He is Risen!! And so here is my Easter gift to you. I hope you enjoy the ending as much as I enjoyed writing this story, and I hope you leave a review telling me if you did—even if it's just a smiley face. I have enjoyed hearing from all of you, and am so glad you chose to go on this adventure with me.

VVVVVVVVVV

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ,

He is a new creation;

The old has gone,

The new has come!"

-2 Corinthians 5:17

VVVVV

As usual, the Company was brought in—though not to a great extent. I wasn't particularly comfortable with it, but I knew it had to be done—and fast—so we called in Dad to help, merely telling him that Flynt thought he had killed Peter, and we needed to maintain the charade. Gabriel, Emma, Peter and I got safely away from the barn, and Dad, Ando and a small crew—transported by Hiro—brought in another body to substitute. Dad lightly said it was Samuel's body. He was joking. I think. Not sure. I didn't see it, and I decided I didn't want to know. And I'm not sure what the FBI limo driver told Flynt when he found out I wasn't in the back seat. Apparently nothing—probably in fear of losing his job.

After the barn and the body were completely consumed in flames, we all retreated further and watched the local firefighters and police appear on the scene and contain the blaze—and saw Flynt and his FBI agents investigate the ruins.

Then, Dad, Hiro, Ando, Peter, Emma, Gabriel and I dragged ourselves to a diner for an early-morning breakfast…

And we told Dad the real story.

Needless to say he was…speechless. And I really didn't expect him to digest the whole thing for quite some time. Ando was equally shocked right down to the floor. But I think he finally believed.

The next day, to all of our relief, Flynt appeared the news, and announced that Sylar, the mass murderer, had been killed and destroyed.

And the odd thing was…

It was the truth.

It had taken me a while, but I had come to realize that Peter was right. Sylar had died during those virtual years within that mental prison. The bloodthirsty murderer had never come out of there.

But Gabriel, the quiet-mannered watchmaker, had come out. And now he could start a new life. We all could.

The manhunts ceased immediately. My dad, on the other hand, was going to take some convincing. He didn't say much to Gabriel. He just agreed with Peter concerning the fact that all of us still needed to maintain a low profile for a while, while we waited to see if Flynt was sincere about leaving us alone. And so…

Dad arranged for us to rent the bed and breakfast.

I hadn't even thought that was possible, since the son of the old owners had supposedly been so adamant. But my dad is a persuasive man, and I guess he won the son over in the end.

So, we moved in. For real, this time. Dad brought all my stuff and all Peter's stuff up there, along with a lot of his own things. Hiro and Ando helped transport Emma's things. Dad took up residence on what had become the men's floor, the lower floor, of the bed and breakfast—although I knew he wasn't too thrilled about sleeping two doors down from Gabriel. But it was clear why he had come. He wanted to keep an eye on me, to protect me. Also, he mentioned something about getting the Haitian up here to clarify and verify everything—and he was slightly amazed that all of us just looked at him and shrugged our consent to that. I, however, didn't care what his reason was for being there, or bringing the Haitian. I was glad he would be nearby to see the change that had come over Gabriel. Over all of us.

Emma and I took up a more permanent residence in our cheery yellow room, Peter spread out to two rooms (one sleeping room, one workout room), and Gabriel went back and forth a lot between his nautical room and the library.

Peter and Emma soon found jobs at the local hospital, which relieved both of their minds. Neither of them did well in stagnation. And once, when they didn't think I was nearby, I eavesdropped on their casual discussion of the merits of a summer wedding.

Dad traveled between the bed and breakfast and New York, looking for a job that might take him away from working with specials, for once. I took a part-time position at the library downtown. And Gabriel opened up a little shop in the dining room of the house—a watch and clock repair shop. We even found a church in town to attend. Talk about a sight both startling and endearing: Peter and Sylar—Gabriel—dressed up to escort Emma and me to church.

I knew that it was impossible for all of us to disappear from the radar and suddenly live normal, carefree lives. For one thing, all of us except Dad had weird, freaky powers. And for another, none of us were particularly inclined to remain inconspicuous. We all longed to fix, to save, to cure. Something would eventually call us away from this sunny place—a grave danger would cause us to rush to the rescue. But this time, instead of attacking it individually, we had each other. We were a tightly-knit, solid unit, bound together with a loyalty so fierce that not even death could break it.

And also, this time—we had a sanctuary; a quiet, secluded place to return to after our adventures had finished. A place where we could be ourselves, and rest, and laugh out loud.

And these two things—loyal friends, and a sanctuary—made up a single word—a word I had not truly used in years, and one whose meaning I had never felt to this extent. A word I would fight to keep, no matter the cost. A sacred word, a cherished one:

Home.

EPILOGUE

I yawned and got ready for bed. It was early, and nobody else wanted to sleep yet, but I had worked at the library and then planted fifty bulbs in the garden all day, and I was tired. Commanding Peter, Emma and Gabriel to be quiet, I had shut the bedroom door and now started to turn out my nightstand light and crawl under the covers.

I saw something lying on my bed sheets. I went still.

It was from Gabriel. I knew it was.

Neither of us had spoken much since that night on the hill. We had exchanged long looks, and occasional smiles. But our manner toward each other remained hesitant, and our willingness to open up was uncertain. Yes, I had forgiven him. But it was going to take a long time for me to truly come to comprehend what exactly he felt for me. Even longer for me to confess what I had been feeling when I rescued him from that fire.

I knew my reluctance pained him. I also knew there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't change my nature. I needed time, and multiple proofs, before I could be certain that the ice was firm under my feet.

I edged closer to my bed, gazing down at the gift he had left me. It was a red tulip—that same tulip that I had watched come up from the earth so carefully and cautiously all that while ago. I picked it up by its delicate but strong stem. It was a beautiful blossom—brilliant scarlet, vibrant and sweet-smelling. I glanced down. A piece of paper lay beneath it. I picked it up and unfolded it, and my sight was greeted by the familiar, black-inked handwriting. I recognized the passage right away. It was a quote from The Princess Bride:

"I've been saying it so long to you, you just wouldn't listen. Every time you said 'Farm Boy do this' you thought I was answering 'As you wish' but that's only because you were hearing wrong. 'I love you' was what it was, but you never heard."

I stroked the words with my thumb. Then, I went into the bathroom and got a tall cup, filled it with water, put the tulip in it and set it on my bedside table. After folding the piece of paper and hiding it in my drawer, I got into bed, shut off the light, and fell asleep.

VVVVVVVVVVVV

I knew it was a dream this time, even though it felt completely real. But it had to be. I had never been to Paris.

Yet here I sat on a stone bench, gazing up at the great bell towers of Notre Dame set against the pink of the fading twilight. I sat next to a young man dressed in black. My shoulder pressed against his, my left hand clasped within the strong warmth of his fingers. He was as close to me as my breath, as comfortable as my heartbeat. I flexed my fingers and rubbed my fingertips along his palm. I had memorized every unchanging crease and knuckle long ago, it seemed, and this motion felt like a common practice of mine. His hand moved, and he ran his thumb along the diamond ring on my hand. The ring was not a perfect circle anymore. It had conformed to the shape of my finger.

I glanced up at his face. He gazed up at Notre Dame, just as I had been doing, his limitless black eyes, ever bright, studying the highest spires, even though he had them memorized. I ran my eyes over his features—eloquent, dark eyebrows, prominent nose, delicate mouth and Grecian cheekbones and chin.

I let go of his hand, twisted a little in my seat, and lightly stroked his temple, then ran my fingers through the back of his thick, black hair. He turned his head toward me, capturing my eyes with his, as no one else could. I kept my hand near his face, traced my thumb along the bridge of his nose, then across his smooth right cheek. The corner of his mouth lifted.

"What are you smiling about?" he asked, his voice low and sweet to me. My eyes flitted over his face, and I caressed his forehead, brushing aside a strand of his hair.

"I was just thinking…" I began, then decided to be coy. "How remarkably well-preserved you look tonight."

He chuckled, and curled his finger around the one of my long, golden locks.

"I was going to say something like that to you," he confessed. "But I believe my comment would have included the words 'completely beautiful,' instead."

"You flatter me, Mr. Gray," I said, enjoying a mock formality as I smirked. "But you don't have to compliment me after—"

He dipped his head and pressed his lips to mine. My heart suspended its beating, then fluttered as our mouths moved in a familiar, thrilling rhythm. I seemed to recall that he enjoyed doing this—surprising me, making me forget what I was saying, melting my arguments with a kiss.

Our lips parted and he gazed at me. I had indeed forgotten what I was saying.

"Newlyweds?" A British-accented voice cut into our silence. My young man blinked, then looked up at the pleasant, gray-haired gentleman and smiled.

"We are celebrating our anniversary, actually," my young man said.

"Oh, really? Perfect place for it," the old man declared. "How many years?"

I hid a smile and arched an eyebrow at my husband.

"Five," my husband replied. The old man tipped his hat.

"Well, then, good luck, and many happy returns!"

"Thank you," I said as the man walked away. I nudged my husband with my shoulder. "So…are you going to make a habit of just subtracting a hundred years when you're asked that?"

"Um, yeah," he said, draping an arm around my shoulders. "I mean, call me crazy, but nobody's going to believe that a fox like you has been a married woman for a hundred and five years."

I laid my head on his shoulder.

"They would if they looked at the cathedral wedding records," I reminded him. He rubbed his fingers up and down my arm.

"That's true," he admitted. "They may still be recovering from our wedding—cleaning flower petals out from under the pews."

I shrugged against him.

"Only get married once," I said. "Might as well make a big deal out of it."

The warm breezes of the coming night sighed around us, and the music of Paris rose through the trees. My eternal husband leaned his head down on top of mine, and his arm tightened around me. I heard him swallow.

"I love you," he murmured. The words rushed through my veins and swelled against my heart—immediate and vivid and terrifying in their power. The evening air fell still, waiting for my answer.

My eyes opened. The chilled darkness of my room in the old, sad mansion greeted me. I took a breath. It sounded loud in the silence. I sat up. My bed squeaked. I just sat there for a minute, my arms wrapped around my chest. I looked around the room and swallowed. I was alone.

I cast a look down at my left hand. Strange disconcertion, then unease, settled in my stomach at the fact that it bore no ring. I messed with the edge of my blanket and fought inexplicable tears.

A soft sound drifted up the stairs. I frowned, listening for a moment. Then I realized it was Emma and Peter, still awake, practicing their duet. I got out of bed, drew my robe around myself, and padded out into the quiet hall.

The piano grew a bit louder as I crept down the stairs. I leaned on the railing and peeked around the corner to see Peter and Emma's backs in the parlor below me—they were seated in their customary place at the piano bench. A few lights were on, casting that familiar warm glow through the room. I glanced over to the darkness of the window seat.

Gabriel sat there, leaning back, arms crossed, listening to Peter and Emma, his brow furrowed. He wore black, which almost made him invisible in the shadows. I didn't say anything, and the stair where I paused didn't creak. But he looked up at me.

His eyes captured mine. And the corner of his mouth lifted. Then, he turned his attention back to the duet. I hesitated. Then, I slowly stepped the rest of the way down, crossed the rug, then halted beside him. I bit my lip…

And lost my nerve. I turned to retreat back to the solitude of my room.

And then he glanced up again, and scooted over just enough so I could sit. Holding my breath, I eased down next to him. Neither of us spoke. I was stiff. He didn't look at me. I gulped and tried to focus on the piano.

Peter and Emma's hands worked as one unit as they played. Occasionally, they flashed smiles at each other. The peaceful, homey sounds washed over me, persuading me to slowly relax. Finally, I leaned back against the window too, and folded my arms.

Peter and Emma flubbed, the piano plunked, and they let out a ringing laugh. Grinning, Emma bumped Peter with her shoulder, then pointed to the key he should have hit. They started up again without saying a word, perfectly in rhythm. My arms tensed around me as a pang traveled down through my chest. I glanced up at the one beside me.

His strong features looked soft in the gold light of the lamps. Quiet warmth waited in his eyes. There was sorrow in his brow. Sorrow I suddenly wanted to smooth away with my fingertips, and replace with peace and contentment, as I had in my dream.

I leaned my head over and rested my cheek on his shoulder. I froze, waiting.

He tilted his face toward me. And I felt the last bit of ice around my heart melt.

"Gabriel?" I whispered.

"Yes, Claire?" he murmured back.

I closed my eyes, and nuzzled minutely against him. I took a breath.

"Have you ever been to Paris?"

VVV

"Beauty, will you marry me?"

She answered softly,

"Yes, dear Beast."

As she spoke a blaze of light sprang up

Before the windows of the palace;

Fireworks crackled and guns banged,

And across the avenue of orange trees,

In letters all made of fireflies,

Was written:

"Long live the prince and his bride."

Turning to ask the Beast what it could all mean,

Beauty found he had disappeared,

And in his place stood her long-loved prince!

At the same moment

The wheels of a chariot were heard upon the terrace,

And two ladies entered the room.

One of them Beauty recognized as the stately lady she had seen

In her dreams;

The other was so queenly that Beauty hardly knew

Which to greet first.

But the one she already knew

Said to her companion:

"Well, Queen, this is Beauty,

Who has had the courage to rescue your son

From the terrible enchantment.

They love each other, and only your consent to their marriage is wanting

To make them perfectly happy."

"I consent with all my heart," cried the queen.

"How can I ever thank you enough, charming girl,

For having restored my dear son to his natural form?"

And then she tenderly embraced Beauty and the prince.

…

"Now," said the fairy to Beauty, "I suppose

You would like me to send for all your brothers and sisters

To dance at your wedding?"

And so she did, and the marriage was celebrated the very next day

With the utmost splendor,

And Beauty and the prince

Lived happily ever after.

FIN