Forever Tomorrow: Oceans of the Heart
Oceans of the Heart A Forever Tomorrow Story By Sephy persephone_elysian@yahoo.com Paris, France 2005 She was beautiful, glowing with a warmth that attracted him from all the way across the bar. The vision of a golden beam of sunlight sprang to mind as he watched her. Every nuance, every inch of her was alive in a way that many of the people around him couldn't conceive. He had started sketching her almost immediately. The way she held herself, the fall of a long blond braid over one shoulder, the half-lift of rosebud lips. He'd gotten as far as the eyes when he stopped. Something about the eyes made him reassess his earlier opinion. Oh she was beautiful, alive and vibrant yet...there was something in those cornflower eyes that dispelled the image of the happy sunbeam. There was a darkness there, a gray heart in the flame of her being. This young woman was terribly unhappy. Trashing the sketch he began again, trying to flesh out what he saw, what went beyond the casual observation, he tried to find the heart of what he saw. As he threw himself into it, the outside world disappeared and he was alone with the subject of his art, striving to find the poetry, the lines that defined her. He scratched and erased, going through starts and stops until the paper was more than half-full. He stopped, this was it, this was his subject, unfinished and feeling the need for completion all the more strongly. Tearing the paper out of the pad, he got up, not even stopping to consider what he was doing. She was talking to the bartender, an older man whose hair and beard were in the process of silvering. Humbly, he clutched his pad to his chest. Her large blue eyes flickered on him, momentarily then rested on him when she saw that he wasn't leaving. They were an ocean, those orbs, such a strange mix of fathomless peace and restless melancholy. For a brief second, he allowed himself to be swept away by them. To entertain notions of romance--but no, those eyes told him, what they mirrored was for someone else. Longing, that filled her and that was yet unquenched. Disillusionment warred with it, threatening to destroy what made her so unique. Whoever he was, she must love him very much. The sight of such yearning made his own heart ache. "Pardon me, Mademoiselle," he began diffidently, afraid that strong emotion might be misinterpreted, "but I couldn't help but notice how lovely, how lonely you looked over here. " Curiosity changed into wariness. He could already guess what she was thinking. In a rush he hurried on, "Forgive my stupidity, Mademoiselle, I am poor at expressing in words what I mean." "I am an artist of some small talent. And when I saw you here so lonely--so lost..." He thrust the paper at her, hoping she would understand. She glanced at the paper, eyes widening, "This is wonderful." "I thank you but I cannot take credit. My subject is what captures the eye, not my strokes of lines. I--I want you to have this." "No, I couldn't." "Please, Mademoiselle, I wish you to have it. It would mean more to me that way." "At least let me pay for it," she protested. "I could no more sell this than I could sell your soul. For this is your soul. I only caught a glimpse, the briefest of views," impulsively he seized her hand, "He will come around. A fool need only to look at you and lose his soul. And be willing to lose it for the chance... You must not lose hope. This world cannot stand to lose a candle such as yourself, one that brightens us, that makes us want to be better, if only for the sake of preserving it." He broke off, bowed low to her then walked away. As he reached the door, he paused and chanced a glance back. She was staring at him, eyes filled with a wonderment and radiance, they--no, she was luminous. And he knew that those eyes would haunt him forever. ***** "That was strange," Joe Dawson commented as he watched the young artist leave, "He does good work though." Jade Weston turned her eyes to the sketching. "How did he know?" "What?" Dawson cocked an eyebrow at her quizzically. She didn't answer, still trying to puzzle out the young man's startling intuitiveness. This is your soul, he'd said of the sketch. Large, grave eyes stared up at her, a glistening of tears visible in the corners, a shadow in the pupil. She scrutinized it, stunned to discover that it was a man-shape, small and as wavery as water. He will come around. You must not lose hope. This world cannot stand to lose a candle such as yourself, one that brightens us, that makes us want to be better, if only for the sake of preserving it. Something in her felt those words, clung to them. Some desire that she had slowly been knifing to death warmed. If a young mortal artist could draw someone's soul like this, could look out across a lonely room and understand then surely a five thousand year old immortal could hear her out, might possibly feel something for her. Hope. That was what she felt, what made her feel wildly exhilarated. She suddenly smiled and felt it with her whole being. Turning to Joe, who was studying her frankly, she asked, "Joe, I need a bit of information. An address, please." One way or the other, this foolish game she and Methos had been playing was about to end. One way or the other. ***End.
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