Flights of Angels Sing Thee Home (Peter Petrelli; log)
The Leeloo he'd known on the island had found solace and even happiness with the younger version of Eric. Peter wished them both happy, and had withdrawn his monitoring of this version of his beloved. So it was with full devotion and will that he had given himself up to his Leeloo, his perfect being.
Which wasn't to say he didn't occasionally check up on his friends.
There had been a chord in the air, a hint of something ethereal, something somber and sinister. The truth of it eluded him. Peter had kissed Leeloo's sleeping form, wrapped a warm blanket around her, and then ventured out to find what was troubling him.
He did a tally in his mind as he walked, following that subtle sensation. His mind touched on those he knew, but found a chilling blankness when he tried to focus on the younger Leeloo. And when he reached toward the younger Eric, there was more of the same.
Emptiness, where there had once been a mind.
His pace quickened. On the lingering touch to Eric's mind, Peter reached and found the other, the changed one, but that presence was filled with nothing good. His footfalls were taking him in that direction, and suddenly, he couldn't run fast enough. Peter took to the air and, moments later, settled to the ground beside his friend.
The disturbance in the earth was clear. There was nothing subtle about it. The stone was marked in blood, and Peter didn't need to be told whose blood it was. He put his hand on Eric's shoulder, kneeling beside the grave to offer his own ( sorrow. )