In Loving Memory

They had been dating for almost a year before she asked him to move in with her. He'd been hesitant, at first; it was a big step, after all. Eventually, though, he'd agreed. He loved her, so why shouldn't he make that next step? There were a few weeks left on his lease when she'd asked. He planned it with her, so that he would move in as soon as his lease was up.

The first few months together were just as wonderful as he'd imagined they would be. They sat in companionable silence many nights, with him reading a book while she graded papers for her history classes. He admired that she'd worked so hard to become a full-fledged professor. His own work seemed inconsequential in comparison, though she assured him it wasn't.

"Every job, no matter how small, is important," she would say, and he'd smile because the conviction in her eyes made him really believe that, almost as much as she did.

He had odd dreams from time to time, of places both near and far, scattered across time. He chalked it up to watching too many documentaries with her. They were pleasant dreams, for the most part, and she featured heavily in them. That was not surprising, since they spent so much time together. He knew everything about her, and she knew everything about him.

So when he discovered a dusty, leather-bound scrap book, the contents came as something of a shock. He saw himself staring out of the pages... except, it wasn't really him.

Not all of the pictures were photographs. The earliest ones were sketches and paintings. Papyrus, vellum, even delicate Xuan paper (she'd schooled him soundly when he'd called it rice paper, going on and on about how many types there were.) His face, his eyes, looked out at him. The hair style wasn't always the same, but the colors were right. The dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His smile, a little shy but mostly playful.

Her impeccable handwriting was clear on every page. Location. Year. Name. Sometimes the gaps between pictures were small - perhaps thirty years or so. Sometimes there were much longer stretches of time. The longest he'd seen had been nearly a hundred and fifty years. In between, she'd included a note:

I didn't find him in time. I showed a sketch of what he should look like in every place I went to. By the time I found where he lived, it was too late. The fever took him, they said.

There were splotches on the paper, where he knew tears had fallen and smudged the ink.

He was still paging through the enormous album when she came home, startling him at the sound of the door closing. She stood stock still, her eyes wide and yet so sad. "You were never supposed to see that," she said, her voice strained.

Slowly he stood, turning to face her fully. "What is it?" he asked. "What does this even mean?"

She explained to him, then, about her curse. Immortality, she called it. He was inclined to believe her when she slit her wrist in front of him and he watched it heal within seconds. It dawned on him that she was such a brilliant history professor simply because she had actually lived it. Living forever, well, he could see how it could be a curse.

When she was through, the silence stretched. She shifted uncomfortably, nervous and looking ready to run. So he asked the one question that had been burning in his mind. "Why me?"

The woman he loved took the book from where he'd left it, her fingers brushing each picture as she turned the pages. "Because it's always been you," was her simple reply. "You just haven't remembered it yet."

The Voice of the Sea

The ship had set sail under clear skies and good winds, which had the sailors in good spirits despite her presence. Every now and again she would still catch one glowering at her. When she stared coolly back at them, they would spit at her feet or make signs against evil, despite the growls of the captain telling them off for their rudeness.

She was used to it, this animosity towards women aboard ship. The superstition was ridiculous, and she'd had good fortune to end up with captains and crew who, for the most part, held no stock in the ideas of women being bad luck on the seas. There had been a few, though, who'd cautioned her to dress as a young man and keep to herself, so she wouldn't distract the sailors.

It was unfortunate, then, that this was the only vessel going in the same direction as she.

Even more unfortunate was the storm that came from seemingly nowhere, turning calm seas and steady winds into a thrashing, churning mess that tossed the small ship about, its sails straining at the ropes. She was below-deck in the small room the captain had granted her, reading by the dim light of a candle and generally doing her best not to let the tossing bother her.

That, above everything else, is likely what set off the men who came barging into the room, convinced that she was the one who had angered the seas and caused the storms. She kicked and thrashed against them even as they tied her legs together with a spare bit of rope. One found the knife she kept on her person, and divested her of it, his grin malicious as he tossed it aside.

Her gown - gathered by the binding - fanned out around her feet like the delicate fins of a fish. She struggled against them as they dragged her topside, her voice going hoarse as she screamed in rage and fear, the sound lost under the ferocity of the storm that raged around them.

She could see the captain, running towards them, trying to make them stop, but it was too late. They dumped her unceremoniously overboard, her layers of skirts quickly soaking through, dragging her beneath the waves. She struggled, but with her legs bound, she was unable to kick. They'd left her arms untied - only because she was moving too much for them to do otherwise - but it did her no good. She couldn't reach the rope, and even if she could, she felt it swelling around her legs, now impossible to untie.

Slowly, she sank, her lungs burning as she gasped for air. Her life was over, she knew that with a certainty as the next breath she took was filled with seawater, the salt burning her throat and choking her. Her body tried to cough, tried to expel the fluid, to get air into her, but it was no use. Too late, she sank further and further. Her vision went spotty, and then ... black.

Silence.

It felt like an eternity. She floated in darkness, her body limp. Is this the afterlife? she thought, absently.

Then she heard it, a slow, musical humming, almost like singing.

No, it was singing. It grew louder and louder around her, surrounding her, filling her with life. The dress she wore shimmered with a faint light, the fabric rippling until it became scales of a brilliant blue. Her feet became fins, tipped with a blue so dark it was almost black. The magic rippled up her torso, covering her to her stomach in scales. She grew gills, and suddenly she could breathe again, and it was so wonderful and yet strange all the same.

She looked down at herself, moving what used to be her legs experimentally. They moved more sinuously now, and the motion propelled her upward. Her hands were much the same - in fact, everything above her waist was fairly normal save for the gills - and she clenched them in silent fury, her nails biting crescents into her skin. Only belatedly did she realize that her skin had taken on a rubbery texture, like dolphin skin.

She had no idea how long she sat, suspended in the water, learning her new body, but she could feel when the sea calmed around her, the storm having passed. Curious, she swam upward, blinking at the brightness of the sun. There was no sign of the ship, of course, beyond a few pieces of flotsam that hadn't been lashed down securely. Disappointed, she swam back into the depths.

It was several days before she found another living person - or, what used to be a person. She'd finally given voice to the fact that she'd become a mermaid, though she wasn't sure what magic had caused it. The whole thing still seemed so surreal. The woman she found was much older than she, and had been turned some decades past. She was taught how to harvest seaweed, how to catch fish, the best ways to eat both.

More importantly, she was taught about The Pull.

The Pull, she was told, was when a ship was near. She was shown a few rocky islands nearby, encouraged to perch on them, her lower half in the water, letting the waves roll over her. She could still breathe air, but only for a little while. It was better to keep her gills in the water, when she could.

She first experienced The Pull almost a month after her turning. Following the older mermaid, she laid herself across a rock. Music, undeniable and fierce, almost seemed to pull itself from her throat, the sound melodic, but also sharp from the salt water that she now breathed. They were alone at first, but more and more mermaids found themselves on the rocky outcroppings, their voices united in a siren's song.

The ship drew near, her wide eyes taking in the sight of sailors abandoning ship to dive into the sea. They never resurfaced. The ship continued on, only the most willful of the crew fighting their song until it was long out of view.

The last, dying breaths of the men who'd jumped found their way into her skin, her blood, breathing new life in her. Every woman around her gave a collective sigh of contentment, before they departed, magic singing in their blood.

And so continued the pattern, until at long last there was nothing but silence.

Buzzing Like a Bee

She couldn't remember a time when there wasn't a constant, low buzzing in her head. As she grew older, there were moments when the sound seemed to grow more intense, and other times when it got so soft she could barely hear it. She knew, realistically, that it was all in her head. Literally.

Everyone could hear their own sounds, though. It had been some part of a genetic experiment, causing the body to react to certain pheromones. She learned that helpful tidbit in advanced biology. The scientists who happened upon it nearly a century ago had claimed it would help people to find their most compatible life partners. Of course, they neglected to mention how absolutely maddening the sounds could be.

She learned, over time, that the louder the buzzing, the worse the partner. Then, too, sometimes the sound was deceiving. It would start quiet, but something would happen, and it would grow louder, and louder, until it was almost unbearable, but because it was gradual, she didn't notice until it was too late.

There were quite a few "almost rights". She stayed with them for a time, mostly because she had no better options. It was settling, and she knew it. Still, if it could grow louder over time, surely the reverse could be true? She wasn't willing to dismiss someone entirely until she was sure.

But it never happened. No one made the sound lessen, and she grew convinced that she'd deal with it for the rest of her life. When she was alone, it was almost pleasant, in a way, or at least that's what she told herself.

Until one day, the buzzing just... stopped.