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"She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made."

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v. tomorrow is something we remember

The sky heaved and shuttered like an old animal and thus the snow came down, covering the earth in forgetful white. It was a vision reminiscent of Renoir's La Vague. Along the twisting shoreline, the ocean roared full of sound and fury from its long battle with the churning winter storm.

His skin was numb; his eyes were watering from the piercing wind. The extreme cold was a shock to his senses. Coming from the warmth of the Canary Islands in the Mediterranean Sea, he was incongruous, standing hunched in the snow in his heavy overcoat and Burberry scarf.

Soft—he tried to remember the tropical warmth, tried to remember some resemblance of all the things he had cherished. But here, the cloudy sky and the sea were seamless, rolling against each other, and causing everything to slip away from comprehension. In a disquieting way, everything had fallen into a fog; he couldn't tell where he ended and where he began.

Then he heard a voice calling his name in the distance; he saw her like an emblem—dark and beautiful, with her hair gone in the wind coming from the ocean, her voice swirling with the salty cold air. Her heavy winter coat, which fell to her knees, was of a brilliant purple, heightening the color of her amethyst eyes. Tomoyo was one of those girls that folded radiance in the curls of her hair; she was beyond words. She carried a sense of liveliness with her, wherever she went.

"Bonjour, chéri." He watched the mist of his breaths rise and fall.

She smiled—it was the only thing he saw clearly. When she came close to him, she tiptoed herself and placed a kiss on both his cheeks in greeting as the French do. He couldn't help but smile back, catching the faint scent of her in the air.

"Bonjour," she said. Her words were pleasant, yet still held a trace of an American accent beneath the satin sounds. "Comment vas-tu?" she asked.

"Je gère," he replied. "Et tu?"

"Pas trop mal," she said and gave him an inquisitive look. She slowly reached out to him, pulling at his arms where his hands were stuffed deep in his pockets. "Your hands are cold," she commented as she pressed her fingers to his.

He noticed a snowflake caught on her long dark eyelashes, it sat there, almost glistening, before melting away. For, perhaps, only the third time in his life, Eriol could not find the words to convey his thoughts. His face fell. "The sea, the sea, the sea," he sang softly.

"C'est quoi?" she asked, concerned.

He studied her, trying to catch a glimmer of the sadness he knew she carried like an ocean inside her. "Je suis désolé," he finally said. It was a whisper—lost, like her hair, like the delicate snowflakes falling around them.

"For what?"

"Everything," he replied, quietly, "for being a complete and utterly unforgivable prick and leaving you in Havana, and then for unabashedly asking you to meet me again."

"Oh," she breathed. "I see." She looked away as though there couldn't possibly be more to say and, letting go of his hand, she took a step back from him.

For moments she looked away into the distance where the waves crashed and the sea sang. The snow was tapering off slowly and the ocean was churning, making noise to fill the spaces. When she finally turned to face him, she was no longer smiling. "What are we doing, Eriol?" she finally asked.

He squinted, as if in uncertainty.

"I can't keep doing this," she gestured into the air, into the sea, with an urgency she has never revealed. "I'm tired of being homeless. All these years, I've been all over the world, through countless countries and innumerable cities, and I keep moving and I keep going. I've learned so much through all this traveling and I've realized that this world is beautiful—beautiful beyond language—but that's not enough. There's a part of me that is never satisfied no matter how many new places I've ventured and how many exciting people I've met. It hurts, Eriol."

"Don't, darling," he said, gently, and suddenly feeling the urge to touch her dark, ash hair. "Don't hurt. You are something extraordinary—so extraordinary."

She looked away. The cold brought a warm hint of pink to her cheeks.

"Are you happy, Tomoyo?" he asked and remembered the time they were standing on Windsor Bridge where he had asked the same question.

She took a moment to consider and when she turned back, she was smiling once again. "Of course," she replied, full of a conviction she lacked years ago. "Of course, I am. I never knew I could be truly happy, but I am now and I have been for a very long time."

"Isn't happiness enough?"

"No, it isn't."

Her replied surprised him. Eriol studied her face, trying to decipher what was written there. He suddenly realized that he had never understood her. She was infinite, like sea, like air; there was no possible way to completely comprehend infinity. "Does truth worth more than happiness?" he questioned, struggling to understand.

She nodded. "Yes, Eriol," she said. "Truth is all I have."

Before he had time to respond, she was walking away from him. He quickly followed her to the western end of the beach. Eriol noticed how small her footprints were compared to his. The snow had stopped now and everything was blindingly white, except for that line of brown wet sand where the sea and land met. The ocean had a heartbeat, it seemed, the continual crashing of waves, the ebbing of the tides—in and out, in and out. In that moment, the world was still as if time had stopped, covered in white, but the ocean still moved on and continued it's heartbeat—in and out, in and out—it was all Eriol heard.

Suddenly, as fast as she had started, Tomoyo stopped. She turned back to see him just a few paces behind her. She was thoughtful. "But maybe, someday, love will be enough," she said.

He smiled, understanding, and when he was close enough, he kissed her cheek. "But we are those who cannot love, Tomoyo. Can we ever be enough for each other?" he whispered the question to her ear.

Tomoyo contemplate the question in her mind. In the silence, the songs of the sea became lamentations, poetry—became history. The crashing waves, full of sea foam and salt, making echoes that sound across the coastline; they were echoes of history, but really a beginning.

She took his right hand in her left, lacing her fingers with his. "Someday," she replied and kissed the hand she held. "But right now, we are not alone anymore. We're home."

And thus the snow came down again—merging with her voice that comprehended him beyond any reckoning of it—for this is the end of their beginning and tomorrow was something they remember.

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In the end, all a man has is his memories. And Eriol had many. There were the recollections of his previous life and images from an ancient time that were all just a dream to him. There had been times when he had been wrapped up in rapture, times when he lost faith, times of vertigo—too many memories, too many moments. Truthfully, in the end, all a man can remember is what is the most important to him. And Eriol could only remember, in crystalline clarity, Tomoyo. Even when his mind and body gave away into old age, he could still remember her, every detail of her face, every timbre of her voice, and everything that had made her Tomoyo because everything about her was beautiful. In the end, all Eriol had was Tomoyo and truth; somehow the two was interchangeable.

In life, there will always be times of strife and times of joy, there will always be beginnings and there will always be endings. Eriol had seen many such beginnings and endings, yet Tomoyo's world had neither beginnings nor endings. It took him his entire lifetime to understand her. The world had always been perfect because it had always existed in that state; it had been perfect since the beginning of time and it is perfect right this moment and it will always be perfect. Time is only a perception.

The end is where we start from.

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- fin -

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Author's Notes: Snow on the beach is a delicate and beautiful thing. It is one of those sights too fantastic to be real and would only linger as a dreamlike image. It is such a rare thing that few people have the pleasure of seeing. I was lucky last winter to have been spending a weekend at a beach house on Cape Cod when the snow came. It was gorgeous. That morning when I woke to the snow everywhere is something that will always stay with me.

Renoir's La Vague is one of my favorite paintings of all time. It is a swirl of purples and blues, greens and yellows that mix and churn like a real storm out at sea. It is a brilliant piece of work that represented this scene perfectly.

The Canary Islands is a popular vacation spot for Europeans. It is like the Bermuda of Europe. The weather is warm there throughout the year. It is off the coast of Spain. It is also famous for black sand beaches. Burberry is a very popular, and very expensive, British designer brand—sort of like Prada, Gucci.

I spent a bulk of my childhood studying French. In fact, I was almost fluent when I was little but alas, when I picked up Spanish and stopped practicing, I can't speak French very well anymore. It is one of my biggest regrets. But at least I managed to put together a few simple sentences for this story.

Bonjour – hello
Comment vas-tu? – how are you?
Je gère – I manage
Et tu? – and you
Pas trop mal – Not too bad
C'est quoi? – What is it?
Je suis désolé – I am sorry

I have to admit that I never expected She Sang Beyond the Genius of the Sea to turn out like this. I am pleased—no, very pleased—with this entire story. I have to admit that I am quite proud actually. It is everything I wanted to someday contain in prose: poetry, imagery, philosophy, and my favorite beautifully tragic couple. I can only hope that you had enjoyed reading this as much as I had the pleasure of writing it.

This is my first completely finished multi-part story. This calls for a celebration full of graffiti and champagne. I think some thank-you's are due. First of all, I must thank my unfortunate computer that had to bear me through hours of typing, deleting, editing, and tantrum-ing when writer's block hit. Secondly, I want to thank whoever invented coffee and Starbucks: thank you, you are the only reason my writing exists. Thirdly and more seriously, I want to thank all my lovelies over on LiveJournal who read all the first drafts of this story. I want to lastly thank everyone who had left encouraging and flattering reviews for this story. Thank you for reminding me of why I enjoy writing.

Just as an aside, I actually wrote this author's note before I wrote this last chapter. I also wrote the last three paragraphs when I finished the first chapter. I find this helpful in reminding me that there is an end in sight and kept me from abandoning it altogether when my muse has gone away, and more importantly, to keep this story on track plot-wise. And it is done. DONE.

Now, I shall let out a long sigh of relief, kick back, read this story from top to bottom, and gloat in my own delight.

Please review before you leave.