Before Forever
by Hidden Tala
Eriol is dreaming.
He drifts through an endless expanse of deep, dark sky, where constellations pulse like the quiet heartbeat of the universe. The place feels familiar, as if he has lived here in lifetimes past. The stars hum with secrets, their songs just beyond his understanding—whispers of a language he almost remembers but cannot quite grasp.
Suddenly, in the distance, a dark figure emerges–tall, regal, and shrouded in flowing robes that shimmered like liquid moonlight.
Clow Reed.
"The time is coming," Clow says, his low voice echoing in the vast emptiness of space.
Eriol floats closer, a frown etching his face. "What do you mean?"
Clow's staff materializes out of thin air, the ornate headpiece glinting in the starlight. He regards Eriol with a gentle and patient gaze. "Have you ever wondered why I chose to be reborn?"
Eriol stills. He had always believed Clow's reincarnation was necessary—to guide Sakura, to ensure the balance of magic endured. That had been his purpose. And yet… there is something in Clow's gaze, something deeper, more personal.
Eriol exhales. "Why?"
Clow turns away and looks to a distance, a wistful smile on his lips. "She's coming for you."
Eriol flinches, as if scalded. A familiar weight settles over him—the feeling of being drawn into one of Clow's intricate designs.
Eriol clenches his fists, a sudden frustration welling up inside him.
"No," he says firmly. "This is my life, my choices. I've done everything I was meant to do. I will live as myself."
Clow chuckles softly, the sound neither mocking nor unkind.
Eriol shakes his head, the vast dreamscape pressing in around him.
"I am not you," he insists, voice quieter but no less resolute. "I finished what you asked of me. I have already made a life for myself. I love Kaho."
Clow's gaze remains steady, unfazed by Eriol's declaration. The stars shimmer around them, singing songs they couldn't hear. Then, with a quiet sigh, Clow turns back to face him fully.
"I do not doubt your love for Kaho," he says gently. "Nor do I seek to take away what you have built."
He gazes out in the far distance again.
"But love is not always a single path, Eriol," Clow continues, his voice as soft as the glow of the constellations. "Sometimes, it is a force that calls us forward, even when we believe we have already found our way."
Eriol's hands clench at his sides. "I am not searching for another path," he says, his voice steadier now. "I have made my choice."
Clow tilts his head slightly, studying him with the patience of someone who has already seen the ending of a story yet refuses to spoil it.
"Some things are not about choice. They are simply meant to be."
.
.
.
It happens a week after the dream.
Eriol is seated in the library, a book open before him, though he has long stopped reading. Spinel dozes beside him, wings tucked in, his quiet presence a familiar comfort. The air hums with magic, woven into the very fabric of the space.
And then—
A pull.
Not the gentle tug of curiosity, nor the sharp sting of alarm. This is something deeper—an invisible thread, long forgotten, suddenly yanked taut. A shiver runs down his spine.
His vision blurs. The library dissolves.
She is here.
She is all mist in this white, endless space—shapeless yet present, more a feeling than a form. There are no sharp edges, no defining features, only the lingering impression of someone who should be known but remains just beyond reach. She feels like a memory slipping through his fingers, familiar yet elusive, as if she has always existed in the quiet spaces between his thoughts, waiting to be remembered.
Eriol reaches out instinctively, but his fingers close around nothing.
Who are you?
The words do not pass his lips, but somehow, he knows she hears them.
And then—
A voice. Soft. Distant. Yearning.
Come back to me.
.
.
.
Eriol avoids the library like the plague.
Logically, he knows it's foolish—the feeling that she might be there, waiting for him. It's imaginary. And yet, the thought lingers at the edges of his mind, irrational but persistent.
Spinel notices first. He was there when it started, when Eriol woke from his dream in the library a week ago, shaken and distant. Since then, the plush guardian has observed the subtle changes—how Eriol hesitates near the library doors, how his magic stirs with an unease he refuses to acknowledge.
Nakuru, on the other hand, doesn't understand it at all. "Okay, what is this?" she grumbles one afternoon, sprawled across the sitting room couch. "The Master hasn't touched a book in days, and that is not normal."
Spinel, perched by the window, flicks his tail. "It's not the books he's avoiding."
Eriol steps into the sitting room with practiced ease, his expression composed, his movements unhurried. If not for the faint tension in his shoulders, it would seem like any other afternoon.
"I see you've made yourself comfortable, Nakuru," he remarks lightly, eyeing the way she's draped herself across the couch as if it's a throne.
"Of course," she says, stretching lazily. "Someone has to maintain the balance of relaxation in this house, and since you refuse to sit still, I've taken up the burden."
Eriol hums in amusement, pouring himself a cup of tea from the set left on the side table. "Truly, a noble sacrifice." He takes a sip, as if the past week hasn't been an exercise in avoidance, as if everything is perfectly normal.
Nakuru narrows her eyes. "You're deflecting."
"Am I?" He tilts his head, the picture of mild curiosity. "I was under the impression we were discussing your unparalleled dedication to leisure."
Spinel, still perched by the window, flicks his tail. "You're avoiding the library."
Eriol doesn't flinch, but the pause before he sets down his teacup is just a fraction too long. "I've simply been enjoying a change of scenery," he says smoothly.
Spinel isn't fooled. "A change of scenery," he echoes. "Interesting choice of words for someone who won't even look at the library doors."
Nakuru sits up, pointing at Spinel. "Exactly!" Then she rounds on Eriol. "You love that room more than any other place in this house, and suddenly, you won't go near it. What gives?"
Eriol exhales softly, swirling the tea in his cup as if searching for an answer in the amber liquid. "Must there always be a dramatic reason?" he muses. "Perhaps I simply wish to break routine."
Spinel and Nakuru exchange glances.
"Oh, please," Nakuru scoffs. "You? Breaking routine? That's the biggest lie I've heard all week."
Eriol smiles—calm, measured, unreadable. "Then perhaps you should believe me when I say there's nothing to worry about."
Eriol turns to the bay window, his gaze drifting past the glass as if the conversation no longer holds his attention. Outside, spring unfolds across London—the soft green of budding leaves, the gentle sway of blossoms in the breeze, the golden light pooling over the rooftops. The sight should be grounding, familiar.
Instead, the world shifts.
Eriol barely has time to register the pull before he is there—suspended in a dreamscape bathed in soft pink light. Petals drift through the air like whispered secrets, falling endlessly from unseen cherry blossom trees. The ground beneath him isn't solid, yet it holds him, weightless and uncertain.
It is beautiful. It is endless. It feels like a memory.
And she is here.
She is no longer just a feeling at the edges of his mind. She stands before him now, her form still blurred, but present. The air around her shimmers, as if reality itself is struggling to define her. She is neither shadow nor light, neither here nor gone.
Eriol's breath catches. The gentle snowfall of petals swirls between them, and for the first time, he sees—
A glimpse of her hair, dark as ink, catching the soft glow of pink light. The hint of a familiar silhouette, delicate yet unyielding.
Eriol opens his mouth, but his voice fails him. His heart is pounding, too fast, too loud.
Her hand lifts, reaching toward him, fingers barely brushing the edge of his sleeve—
And the world shatters.
Eriol jerks back into reality with a gasp, his hands clutching the windowsill as if to ground himself. The sitting room, the afternoon light, the scent of spring—it all rushes back too quickly, too suddenly. His legs feel unsteady beneath him.
"Eriol!"
Nakuru's voice snaps through the haze. She is already at his side, gripping his shoulder as if to keep him from collapsing. Spinel is hovering just inches away, his golden eyes sharp and alert.
Eriol exhales shakily, running a hand through his hair. He is still trembling. He can feel the cherry blossoms, the warmth of the pink light. The ghost of her touch lingers.
He remembers her.
Not her name, not fully. Not her face, not completely.
But the ache in his heart tells him the truth.
She is real.
.
.
.
The room is dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. The sounds of the city have faded into the hush of late night, leaving only the quiet rhythm of breathing, the occasional rustle of sheets.
Eriol lies awake.
He stares at the ceiling, the patterns of shadow and light shifting with every small movement of the breeze outside. Sleep doesn't come easily anymore—not when every time he closes his eyes, he feels the pull. The weight of something—or someone—just beyond his reach.
Beside him, Kaho shifts, her presence warm and familiar. She isn't asleep either.
"You're thinking too much again," she murmurs, her voice soft in the dark.
Eriol huffs a quiet laugh. "A terrible habit, I know."
She turns onto her side, propping herself up slightly to look at him. Even without seeing her clearly, he can feel the steadiness of her gaze. "Do you want to tell me?"
For a moment, he hesitates. But the silence between them is patient, open—not demanding, not expectant. Just waiting.
Finally, he exhales.
"Clow appeared to me," he says at last, his voice quiet but steady. "I think he wants something from me."
Kaho says nothing at first, only watching him in the dim glow of moonlight. Then, after a pause, she asks, "And what do you want?"
Eriol exhales, shifting onto his side to face her fully. "That's the question, isn't it?" His fingers brush absently over the edge of the sheet. "I thought I had left Clow's will behind. That I had fulfilled whatever was required of me." His gaze flickers downward. "But it seems there are still threads I haven't untangled."
Kaho is quiet, thoughtful. "Did he tell you what he wants?"
"Not exactly." Eriol's expression tightens, his mind replaying the conversation, the weight of Clow's knowing gaze. "He said she's coming for me."
Something in the air shifts. A nearly imperceptible tension.
Kaho's brow furrows slightly. "She?"
Eriol hesitates, but there is no sense in hiding it. "I don't know who she is. I only know that she… exists."
The words linger between them, unanswered. Kaho doesn't react immediately, and when she does, it is with the same steady patience she has always possessed.
"You've seen her?"
Eriol closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. "Not clearly. But I felt her." He doesn't realize how tightly his hand has curled into the sheet until he forces himself to relax. "And when I did, it was as though something inside me recognized her—before I even had the chance to question it."
Kaho watches him carefully. Then, gently, she asks, "Are you afraid?"
Eriol lets out a quiet laugh, though there is no humor in it. "I don't know what I am." His gaze turns distant, as if searching for something in the shadows of the room. "I only know that this isn't over."
Kaho reaches for his hand, her fingers warm against his. "Then promise me something," she says softly.
Eriol looks at her. "Anything."
She holds his gaze. "Don't let this take you away from yourself. Whoever she is, whatever this is—don't let it unravel who you are now."
Her words settle deep, a quiet plea wrapped in unwavering trust.
Eriol gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "I won't," he promises.
Kaho searches his face a moment longer before nodding. "Good."
She exhales, resting her head against his shoulder. Eventually, her breathing slows, her body relaxing into sleep.
Eriol, however, remains awake—staring into the darkness, listening to the faint whisper of petals drifting through his mind.
.
.
.
Eriol dreams again.
This time, the vision is not just a haze of color and drifting petals. It is more than a feeling, more than a whisper.
It is a place.
Tsukimine Shrine stands before him, bathed in soft twilight. The air hums with quiet energy, the weight of old magic settling into the stone paths, the towering trees, the wooden beams of the shrine. Lanterns flicker along the walkway, casting warm, golden halos of light against the deepening violet of the sky.
And standing beneath the torii gate—waiting, as if she has always been waiting—is her.
She is no longer a blurred silhouette, no longer an ephemeral presence slipping through his fingers.
She is real.
Her long dark hair flows like ink against the wind, catching the glow of the lanterns. Her violet eyes hold him with quiet intensity, steady and knowing.
Eriol's breath stills.
He knows her.
And yet—
She is not the girl from his memories. Not the soft-spoken child who once stood beside Sakura, watching with gentle smiles, capturing moments through the lens of a camera.
This is a woman.
Older. Wiser. Different.
"How can this be?" The words slip from Eriol's lips before he can stop them, his voice quiet but firm. His mind races to make sense of what stands before him.
The Tomoyo Daidouji he knows—gentle, watchful, with an artist's soul—does not possess magic. She does not walk in dreams, does not stand between time and space like an echo of fate.
And yet, she is here.
Her violet eyes remain steady, unwavering. There is no surprise in them, no hesitation—only the quiet certainty of someone who already knows the shape of his thoughts before he speaks them.
"You are not supposed to be able to do this," Eriol continues, his brows drawing together. He takes a step forward, careful, measured. "Daidouji-san, how are you—"
"You are asking the wrong question, Eriol."
Her voice is soft, but it stills him instantly.
He meets her gaze, and for the first time, he sees it—that quiet sadness resting beneath her composure, the weight of something unspoken.
"Then tell me," he says, his voice quieter now. "What should I be asking?"
She exhales, long and slow, as if she has been carrying this moment for a long time.
"Not how I am here." She looks past him, to the lantern-lit path winding through the shrine. "But why I have come to find you."
Eriol's pulse quickens.
"Why, then?" he asks, watching her carefully.
Tomoyo finally looks back at him, and for the first time, the sadness in her eyes reaches her voice.
"Because you are the only one who can save me."
The shrine flickers. The lanterns dim.
The dream begins to unravel.
"If you don't come, I'll die."
Eriol reaches out instinctively, as if he can hold onto the moment, as if he can stop the world from pulling her away—
But the vision shatters like glass.
He wakes with a sharp inhale, his heart pounding, the weight of her words still pressing against his chest. The dim glow of the bedroom greets him, reality settling back into place.
If you don't come, I'll die.
Eriol presses a hand to his forehead, his pulse still unsteady.
Beside him, the sheets rustle.
"Eriol?"
Kaho's voice is soft, but there is a weight to it, a quiet concern that pulls him further into wakefulness. He turns his head to find her already sitting up, watching him. Even in the dim glow of moonlight, he can see the faint crease of worry between her brows.
"You were dreaming," she says. "You said Daidouji-san."
The sound of her name in Kaho's voice unsettles him more than it should.
Eriol exhales slowly, trying to steady himself. "Yes."
Kaho says nothing, waiting.
He sits up, pressing a hand over his face, fingers dragging through his hair. The vision is still there, seared into his thoughts—Tsukimine Shrine, the lanterns, the way she had looked at him.
Eriol lowers his hand, staring at the darkness beyond the window.
"It was different this time," he murmurs at last. "Clearer."
Kaho studies him, her gaze thoughtful. "And?"
The weight of it settles over him like a storm cloud, pressing heavy against his ribs.
He has always known himself to be composed, rational. A man who sees the weave of fate before it tightens around him. But this—this is different.
Eriol exhales, staring at his hands.
He had promised Kaho a life. One without burdens, without tangled destinies dictating his every step. He had chosen her. She had chosen him. And for years, that had been enough.
But now—
Because you are the only one who can save me.
Tomoyo's words echo in his mind, relentless. The vision of her—older, waiting—is burned into his thoughts.
He tightens his jaw, his fingers curling into fists.
If he leaves—
No.
If he goes, what does that mean?
Kaho shifts beside him, watching, waiting. She is always waiting, isn't she? Always patient, always trusting. She has never asked him for reassurances, never tried to hold him back from whatever path he must walk.
Even now, she doesn't press. But she must know.
She must feel it.
The distance growing, the pull of something—someone—else calling him away.
Eriol presses a hand over his face, exhaling shakily.
He does not want to leave.
But if he stays—
He swallows hard, the ache in his chest tightening.
Either choice will cost him something.
.
.
.
In the end, Kaho makes the choice.
A few days later, a letter is waiting for him when he wakes.
At first, Eriol doesn't notice. The house is quiet, the morning light creeping through the curtains, and for one brief, blissful moment, he forgets.
Then he reaches for the other side of the bed and finds it empty.
A chill grips his chest.
He sits up too quickly, heart hammering, and that's when he sees it—neatly placed on his bedside table, his name written in Kaho's careful hand.
For a long moment, he simply stares.
Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he picks up the letter and unfolds it.
Eriol,
I have watched you wrestle with this, and I cannot bear to see you torn apart by it any longer. I know you. I know that you will never truly be at peace unless you do what is right—what only you can do.
So I will make the choice for you.
Go.
I will not hold you here, and I will not ask you to choose between your heart and your duty. I have always believed that love should never be a chain.
If, when this is over, you find yourself wishing to return—meet me where we first met, here in England. I will wait for you there.
Kaho
The paper trembles in his grip.
A sharp breath shudders out of him, and then another, but it does nothing to quiet the storm rising inside him.
His fingers tighten until the edges of the letter crumple.
Clow.
Tomoyo.
Kaho.
They have all pushed him toward this—decided for him, as if his life is something to be orchestrated by forces beyond his will.
A bitter laugh escapes him, harsh and humorless.
"So that's it?" he murmurs to the empty room. "I have no say in the matter at all?"
The air stirs, as if in answer, but there is no reply.
No Clow, stepping from the shadows with his infuriating knowing smile.
No Tomoyo, reaching for him with quiet desperation in a world of drifting petals.
No Kaho, steady and understanding, waiting for him to speak the words he never could.
Only silence.
His anger simmers beneath his skin, a tangled mess of frustration and helplessness.
He should have chosen. He should have fought.
But they never even let him.
Eriol exhales sharply, his hands tightening around the letter. Then, with slow deliberation, he folds it once more and sets it aside.
The choice is no longer his.
And yet, there is only one thing left to do.
.
.
.
A/N: Yo! I'm still alive~ I am back ten years too late. I think most that are left here are scammers trying to make money out of us poor fanfic writers by offering collab art works. Pfft. But thanks to that I am here and am wondering if my readers are still out there, waiting for Now and Forever to actually get finished? Newsflash, it's getting there! And I would like to invite you to cross over to ao3 (archiveofourown) because it sucks here now. -_- It's so hard to log in and it took me forever to upload this story. I can't edit my profile either. So if you have the time, please go there and check this story out with same title and same pen name.
Ciao and thanks for reading~