Walter had just shot Olivia in the brain.

Okay. Now comes the fun part.

William Bell, baron of badness, believing that with her death his plans to collapse the two parallel universes, to generate his own private personal madman new universe, had been foiled, fades, finally, mournfully, away.

As Walter bends to skillfully extract the bullet from her brain. Trusting the high levels of cortexiphan coursing through her system will regenerate the brain tissue, and, thereby, her life.

Olivia is gurneyed, removed to a hospital—where, lo, it be so. And, as she comes back into consciousness, she informs once and future lover Peter, that she is pregnant, with their first child.

And, happy, ever after, they do be.

Well. Till the Observers come. But that. They will surmount. Too.

But this had to be a different script. Because when Olivia came to, there in the hospital, there was no Peter, or Walter, or even doctor, there.

There was just me.

Olivia, she arose from the bed, took me by the hand, and said: “This is our timeline.”

Then, we went into blackness.

Soon, out again.

As, in the light, she was in a tumbril. This seemed to be something like 18th Century France. And she seemed to be something like Marie Antoinette. But with long curling blonde hair, nearly, all, to the ground.

People, as she passed by, were jeering.

But she. She. Was smiling.

“No!” I shouted, fast-walking, alongside the tumbril. “No!”

People roughly shoved me away.

“It’ll be okay,” she said, smiling at me.

When she reached the foot of the blade, I tried to grab her away, but was rifle-butted to the dirt. “He goes next!” somebody shouted. As I was firmly pinioned. By multiple anathemas.

She climbed the scaffolding, and, serenely, laid her head, beneath the blade. Which fell. And, with a great gout of blood, flew her head into the basket.

Her body then arose, reached for her head, affixed it to her body. Stood straight up. Smiling.

Then, she knelt, again, beneath the blade. Which fell, again; again, severing her head.

Which she then, again, took up, and, standing straight and true, affixed to her body.

Then, she knelt again, beneath the blade. For a third time.

All in the crowd were quiet now.

The blade fell again. Again, severed her head. Which she again took up, and affixed again to her body.

She stood, and smiled, out at the now silent crowd.

And, I understood. There would never, now, again, be, ever again, a single act of violence, committed by any human, against any human, on this planet, ever, again.

“Behold,” she said. “The handmaid of the lord."