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The rain spattered against the high rooftops of Paris, chill despite the late summer afternoon. The sky was overcast, the gray painted with strokes of white where the sun struggled to pierce through the thick veil of clouds that hung over the city. Despite the downpour, the afternoon was well lit, with Parisians darting from awning to awning, umbrellas in hand, going about their daily business. The hustle and bustle of the city was a welcome normality, a kind of chaotic peace, one that was welcomed by the watchful eyes of one particular Individual.
The Phantom sat on the roof of the Louvre, legs dangling over the drop, studying the crowds of tourists entering and exiting through the mesh of their faceless silver mask. They were unbothered by the rain; it dripped down their hood and coat, slid to the slanted tin below and ran off the roof in rivulets. Completely invisible to the passersby below, the Phantom breathed deeply and exhaled, releasing some tension they had not realized they were holding. How curious it was to be given form, they thought. Even more curious was that it had not faded with the end of the Games. Though the common Parisian could not see them, they knew they had hands, gloved in tatters. They could feel each intake of breath and smell the sweetness of bakeries, the water of the Seine, the scent of the rain. They could feel their heartbeat thrumming in their chest, bidding them to run, jump, explore, a vibration in their yet-unfamiliar limbs that was equally maddening and exhilarating. They let out another breath, just to marvel in the feeling, and settled the buzzing in their skin, content in their perch.
They were still watching when the last tourists trickled past the glass pyramid, and the lights of the museum dimmed. Finally giving in to the energy in their skin, they began across the rooftops, making the impossible leap from the Louvre over the Rue du Louvre, and onto the St. Germain l’Auxerrois Catholic church. They leapt and tumbled across its steeples, then onto the next building and the next, the rain reminding them of that first day when they had found themself on the rowboat, on a rainy afternoon much like this one. The first time they’d felt their heart beating in their chest and felt the heat of the Flame in their hand and felt the call to run and run and run. They scaled the side of the Téǎtre du la Ville, and paused only a moment at the building’s edge, surveying their next path. Then, they leapt from the roof, feeling themself go weightless for a moment before gravity captured them again and they felt the adrenaline spike of falling. They broke their fall by nimbly landing on a streetlight on the Quai de Gesvres for a split second, jumping then to a neighboring light which they swung around, lowering themself onto the sidewalk of the Pont Notre Dame.
It was still early enough in the evening that the more touristy restaurants along the Quay were doing good business, the lights of their awnings reflecting off the gently lapping waves of the Seine. The pedestrians cut an invisible bubble around them, leaving what must have been an odd empty space to the common observer. They shivered, remembering a particularly crowded spot earlier in the day where that particular ability had been unable to compensate for the crowd, leading to the uncomfortable realization that they were intangible as well as invisible. They cut across the sidewalk and hopped onto the wall that ran along the edge of the bridge, their vigorous run giving way to a more leisurely stroll. They looked down into the river below and were quite surprised to see their reflection staring back at them. Their bright hood shone in the streetlights, glowing like the moon against the dark water. They continued onwards, pace quickening again to a run as they balanced on the bridge wall, swinging around the lampposts gleefully, reveling somewhat guiltily in their use of both hands. Some Torchbearer to enjoy the absence of their holy burden. They reached the end of the bridge and looked up at their destination: the mighty Notre Dame Cathedral. Wasting no time, they scaled the wall of the building in front of them and bounded across the rooftops, twisting and twirling in an acrobatic dance of momentum and gravity, until at last they climbed the wall of the North Belfry and pulled themself into one of the archways. Their heart pounded, but they found they had no need to catch their breath despite their mad dash across the rooftops.
They gazed at the square below, waiting and hoping. The Cathedral was one of their favorite spots to look out at the city, a spot they had shared with…
The night crept onward, the rain fluctuating between drizzle and downpour. They waited until their hope turned to patience, and their patience into worry. They waited until the city grew to its quietest, which was, admittedly, not much different than Paris’s typical noise. A city so large rarely slept. A club on the Quay was playing something jazzy, the sound warped and warbling as it floated its way across the Seine, transformed into something uneasy and longing. They worried. It was still a new emotion for them, so very human. They had found their bed the evening before, after they had help set the Voyager on their journey, assuming that, with the Games complete, they’d again sink back into that formless, thoughtless, being-less void they’d come from before they’d awoken on the rowboat in the tunnel. They still had no idea how they had come to take a human form; they’d asked the designers and engineers of the Games and had only received shrugs in response. But the Phantom had assumed that, since they still had their being, they too would have received this strange gift of quasi-life. And yet, the hours ticked on, and the rain still fell. Their worry rapidly turned to despair, the thought that they might be stuck like this, invisible, imperceptible, alone for eternity, darkened their mind.
They leaned against one wall of the arch, one leg dangling while the other stretched across the stone. They looked up, into the hazy, rain-soaked sky, and let the drops plink off their mask. They became aware that their face beneath the mesh had grown wet and thought for a moment the rain had penetrated their mask, before realizing they were crying. They slid one hand beneath their mask in surprise, tracing the path of their tears with their fingertips. They had never cried before. As they brought their head down again, the tears fell towards their mouth. They ran their tongue across their lips and gasped as they tasted salt. They withdrew their hand, oddly fascinated by the wetness on their fingers as it gathered in the roughness of their calluses. They were still staring at their hand, tears rolling down their cheeks, when a flicker of silver flashed in the corner of their eye. They jerked their head towards the square again, hope blooming in their chest. They could hear now, through the rain, the sound of a horse’s hooves against the flagstones. There, glimmering as they passed through the pooling lights of the streetlamps, was the Knight. They sat astride their white horse, tall and confident in the saddle, their white cape tumbling from their shoulders to drape across the horse’s flank. Relief flooded through the Phantom, and they felt themself relax, the nervous tension draining from their muscles. They turned in the archway so both feet hung over the courtyard, waiting for the Knight to notice them. The Knight came to the center of the square and paused, looking around in the saddle. Looking upwards at last, their gazes met, despite their mask and the great upwards distance, as if they were drawn to each other. The Knight tilted their head, then broke the gaze to dismount from the horse. The Phantom watched as the Knight swung from the saddle, cape swirling. The Phantom noticed with some surprise that the colorful rings which had once adorned the Knight’s cape had vanished. The Knight patted the horse’s nose, then stepped away. The horse reared with a whinny, then galloped from the square, vanishing into the shadows.
It seemed like an eternity but was probably only a few moments before the Phantom heard familiar, metallic footsteps approaching from behind them.
“I figured I might find you here,” the Knight said. The Phantom scooted over in their alcove, letting the Knight settle beside them. The arch was only just wide enough for both of them, so their shoulders bumped gently as the Knight settled.
The Phantom hummed in agreement, “You know me well, my dear.” They attempted to keep their tone light, but knew their voice was strained.
“When we have existed side by side for so long, formless or otherwise, I’d imagine I’d quickly grow acclimated to your quirks, though we didn't have the time to interact very much these past two weeks. You are a creature of habit. How many times did we spend out nights off in this very spot?” The Knight’s voice was jovial, but something else stained the teasing tone with unease. The night lapsed into a heavy sort of hush, though the city was never truly quiet. However, with the soft sound of the rain surrounding the secluded belfry, the Phantom found silence.
The Knight broke the moment. “You are quiet. Is everything alright?” Ever aware of others that might need protection. The Phantom admired the Knight’s dedication. They searched for a response but found their tongue unwieldy and throat unable to form a response.
“Have you,”—they paused, swallowed, then continued— “Have you ever… cried before?”
The Knight looked at them, and the Phantom found themself unable to meet their gaze, instead turning their interest to the flagstones far below. “Cried? No, I cannot say I have.” The Phantom felt a hand cup the edge of their mask, turning their unwilling head upward to meet the Knight’s look. “And you, my friend. Have you cried? Why? Are you alright?”
The Phantom reached up, removing the hand from their mask and holding it in their own. “I am fine. I was afraid, I think.” The realization was a strange one. Fear, too, was a new emotion. The constant movement and energy of the games and the faithful observance of their duties as Torchbearer had not left much time to experience their new form of existence. But now, in the interim between the Olympics and Paralympics, with so much of themself held in flux between concept and being, they now had enough downtime for thoughts to swirl, and they found themself forced to grapple with the consequences of existing at all. And fear, fear which was so foreign, so indescribable, so very human, that was, perhaps, the most daunting feeling they’d experienced. Fear for the Knight, for themself, for the future of all things. There was so much fear in the world, and all of it seemed starkly evident to the Phantom. They felt tears roll down their cheeks anew.
“Afraid?” The Knight said softly. “Why are you afraid?”
“I don’t… all of it… I,” they stuttered, searching. What had set this off? “I woke this morning in the Village, and I did not expect to. I was ready to return to… whatever we were before the Games, whatever space between existence and idea, consciousness and nothingness. I’d made my peace with ceasing to exist and had accepted it. And yet, I awoke. And it was different, being unseen, unheard, but I existed.” The words seemed to flow like a torrent now, unstoppable until they reached their end. “And I’ve been wondering all day, why? Why was I spared? What more do I have to give to the world? And when I climbed into the belfry, and you were not here, I suddenly realized that I might have to face this half-life alone. I think that is what made me the most afraid.” They took a deep breath, recentering. “I must apologize, dearest. I know you must also have been thinking about such things, too. I do not mean to overwhelm.”
The Knight squeezed their hand gently, their armor cool against the Phantom’s fingers. “I admit, it has been a lot,” they began. “I’ve been feeling and wondering much of the same things you articulated.” They sighed. “In truth, I have been grappling with questions as well. I cannot help but wonder what we are. I do not yet have those answers.”
The Phantom cupped the Knight’s hand in both of their own, then laced their fingers together. “I do not think I really wanted an answer. I thank you for listening and for sharing this burden.” They smiled behind their mask, and wished the Knight could see it. “And now, with you here, I know I shall not have to face this life alone.”
“Merci, my love. Your words still my heart.” The Knight’s voice held a smile. They lapsed again into silence, this time a comfortable thing, fingers tangled together. The night seemed to stretch into a contented eternity, where it was just them in their little bubble of Paris. After a while, the Knight let out a breath, “You never got to go on a ride with me, did you?”
“A ride?” The Phantom asked, surprised at the break in silence.
“Yes.” The Knight stood, hauling the Phantom up with them. “Trust me, it is quite exhilarating. And this night is so like that one, though I made that journey alone. Come.” They tugged the Phantom down the steps of the belfry and through the doors of the cathedral.
“But where is your steed?” The Phantom asked, looking around the deserted square.
“Zeus will come when he is called,” the Knight reassured their companion. The Knight guided the Phantom to the center of the square, where at last they dropped their hands. The Knight turned away from them and raised their hands to their face letting out a long, ghostly whistle. Almost instantly, a whinny echoed through the courtyard. The white horse, Zeus, came galloping down the Rue d’Arcole. He stopped in front of the Knight, nickering, his strange silver eyes passing between the Phantom and the Knight with unnatural intelligence. “Thank you, friend,” said the Knight. They hoisted themself gracefully into the saddle. “He is like us, I think. He is something half-alive, as we are.” The Phantom looked up at the Knight for a moment, then followed them into the saddle, situating themself behind the Knight and looping their arms around their waist to keep steady. The Knight’s armor was cool, but they could feel the movement of each breath they took as the plate moved. The Knight turned their head as best they could to look at them, their mask and the Knight’s nose close to touching. The Knight’s mouth curled into a smirk as they said: “Hold on.” Then they were off.
Zeus ran faster than any mortal horse, darting off down the Rue d’Arcole before thundering across the Pont d’Arcole. Upon reaching the halfway point of the bridge, the Knight steered the horse towards the brick walls lining the edge. The Phantom tightened their grip on the Knight’s waist as Zeus made a mighty leap down to the river below, the Knight whooping with laughter as they went, the sound shocking and free and beautiful before it was whipped away by the wind. As they hit the water, Zeus seemed to change, shedding his white coat like a mirage, revealing the metal underneath. The Knight’s armor and Zeus’s plate seemed to blend together, and the Phantom was reminded of one of the Knight’s other names: the Rider. They flew downriver, kicking up mist as they went, the Knight’s cape flaring up around them like the wings of a dove. The wind whipping past them was exhilarating, just like when they leapt from a high gable or charted a new path through the rooftops of Paris. The Knight was a solid, assured figure in their arms, sturdy and confident, and the Phantom’s mind began to turn with thought.
All too soon, their ride came to an end. The Knight guided Zeus to leap onto the Quai Aimé Césaire and he slowed to a trot as he entered the Jardin du Tuileries. The gardens were deserted this early in the morning, making it the ideal place for a rendezvous for two semi-spirits who had no need for sleep. The Phantom dismounted first, landing sure-footed on the earth as the Knight followed. She patted Zeus’s neck, which had returned to flesh and blood upon returning to solid ground, and the horse reared, blowing air, before galloping away, leaving the pair alone.
“Thank you,” the Phantom began, “that truly was an exciting ride!”
The Knight was grinning, “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it. You have made me scale Notre Dame, the Louvre, and the Eiffel to reach you these past weeks. It was high time you experienced my manner of travel.
They shared a laugh, finding each other’s hands again as they began leisurely wandering through the garden.
“I’ve given some thought to your question,” The Phantom said after a while. “You asked what we were, and I cannot answer for myself as of yet, but you? You are the Flagbearer.”
The Knight paused, inclining their head in incredulity. “Well, obviously.”
“No, I mean, you are the Flagbearer, bearer of the call to arms, symbol of armies and countries. You are the steadfastness of a Knight, the nobility of a Cavalier. You delivered a pennant and protected it from harm. You are Sequana, spirit of the Seine, and Jean d’Arc, fearless protector of her people. You are a symbol of the Games, their rock, their message, the Olympic Spirit. You represent the unity of the continents and the hope that, every two years, the world might come together again.”
The Knight regarded them silently for a second, then spoke softly. “If that is what I was during the Games, then how is it we still exist now?”
“I do not know.” The Phantom shrugged, “Perhaps, because we were given these vessels by the engineers of the Olympiad, our perception of ourselves has lingered.”
“Or perhaps,” the Knight mused, free hand going to their chin in thought, “our outward appearance is reflective of humans’ perception of us.” They came to a full stop, pulling the Phantom with them. “Did Dionysus have his court before humans gave him such? Did Victory have her wings before the humans carved them?” The Knight spun so they were facing each other, chest to chest, while the Phantom chuckled with mild incredulity.
“Do you mean to say we are gods, dear?” The Phantom raised an eyebrow. “Though their influence has diminished through the centuries, I do not think they would take kindly to sacrilege.”
“I make no such claim!” The Knight’s voice was scolding, but teasingly so. “What I mean to say is that the engineers of the Games gave us forms, and like you said, the perception lingered. But it is not our perception that has made the difference.” They gestured to the garden and city beyond. “These forms were displayed with the whole world watching. To them, we became not only symbols of the games, but symbols of the people of Paris. They now see these figures as us, and so we are.”
The Phantom tilted their head in thought. “I see. No wonder we are so human now, for we are created by humanity. Concept made Being. And you, my dear, represent humanity’s greatest ideals.”
“You flatter me,” laughed the Knight, “but you are just as important.”
This gave the Phantom pause. How could they be as important as the very ideals strived for by the Games? They had delivered their torch, as duty dictated, and had presumed they would cease to exist, and, failing that, had resolved to retreat into the hidden nooks and crannies of Paris’s skyline, or sink back into those flooded tunnels at the city’s feet. The Knight was a rallying cry, a general, meant to be seen at the head of armies. They were but a lowly messenger, little more than a whisper, belonging to the shadows. “I am not sure that is the case.”
“Do you truly think so lowly of yourself?” The Knight cupped their mask with both hands, and the Phantom grabbed their elbows gently. The Knight was shorter than they were, and yet they felt shrunken. The Knight seemed to loom over them, despite the few centimeters difference. The Phantom wanted to curl into themself but wanted to let go of the Knight even less.
The Knight continued: “Have you already forgotten who it was who traveled Paris’s breadth for their duty? Who brought life to the greatest human arts in the Louvre? Who walked the path of human expression, from sculpture, to painting, to film, and brought torchlight to even the edge of space? It was not I who made that journey. It was not I who first captured the attention of a billion souls, who taught them the ways of this city.” They could only stand frozen as the Knight spoke, tears once again welling in their eyes. “You entertained the courts of Dionysus, moved to the heartbeat of the city, and sang the song of Liberty that defines our history. And all while you faithfully carried the most important symbol of the Olympiad, despite the rain, to its final destination.”
The Knight’s face and voice shown with earnest as they pressed on, “If I am as you say, a protector of justice and ideals, then you are the guardian of spirit. The Torchbearer. You are a representation of humanity’s spark; you bore the fire and became it. Every flash of creativity, every movement of dancing, every moment where humanity thrives. You represent humanity’s brilliance, which dwells in the highest heavens and the deepest canals. You are the Individual, a guardian of every unique soul. And I hurt to see you think of yourself as anything else.” They finished. A single tear, like liquid silver, ran gently from under the shadows of their hood. The Knight startled at the feeling, letting out a soft gasp as it spilled across their cheek.
Unable to find words, the Phantom raised their hand and smoothed away the droplet with their thumb, their hand lingering on the Knight’s cheek. The Knight dropped one hand from their mask to cup theirs. “Is this…”
“Crying,” they finished the thought.
“We stand on equal ground, then.” The Knight’s lips quivered into a slightly shaky smile, “I have cried for you tonight, and you have cried for me.”
The Phantom’s laugh was nothing but a soft, stuttering exhalation of breath. They gently slid their hand back so it rested against the Knight’s ear and brought themself higher, touching their foreheads together tenderly. “Thank you, dearest one.”
The Knight smiled, an achingly gentle thing, and said nothing. Then, they looped their arms around the Phantom’s shoulders and pulled them into an embrace. The Knight’s head fit perfectly into the hole of the Phantom’s shoulder. Their breaths were warm against the Phantom’s neck. They found themself wishing they could bury their face in the Knight’s shoulder, if not for their mask. A slightly traitorous corner of their mind considered that, with the world unable to watch them, there was nothing preventing them from lowering that mask, just for a moment, for the one they loved.
That thought struck them, the idea of love. As they held the embrace, they regarded the warmth in their chest that thrummed with her closeness. The heat that crept up their neck and face when the Knight pinned them with their shadowed gaze. The stubborn smile that tugged at the Phantom’s lips when faced with their honest optimism. Was that love, to humanity? They had no reference, other than the scant few weeks they’d spent together. Though, even in that timeless space, that realm beyond darkness, they had been intertwined, as close as two non-physical identities could be, what would become souls melting and drifting into each other, blending until they were all but one and the same. For what is the human spirit if it has no ideals to guide it? Was that, too, love, in its own way? Was that any more divine than now, their physical forms wrapping around each other in such an embrace? They resolutely pushed away these thoughts. What did it matter, when in the present they could feel the bridge of the Knights nose against their cravat and knew, with some unfathomable sense despite their armor and layers of cloth, that their heartbeats thudded in time?
They came to the sudden realization that this was what it meant to exist, to live. They still didn’t entirely know where this new life would take them, but they liked it. Every leap across the rooftops, or exploration of the underground; every exhilarating ride or moment of devastating loneliness; every look shared with someone who truly cared, whatever that looked like, that was the sweetness of existence. They shocked themself even more when they found a hard core of resolve in their gut, which said, I will not give up on this life. I will remember to live.
Finally, the Knight backed from the embrace, hands slipping to the Phantom’s shoulders, and the Phantom found their own hands comfortable on the Knight’s waist. The Knight looked up at the sky, the streetlamps casting golden highlights across their cheekbones and nose, glittering across their silver skin. “The rain has stopped,” the Knight observed.
The Phantom joined in appraising the sky. It was true. The clouds had rained themselves into wispy feathers of haze, like a threadbare cloth torn by use and time. Though the city’s lights made it difficult to spot stars, the watery, hazy semicircle of the half-moon gleamed weakly through a break in the clouds, silvery in the early morning.
“Huh,” the Phantom exhaled. “It seems that Paris’s tears have dried with our own.”
“Indeed,” the Knight agreed. They both looked down at each other again. The Knight cocked their head as they looked at the Phantom again, a characteristic movement that was rapidly becoming familiar.
A covert, almost forbidden want bloomed in their chest, and an odd sort of confidence welled in their throat, giving them the courage to ask, “Would you… May I…” Ah. Not that much courage, then. They swallowed stubbornly, approaching from a different angle, “Have you ever kissed anyone?”
A smile, wide and yet so gentle, unfurled across the Knight’s face. “I cannot say I have.” Their smile twisted teasingly. “Why? You wouldn’t be making an offer, would you?”
“You are insufferable,” the Phantom sighed, “But, if you are not opposed, I wouldn’t want to overstep, but… yes?”
“So well-mannered!” The Knight’s laughter was almost unbearably fond, and the Phantom felt that flush rise in their cheeks. The Knight’s expression suddenly grew more concerned, “But, dearest, your mask? Are you, ah, able to remove it? I’ve never seen you do so.”
“Well,” they considered the question. “The Engineers forbade me to remove it, in the spirit of impartiality, and I honestly never thought about it before today. I’ve never really seen my face, though I do have one.” That did not bother them as much as it should have, but the silvery fencer’s mesh was as much a part of their identity as the Knight’s long, white cape was to her. The Olympics had left them with nary a moment to themself, much less time to speak with the Knight, before they were whisked away to perform this duty or another. She hadn't ever seen their face either.
“A mask implies that there is something hidden beneath it,” the Knight added thoughtfully.
The Phantom peered around the garden, despite knowing it was deserted. A nervous sort of energy was worming its way through their skin, not unlike when they were about to make a particularly daring leap, and there was something dangerously thrilling about the anticipation of it. “But now, we are beholden to no one but ourselves. What human rule might prevent us now?” And that was a dangerous thought. They winced. The Knight did represent the more concrete aspects of idealism. That might cause an issue when pushing the rules by which they were created. “Though, I understand if that is not a line that can be crossed.”
The Knight considered, lips pursed, and the Phantom got the sense they were studying them, the Knight’s very nature as a being of impartiality warring with their desire as an individual.
“It is as you say,” the Knight finally decided. “It is not like there is anyone but the gods watching us tonight. And for you, I would challenge even them. I can make an exception for this.” Their smile returned, and through the shadows of their hood, the Phantom could imagine silver eyes staring at them with determined intensity.
Relief lifted a weight from the Phantom’s shoulders, and a smile played across their own lips. The pair stood still for a moment, neither one willing to make the first move. The Knight hesitantly moved closer, so their faces were mere centimeters apart. The Phantom broke the tension, voice hardly more than a whisper. “Perhaps, just to be safe, we should go slow. There is no need to remove my entire mask. Maybe if I…” Before they could doubt themself they raised their hands to their mask. The Knight’s hands jerked upwards in kind, and the ridiculous image of a parent lurching towards a child flashed across the Phantom’s mind before they shoved that thought away firmly. They lowered their hands, asking a silent question.
It was the Knight’s turn to stutter. “Um… may I?”
The Phantom placed their hands over the Knight’s. “Together?”
“Together.” The Knight nodded once in agreement. They situated their hands on the edge of the mesh, and slowly, tentatively pushed upwards, until the mask came to rest on the bridge of their nose. And Olympus did not descend, nor did an Olympic Engineer appear to tell them off. They simply stood there, taking in the moment. It was strange to feel the air on their skin. They could feel the moisture in the air, lingering from the rain in the muggy summer heat, even at so dark an hour. They could smell the garden, somehow sharper than before, the perfume of thousands of roses drifting lazily in the heavy atmosphere. And they could feel the warm breaths of the Knight ghosting across their cheeks. They smiled; a real, wide smile they hoped conveyed all the emotions of the moment. The Knight was still for a moment, as if memorizing what they were seeing. Then they, too, smiled, a grin which revealed a hint of teeth, and then they were laughing, free, joyful laughter. And the Phantom’s hands cupped the Knight’s face, and the Knight’s were doing their best to loop around their neck, fingers brushing across their cowl. And in the first moment when their laughter subsided, their lips met.
The kiss was not a hurried thing. It did not really move, nor deepen. It might’ve even been considered chaste. But the Phantom lost themself in the simplicity, the gentle movements, the feeling of the Knight’s face beneath their callused fingertips. The kiss lasted but a few moments, as they pulled away in tandem, breathless.
As they went to pull their mask back into place, the Knight placed one more gentle kiss against the corner of their mouth, little more than a peck, and yet it stole what little breath they had remaining and left them feeling lightheaded. Giddiness ran through their veins, spinning their head like a carousel, but in a pleasant, excited way. They were smiling as they reluctantly slid the mask down again. They leaned so the forehead of the mask rested against the Knight’s, reveling in their shared breaths, so close the Phantom could feel the Knight’s chest move in tandem with their own.
“So,” the Knight broke the silence, still sounding rather out of breath.
“So,” agreed the Phantom. “What do you want to do now?”
The Knight hummed, “A part of me wishes to linger with you in this moment for eternity.”
The Phantom laughed, “and the other part?”
The Knight drew away from them at last, their comfortable heat giving way to the warmth of the early morning. The Knight looked at them. “Well, we have a few hours left before sunrise, and all of time to spend together, so perhaps we should get started. Let us live and experience the city that made us.” They raised an elbow in polite invitation. “Walk with me, my love?”
The Phantom linked their arms together. “Lead the way.”
They began their walk down the manicured pathways of the Garden and onwards, into the streets of Paris, and into forever.