Elisabeth stood in the doorway of her and Paul's house, her gaze fixed on the door. After a moment, she glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at the door again, this time her frustration evident.
Finally, the key turned in the lock.
A tall, handsome, yet tired-looking man stepped inside, holding a bouquet of flowers.
"Heinrich, you!" Elisabeth began sharply, but her expression softened the instant she noticed the bouquet.
"You are an idiot," she said, though her voice had grown much gentler as she took the flowers from him, lifting them slightly to breathe in their scent.
"Good to see you too, Elisabeth," Paul replied quietly, his mind already seeming to drift elsewhere.
"Since it is Valentine's Day, Hugo has prepared a majestic dinner for us," Elisabeth said, taking his hand and leading him toward the dining room.
But before she could sit down, Paul walked past the table toward a small basket resting on the couch. He stopped in front of it. Slowly, he lowered himself, kneeling on both knees and stretching out his hands. His fingertips brushed against something soft, a layer of silk protecting a much deeper innocence.
"Marcus. Smile for me," Paul whispered. He caressed a soft cheek, a gesture the little child found funny. The infant giggled, reaching up to grab Paul's finger with a surprisingly firm grip.
Suddenly Elisabeth appeared in the corner of Paul's eye, hugging Paul from behind while her own hand found the child's free cheek. She smiled down at them both.
"How beautiful," she whispered, while she sat down on the sofa beside them
"How much I wish for these moments to happen more often."
She continued caressing the child's cheek, but a small drop of liquid landed on the baby's nose.
"Oh..." Elisabeth stammered. She quickly wiped the tear away with her hand, her movements frantic and embarrassed.
Paul looked at her with a deep, conflicted gaze. His eyes were filled to the brink with long forgotten emotions, but the foremost among them was pity.
"Do you not think of it sometimes?" Elisabeth suddenly broke the silence. She turned toward Paul and grabbed his hand, the one still resting against their son's cheek.
"Just us three, perhaps us four in the future," she began. "Somewhere far away, somewhere where no one cares about who we are. No responsibilities, no expectations, no demands. Such a place, far away..."
Suddenly Paul turned. He stood with his back to her for a moment, his posture as rigid as a statue. Under the baffled and hurt gaze of Elisabeth, he walked back to the dining table, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor.
"Heinrich, I will not give up like this," she said. She followed him, pulling out the chair opposite him and sitting down with a defiant grace.
"Your son needs you, Heinrich. He needs you even more than I do." Her voice crackled at the end, the sound of a heart beginning to break.
"I know," Paul answered. His voice was flat.
"You work too much, and even when you do not, you think about work," she shot at him.
"I know," he repeated. He placed his fork down again.
"Why can't you just scale it back a bit?" Elisabeth pleaded. She leaned forward, trying to meet Paul's eyes, yet he looked only at the table between them.
"You do not know now, do you?" she asked. Her voice was now a bitter mixture of sarcasm and self pity.
"Oh, but I do," Paul suddenly said. He met her eyes then, his gaze cold and vast. It was the look of a man who had seen the end of the world.
"I know why I cannot stop, even though I should. I know of it all, Elisabeth."
"It was not the moment I arrived in this time, this body, no. But the moment I decided to intervene, an everlasting responsibility befell me. It is a burden I took well knowingly. It is a weight incomprehensible for anyone else."
"What are you talking about?" Elisabeth whispered. She looked at Paul as if she were seeing a ghost.
"Has it not bothered you? Has it not been strange to you? For example, how a lowly Oberleutnant managed to become Führer of Germany in the span of not even four years?!"
Paul continued. His voice was full of pent up frustration and a deep, resonant sadness that seemed to vibrate the very air of the room.
"Why do I have pictures in my drawers of technologies that are far too advanced for even the smartest minds of today to comprehend?"
"WHY? WHY ELISABETH?"
"Because I am not from today, nor from yesterday. I am from tomorrow," Paul said. He took a heavy breath, one that felt as though it carried the weight of decades.
"Are you saying you know the future, Paul?" Elisabeth asked. She looked at him with a gaze that was entirely incomprehensible.
"I come from the future, so I only know my past. But I do not know this future. I have meddled with it. I have shaken it until something far from my grasp was created. That is boundless responsibilites of those who have meddled with the timeline for their own benefit."
"Are you serious?" Elisabeth asked. She stood up, searching Paul's face for any sign of a joke or a moment of hesitation. She found none. His eyes were as cold and certain as the grave.
Slowly she began shaking her head, the impossibility of his words clashing with the undeniable evidence of his success. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Marcus began crying. The sharp, piercing sound filled the room, cutting through the heavy atmosphere
Quietly Elisabeth went over, gathering the child into her arms, then she left, leaving behind Paul and two plates full of untouched food.
Paul did not call out to her. Instead, he began to eat. He cut his steak into perfectly even pieces, his movements precise and rhythmic. He put them into his mouth one after another. After he finished, he wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, stood up, and began the climb upstairs.
The stairs groaned under his heavy weight, creaking lightly in the otherwise silent house.
Then he began to work. Time passed more quickly than he thought, with the clock already showing past midnight. Paul leaned back into his leather chair, sighing, and turned around toward the large, nearly floor to ceiling window. The scenery outside was dark for the most part, but it was peaceful too. It was the kind of silence that usually precedes a cataclysm.
Suddenly the door to his study creaked open. Paul turned around.
"Elisabeth," he whispered.
"If you continue to walk down this path you described, absurd as it sounds, then I will not let you shed me in order to protect me," she said, walking over to him with a firm, unyielding step.
"I know you still love me." She spoke with wide eyes, embracing Paul and pressing her head against his chest. "If you do, then take me with you at least. Wherever you go, do not protect me or leave me out. I wish to partake. We wish to partake. I will go with you on your travels to Prague."
"What?" Paul asked, pushing her away slightly to look into her face.
"That is too—" He began, but he was quickly interrupted.
"I don't care. If that is what it takes to walk down the path together with you, then I will do it."
Paul looked at her for a moment, his eyes searching hers for a sign of doubt. He found none. He slowly nodded, accepting the pact that would lead them both into the abyss.
A quiet wind set in outside, filling the night sky with fallen leaves. Many of them stemmed from the large and old oak tree standing in the garden of Paul's mansion, its roots digging deep into the soil of a country he had reshaped.
On one of the branches sat a dark eagle. It was barely visible from afar, a silhouette of predator and stone. Its head was turned toward the only source of light in the darkness, a golden glow stemming from the large window of the study. Inside, a man and a woman stood together.
The eagle did not move. It simply watched, its eyes reflecting the light of the room...
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