Against all rationality, his only friend was burning from the inside out. Erik wished more than he ever had that he carried a sword, that he might end the suffering of the man bowing before him. But the circumstances in front of him were faster than even a blade, and there was no time to retrieve a weapon from one of the rooms in the Opera House.
Hannibal Lecter, Erik's friend, healer, and star pianist, was dead. The numbness of shock was beginning to wear away. Panic... Yes, there it was, and Erik's eyes widened from it, but he knew it was useless. It was all useless. Instead, he approached the gently smoking body of his friend and dropped down, elbows on knees. The sickly-sweet scent of cooking human flesh... the tugging of abysmal loss beginning to pull on his heart that had already lost too much... Erik removed his gloves and ran a hand across the crisping dark hair - too brief a caress to burn his hand.
"I will miss you," Erik said, knowing that Hannibal's ears were beyond the world - but perhaps, if there were an afterlife, his spirit was not. "My friend."