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Darkness cloaks the Jardin des Tuileries. Even the cauldron floating above its center offers little illumination on the ground. Shadows play along the perimeter, tourists passing in the midnight hour, their idle conversations lost to the humid air. The soft patter of rain echoes across the masonry scattered throughout the empty park. Only the occasional creak of metallic plates and restless hoofbeats betray the garden’s solitary visitors.
The Flagbearer looks up at the orange orb in the sky. She marvels at the city’s ingenuity. Decades of oil and gas have finally given way to an electric fire. Only with such technological advancements could engineers even dream of safely flying the eternal flame above the City of Lights. If only the future was as assuredly bright, the Flagbearer thinks. Her gaze drifts back down to the darkness below, the surrounding chill creeping back into her senses. Her horse stirs beneath her and jostles her mind back to the present.
“Easy, Zeus,” she murmurs as she presses her legs to the animal’s sides in an attempt to soothe both their anxieties. “Patience.”
No Olympic Games are ever truly free of political problems, an inevitability of any gathering between disparate peoples, but they weigh heavier on the Flagbearer’s mind now more than ever. Her part in the Opening Ceremony is small but significant, and though she spends less time among the crowds than her eternal counterpart, she catches enough to gauge that tensions are higher than ever before. The darkness of the night seems to encroach and bleed into the darkness in her mind as she ponders human history and her role in it. Before her resolve could lurch under the gravity of her thoughts, the light crunch of gravel announces his arrival.
“You are late,” the Flagbearer intones harshly. She steers her steed to turn around and face the approaching footsteps.
Enough ambient light creeps across the park to distinguish the Torchbearer’s silhouette, catching on the gauzy pieces of his attire bobbing in the breeze. His stride is sure, his stature straight, betraying neither weariness nor arrogance. Only a few meters away, he shrugs and raises his palms out at his sides, teasing, “I did not have a ride.”
The Flagbearer is unmoved but in no mood to quarrel. “How are you, my love?” Her voice floats soft and light through the misty drizzle.
“Exhausted.” His shoulders slump fractionally, perceptible only to his eternal flame facing him. “And you?”
“Concerned.”
The Torchbearer reaches for the horse’s muzzle and runs a familiar hand along his nose. “I hope you are not as troubled as your rider, mon joli cheval.” Zeus bows his long head and huffs in response. His palm runs along the animal’s left flank, lifting once he reaches the Flagbearer’s side. He extends both hands to her gloved ones and helps her to the ground.
“What ails my sweet?” He pinches her chin.
She hums and takes one of his hands in both of hers, squeezing hard enough to convey her worry. “In all our years shepherding these games, did you ever know the atmosphere to be this—”
“I know. The world is—”
“Restless.”
“Yes, and—”
“Not at peace.”
“Never has been, my love.”
“I do not remember it ever being this—”
“Your worries are not unfounded, cherie, but you must redirect your attention elsewhere.”
They circle the base beneath the cauldron, hand in hand. Zeus follows close behind, his reins tied to the saddle. While the nightlife bustles beyond the park’s pocket of silence, the few security guards on duty watch the hooded figures from a distance.
Event organizers had explicitly and numerously instructed personnel not to approach or engage with the Torchbearer and Flagbearer. They were both host and blessing to the festivities, and decades of tradition dictated that a respectful, neutral distance be maintained between the host nation and the two Olympic guardians so that there would be no suspicion of impropriety or favoritism during competition.
The Flagbearer recoils, incredulous. “How can you be so indifferent to the violence and rhetoric—”
“I am surprised that between the two of us, you, in your glittering armor, are the first to lose hope and declare defeat.”
“I have not!” She stops them in their orbit and shoves his hand back to his side.
The Torchbearer laughs. He crooks a finger under her chin and raises her gaze. She sighs and closes her eyes as the backs of his fingers graze her cheek. Her hands come up to open and press his palm to the side of her face, his pressure more than his warmth a soothing balm to her inner turmoil. Her voice is low and leaden when she continues.
“I merely wonder if the gods have not tasked us with an impossible mission.”
The Torchbearer falls silent as he contemplates the Flagbearer’s concerns. She did not interact with humans as much as he did, a natural consequence of their separate roles. While the Olympic torch exchanged hands with every kind of man and woman, the Olympic flag exchanged hands with a significantly select few. As a result, the Flagbearer’s opinion of humanity often leaned towards the optimistic while the Torchbearer’s leaned towards the pessimistic. He had come to know, better than she, the complexities of human nature, their heavenly highs and their hellish lows. They spent decades arguing about the tenuous balance. Now, as he watches his partner’s shoulders sag with the weight of the world, he finds himself despondent that she seems poised to concede to his viewpoint and knows it, knows that she lost this one important battle. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and guides their walk away from the cauldron.
“Plus vite, Plus haute, Plus fort.” The Torchbearer rattles off the Olympic motto.
“Citius, Altius, Fortius, my dear. Latin may be dead, but it is still your mother tongue.”
“‘Ensemble.’ C’est la partie importante. And that is precisely what they are doing and continue to do.”
“But for how long? We do not have a future if they do not, and my darling, I do not see—”
“We cannot predict the future any more than humans can. It is none of our concern. The gods will take care of us.”
“The gods have abandoned us, just as the humans have abandoned them.” The Flagbearer catches the ice in her voice and does her best to warm her vitriol. “We do not exist outside these games, my love. And if these games end, if the world can find no purpose to these communal competitions—”
Silence. The specter of death looms large in their periphery. Every Closing Ceremony marks the end of their days on Earth, a return to a darkness beyond darkness. And every two years, they are reborn and reimagined back into existence to inspire and perform and protect the Olympic Games. Despite the constancy of this cyclical event, the eternal guardians find humans increasingly less hospitable to the ideals they represent. What is sportsmanship to a world where even the rules of war no longer hold?
“Steel your heart as this city has steeled your form.” The Torchbearer steps close enough for the edge of his hood to kiss hers. “The next host cities have been decided, their venues under construction. We still have a future. There is no reason to despair.”
“For now.”
“For now.” He sighs at her obstinacy, but knows not to push further or risk wasting precious moments on a fruitless fight. “In the meantime, the games have begun, and we do not have much time together.”
A smirk plays beneath the Flagbearer’s hood. She perks up at her partner’s motives. “Sixteen days is not enough to spend with you.” She steps closer and brings her forehead to his. She squeezes his biceps, and he rubs her elbows in return. They exchange breaths for a moment of eternity.
“Come.” The Torchbearer takes her hands and swings her in circles. Their laughs echo as they near the horse. “Much of the city has changed since we were last here, and you will not see them if you continue to sulk beneath the cauldron.”
The Flagbearer mounts Zeus and extends an arm to help the Torchbearer take a seat behind her. He presses his front to her back, unbothered by her damp cape. He slides his arms along either side of her waist and rests his hands atop hers on the horn of the saddle. The horse ambles forward towards the city streets.
Buoyed by the Torchbearer’s embrace, the Flagbearer regains a sliver of her hope and optimism. “The Italians will call on us next. Perhaps we will meet a changed world by then.”
“We always do. I wonder what forms they have planned for us.”
“I quite like this form on you, my dear. The cut of your jacket complements you well.”
“As does this armor on you, mon amour.” His hands find the edge of her cuirass and sneak nimble fingers to the suit underneath.
She giggles at the light pressure below her ribcage. “I will miss hearing you speak this city’s language.”
The Torchbearer tightens his hold on the Flagbearer, impressing his being into hers. “You worry about community and forget that we are in the City of Love.”
“Paris is not the world, my dear.” They sway in sync as Zeus carries them towards the edge of the garden.
“Perhaps, but the Olympic Village is, or at least, as close an approximation as the humans are capable of producing. If it is unity you seek, we will surely find a certain kind—”
“You said you were exhausted.” Amusement lightens the Flagbearer’s tone, her heavy mind now fizzy with thoughts of the Torchbearer’s amorous intentions.
“Never enough to deter me from you.” He presses his chin to her shoulder, his words vibrating down the expanse of her armor. “Would you waste the energy of the players’ liaisons?”
Her hood whips to the side as he squeezes the unarmored flesh of her upper thigh. Before she can answer, he takes the reins and brings Zeus to a gallop towards the Olympic Village.
“No more talk,” he heaves with urgency. “I need you before the sun rises and our duties begin again.”