Author's Note: What? Did you think I was gone forever? No, I wasn't gone; just busy with the last year of school, which just finished for me. Turned in my last final exam today, and I am officially D-O-N-E with graduate school. For good, this time.

Still, I can't believe it. It's finally here. The last volume. It's been a long time in coming, and I've had to go through a lot to get here. Multiple jobs, my father's death, trips to Europe and Russia, and now the end of graduate school. I won't lie; for a while, I thought I would never see this day come. Sometimes it has been very difficult, but at long last, it's here. The volume is not yet finished; at this time, 14 chapters have been written out and another 8 or 9 are on their way. But after everything and after coming so far, it only feels right to post this now. Read on, enjoy, and please leave a review.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Eureka 7 franchise. The credit for the anime goes to Bones Studio and Bandai. I only own the story and associated original characters below. This is written for entertainment purposes only and I make no profit from this story whatsoever. While the story is based on historical events, it is a work of fiction. Any representation of actual people, places, events, etc. is purely coincidental.

As the last Great War draws to a close, a boy and a girl fight their demons one final time.

After a long, costly campaign in Normandy, France, Renton Thurston and Eureka Novikova have had enough adventures, and enough killing. They return home to America and promise each other and themselves that Normandy was their last battle, and they would finally put the past behind them. However, as the Second World War reaches its denouement, and Allied victory is within reach, Renton and Eureka soon realize that war never ends quietly. One day, a ghost comes back to haunt Renton, and launches him on a quest to finally confront his past.

The conclusion of the Historical Eureka Seven series...

Shadows of the Past

Chapter One

September 5th, 1944

Richmond, California, USA

A chilling breeze swept through the platforms, rustling stray leaves on the tiles and sending her dark blue dress afloat. It provided her only company, as no one else would stand on the platforms at this hour. Even if they were all coming home, they would arrive too late for anyone to be willing to stand and wait in the cold and the darkness. Jane Hart did not mind it at all.

When William came by her house and showed her the telegram from his brother, Jane could not contain her relief and joy. Through some miracle, Renton had survived. Eureka had survived. Everyone who went with him to Normandy, to fight for France and friendship, had lived. He would be home soon. She could make up everything to him soon. They could start over, on a fresh slate.

She still held a copy of the telegram in her hands, which trembled in the cold. The faded typed letters were her consolation, her chance for reprieve. After almost losing him twice, it was ever more important to put things right.

August 30th, 1944

Paris, France

Sent by: Renton I. Thurston, Free French Forces

Received at: 7:08 pm

BROTHER:

PARIS IS LIBERATED –STOP- THE CAMPAIGN IS OVER –STOP- I LOST MANY PEOPLE ALONG THE WAY, BUT EUREKA HOLLAND AND OTHERS ARE STILL HERE –STOP- I DO NOT KNOW HOW IT IS POSSIBLE, BUT WE DID IT –STOP- SO GLAD TO BE ALIVE, WILL CATCH THE NEXT SHIP FOR NEW YORK IN A COUPLE DAYS –STOP- TELL EVERYONE I AM COMING HOME SOON!

RENTON

As she traced her fingers over the print, a mournful steam whistle blew in the distance, followed closely by rhythmic chuffing. Jane looked to her left, pushing aside a strand of golden blonde hair and saw the bright headlight of a troop train cast its beam down the tracks. Sabers flashing in the night. She shoved the telegram into her coat pockets as the train eased in to the station, slowly coming up on her platform. The locomotive's wheels gently turned, and the rate of chuffing slowed to short, labored puffs. All the while, her ocean blue eyes strained to find some sign of Renton in the windows of the passenger cars.

She traveled up and down the platform, searching for him. For them. The telegram wasn't a lie, surely! It had been a full week since the telegram was sent! This had to be his train!

Behind her, a door opened up, and soft chattering was heard. Jane's hair spun behind her as she looked, hoping to see the man she loved, lost, and found again.

Down the steps came a boy no older than her, carrying a bolt-action rifle and knapsack on his back. The weakness in his step onto the platform betrayed all the damage the campaign wrought upon him. Around the left pantleg of his knickerbockers were bloodied bandages, and gashes on the sleeves of his brown trench coat. His white socks were sullied with earth and grime and his shoes were scuffed, holes in the soles.

She recognized the melancholy, tired look in his dark green eyes in an instant.

A small tear hit the platform as she sobbed in rejoice.

Renton slowly turned, and saw Jane standing firm and alone, like a Bedouin on the desolate Sahara. She was the only one who came to greet them. As his small, weary entourage filed out, he wanted to approach her, and she to approach him. Each felt the urge to welcome the other back, to make amends, and to put their past troubles away. But Renton couldn't move. Was it the wound in his left thigh, still stinging, or something else?

No matter how many times either of their brains commanded, neither had the strength to move. After all they had been through, was there any hope for reconciliation?

Jane tried to call out to him now that he saw her, but a sharp pain struck her stomach and sucked any oxygen out of her lungs to form words. It felt akin to a boxer's punch. Each time she opened her mouth, all she could do was cry and struggle. What on earth could she say to him after being away for so long? Why couldn't she walk towards him?

Through her teary eyes, she saw Eureka, dressed in a dark blue coatdress with a matching capelet, step down onto the platform and rest a hand on Renton's tired shoulder. She whispered to him words Jane could not catch, and nodded. Her grey eyes softened, and her thin lips formed a gentle, friendly smile.

"I know why she is here, Rentoshka. It's alright. Let it all out. Both of you need it."

Swallowing the lump on his throat, Renton nodded slowly and turned his attention back to the golden-haired girl. Each step he took, he still felt the effects of his wounds burning his skin. But he did not care. Renton knew he was going to be fine, now that he was finally home. Where he belonged.

On the other side, Jane heard him wince with every step he took. His leg, Jane thought. He must have been wounded terribly. How did he survive Normandy? What had he seen?

Not wanting to make Renton suffer more, Jane sprinted at an Olympic runner's pace. The oak brown-haired boy's arms were outstretched, anticipating her.

Jane almost leapt into his arms, bawling the way a small child would. She could feel the dirt of France clinging to his coat and sullying her dress. She reveled in it, as it was proof he was alive. Alive and finally home.

"Renton...I'm...I'm so sorry…"

"It's okay," he said softly. "I'm home, now. I'm here. I'm back."

As tears mixed with grime and sand, Jane's lips found their way onto Renton's cheek. It was rough, but for Jane, it was proof he was standing in front of her. Battered, but unbroken. As strong, as tall, and as resolute as he had been since the day she met him. It was what she loved the most about him. As another tear escaped Jane's eye, Renton's left leg buckled, and he almost collapsed.

The British girl managed to catch him, his hands resting on her shoulders. As he tried to regain a firm footing, she noted his injury.

"Your leg. You've been wounded, haven't you?"

"It went right through. I'm going to the doctor to see what can be done about it."

"Renton, dear…please…"

Her delicate hands held his face, and she found herself lost in his strong green eyes. How could he endure such pain? How could he always keep going, in the face of utter despair?

"…don't ever go away again."

"I promise I won't. That was my last battle. I'm not going anywhere ever again."

She rested her head against his, quietly sobbing, but smiling. Now was the chance to start over. To make up for past errors. She knew he'd never love him, but she always had a friend in him. In the end, that was enough for her.

»»»»»

September 7th, 1944

Bellforest, California, USA

Renton, Eureka, Dominic, and Anemone had to return to school almost immediately, and were expected to catch up on the days they spent travelling. To Holland, it seemed almost unfair that they, still recovering from the grueling experience of Normandy, had to go back to school. Surely, they deserved some respite like anyone else? The two militiamen who survived did not want to leave their respective homes. But a call from Colonel Volkov dispelled any notion of reprieve.

They still had to report to the higher ups about what had transpired in those three months. Who died, who lived, who was wounded, and who was fit for duty. Talho Yukieva and her comrade Corporal Weaver hardly knew how to report back. What on earth could they say to describe the horror of losing every friend they had? How could they say with straight faces that two shell-shocked corporals were all that was left of their platoon?

There was an air of resentment between the two militiamen as they walked downtown towards the militia office. What gave the upper brass the right to pester them after the hell they just stepped out of? Will they even give a damn about the fallen soldiers who valiantly fought to the bitter end?

All those questions and too many more to count filtered through their minds with each clop of their boots. Talho could only sigh with a shaky breath as she and Weaver walked side to the office. Holland, who was right behind Talho, tried to ease the tension.

"This is going to be pleasant, huh?" Holland asked, jokingly.

Talho laughed quietly despite herself. Just like Holland to crack wise even after braving storm and fire.

"I just want to go back to bed…" Weaver complained with a yawn. Talho shrugged diffidently.

"It can't be helped, Weaver. We all knew this day would come."

"How do you think the Colonel will take it?"

"I'm more concerned with whether he believes us or not."

Holland raised an eyebrow at his lover's apprehension.

"Why wouldn't he? Just because you're both NCOs?"

"For a lot of reasons," the two militiamen said in unison.

They were greeted by a sentry dressed in a grey overcoat holding a Garand rifle with an attached bayonet at attention. He sharply saluted the two weary militiamen as they went up the concrete steps, but Holland was stopped, staring down the muzzle of the Garand.

"Halt. State your name and business."

"Ease it, private," Weaver corrected. "He's with us."

The guard backed off, and allowed the three up. To Talho, the door seemed a gateway to the darkness. She back away slightly in a mixture of fear and sadness, unwilling to break the truth of their horrendous losses. Her shoulder was met with a soothing hand. Holland's strong, protective hand.

"It'll be okay. I'll be right here. Just take it easy, yeah?"

Talho's hazel eyes met her beau's icy blue ones, and from that instant, she trusted his assuring words. With a deep breath, the female corporal approached the door and grabbed the knob.

Through a small corridor was the front office and waiting for her was none other than Colonel Volkov, commander of the 303rd Regiment, standing by a window in full dress uniform. Talho was instantly reminded how the uniform, reminiscent of the Russian Imperial Army before the Revolution, was so outdated. Much like many of the brass.

As Volkov turned himself around, and his white goatee and mustache curled with his smile as he greeted the militiamen and their teenaged escort.

"Ah, there you are, Corporals! Come in, come in."

As the trio entered the office, Holland closed the door behind them and stayed close to his lover's side. The Russian boy had learned from his hard lessons in Normandy. He came close to losing Talho because of his unwillingness to be emotionally available to her. He vowed to never make that mistake again.

Other officers that passed by looked askance at him, but Holland Novikov didn't care. He was simply here to support the girl he loved most. Denisov himself ordained him as her protector, her guardian. He had to watch over her now.

Volkov counted the militiamen and did not like what he saw. The warm smile quickly was dispelled by a suspicious grimace, wondering just what happened to them over those three months. He eyed Talho with a sharp look as he asked the question she dreaded to hear.

"Corporal Yukieva, when I gave Lieutenant Denisov his orders three months ago, there were 25 of you. Where is the rest of your platoon?"

Talho's mouth went dry, and she almost choked when she tried to explain. Weaver tried to cover.

"We ran into some trouble in Normandy, sir. You see—"

"I wasn't asking you, Corporal Weaver."

Weaver pursed his lips and relented. Talho, standing still at attention, tried her best to hide the anguish she still felt. However, the trembling in her hazel eyes betrayed everything to Holland. The colonel's beard twitched as he asked again.

"I said, where is the rest of your platoon, Corporal Yukieva?"

Talho looked to Weaver for some form of guidance on what to say. He only nodded solemnly, and it was all she needed. She slung her knapsack off her shoulder and opened it, searching for something. Volkov seemed puzzled as her hands sifted through all manner of equipment and rations for what she wanted. What she produced made him go pale and his eyes to widen to the size of ping-pong balls.

Clutched in her hand was a collection of military dog tags, all tied together. The clatter of the tags on the wooden desk echoed through the office with a sorrowful portent. Her lips quivered as she explained.

"They're…all here, sir. Present and accounted for."

Volkov approached the desk, and examined the bundle of tags. Each bore a soldier's name, serial number, blood type, religion, and the unit to which he belonged. As he read each tag, Talho began listing the names of the fallen.

"Second Lieutenant Ivan Denisov, Staff Sergeant Ruslan Nechayev, Sergeant First Class Jacob Dougherty, Corporal William Greene, Technician 5th Grade Stephen Parsons…"

So she went through the entire roster of her platoon, until her eyes welled up with tears and her voice cracked. When she could not carry on, Weaver continued the catalog of their dead friends and comrades. Holland in the meantime tried to comfort Talho with a warm, soft embrace.

For what felt like hours, Volkov could not say anything, as he was too soaked in shock. Denisov, an officer he trusted and liked, was killed in action. An entire platoon was destroyed. He only thanked God that he did not choose to send the entire regiment, lest he have more dog tags on his desk. However, questions soon began to circulate through his brain. How did these two survive?

"Then tell me, you two. Why are you both still alive and everyone else is dead?"

Silence held a firm grip on the two soldiers at that question. What was the colonel getting at? Did he have such little faith in them? Was he expecting them to bite the dust when the time called for it?

"What are you saying, Colonel?" Talho cried in disbelief. "We survived because we had to. We were fighting our way to victory for our comrades! We didn't want their sacrifices to be in vain. We owe it to them to keep living!"

"It just turned out that way, sir," Weaver put in, solemnly. "Little by little we kept taking hits. Somehow we managed to avoid getting the worst of it. I don't know how else to explain it."

Volkov's eyebrows furrowed skeptically.

"Sheer, dumb luck, Corporal Weaver? Or did you two manage to save your skins and better your chances at everyone else's expense?"

The accusation struck a nerve with Holland in the worst way possible. During his time in Stalingrad, the dark days of his life, he was a partisan fighting for survival. He had to lie, cheat, steal, and kill to support himself and his family.

Longtime friends and classmates forsook him to save their own skins. He did the same.

His allies took advantage of his kindness and turned it against him. He did the same.

Those were painful memories he longed to repress. And yet, he was forced to confront them many times back in Normandy. Talho was a polar opposite to Holland. She would never abandon anyone, not even strangers.

For this man, this so-called adult, to even question Talho's capabilities, was insulting and disrespectful. It went against what she stood for. What she meant to him. Without any hesitation, the dark-haired boy took a step in front of Talho as a shield. He would tolerate no psychological torment done on her.

"Wait just a goddamned minute here! Talho would never leave her comrades behind. I can just tell from the way you speak to her that you don't know ANYTHING about her."

Holland glanced at his beloved before glaring back at Volkov.

"Talho Yukieva is a stubborn girl. She is stubborn, persistent, and unyielding. But she is also compassionate, kind, and determined. She has a sharp tongue and a straightforward mindset. She works hard until she sweats and bleeds. She wants to help everyone in any way that she can. Whether they are children behind enemy lines or a bumbling journalist, Talho will not turn her back on anyone! You don't have people like that in every military, Colonel. You should count your blessings and be grateful that Talho is so capable, mature, and strong for her age. Because, trust me, I am."

That long diatribe sucked any more accusations out of Volkov's mouth, and he was stunned into silence. Holland always had a rocky relationship with the militia since Denisov and Talho found him on the streets. They welcomed his help in tracking down Chertov during the assassination attempts, while simultaneously distrusting him for his Soviet origins and his closeness to Talho.

Volkov almost fell over the desk as he sat down. He was almost at a loss for words after Holland's tirade. Weaver spoke up to fill the void of silence.

"I can vouch for the kid, Colonel. Talho's a tough girl, and Normandy proved it plenty of times. We were all lucky to have her around."

All that was left was Talho's tears hitting the hardwood floors, Holland's icy glare, and an officer who lost one of his most trusted subordinates. What happened in Normandy was a hard blow, one from which it would take time to recover. Volkov did not want to hear anymore, and only ushered them out, saying to standby until further notice.

»»»»»

Never in her seventeen years of life had Anemone Doolittle felt such an intense feeling of relief, happiness, and peace. She was finally home, in her flat, where she rightfully belonged. The last three months in Normandy had pushed her to her limits, both mentally and physically.

The journey was relentless and terrifying. She had witness people die in the worst possible ways. She came face-to-face with death several times. Yet, somehow, she survived. Anemone managed to stay alive and in one piece. And now, here she was, sipping on a cold bottle of Coca-Cola while listening to the radio.

She rested her body on the cozy sofa while waiting for Dominic to come back from a meeting at the Army base near San Francisco. He had said that the officers had ordered him to arrive at the headquarters early in the morning sharp, and he would be gone all day.

Anemone wondered if her beau was going to finally be inducted into the Army. It would make sense, considering Dominic was involved in Normandy. Dominic deserved some kind of reward for risking his life in such grueling battles. She still remembered how Dominic balked at the idea of putting on the uniform in Paris before their victory march. It was natural after everything they had witnessed, but Anemone didn't want to see her boyfriend throw away his lifetime aspirations.

She didn't want him to give up, like she almost did.

Her azure eyes looked up at the spinning ceiling fan, and recalled that terrifying moment. When she wanted to run away from everything without looking back. When everything seemed lost, and their defeat was all but certain. When Eureka came and slapped some sense into her, and reminding the Irish girl of her obligations to everyone and to herself.

Suddenly, the soft jazzy melody on the radio was replaced by a faint whistling. One that grew louder as the seconds rolled by. It couldn't be...

BOOM!

A loud explosion almost knocked her off her sofa and the Coca-Cola off the side table. An attack? But by who? She was just at home!

When Anemone stood up and brushed off her white gown, she noticed the flat wasn't shaking. Everything was perfectly still, and yet she still heard bombs fall one after another. Then to add to the macabre symphony, machine gun fire spattered all around her. Was she hearing things?

She turned her eyes to the radio, and assumed the channel had suddenly switched. Anemone rushed over as if her life depended on it, and tried to change the frequency. She turned the knob, but the bombing only seemed to grow worse, and the machine gun fire grew closer. Every station sounded the same! What on earth was happening!?

Another bomb came screaming in, and the explosion left her with a ringing of church bells for a few seconds. Anemone fell to her knees, covering her ears to try and muffle the noise. What the hell was going on? Why hadn't Dominic come home yet? Why was she hearing these things when the worst of her trials had passed?

The ringing slowly receded, and instead, all she heard was the soft chords of Debussy's Clair de Lune on the radio.

The fiery haired girl stood up slowly on her feet and uncovered her ears. Her forehead and palms were sweating profusely. She decided to go to the bathroom. She needed to splash some cold water on her face. Maybe that would help alleviate the stress and anxiety.

She approached the bathroom sink and proceeded to turn the right handle around. What happened next was blew her mind and terrified her.

Instead of crystal clear, clean water that flowed down on the sink, there was fresh crimson liquid. Anemone didn't have to think twice to know what it was. The thickness was too real. The metallic smell was all too familiar. It was blood.

Her eyes nearly bugled out of her sockets as Anemone let out a horrified scream. She ran out of the bathroom and tripped on the kitchen floor, falling on her front side. Not knowing what to do, whether she was living a nightmare or the real world, Anemone just laid there. She curled into a ball and began to sob.

A jingle of metal keys preceded an opening of the apartment door, and in walked Dominic, greeted by Anemone on the floor, whimpering like a frightened dog.

"Anemone? What the hell...?"

Anemone, still recovering, continued to sob until she heard Dominic's voice. Her blue eyes looked up at his gunmetal grey ones, in desperate need. She tried to reach out to him, but her legs refused to budge.

"I can't move..."

Dominic dropped everything he had and knelt down beside Anemone, caressing her body in a protective embrace. Stroking through her silky hair, he whispered soft words, words meant to shake her out of her dark place.

"It's okay. I'm here, now. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Once Dominic helped her up, Anemone wrapped her arms around her lover, tightly. She sobbed into Dominic's chest for a good few minutes until she was calm enough to talk.

"I don't fucking get it, Dom! I thought we were finally away from the violence and danger. I thought we were done with all that madness! And now that we found peace, the past won't escape me. Why can't I forget about Normandy?!"

As he rubbed her head and cradled her, he remembered Renton's stories of nightmares, seeing things he shouldn't, hearing things he shouldn't. It was the mark of shell-shocked soldier. To this day, he still grappled with his horrible memories. His hands were still doused in blood.

"We can forget the past, but the past doesn't forget us..." he said to no one in particular.

They both sat on the sofa and tried to recollect themselves. The sobbing stopped, but Anemone's arms were still wrapped around him.

"Dom, are we going to be okay?"

"Sure, we are," he said, confidently. "I have you here, and you have me. That's all I need."

"And you are all I need, Dom. Always."

She looked around the living room and then at the carpet floor.

"I'm sorry. I was hearing and seeing a lot of messed up things just now. I thought there was an attack at our town. And I saw blood coming from the bathroom sink. At least, that's what I was thinking anyway."

She sighed, knowing that it was reality she was in. The proof was the man next to her.

"I'm not the same Anemone Doolittle yet. I don't know how long I'll be back to normal, but just bear with me, okay?"

Dominic smiled.

"I'll always love you, Anemone, no matter what. It's gonna take time to adjust, but I'm here."

The Irish girl nodded and embraced him once again. Dominic never let her down, not once throughout their three years together. There was no reason not to believe his words.

"So, what did the higher-ups want from you this time?"

He raised his eyebrows and picked up something off the floor he dropped. It was a bright, olive green uniform, the kind issued to soldiers when garrisoned. Then he put something in her hand. A pin, shaped in the form of a vertical brass bar.

"They gave me an officer's commission. I'm a second lieutenant, Anemone!"

The blue eyed teen's somber expression turned into a joyous smile. She jumped up like a giddy child on a bed, cheering. Forgetting her episode for the time being, she planted a passionate and tearful kiss upon Dominic. Once they broke away, Anemone showered Dominic with praise.

"That's amazing, honey! See, what did I tell you? I knew there was a promotion coming your way and I was right! I'm so proud of you, baby. We should celebrate!"

Dominic could only laugh, happy to know such news was all Anemone needed to turn her demeanor around. In truth, it was something at which he was still in amazement himself. He thought for a long time the war would end before he would get to put on the uniform.

In the back of his mind, he knew accepting the commission meant possibly going back. Leaving her behind. But none of that mattered for the moment, so as long as they were together now. So, he gladly took up her offer, and started calling every friend and classmate in town. Everyone was invited to share in the festivities. Even Renton, tired and still recovering from his leg, was all too happy to celebrate his friend's success. The war would be over soon, anyway, Dominic thought. Why not celebrate early?

Author's Note: As a celebration for the end of graduate school, I'm going on a week-long trip to Switzerland. Another pet idea I have always had, and another trip Dad always wanted to do before his death. I will be back in time for Christmas, so expect another chapter update that week. Also, don't worry about me dropping off the face of the earth again; with school completely finished, I'm intending on taking a nice, long vacation with no jobs, no stress, only writing and relaxation. After three and a half years in school, I really, really, need this.

I'm back, guys.

Historyman101