A Note from Lara- I have two things to say. #1- UTR/LIB OMG!!!!! I JUST ABOUT DIED!!!! #2- This contains MAJOR spoilers, both for UTR/LIB and the 'Close To You' promo. Which I am FREAKING OUT ABOUT!! But I have a theory about what it means. This is it.

~Peter~

My heart pounds as I dash through the carnival, searching desperately for the source of the violent sounds swirling around me. There's no time, and my stomach is sinking to my toes as my pulse accelerates to match my racing feet. This is my fault, it's my fault she's here.

Mom was wrong. She was wrong about everything. But I should be used to that by now. She always misinterprets what she sees. Emma isn't the enemy and never was. She's a victim, just like the rest of us. A victim of Samuel's manipulation. A victim of my own fear.

If it weren't for Angela's prophecy, I would never have shut her out. I would have been there for her when things got scary, and she would never have run to Samuel. And if she hadn't run to Samuel, this wouldn't be happening now. The whole world wouldn't be in danger...

It's Kirby Plaza all over again. Millions of lives at stake, racing the clock... This time, though, it's not me who's the innocent victim of vicious manipulation, it's her. And I am Claire, bearing the secret of how to save us all, praying that I'll get there in time to stop it. But... that's not quite right. Claire always trusted me. Always. It was Nathan who turned away and in the end was the reason I didn't get out of the city in time. But Nathan was also the one who came back just in time to save me, save them, save us. And I've played both those parts almost to the letter over the last months.

It's time for me to step into my big brother's shoes. I have to save the world this time. I have to save it from someone I love. All that remains to ask is... will I get there in time?

~Emma~

"You're crazy," I say incredulously. "Crazy!"

Samuel smirks, closing his eyes and shaking his head condescendingly in a gesture he might make before a small, silly child. "Not crazy, my dear," he says, signing as he speaks. "That's where you're wrong. I'm not crazy. I am... a visionary. Creating a world free for our kind to live and flourish... that is my dream. But we'll never be free, not until we can be assured of living away from ordinary people. They can't understand us, can't accept us. We'll always be running... unless we make them run. Make them dance to our tune. And that's where you come in, my dear."

I back away from him, shaking my head. This can't be happening... I came here for help. I came because Peter turned his back on me. He turned away so unexpectedly, for no reason that I could see, and Samuel was the only other person I knew who would understand. But this... this wasn't what I bargained for. This was insanity.

He gestures behind me, and I turn around to see the cello he brought to my apartment sitting there, resting against a rickety wooden chair. And as he comes to stand beside me, suddenly I realize what he wants. "No," I whisper. "No. I won't. You can't make me--"

"Oh, but you see... I can."

Samuel's cold hands gently touch the bare skin at my wrist and a compass appears there, technicolor ink. Ever so slowly, the needle begins to spin. The compass inscribed on the back of the cello begins to turn in response, and suddenly it emits a shiver of gray-glowing, sickly light, trailing from the accelerating compass point in the wood. The tendril of light reaches toward me, and though I want to back away, I am transfixed. The shivering glow alights upon the point of the compass on my wrist, hovers there for a moment, then as swift as a striking cobra, burrows through my skin.

Icy pain sears through me and is replaced by a dull, feverish heat. My mind goes numb. Somewhere behind iron bars in the back of my mind I am screaming, but on the surface it doesn't matter. I'm drowning in a haze of gray. This must be what drugs feel like, I think disconnectedly.

"It is a bond you cannot break; there is nothing more powerful than the link between a musician and her instrument." Samuel's voice cuts through the haze and I stare at him dimly. "When you accepted my gift... when you used your power through it, you forged an indelible bond. You are the cello, the cello is you. And I control you."

A pinprick at my neck... Ink flowing through my veins... I feel it all with a sweaty detachment, and as the earthy poison seeps through me, I feel him take control, using the metals now inside me to force my limbs to move. I shuffle across to the chair. Take my seat. Pick up the instrument that feels dangerously right in my hand. Set the bow to the strings...

A blaze of scarlet and amber light bursts forth, sending snaky tendrils out into the night and mingling with the sickening flashing lights of the carnival. A fevered melody bursts from the cello, from me. It is a wild gypsy's dance of fire and death and the world reels around me. The power of the music is more than I can comprehend; it is not just a song, it is a dagger, deadly and sibilant, that creeps through the world and draws them here, all of them, hundreds, thousands, terrified masses suddenly transported to this very field with nothing but a whisper and even as I watch they slump to the ground, the life slowly draining from them as the music pulls their souls free into the night into the passionate reeling crescendo of lights and sounds...

I slip sideways, already exhausted after only minutes of playing. But the ink in my blood twitches and forces me upright; the cello seems to have a mind of its own as well, drawing my fingers still further across the strings despite the flutter of panic and horror in the back of my mind...

For a moment, there is clarity. I know what I am doing, and I am disgusted, horrified. But I cannot stop. The instrument is me, and I am it, and Samuel was right. I cannot break the bond. I'm not strong enough. But as my thoughts clear, so does my vision and as the haze clears away, I see a familiar face cutting through the crowd. A smile touches my lips. Peter. My hero, my savior. My love, or maybe he would have been, if we'd had more time...

As he staggers toward me, fighting the tangible power of the sounds I unwillingly create, I try to smile at him, to reassure him. Finally, he reaches me, and the look of tragic regret on his face overwhelms me. How sad, that it should be he who will have to carry alone after this... he's already been through enough. One more loss might break him. But it's me or the world. I open my mouth, and in a strangled whisper, gasp out two words:

"Save me."

I feel his hands on mine, and then there is a flash of light and the cello is flying apart in a million splintered fragments of varnished wood, and then.... Nothing.

~One Month Later~

Peter sits in the hospital room, as he has for the past four weeks, three days, and fourteen hours. He is not alone for once; today, Claire is visiting.

For some time, they sit in silence, though the immortal blonde glances at him occasionally, half-opening her mouth as if to speak and then reconsidering. Finally, she works up the nerve to ask, "Peter, are you sure you don't want to try my blood? I mean... it can revive the dead. Surely...?"

But the former paramedic shakes his head, not taking his eyes off the woman lying in the hospital bed. "No," he says. "There's nothing wrong with her body. Physically, she's fine. There's something broken inside her head, in her mind. When she's ready, she'll wake up."

Claire nods. She's heard him say this before, and for once she has a ready reply. "I know. That's why I brought someone with me today. He's waiting in the hall. Hey, Matt?" Detective Parkman steps into the room, glancing uncomfortably at the comatose woman. "Take his power," Claire urges. "Peter, she's been like this for a month. I don't think she knows it's safe to come out of hiding yet. Whatever's going on in her head... you've got to save her, Peter. You know it as well as I do."

The empath pauses, considering. There is an agonized indecision in his face as he glances between his niece and Matt. Then his eyes fall on Emma, and Claire doesn't need telepathy to know that the decision has been made. A look of desperate hope crosses his features, and he reaches out and places his hand on Matt's shoulder. A brief shimmer of silver light passes between the point of contact, and Matt shivers at the sensation.

Peter approaches the bed and takes Emma's hand. For a moment, he just rubs his thumb across the back of her hand, gazing down at her face with the pain of seeing her like this clear in his eyes. Then he sighs. "Come back to me," he whispers, closing his eyes.

He stands like that for a long time, clinging to her hand. Occasionally he whispers words or snatches of a phrase that Claire can't quite catch.

And then the miracle happens. Peter steps back with a gasp and Emma's hazel eyes open, as clear and bright as ever. Confused, she stares around the room, taking in Claire and Matt watching her. Then her eyes fall on Peter, and a shy smile breaks across her face. "You saved me," she says. "Again."

Peter nods, biting his lip to hold back tears as he embraces her. And though he knows she can't hear it, he whispers, "Welcome back, Emma."