One cold February Day…
Hannibal Cannon. That was the name he’d called himself for for over a hundred years. But it was not the name he was born with.
Sure, it had a nice ring to it, and perhaps that is why it caught on. Even in 1824, his name was a bit unusual, but moreover, it was a family tradition. His father had been Lafayette, though everyone just called him Lafe, and it’s where Hannibal had gotten his middle name. Other family members included his older brother Asaph, Aunt Fern, Uncle Israel, Cousins the sisters Melvina, Docia, and Araminda, Arcus Cyrus, Alexandros Leonidas, Wilbur Van Buren, Calliope Jane and sweet Millie Mae. The family tree of the Sixsmiths was broad and strong. But in 1839, Hannibal left it all behind when Lafe died in an accident — kicked in the head by a horse. His mother Malinda, knowing they had 2nd cousins in America with a small amount of wealth, sent her youngest son to live with them, while his older brother Asaph went to work in his father’s place at the ripe age of 16.
Once in America and working for a barkeep named Eleazer Cannon, Hannibal began to plant a tree of his own. He’d fallen in love with a young woman named Euphemia, and from then on every action and decision he made was to win her love in return. It worked, but as Euphie came from a well to do family, he was going to have to show more to win her father’s approval.
When the death of Eleazer left the tavern to Hannibal, he finally had the means to truly propose to the love of his life.
But it wasn’t to last.
Hannibal had seen death since he was a child. A sibling died of the flu, his father killed by a horse, Annamarie found dead in the tavern storehouse drenched in blood after the untimely loss of her son — and only friend of Hannibal’s at the time— Luca. Eleazer’s passing was peaceful in comparison, but nothing would compare to the loss of Hannibal’s first son John.
Time went by, and as Hannibal’s newfound condition as a revenant began to strain the family, he and his wife made the decision to separate, though not through divorce. Till death do us part, and it was agreed upon she would be a widow and take the children to go live with her sister outside Paragon City.
They kept a casual correspondence through the remainder of her life, but as they agreed, he had no contact with their children, as it was important for them to believe he’d died. Over time, he lost track of them and whatever families they’d had.
Hannibal opened the heavy door to the chapel. It was dark and the church was closed, but he’d known the Bishop there since he was just a chaplain in his youth. Bishop Lee was now well into his 70s, but was only ever a phone call away. Hannibal had been thinking about his family again, here so close to Valentine’s Day, and decided to pay a visit. He was permitted to visit at any time, given it was after hours so as not to disturb the guests.
“Hannibal,” the old Bishop smiled as the door let in a crack of pale blue moonlight to the dim chapel, “Come in, come in.”
Hannibal shut the door gently behind him and followed Lee down the aisle, “Actually, your Grace, I wanted to...talk to you.”
Bishop Lee raised a thick white eyebrow at him, “Alright, something...official or…?”
“Just talk I think. I miss my wife.”
Lee took a deep breath, knowing full well the extent of this particular mood. They’d had this discussion before, and though fewer and farther between, it was inevitable to come up again, “Alright,” he gave him a comforting smile and waved him towards a bench near the altar, “Let’s talk.”
Hannibal took a seat beside Lee. The Bishop was no small man, but age had bent him and diminished him to be barely over half the size of Hannibal, who even after 196 years, still stood a hearty 6 foot 6 and weighed about 240 lbs. That isn’t to say time had not changed him. In the 40-odd years he and Lee had known each other, decay had carved its own marks into the revenant.
“The holiday?” Lee asked preemptively, not quite venturing so far as to mention the V-word itself.
Hannibal nodded, “I’ve accepted that she’s gone, Bishop. Please don’t mistake my melancholy for a desire to see her alive again. But at least it would be nice to know we’d see each other again in Paradise. I never would have expected I’d have to wait...so long...” He gave a vulnerable, broken look to Lee as his voice broke like waves on a rocky shore, “There’s never been another Valentine for me, your Grace. Never.”
It was heartbreak in its purest form. Bishop Lee scooted closer to Hannibal and wrapped a frail wrinkled arm around his shoulders as Hannibal shook once, as if to resemble a sob, though no tears could ever come.
“No, Hannibal, I know. You have filled your heart to the brim with your friends and loved ones, but I know it does nothing to stop the ache. Tell me, what about your children? Have you done what I asked? Followed up on your descendants’ whereabouts?” He rested his other hand on Hannibal’s knee.
The dead man looked towards the altar for a moment and then down at the wrinkled hand in his lap, “No. Your Grace, I promised my wife I wouldn’t interfere.”
“That was a long time ago. She couldn’t have known. And look around, the world we live in has changed. Statesman and the Phalanx paved the way for unique persons such as yourself to have a place in society again. I know you’ve sensed it. I remember when getting a seat at Cannon’s was more a drop of divine providence, and now you’re but a cell phone call away. Isn’t that something?”
The corpse nodded.
“I gave you the information I found in the registries, and I can pull a few more strings. Just say the word, old friend,” the Bishop smiled.
“ No...I… I’ve long since accepted that though my soul has not quite gotten the memo, so to speak, I died rightfully and thus will remain so.”
The Bishop furrowed his brows. Hannibal was stubborn to say the least, perhaps that was simply the way with the Dead, but something in the Bishop felt that Hannibal had always had a stubborn streak — much like some of his friends.
“Answer me this then, old friend: what if you found out you’d in fact met one of your great grandchildren already? What if he or she had even sat at your bar and spoken with you. Wouldn’t that be something wonderful to know?”
Hannibal looked conflicted and did not reply.
“Be honest, child, what would you *feel?*” There was only one person in the world who could ever rightly call Hannibal ‘child’, and Bishop Lee was that man.
“I suppose I would be… a little afraid I think, but yes, I would be delighted to know they are alive and well.”
“And if they were not?”
Hannibal tilted his head suddenly, surprised at the question, “What do you mean?”
“You assume they would be well, but what if they were not? What if they had fallen on hard times and were at their wits’ end? What if you ran across them in the street?”
The old corpse hubbed and bubbed at the presumption of his apathy, “Well I would help, of course!”
The Bishop smiled wickedly.
“Oh, damn you, Bishop,” Hannibal scoffed, knowing full well the Bishop was the farthest from being damned.
Leaning away, Lee removed his hand and made the motion to climb to his feet, though it clearly took some preparation. Hannibal sensing this, leapt up first and offered his hands. The Bishop continued with a smile, “So much for that promise, Mr. Cannon.”
“I wouldn’t leave my own family to freeze in the streets, with no home or hearth or warm meal. Heavens!”
“No, of course you wouldn’t. Face facts, old friend, you wouldn’t give a damn about a century old promise if you knew one of your own was in harm’s way,” he poked the barrel-chested revenant with a frail crooked finger, “You simply have the protection of an old habit to shield you from that responsibility.”
“I never intended to hide from any responsibility—!”
The wise old Bishop didn’t let him finish, “They exist because of *you*.” Lee regarded the altar which seemed to suddenly be larger than before and weighed heavily on the space in the chapel. The holy eyes etched in stone and gold all bore down on the barkeep. “We are all God’s children and His responsibility. But no matter how many of us are born or how long we persist, God will *always* be there for us.” The Bishop turned his faded blue eyes to Hannibal with a smile that simultaneously accused and forgave.
“I...wouldn’t know where to begin…”
“Begin...right here,” Lee pulled the watch out of Hannibal’s vest pocket by the chain.
“Have I been a selfish man, your Grace?” the dead figure inquired, as if still concerned about the state of his soul.
“No, Hannibal. You are the kindest person I know. Now, unless you need me for something else, I’ll leave you alone with your wife,” he gave the much taller man a pat on the hand and then toddled off back to bed. Hannibal returned to the pew and spent the next quiet hours praying, until the sun rose through the windows it was time to take his leave--to free the chapel up for living souls whose lives were short and fraught with uncertainty.
Despite his protesting, the Bishop was right. Hannibal had a duty to the people he’d had a part in bringing into the world, even if as a faceless benefactor or guardian angel. He realized now that promises are finite, and much like laws and land and culture, change with context over time. This Valentine’s Day, he’d do more than reminisce on a love only kept alive in his dead heart; he would start to open it to finding the love of those still living.