprising in its foreign sensation, lent credence to the fact that he could not do this thing. He could not kill her, for despite the peace Jinx would gain, her precious blood would be upon him.
And so the madman had settled for self-destruction, and with each slowed beat of his heart, Lecter felt peace settle into its place. He was careful to apportion his poisons as not to allow Jinx to to outlive him; the shaman suspected she had little time, and he intended to mingle the cadence of their hearts until the last beat of her own.
He sought her now, beneath the full belly of the moon, with quiet steps. And once he had found the trail of her scent, feverish, infected, he wept her name into the gloom of the nightfall air. Jinx,
Lecter called, with blind hope in his soul that she would hear him, would come to him. Jinx, come to me. I will not live if you must die.
His voice faded into a hoarse sob, and he was unable to speak.
Icewater eyes raked the fell shadows of the forest for a glimpse of her pale form, but his gaze soon blurred beneath the weight of their salted burdens and he mouthed her name into the blackness once more.