Participants:
| Scene Title | He That Believeth In Me |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | ""I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." — John 11:25-26 |
| Date | March 20, 2010 |
This isn't the first time Peter Petrelli has died.
"Nurse he's flat lining!"
The bomb should have killed him, were it not for Claire it would have.
"Charging… Clear!"
That sniper should have killed him, instead of the half of him that was doing good for people.
"Charging again… Clear!"
Edward Ray should have killed him, and were it not for Kazimir Volken's legacy he would have.
"One more time, damnit— Clear!"
He should have died in Antarctica, but Richard Cardinal saved him.
"No response… we're… time of… forty-four pm…"
It's not as bad as he thought it would be.
Somewhere between here and there, between whatever eternal darkness is the perceptual end of things, there's a great many regrets that hang over Peter Petrelli's heart. Names and faces, mostly; the people he's wronged or believes he's wronged, the ones he'd never get to say goodbye to, the ones that he'd never get to know better, the ones he wishes he could just apologize to. Maybe these moments, somewhere balanced precariously between life and death, as the brain is suffocating from lack of blood and the body begins to shut down, that the idea of judgement in the afterlife comes from. Those last few moments where man finally realizes his mortality.
Unfortunately for Peter Petrelli, he hasn't found that mortality yet.
The world burns back into being with as much nuclear fire as he had thought would end it, an atomic green glow tinged with vibrant yellow on the edges that casts dancing shadows in the shapes of men around the edges of the room. Blonde hair flows in an unfelt wind and tears blur his vision, making the white-clad figure before him seem more heavenly that he'd recalled. Somewhere between life and death, here, Peter can hear a voice screaming in agony, a terrible and howling scream— maybe this is hell. He'd belong there, for all he's done in life.
There's a hand at his chest, he can see it now, bones a coal black beneath luminous emerald green skin radiating a lime colored radiation. Swirling waves of yellow-gold light snake and slither out through the green, coiling bathwater warm in his chest and sinking marrow deep into bone. He can see his savior's eyes, two blazing ovals of jade that fume with greenish smoke.
Muscles contract without command, fingers curl and Peter's back arches towards the palm that practically lifts him up off of the bed. He can feel his heart racing n his chest, and as his hearing comes back to him the sound of distant screaming becomes more faded, dulled and distant. He can barely make out the look of frustration on the blonde man's face, the way he seems tormented in the gesture he makes towards Peter, and the way both of his hands seem so bright that they're painful to look at.
Someone else is in the room, no angel either, just a tired looking old man he'll forget the face of tomorrow. The respirator laid over Peters' face affords him a lung full of anesthesia that has eyelids almost immediately fluttering down, despite his lacking desire to sleep again after so narrowly avoiding the longest sleep life had to offer.
As Peter's lashes fall shut, he can still see the glow of green behind his eyelids, that skeletal hand bathed in light laid out on his chest, the other hand reaching out away for something Peter couldn't see. He won't remember much of the miracle that brought him back from the brink when he does finally regain consciousness again.
But he will clearly remember those finally thoughts of his, and the first name off of his lips that comes tumbling out when he does eventually regain consciousness.
The name of the woman he truly loves.
But no one is around to hear it.