Decision

1944.

The orders were clear: resist on all fronts.

In the west, German forces tried unsuccessfully to contain the Allied advance after D-Day by launching desperate counterattacks in Normandy and the Netherlands.

However, the unexpected happened.

Hitler was dead. His body, shattered by the explosion in the Wolf's Lair, had turned to ashes long before it could be found. But the conspiracy of July 20th had not been the end everyone expected. The war did not end with his death.

Because, in the equation, someone was missing.

Himmler, the architect of the SS, the man who had built one the apparatus of terror that sustained the Third Reich, had survived. And not only had he survived, he had done the unthinkable: he had taken control.

As Berlin descended into chaos following the news of the Führer's death, Himmler and his network of loyalists within the SS and Sicherheitsdienst acted with surgical precision. Within hours, the conspirators were arrested and days later executed, just as any general who had shown signs of treason was placed under surveillance.

But Himmler was not Hitler. He did not have the charisma that had held Nazi Germany together, but he did have a blind fanaticism. He knew the Reich was losing the war. He had known it for months—but he had no intention of giving up.

With Hitler out of the way, Himmler took over with the same bureaucratic efficiency with which he had built the SS. There were no negotiations. There was no truce. Only a brutal determination to keep the Reich corpse on its feet as long as possible, convinced that there was still a chance to reverse the course of the war.

The Waffen-SS were ordered to fight to the last man, prolonging the war with attrition tactics and fierce reprisals against resistance in France and Belgium.

In the east, the situation was even more desperate. Operation Bagration had shattered Heeresgruppe Mitte in the summer, and the Red Army was advancing relentlessly toward the German borders.

Himmler, however, did not allow total withdrawal. The Wehrmacht and the SS were ordered to defend every town, every bridge, every road—even if it meant the annihilation of entire units.

Trenches were dug in East Prussia, the ruins of Warsaw were fortified, and Budapest became a hell of urban resistance.

By December 1944, the situation was critical. But Himmler still did not accept defeat. He had pinned all his hopes on one last great effort: the offensive in the Ardennes. A desperate gamble to regain the territory lost after the Allied landings in Normandy. If they could split the Allied armies, if they could wrest control of Antwerp from them, perhaps there was still a chance.

But the offensive failed.

On December 25, German troops were pushed back at Bastogne and clear skies allowed Allied aircraft to unleash their fury on the German columns trapped in the snowy woods. What Himmler had considered his last great opportunity became the end.

With the defeat in the Ardennes, the war could no longer be sustained. But Himmler would not give up. Not yet.

The last days of December took with them the last vestiges of the Reich.

Lizbeth remembered well the day the news reached Runen. The end had felt distant in a way. The Armitage Initiative had been waiting for it since July, but they still had to continue for a few more months with flash operations—that felt more like bludgeoning a corpse than anything else. And now, at last, it looked like it was all over.

The message came with the snow. A coded report, transmitted from the UK, and confirmed by the Soviets. Himmler was dead. Not captured, not missing. Dead.

Details were scarce, all shrouded in rumors and strategic silences. He was said to have been killed somewhere in East Prussia, while trying to escape the collapse. There was no talk of a firing squad or an Allied bombardment. No. Whispers spoke of a shot fired from the shadows—precise, silent, almost impossible. A bullet that severed more than just a life. There was whispering among the secret parties about a mysterious sniper and an anonymous team of Russian soldiers who had done it.

But there was no proof, no official report.

Only speculation and the echo of a war dying in the cold. Speculation was better. Disinformation would have to take precedence in that regard. There had been enough weird rumors during the war and the secret of the hidden world had barely escaped disclosure. Now there remained the file cleanups.

With Himmler off the board, the Reich crumbled in a matter of days. The generals, who until then had obeyed without question, saw in his death the last sign that there was nothing left to fight for. Without a leader to follow, without a strategy that could save them, the surrender orders followed one after another. Some officers tried to continue the fight, entrenching themselves in Berlin or in the Bavarian mountains, but by the end of December there was nothing left but defeats.

***

Lizbeth, in the communications room, left the report on the table and looked out the window.

Runen was calm, a brutal contrast to what must be happening in Europe. It was hard to take in. Years of fighting, of losses, of missions that should never have existed, and now... now it was all vanishing into the icy Atlantic air.

The war was over.

And yet she felt no relief. Only a strange feeling of emptiness.

Because a war didn't really end with a man's death. Not when the scars it had left were still open—and would continue for decades to come.

Lizbeth went out, and entered the dinning hall, hoping to find something warm to help her organize her thoughts—when Mari appeared in her path towards the kitchen, holding two steaming cups of tea.

"Come on, girl. Here, drink this," she said, extending one to her.

"How did you know?"

"I don't. I was thinking in drink two…"

Lizbeth accepted it with a slight smile. The warmth of the cup seeped into her fingers, the scent of herbs and honey wrapping around her like a gentle embrace—a brief respite from the cold silence inside her head. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she detected a faint hint of whiskey in the tea as well. She sat on the edge of the couch in the room next to the kitchen, gently blowing on the surface of the liquid before taking a small sip. Just as she suspected, there was more in that tea than just herbs and honey. Mari, without a word, took a seat next to her.

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Silence settled between them, heavy. Too many things must have been on Mari's mind as well. So many years of conflict had passed that it almost seemed as if the routine was over all at once. The end of the war was like a violent marriage finally coming to an expected final divorce. Outside, the wind tapped on the window with cold fingers, as if it wanted to sneak into the room and hear what they were about to say to each other.

Mari was the first to break it.

"What are you going to do with the big guy?"

Lizbeth looked up. She didn't answer right away. She knew that question would come sooner or later, but she hadn't expected it to sound so...final.

In those two years they had continued together and really had each other, but now that it was all over it almost felt unreal in a way. What would happen now?

Mari sighed, setting the cup down on the table and crossing her arms.

"You feel it, don't you?"

Lizbeth nodded slowly. "Yep."

And there it stayed. A single word that said it all.

The wind whistled again, louder this time. The wood creaked. Somewhere far in the house, someone laughed, the sound muffled by distance. Probably some happy about the end of the war.

Mari leaned an elbow on the back of the couch and tilted her head to one side, looking at her as if she could see through her skin.

"He thinks he should be alone. That he's dangerous to others."

Lizbeth lowered her gaze to her cup, watching the reflection tremble on the dark surface of the tea.

"Do you think I should stay with him?"

Mari smiled, cocked to one side, with that teasing spark that never quite faded."Liz, Lizzy, Lizzy...if you won't do it, I'll keep him."

Lizbeth snorted, because that's how Mari was. Always with the ready joke—even when she was serious.

"I don't think you should do anything, I don't see you guys splitting up," Mari continued, calmer now. "But, if you ask me.... Don't leave him alone. He needs you more than you think. But it's a complicated situation... whatever decision you make, no one else has the right to say anything."

Lizbeth didn't answer.

She didn't need to.

Because deep down, she already knew the answer.

***

With the arrival of the new year, a small celebration was organized. The party in Runen was not really a party. It was more like a respite. A moment stolen from time, an attempt to remember that they were still alive. There were no big speeches, no over-the-top explosions of jubilation. It was not that kind of victory. The war was over, but it had left no winners—only survivors.

Still, the main house was lit with candles and oil lamps. Tables were improvised from what was available, rickety chairs were pulled together, whiskey and rum were brought in from hidden reserves, and rations were served that in other times would have been unthinkable. Some brought cigarettes packs they had kept for months. Others, instruments they had picked up from the wreckage of the conflict. Even that ugly-sounding accordion was there with its worn notes. At the last minute, someone appeared with a gramophone that had been buried in some corner of the island and started it up with a nostalgic crackle. The music floated in the air, muffled and dusty, as if it, too, were coming out of a long war.

Conversations were low, almost murmurs, as if no one wanted to break the fragile balance of the night. Everyone had lost someone. A friend, a lover, a brother in arms. One could tell in the way people avoided certain topics, in the quiet toasts that didn't mention names, in the laughter that died down too quickly. Mari drank slowly, her gaze lost to a point beyond the fire. Laren, the giant, sat with his head down, his huge hand closed around a tiny cup. Nitocris was telling a story, her voice strong but with an edge of sadness she couldn't hide. And she... Lizbeth just watched, her glass of scotch in her hands, feeling the strange calm of that instant.

There was no euphoria, but there was something more important: a certainty. The world had changed, but keep moving. A chapter that had cost them too much had ended. And now, for those who were still alive, the most difficult part remained. To go on. Carrying on their shoulders the memory of those who had gone, with their feet in the present and their eyes fixed on an uncertain future.

But for that night, they would allow themselves to close their eyes, take a deep breath and share one last toast to the fallen.

***

The island was as busy as ever. There were still some fires, but the battle for them seemed over. On the first of January the second division in Veluwe had struck the final blow in Belgium and Trier liberating a total of thirty feys. Now came the chaos of prisoners. And the rumors that the war would bring.

New orders that a special team of psychics and magicians from Russia and the United Kingdom were being deployed at that time in various parts of the planet, to finish erasing certain traces that would become a problem if known. The final surrender of Japan had already occurred in last year September and a division composed of feys and alchemists mostly from China, Korea and the Northern Magical Union had already been deployed to begin taking over the reins of erasing memories and modifying memories. Peaslee liked to say that the greatest brainwashing operation in history was in motion.

Even if that part of history was erased for many of those involved, and others would be systematically eliminated in the coming months, those who remained would be the ones who remembered it.

And Lizbeth was aware of this. How the madness that had begun for her in 1937 had finally come to an end. And now she was waiting for the next step and wondering what he was waiting to tell her.

A couple of days later, Shin went looking for her.

He found her in the snow-covered courtyard of the training base, practicing with a knife. Her wrist was twirling with precision, making the blade gleam in the afternoon light. Although the war was over, Lizbeth had not given up the routine. She needed to move, to feel the weight of the weapon in her hand, to remind herself that she was still here.

Shin stood a few paces away, watching her silently before speaking.

"Liz, can we talk?"

Lizbeth lowered the knife and looked at him. She nodded, silently. The wind was blowing hard, stirring her hair. It had grown quite long in those years, but she preferred to have it shoulder length.

Shin exhaled slowly, as if the words were weighing on his throat.

"I'm going to go."

Lizbeth was not surprised. "Why?"

Shin looked down at an undefined point on the ground, as if searching for the least brutal way to say it.

"The war is over. And because strange things are happening around me. You know..." He paused, frowning. "I feel like something is watching me. And I don't want to risk hurting you guys, I can not stay too long without moving."

Lizbeth didn't look away. She remembered the conversation with Mari. It was true in recent times some strange things seemed to have happened on the island whenever he was there. No one wanted to say it, because Shin was a friend but that didn't mean it wasn't a little unsettling. Nothing was palpable, it was a strange feeling to keep him away. Even when the others were fighting to keep it from feeling that way, there was something that gave them a feeling that they should stay away from him.

"You want me to stay away from you?" Lizbeth asked.

"I don't want to put you in danger."

Lizbeth sighed, crossing her arms. "The whole world is dangerous. War, or no war."

He clenched his jaw. "It's not the same thing. I'm not talking about bullets or knives. I'm talking about me. About what I am."

"And what are you? An alien?" Lizbeth arched an eyebrow, feeling her eyes water. "You know I don't care, I love you anyway."

Shin didn't answer right away.

"Something that shouldn't exist in this world. Something that attracts things that shouldn't exist either."

Lizbeth cocked her head to the side. "I didn't see you say the same thing when we fought together. I don't put stock in fortune-telling"

Shin sketched a brief forced, humorless smile. "It's different. In the war there was a reason. A purpose. But now…"

"Now you don't have anyone to shoot? Neither do I. Whatever happens, happens." Shin looked at her, surprised at the directness of her comment. Lizbeth was stiff. "It's not hard to understand. The war ended and you were suddenly left with no place in the world. That doesn't mean you have to go back to being alone. Leon and the others have told me the parts you don't want to tell me. You have always been at war with something. I know I've seen strange things happening around you, but it's not like they happen all the time."

Shin averted his gaze. "It's not just that."

Lizbeth moved a little closer, with a slow pace and Shin saw that her nose was red. And even if she looked like she was about to cry she spoke to him calmly. "Then explain to me... Don't carry things by yourself. You did the same for me when you found me... Let me do the same for you now."

Shin let out a sigh, scratching his face with a finger. "I'd rather you got to know the world a little better, before you decided to be with someone like me. You've been fighting all these years."

Lizbeth stopped only inches from him standing on tiptoe trying to reach him. Tall bastard, she though. She looked at him intently, with the patience of someone who had already made up her mind long before it was spoken aloud. "What if my decision... is already made?"

Shin held her gaze. There was something in his expression, in the way his eyes seemed to waver between doubt and acceptance.

"Then you're more stubborn than I thought."

Lizbeth smiled softly. "Ah! Yes, I am. I always have been. I'm very stubborn."

Shin lowered his head for a moment, as if giving himself a breather. Then he looked at her again, with quiet resignation. She reached over and hugged him.

"I guess I can't convince you otherwise."

Lizbeth shook her head.

"No. You're not going to go and leave me here. Let's both go, wherever... Take me with you... Show me the world."

"You said you wanted to go touring Britain, when this was over."

"Anywhere is fine."

A silence stretched between the two of them. The wind blew, carrying with it the remnants of a ruined world.

"Then... I guess we have to get used to each other, again. I mean… no war."

Lizbeth reached out and took his hand. Shin's skin was warm. His grip was firm.

"I guess so..." Lizbeth raised her head with moist eyes and he lifted her into his arms. She was surprised to see that his eyes were moist as well.

And so, just like that, a new page in their lives opened—uncertain, fragile, but theirs after all.

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