He felt the cracking. He felt the fire within him as it grew and overtook each section of his body. It started in the center, like hot magma at the core of the earth. The way it bubbled to the surface was much less violent than a volcano, though no less destructive. There was no question about it now, in his mind, Hannibal was burning for Erik as he had promised to do.
Many thoughts swelled within his mind. How it might have an effect on his friend, seeing this. He hoped that Erik would not blame himself. He also wondered what it might look like on the outside. He hoped it was beautiful. Strangely, Hannibal realized, he felt beautiful. The tragedy was gorgeous. This was a fitting end to himself, and he knew it. There was only one thing that could make it any more poetic than it already was, and he didn't have to guess or hope that it would be achieved. His older self was, afterall, standing by and witnessing everything. He knew that he could leave the desire unspoken and have it taken care of.
Hannibal turned to look at them, though he couldn't see them. Not really. They were mere shadows in the blinding brightness that covered his vision. But he knew their forms well, knew where Erik stood now, knew where the elder Hannibal was. He could even tell, by the slight tilt in the head of the second shadow, that he was being observed, studied. He imagined he might take a new form in that of a painting, and that the painting would be rendered in full realism, studied and adored long after he was gone.
The skin of his face blackened and began to flake, his hands and fingers soon following suit. Hannibal knew that the rest of his body was merely contained by the clothes upon him, should he be nude, the whole of him would be echoing the sentiment. Ashes drifted off of him, caught in a mostly unfelt draft.
His focus was on the shadow of Erik. His friend. He hoped that his friend would not be left alone in this world. That the elder Hannibal would be able to sooth him and be for him what he needed. He hoped that young Arya would also be able to find a new teacher here. There was nothing that she could learn from him that she couldn't learn also from the Elder Lecter.
Hannibal produced a graceful but shallow bow for Erik. When he stood again, the deep fire within him cracked open a harsh line across the whole of his face. He opened his mouth to speak and a terrific plume of smoke was released, the echo of the flames bright in the back of his throat.
"It has been my great pleasure," Hannibal croaked out, his normal tones overcome by the burning of his vocal cords "to be a part of your opera house, to play this piece that you have gifted me. But mostly, Erik, it has been my honor to call you my friend."
His legs refused to keep him aloft any longer. Hannibal's body met the floor in a much more dramatic showing than he would have liked.