Instead of gaining all of those shiny powers and then going back to himself (finally letting Gabriel, the little voice in his head, Gray breathe) he decided to take another step and become even more powerful then he already was.
(these days it's now impossible for him to become even mightier then he is, and him and his damaged mind doesn't like that one bit)
"How are you, great king, and your empire of dirt?"
"Bloody brilliant, this king is just missing the key ingredient to success."
"And what would that be, my lord?"
"You, fair maiden, it's always you."
-
Back when my temper was hot and fast, now it's just cold (freezing all my many enemies to the bone) and filled with the dust of so many centuries, I would have said 'and it will always be missing'.
But nowadays the fight (which is now better then biting and hair pulling) is something old and gray and it's about time I finally put my fists down and bow down to my king.
(put down my fists, my many guns, hand grenades, and so much more things I used to blow him to hell and back)
"Then I guess you finally got what you've been missing for all of these years, Sylar."
"Yes, but this time you came willingly, and now my dear that's something right there."
From the look in his eyes (and my own, freezing everyone's blood) I knew that he had won but it took him a lot longer then he had been hoping for, decades, centuries full of hate.
"I guess it is."
-
Now instead of filling my hands with his blood (and bathing in it each night) and saving the only smile my lips could make for his last breaths, only to come spitting back alive in the next second, I find my knees bowing to him.
'His queen' with the face of an angel (which has turned to granite over these many years) and the soul of the damned, standing by him, side by side.
And do I feel a thing? No, not a damn thing (do you think that's normal?).
(feelings are things I lost so many years ago I lost count at a million)
"At least queen is better then first lady."
"And you make a perfect one, as if you were born to be by my side, my dear."
-
The king, with so many throwing themselves before his feet (falling in line like good little solders) all for a serial killer with a few tricks up his sleeve, likes to call me his queen and also something else.
"Now, that's a good Claire-bear."
("Tell me you have a plan, Dad."
"I have a plan. I love you, Claire."
"I love you too.")
Each time those words, which are meant for only one person's lips alone (the number one father who faded to dust a long time ago), are spoken I finally feel something, and that something is hate.
(each time said with that wicked little smile of his, lips ready to burn me to ashes)
Boiling, steaming, volanco and lava, hate for the man I call both my husband and king, but not for much longer.
"Say it again, my king."
"Say what, Claire-bear?"
("Let's go home."
"Home where? Our house burned down."
"Home is anywhere our family is together.")
As those words were sneered out (ready to take a hit out on my already broken heart) of his lips, I was ready to yet again pull up my fists and spill his blood back into my hands once again.
Doing all of this dirty work in a dress fit for a queen (now dripping in her king's blood).
"Thank you, my king, for everything. This is just what I needed."
With a death, this was coming for him all these years (in the form of a virus, a samurai sword, and his queen); of the nightmare man it thawed me out and finally woke me the hell up.
"I'll say hello to Peter for you, lover."