Erik nodded. It was not what he would have done. But if Dr. Lecter and his friend were cut from the same cloth, and perhaps even shared some of the same experiences, then Erik understood why the older man did what he did. His friend would have been honored. His friend would have liked it.
Looking back at the drifting ash over the blackened body, the keen sense of loss rose up within him - a wash of white and red, a bitter tang in the back of his mouth. Hannibal had been the last of the people in this place that he'd cared about. There was the girl at his manor, and he would protect her, yet. But he did not know her well enough to care about her life or her hopes or her desires. He would not have shared the secret of his lakehouse, or the beauty of his pianos, or the intimacy of a composition penned wholly on her own request. His wife was gone. His friend was gone.
And inside, all he could feel after that powerful wave of loss, was a chilling cold blankness. His heart shut down. He would exist, because his friend cajoled and pleaded with him to keep on living - for that was what Hannibal had done, in his sly way - but it was only for the sake of the memory of that man that he chose to continue.
"I will..."
Here he paused, and drew himself up, settling the facade of the Opera Ghost around himself - a powerful, cold creature, commanding and undisputed in his own element. "I will see you to a doctor," he said more quietly. "If you will come with me, please."
It was not for Dr. Lecter. It was for Hannibal. His driver was just outside - as always.