The warmth became more. Became heat. Became burning. Peace grew to discomfort which gave way to pain, but Hannibal remained in the seat before the piano, determined to play the last note at the proper time. He would not rush, and he would not abandon his work. Not now. Not when he'd found what he'd been needing.
All in the audience were forgotten, Hannibal cared not for any one of them. He had no idea what might be happening to them, or if they were being affected at all. In the end, it was of no matter. He was not playing this for them, not really. He was playing it for the man at his back, his friend. Also a little for himself. Erik had granted permission to Hannibal to think of this as a work for River as well, and Hannibal did in a small amount. He knew, though, that it was truly for Christine and for Erik. So while his heart did pour out in love for his lost River, mostly it was for Erik.
The joints in his arms and fingers felt stiff, but Hannibal forced them to move in the same fluid manner they had before. His chest felt tight and his breath raked his throat until it was tender. His vision spotted and cleared to white, leaving him only vague shadows to look at. He knew the notes, it didn't matter if he saw them, and he would concern himself on the medical aspects later. When all was said and done. Inhaling deeply, Hannibal held air inside so he would not cough.
As the last notes of Erik's threnody drifted into the night, Hannibal stood, slowly. He bowed gracefully to the audience, then moved toward Erik and the elder Lecter, his steps sure and steady despite the whiteness.