Chapter Twenty-One

"Fading to Black"

Part II

Claire's head was a vortex filled with guilt, anxiety, anger and a thousand other things she couldn't put a name to. As she ran panting and gasping up the grand, semi-circular staircase that wound its way across the cavernous marble foyer, not once did she pause to reconsider her decision.

Could her friends survive against such high odds without her? Sylar had promised to get Niki, Nathan, DL and the others out and she'd believed him in the heat of the moment. Was she being wilfully blind? Did she want to be with Peter so much she would take a murderer's word at face value just for an excuse to do so?

She felt guilty; guilt at taking the first opportunity to selfishly pursue her own interest. She would have to carry that guilt around for the rest of her life, but she wasn't sorry. She would never be sorry when it came to Peter.

At the upstairs landing, she frantically looked up and down the corridors – east, west, and north – they all looked the same to her. She was one happy meal short of a complete breakdown and knew that if she stopped now, even for a second, she would collapse in a fit of paralysing uncertainty.

So she chose a hallway completely at random. That was how she'd always rolled. She was the tempestuous one; jumping off buildings to test her strength, crashing cars into walls to see a rapist get his. Peter was the quiet, sensitive one. He was her guide, her conscience, her saviour. He'd always be, no matter how many times they would save each other.

Well, he wasn't here now and she only had her body and instincts to rely on. Taking a deep breath, she picked the north wing and ran down the corridor.

It was crazy how big Linderman's house was. It wasn't just the size that was escalating her panic; it was the complete silence on the top floor. Granted, she was now at the other wing of the house, as far away from the fighting as the house afforded, but still. Maybe Linderman had his house sound proofed. Or maybe Hiro had stopped time once again, literally giving time to Sylar, Nathan and Niki to get people out.

She had been so preoccupied with finding Peter – and not panicking and choosing a direction and god knew what she was actually going to do when she did find him or why Sylar had insisted so strongly on her going to find Peter – that she had completely forgotten another resource available to her. Furtively she tapped her earpiece, not knowing whether Mohinder had been with her the whole time. "Are you there?"

There was nothing for a long time, only static staccatoing in between her gasping. She had instant regeneration, not supreme fitness. All this running around, the anxiety and the fighting were draining her energy. A person could only run on adrenalin for so long. "Mohind –"

"Claire? Is that –?"

"It's me." It was all she could get out before gasping for more breath. "I'm going after Peter. The others –" She wasn't sure whether she would be able to explain in a reasonable, coherent manner to Mohinder but luckily she didn't have to.

"It's okay." He sounded more frazzled than she was, which wasn't a good sign. "Ando came out with – with Jerry. And Sylar –" It sounded like he almost choked on his own words. "Sylar came back with Hana."

"Are the others out yet?"

"No." He was too tense, too afraid. "They aren't letting us go Claire. They won't let us go alive. They'll hunt us down to the last man, I'm sure of it."

His voice – normally so certain – now verged on hysteria. It stunned her, enough to make her pause. "What do you mean?"

"Sylar and Hiro can't get Niki and Nathan out, and DL and – Matt – shit, Matt's still in there with them. They can't help them, they're stuck here –"

"Wait a minute, slow down –"

"Everyone's outside, Hiro and Sylar and Ando, they're fighting them off, I should be helping."

She didn't need to hear that. "Wait, what's Matt doing inside –?"

"He went to help. After Audrey ..."

Mohinder didn't need to finish. They both knew exactly why Matt had hurled himself into the fray. Claire didn't blame him at all.

There was a barely audible click. It only took a second for Claire to realise what it was, but by then it was too late. "Mohinder?"

There wasn't even static this time, just silence. Dead silence she would call it, if she had to describe it to somebody. But there was no one to describe it to, because everyone had left her and she was now well and truly alone.

Or she had left everyone else. At this stage, the difference seemed irrelevant.

Claire felt strangely empty and silent inside. The house was a yawning expanse of nothingness and she had no idea where Peter and Linderman were. There was no doubt in her mind Peter had found his target; what he would do afterwards was her best guess.

She peered down the hall as far as she could see. The area was too quiet to be the setting for a showdown so she doubled back to her starting point, going down the east wing this time. Doubt still gnawed at her, but at least she was doing something.

This was good. While she was running, panting, out of breath, she wouldn't have to wonder what on earth she would do once she found them; what on earth a girl with a defensive power like healing do in the presence of two titans in control of so many destinies it almost made her faint to comprehend it?

She rounded a corner, past ornate treasures of ages past, things she had never taken an interest in calmer times but maybe she should; she should learn to appreciate art and culture and music and things she'd always labelled as "stuff" and ignored, because these were all part of life. A life she had missed so far. A life she now wanted.

She wouldn't miss them again, she promised herself. When she and Peter make it out of this alive – and they will – she'll make him show her all these things and more.

At the end of the hall she saw she had reached her goal. Shattered remnants of a pair of French double doors, the glass panels smashed to bits, were strewn across the richly carpeted floor. The entire wall seemed to have collapsed in on itself, no doubt the effect of its brief struggle with Peter.

It looked like Peter wasn't hiding his firepower from Linderman. She only had a few steps more, a few more steps until –

Until she ran into the room and came face to face with the man himself, the enemy who had made their lives a nightmare.

Linderman stood, proud and straight, not at all like the doddering grandfather he could have been. His pinstripe suit fitted him comfortably and even from this distance she could

tell that it had an immaculate cut; it was clear it was an extremely well tailored suit.

Claire saw that Peter had cornered him against the far wall, his hand shaking and outstretched. "Ah, Ms Bennet you're just in time. I was almost on the verge on – neutralising – Peter here." He sighed and it was really creepy; the old man had the air of a kindly patriarch addressing errant grandchildren. What was creepier was that he didn't appear to be phased by Peter, looking angrier than Claire had ever seen, arms outstretched towards his prey. And yet here Linderman was, talking to her and Peter like he was talking to harmless children. "You've grown up splendidly Peter." Linderman focused on her then, blue eyes alight. "Peter was always such a sickly little thing, always tagging along after Nathan. But you've finally grown up to the man your father thought you'd be. He'd be proud. I'm proud."

"You – shut up!" Peter hissed, ready to telekinetically choke the old man. As offended as she was, Claire couldn't hide her shock when Peter advanced more fully into the sunlight, allowing her to glimpse his expression for the first time. It was – she had trouble comprehending it – but he looked so ugly. Sneering, violent, dark. Tempestuous, like the fire from a thousand hells; burning, flaming, eternal and deep, ready to be unleashed.

This wasn't him. This was – she didn't know who he was. This was what Sylar had meant, when he had almost urged her to go. "He needs you." Sylar had said. How had he known?

She never thought she'd ever be grateful to Sylar. Gabriel, she amended internally. Maybe he had changed enough, just enough to save them all.

She advanced further into the room, much more slowly now, aware Peter's sanity and powers teetered on a precarious edge. Why wasn't Linderman more afraid? Did his powers allow him some protection? Or worse still, would his ability over life and death allow him to produce a trump card they wouldn't see coming?

This was something Claire had never been meant for. Thinking and strategising and powers and abilities. This was Mohinder's job, or perhaps Nathan's or Hiro's. Not Claire. Never Claire. She wasn't meant to be the one doing this.

She swallowed down bile and fear and a thousand other things she couldn't describe. "Peter –"

She was going to have to coax him, call to him, hoping to dredge some semblance of normality with her voice. But she stopped short when she saw the devastation they were in the middle of.

An island in a sea of bodies. It was the only way she could have described it. Bits of wood, remnants of furniture that had once adorned the room she now found herself in. The room itself was cavernous, large enough to be a ballroom perhaps, ceilings with intricate patterns that stretched into infinity, finished off by sumptuous tapestry and wood panelling. Meticulously decorated with old world charm, Angela Petrelli had been there to tell her with her society matriarch's voice. Two chandeliers would have hung at precisely one third of the way across the room, brocade and velvet curtains completing the centuries old feel. Chairs that could have belonged to kings and queens of ages past – perhaps did so – would have lined the side of the room, ready for tired ball goers to rest their weary feet.

Only now, courtesy of Peter, they were part of the debris, a battleground, their beauty forever lost.

She corrected herself. Not a battleground, but a grave. Her eyes scoured the room, littered with the bodies of people she'd never known. They had all been her enemies she told herself, but had they really deserved to die? She wondered how Peter had done it, how he had killed. With fire perhaps or had he choked them to death?

"He killed Claude." Peter's voice was hallow, dead and she reeled. Had he heard her? Heard her almost condemn him? She hadn't been of course, she could never.

"What?"

"Claude." She ached at seeing the eyes she loved so much well with so much pain. "Claire, they killed Claude. That's how he got us to come here, instead of sticking to our plan." He was so furious it seemed he could hardly get the words out. "They – replaced him – with someone who looked like him –"

"It's true." Despite his predicament, Linderman remained calm, unruffled. Claire imagined he'd start filing his nails nonchalantly any second. "Candice had the wonderful ability to look like anyone she wanted to. At least she did, before Peter killed her."

She didn't know why that shocked her, but it did. It didn't matter though; whatever Peter had done, it didn't matter because she trusted him. "She killed Claude." Claire murmured, turning back to Peter. She reached out; she needed to touch him, temper the tempest that was raging inside him.

"And Peter killed Candice. An eye for an eye I think." The old man's eyes were alight. "You murdered her in cold blood."

"She had to pay for what she did." Peter shrugged her hand off, advancing on Linderman, fury incarnate. "And you're going to pay for it. For all of it."

This was it, the moment Claire had been dreading, the stuff of her personal nightmares. She saw his eyes darken into obsidian fury, rage and blackness boiling over barriers he'd set up long ago to prevent an explosion that had never eventuated. But what was being unleashed was an explosion of a different kind and she was powerless to stop it.

Linderman smiled beatifically, spreading his arms Christ-like. "You can't kill me Peter. You can try, but you can't."

"Peter, no." Claire rushed to him, holding him back. This wasn't right. Linderman was being too calm. "Don't do this."

"This is all his fault Claire. I have to. Or he'll never stop coming after us."

"No –" She couldn't finish because she felt herself being flung – gently, but still being flung – back against the wall, too far to reach out to him. To far to look into his eyes and plead for him to stop.

She connected with the wall and gasped as she slid down, winded for a moment. She was only on the ground for a few seconds, but it was enough for what happened next.

Peter advanced on Linderman, arms before him, face etched in concentration. Claire knew he was going to telekinetically lift Linderman from the ground to choke him on the spot.

But nothing happened. Peter stared at his hands, surprised, and tried again, but nothing happened. Linderman smiled but it was chilly now, all the sun being blocked from the room. .

She heaved herself from the ground, running to intercept Peter. But she was too far from them, she wouldn't reach him in time. "Peter, no! Don't!"

Finally Linderman was within his physical reach. Peter reached out but froze mid way, unable to continue. His hand started to shake; at first it was only slight, but soon the tremoring gave way to shuddering. From one hand it travelled to the other until Peter's entire body seemed to vibrate, way too harshly for a normal body to handle.

Even with his healing, Peter's body was being broken apart; a house with the bricks being removed one by one. He sank to his knees, arms clutching his sides, howling and gasping in pain. Blood streamed freely from his nose as he looked up at the old man now towering over him. "How –?"

"The power of life and death, Peter. This is it. I control everything about you. How can you use your power if I control your life?" Linderman bent, his smile benign. "How else did you think this would end?"

Even with the amount of pain he was in, Peter's only thought was for her. "You're – you're not taking Claire." He managed to gasp, even as Claire pelted toward them. She only had a few strides to go.

"You mistake me." Linderman's hand cupped Peter's head; he literally had Peter's life – his brain – in the palm of his hand. "I never wanted her. It's about you. It had always been about you."

Finally Claire reached them and immediately threw herself at Linderman, knocking him over. It was enough to break his concentration, allowing Peter to roll out of the way. She spun, expecting to see Peter's body heal like it usually did.

But it didn't; it seemed to her that she held her breath forever just waiting for it to happen.

He was as surprised as she was, but no longer had the energy to do anything besides fall onto the floor. She watched horrified, as blood began pouring out of his mouth, streams and rivers of it; he was choking on his own blood. "What did you do to him?!" She forgot the danger as she rushed to roll him over. "Why isn't he healing?!"

Linderman smiled, but the expression was no longer benevolent. "The power of life and death is supreme. You and your friends should have paid more heed to that before you tried to kill me."

Claire had no idea what he meant and frankly she didn't care. Seeing Peter gasping – dying so slowly and painfully enraged her beyond comprehension; everything she saw had a tinge of red to it. Had this been what Peter had been holding back all along? If so, she could relate for the first time.

"Stop it, stop killing him!"

"It's self-defence Miss Bennet. Surely you can see that."

His measured voice, cultured stance, broke her. Standing in front of the wide French windows in this elegantly decorated but shattered room, with the dark expanse of his estate behind him, he seemed an impenetrable herald of doom.

Her anger and rage suddenly started giving way to pain, waves and waves of skewing, shattering agony. It made her scream and screech; it felt like her insides were being scoured with acid. She hadn't felt pain like this ever, not even before her healing had manifested.

She fell to her knees, gasping and looking up only to see his blue eyes trained sympathetically onto hers. His sympathy hurt her more than the actual physical pain did.

"I'm sorry Miss Bennet. I'd wanted Peter, not you. You were just a means to get him here. You're his Achilles heel you see. I have no need of you now."

They'd been so stupid. Linderman had planned every step that had led them here. They'd come late to play in a game that he'd set the rules to.

It infuriated her that this was how their lives would end. She held her hand up to the light; during the scuffle it had been broken. What was new was the twisted bones and the searing pain that lingered long after it should have, lingered because her bones refused stubbornly to heal.

Linderman was slowly killing her too. Everything in her body ached and everything shook, she wouldn't be able to control her own body much longer.

It didn't seem to matter as much that she'd die. What incensed her was the thought of Peter dying; Peter who never once asked for the responsibility his powers had foisted on him. Peter who was the caring hospice nurse by trade, who had always been by her side, taken care of her, protected and rescued her. Peter who had insisted they wait until she was old enough for a relationship, Peter who had held her as her entire family had been wrenched from her grasp. Peter who was her ultimate hero, willing to sacrifice his safety for the greater good, to protect others. Peter who was her best friend, her perfect other, the one she had and would always turn to.

Peter who had been her salvation, who loved her, with all his heart and soul and he was going to die because she couldn't save him.

But couldn't wasn't a word in Claire's vocabulary.

She heaved herself up painfully on all fours, gasping, tears streaming down her face from the agony. Everything hurt, but it was okay. Because she was going to save Peter, even if that was the last thing she'd ever do.

"What do you think you're doing?" Linderman asked, even as she dragged herself to a standing position. Her legs were shaking and she felt like there were knives sticking into the soles of her feet. She was going to topple any second and her eyes were blinded by tears.

But still her voice came out strong; words crisp and even. "What I'm supposed to do."

And with that, she ran headlong at him, mustering all her remaining strength to tackle him, taking them both through the window and out onto the ground below.

The sky was dark now, but oddly, the stars shone brightly, illuminated by the rising moon.

She couldn't feel anything, knew that she was lying on her back on the grass, but couldn't feel it. She'd broken her spine maybe, or maybe she was well and truly dying and these were just the last moments she had left.

She regretted she couldn't see Peter one last time. She hoped the fall had killed Linderman, incapacitated him enough to give Peter a chance. She hoped Peter would survive, hoped he wouldn't be too desolate without her.

He was the love of her life and knew she was his and for that she was grateful. Grateful for the time she had with him, grateful that she was leaving with him on her mind.

She closed her eyes, one last breath escaping.

And then everything – everything – faded to black.

Author's Note: Given the ending of this chapter, please refrain from flaming me. I promise it's for the good of the story, okay? ;-)