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These were familiar stars.
That was the first realization that the Voyager made upon taking in their new surroundings. It was nighttime, around twelve or one in the morning by their reckoning, if they were remembering this planet’s conventions correctly. They were high above the streets, standing on the flat roof of a paradoxically modern building in the midst of an ancient city. When they inhaled, they could smell the age-long history, buried beneath layers of modern car exhaust and sewage, the rich, earthen scent of loam. The sky was stained orange with a trillion artificial lights, but the Voyager could feel the stars more than they could see them. And these were familiar stars. That was a curious… and concerning thing.
Looking back through their long, long memory, they could not remember a time this had ever happened. They had returned to planets, lingered in an era, but the same city? Mere weeks apart from when they had departed it? Unheard of.
A part of the Voyager, the part that was perpetually curious, was intrigued by this sudden change in routine. What more could this city, Paris, have to explore? But the larger, louder part of them, protested. It felt far too close to stagnation, to being trapped, and as the Voyager looked toward the haze-hidden stars, their thoughts turned to the vastness of the universe. There was far too much to see and experience for repetition, and with their purpose, their existence dependent on exploration and discovery, staying in one place was not an option they could afford.
The Voyager huffed an annoyed breath through their helmet. The late-summer night was warm, and the protective heat-shielding on their armor seemed to be ineffectual against the humidity that rolled off the river Seine in waves. They hadn’t been under an atmosphere for… well, they couldn’t remember the last time, discounting when they had been called for the Closing Ceremony. The weight of gravity pressing down on them seemed to smother the air from their lungs. It was time to go. They looked toward the hidden stars and picked one at random, the tug of its light a dull pinprick on their skin, and focused, imagining jumping forward towards that anchor point. They tensed, waiting to be drawn along that neural pathway, traveling elsewhere and elsewhen. They held their breath, counting one second… two seconds… three… four… five? They released the tension, head spinning. That… should have worked. They tried again, then again, then again, each time picking a different star, only to find themself still firmly rooted to the roof. Panic began rising in their chest, more stifling than the Paris heat. Why wasn’t it working? They should have travelled by now, should have been whisked away from the haze of the lights and into the comforting coolness of space. And yet, the skyline of Paris, glowing against the early morning darkness, stubbornly spread out before them, caging them with its oppressive light.
Head still whirling, the Voyager finally lowered their gaze from the sky and took a closer look at their surroundings, letting observation distract them from the quickness of their breaths and oppressive heat that had sunk into their skin. The roof was mostly empty. To one side, a hatch was built into the ground, presumably leading to a staircase that accessed the building’s lower floors. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel that was scattered across the concrete. A few potted plants wilted forlornly against the protective wall that bordered the edge of the roof, leafless and sad. A metal cafe chair sat amongst the plants, its curling cast-iron studded with rust.
The roof was devoid of much else, and the Voyager found they had run out of distractions. The urge to travel writhed in their muscles, warring with the rational knowledge that they could not, for some unfathomable reason, make such a jump. They walked to the edge of the roof, looking into the drop. The street below was lined with streetlamps, but the early morning found it deserted of pedestrians. The Voyager hauled themself to the top of the wall, taking one last glance at the sky before it was hidden from view. The orange haze still obscured the stars, a smokey dome that curved from one horizon to the other like the lid of a terrarium trapping an insect. The Voyager did not appreciate being that insect. Conclusion reached, the Voyager bent their knees, and jumped.
The thought that, with their ability to travel missing, this ability might also be limited, did not occur to them until the Voyager was halfway through the motion of jumping off the wall and into empty space, and by the time they realized their error it was far too late to change course. They fell, just long enough for them to curse the gods in as many languages as they could, before the anti-gravity built into their suit buzzed to life. Their descent slowed, the clever machinery counteracting the space-time bowl of the planet’s gravity, until they were floating gently downward, suspended in a bubble of crisscrossing magnetic fields. The slow descent gave them enough time to get control of their heart rate and resume cursing the gods once their blood pressure had subsided towards only slightly elevated.
The Voyager came to rest gently in the street. The adrenaline of their fall left them feeling jittery all over again, so they set off, deciding that, if they were stuck in Paris, they might as well explore. They inhaled, searching for the familiar, earthy scent of history. It spilled over the asphalt at their feet, tendrils curling around them, urging them to follow into the eldest parts of the city. They turned in the direction of the city’s historical sector, beginning their walk. They had not taken more than ten paces, however, before a city bus drove through them from behind. It did not even bother to stop as it continued down the avenue, disappearing around a corner. They stared after it incredulously, then threw their hands in the air and stamped over to the sidewalk in bewildered aggravation. Honestly, this planet. The night was rapidly turning into quite the ordeal.
They walked for the better part of an hour, observing the buildings as they went. It was curious to watch as they travelled from Paris’s newest sectors to its oldest, the different styles of architecture shifting from era to era. The steel and glass high-rises turned into 1960’s postwar brutalism, to ‘20’s art deco, and on, as if the city was an organism, each layer protecting the one underneath. Following that analogy, the Voyager figured they must have been headed to Paris’s heart, the neighborhoods that lined the Seine, its life-giving central artery. Soon, the buildings became great, stone brick structures, delicately carved motifs of gargoyles and fleur-des-leis lining layers of corners. This was where the smell of history had led them, the parts of the city they had missed when the Olympians had called them there a few short weeks ago.
As they came to the edge of the river, they looked out over the smooth, glassy water, dark as ink. They could see the Stade de France rising in the distance, and the Eiffel jutting from the skyline like a lighthouse. Sharpening their vision showed them it was still adorned by the Olympic rings, ready to welcome the athletes of the Paralympics. They paused, wondering. Was that why they had returned? Was their work not finished? It was certainly a hypothesis to consider, but this time was so different.
When the Olympians called them before, they had awoken, standing, on the roof of the Stade de France, glittering gold in the glare of millions of lights. They had been unsure of precisely what was going on, but as they had crept to the edge of the catwalk and looked down over the sea of tens of thousands of onlookers, they had, inexplicably, known what to do. Who were they to deny the good people of Paris a show, after all. They had wandered curiously across the continents, and come face to… well, the statue had no face, or head for that matter. The goddess of Victory had seemed to ignite the air with energy, her blessing smelling of ozone as it settled over the assembly. And then they had appeared, guiding the Voyager to the heart of the games, giving them a pennant, igniting their passion for discovery. The closing ceremony had been hypothetical, but it had represented them well. Their curiosity for lost history brought to life through a stunning performance, a question asked that wondered, could the Olympic, nay, the human spirit ever truly die? And humanity’s hopeful, stubborn answer. Ça ira! Never! There would always be something to uncover, no matter how deeply buried. And despite it all, the world would find unity through tragedy, no matter how many centuries it took.
The others, the Silver Knight and the Masked Individual, where were they now? The Voyager wondered. No sooner had they made their exit from the stage had they been whisked away by the universe’s whim, travelling to yonder stars. Were they travelers, or local spirits? Had they existed before, called as the Voyager was, or had they been creations of the Olympiad itself?
The Voyager watched the water as they thought, noting with some interest their reflection shimmering in the water. They appeared in the stylized fare they had worn for the closing ceremony, with its delicate beading and looping film. In this form, the antennae of their helmet gave them the appearance of a moth, the filaments of gold at their shoulders curling like a set of wings. They ran their fingers across a loop of film on their chest, letting the images flash across their mind and the sounds whisper past their ears, a laugh only they could hear, a smile only they could see. This version of themself was something of an encyclopedia it seemed, detailing the expanse of human experience. They hadn’t realized it before now, but with the quietness of the river calming their mind, they found themself able to examine the form this planet had bestowed to them in greater detail. The curious part of them was smugly satisfied and, had their aspect as a traveler not still been so concerned with movement, they imagined they could have been content. Had they lips to purse, they would have. As it were, they tightened their jaw in frustration, both at the situation and themself. How cruel it was to be able to really explore a place, to dig into the city’s gritty underbelly, and still feel trapped by their very nature.
Before their mind could spiral again, a new scent caught their attention. It was faint, almost imperceptible, the ghost of a smell really, but it was oddly familiar. They spun around, trying to find its source. It seemed to be rising from the flagstones at their feet. An idea began to form in their head, and they looked over the edge of the embankment. Not far down the Quay, a set of stone brick stairs led down toward the black water. Before reaching it, however, the stairs made a sharp turn into some kind of tunnel. The Voyager jogged along the Quay, jumping easily over the wall, and descended the stairs, coming to a stop just before the tunnel. The stone was cold, chilled by the river and by the shadows that clung to the bricks like mold. They ran their hand over the side but tugged their fingertips away as they hit a slimy patch of algae. They considered their options. It wouldn’t have been the first time the Voyager had found themself in a sewer. It would, however, be the first time in their millennia of existence that they had actively chosen to enter a sewer of their own free will. They could wait on the quay, they considered. Surely what or whoever was down there had to make an appearance eventually. On the other hand, there was no time like the present, and it wasn’t like they had much else to do, considering they were stuck in Paris for the time being. Curiosity won the argument. Swallowing their pride, they plunged into the tunnel.
It was dark. It was the kind of darkness that seemed to consume any light that touched it. The only light that made it into the tunnel was the orange reflection of streetlamps on the water, which made for very poor illumination. As it was, even the Voyager’s sharp eyes could only do so much in the low-light, and they found themself relying on their other senses to guide them. They made their footsteps fall away to almost nothing, hoping to catch the sound of whatever they were tracking, attempting to cut through the strange echoes caused by the water sloshing against the stone. As they went, the smell they were following got stronger, defined enough for them to pick out the individual scents that made up the distinctive perfume. There was petrichor, the smell of summer rain, mixed with the scent of oil paint and graphite, and under that, the smell of charcoal and ash, like a long-extinguished campfire. It was a paradoxical smell, of water and fire, and the Voyager found themself increasingly intrigued the deeper they went. The tunnel seemed to continue for miles, and soon, even the dim, reflected light faded into the inky mire. It was disorienting. Even the emptiest reaches of space shone with distant stars, but the tunnel seemed to have dispelled all light, leaving them deprived of even limited vision. They spread their hands out, both for balance and to maintain contact with the wall to guide them, one set of fingertips brushing the cold, stone wall while the other hovered over open water. Or it should have done, if the Voyager had not met with their hand smacking against something sticking out of the canal. They drew their hand back, more affronted than hurt, but the sound echoed through the tunnel, suddenly deafening when compared to the near silence of their journey thus far.
“Oh?” The Voyager looked up at the voice, absently cradling their hand. Something, someone moved in the darkness, rustling with the sound of fabric. A pair of orange disks, eyes the Voyager realized, regarded them curiously. They glowed with the gentle light of a candle flame, pupil-less, flickering like two distant suns, floating in the darkness of the tunnel like a beacon. Their owner spoke again, “Hello there. I didn’t expect a visitor this far down. One moment, if you would.” The eyes disappeared as the sound of shuffling resumed, and the Voyager stepped back slightly, curiosity rising in their chest. They heard the fricative sound of a match being struck, its tiny, dancing flame cupped in a white-gloved hand. Then, light filled the tunnel as fire bloomed within the glass panes of an old-fashioned, iron lantern.
“Oh! It’s you!” said the Masked Individual. They adjusted the silver mask that covered their face and gently padded across the flagstones. “It’s a strange thing. I don’t need light to see in the dark, so I often don’t travel with one. But I always seem to find a match in my pocket, and a light nearby. We must be under the Baroque sector; I always get lanterns travelling there.” Their voice turned apologetic, “I imagine it wasn’t pleasant trying to find your way in the dark. I hope you found your way alright. I must apologize; had I known I was being followed, I would have helped you find your way, but I get so caught up in my wanderings, I am not always as observant as I could be.” The Individual approached them. In the lantern’s light, the Voyager could now see that the object they had collided with was the prow of a small, wooden rowboat which had been docked alongside the walkway, ropes cleverly anchoring the vessel to the rough stone. They looked down at their hand. A shallow scrape had torn up the fibers of their suit, but no real harm had been done. The Individual must have noticed the Voyager’s appraisal, because they asked, “Are you alright? You aren’t hurt, are you?”
The Voyager shook their head and lowered their hand. When they looked up, the Individual was only a few paces in front of them. They could feel those orange eyes through the mesh that hid them, watching them with earnest concern. It felt, oddly enough, like the feeling of stars, the same sort of indescribable, yet pleasant prickling across their skin. The same sort of pull in their gut, drawing them onward. A memory of the closing ceremony bubbled to the surface of the Voyager’s mind, their fingers meeting for an instant as the Individual presented them with the flag of an ancient country. They’d felt the same gravity then, one which transcended the magnetic fields of the planet on which they now stood.
The Individual hummed, “That’s good. Let us get out of here. The night is waning, and this tunnel is a dead end anyway.” The Individual’s voice broke the Voyager from their reverie. The hooded figure had set about preparing the rowboat for departure, placing the lantern in the boat’s bow, while they deftly untied the moorings that bound the boat to the walkway. The Individual hopped into the vessel with ease, not minding the unsteady rocking. They continued to speak as their fingers nimbly wound the moorings into piles at the bottom of the boat, “I had hoped to find a new route to connect to the Bassin de la Villette, but this tunnel ends in a grate. Sometimes a sewer is just a sewer I’m afraid.” They finished, looking over their work for a moment before turning their attention to the Voyager. They offered up a bandage-wrapped hand politely, “care to join me?” The Voyager hesitated for a fraction of a second, appraising the rowboat’s stability. Then, they looked at the offered hand, and before they knew what they were doing, they placed their hand in the Individual’s and swung themself into the boat. The rocking seemed lessened somehow, with their black-gloved fingers curled around the Individual’s bare palms.
They settled on the seat closest to the bow as the Masked Individual swung the rowboat’s oars into the water and pushed away from the wall. The ride was smooth, and the Voyager found that the rhythmic splash of rowing calmed their mind. The Individual guided the boat forward with practiced ease, and the Voyager watched each drag of the oars, the repetitive pattern of the Individual’s muscles as they extended to draw the oars forward and contracted to push them through the water. The Individual broke the silence, their voice echoing through the subterranean space, “You are called the Golden Voyager, yes? That is what the Engineers called you anyway. Is that what you prefer?” The Voyager nodded, breathing out a single, laughing syllable. The additional descriptor made them sound pretentious. “We did not exactly have a moment to get to know each other during the ceremony,” the Individual continued. “They call me the Phantom. Well, they called me lots of things, the Masked Torchbearer, the Phantom, the Individual, but for brevity’s sake, I go by ‘Phantom’ most often.” The Voyager nodded absently, filing away the information.
The tunnel gradually lightened until they emerged into the wider waters of the Seine. The Voyager blinked, their eyes adjusting. Nighttime in Paris was an illuminated thing, as if the citizens were determined to banish the darkness in perpetuity. As the little rowboat pushed from the tunnel, the Voyager turned to face the river, letting the night’s breeze flow past their face. Cradled in the ancient embankment that lined the river, surrounded by shadows and dark water, the Voyager could imagine they were back in the cosmos, riding the current of some glowing nebula. They closed their eyes and could almost feel the weightlessness, the vast expanse of interstellar space spread out before them, incomprehensibly huge and… empty. They opened their eyes, puzzling at the sour thought of solitude. Wasn’t that what they wanted? To escape the confines of this planet was their end goal, was it not? To figure out why they weren’t travelling? They wanted to leave the cramped space of the city and return to the stars… didn’t they?
The Voyager glanced at the Phantom, still steadfastly rowing. They thought about the tug they had felt when their hands met, the way the Phantom stilled their unease. They looked away, resolutely returning their gaze to the water.
Soon, the Phantom guided the rowboat to stop at a stone jetty which jutted into the river. “We’ll be getting off here. Dawn will be breaking soon, and I find it is better for us to be off the streets during the morning rush.” The Phantom moored the boat and jumped nimbly onto the jetty, offering their hand again. The Voyager took it without hesitation, and before they could react, the Phantom tugged them onto the landing. The Voyager wobbled, swinging their arms to find balance, when they felt warm hands gently grasp their biceps. The Phantom steadied them, “Woah! Sorry, I didn’t mean to tug you so hard! Are you alright?” The Phantom’s voice was laced with concern. The Voyager nodded, flustered with themself. They had travelled through nebulas and observed the brightest quasars, but couldn’t seem to get out of a boat? Clearly, the gravity of the planet was more unfamiliar than they thought, the Voyager decided.
The Phantom’s hands lingered on the Voyager’s arms as their blank, silvery face studied them. The Phantom was a good head shorter than the Voyager, and, close as they were, had to crane their neck to look them in the eye. “Perhaps we should find a place to rest for the day.” The Phantom’s voice had gone soft, and the Voyager was suddenly very aware of the way the Phantom’s hands had lingered for just a little too long. The Phantom seemed to realize it at the same time they did. They dropped their hands, and the Voyager found themself oddly missing the pressure.
The Phantom led them up the jetty’s stairs, bringing them to street level. The Voyager let them lead, watching the back of their white hood bob with each step. It seemed to glow, moon-like in the streetlights, the gossamer shimmering like the arm of a galaxy. They wondered where the Phantom was taking them. Then, a thought struck them. They reached out, grabbing the Phantom’s hand, who turned in surprise. “Yes?” They folded the Phantom’s hand between their own and concentrated, drawing from the images imprinted into the film on their chest. They had no words of their own, yet, with the record of human history woven into their being, perhaps they could transmit an idea in a different way. They let images of buildings, walking, travelling, fill their head, tinging the images with upturned voices: Where are we going? The Phantom let out a soft gasp, and the Voyager let the images fade. The Phantom stood very still.
“That…” they began, “was beautiful.” The Voyager wondered what the Phantom meant. It was functional as a means of communication, certainly, but they weren’t sure what was beautiful about it. They tried letting go of the Phantom’s hand, but the Phantom caught their hand as it dropped. “I’m hopefully going to meet a friend,” the Phantom said, for some reason sounding slightly out of breath. “You probably remember them from the Closing Ceremony: our Knight.” They began walking again, this time falling into step beside the Voyager, still holding their hand gently. To keep a line of communication open, the Voyager rationalized, though a small part of them enjoyed the continued contact.
The Voyager summoned their memory of the Silver Knight, passing it through the channel of their fingers, the Knight striding across the smokey stage to meet the Phantom.
“Yes, that’s them.” Their voice was tinged with fondness. “We’ve been exploring Paris since the Games ended. We’ve not been physical for very long, you see, so we’re still getting used to it all.” The Phantom looked at them, “You’re older than us, though, yes? The announcers called you a traveler.”
In lieu of an image, the Voyager just nodded. The Phantom’s and Knight’s roles in the ceremony matched with the idea that they were creations of the Games. Their brief guidance had spoken of a familiarity with the ceremony the Voyager lacked.
“What’s it like?” The Phantom asked. “As far as we can tell, we’re bound to Paris. We tried to leave once, but once we got past Maurepas…” They shrugged. “Maybe we’ll be able to go to Milan; the next games are there. But who really knows.”
The Voyager considered their question, then sent them a collection of images, distant stars and planets flickering past their vision. They were suddenly reminded of their predicament, the scared, bitter feeling of being trapped rising again in their chest. The Phantom squeezed their hand, drawing them from their thoughts. With a start, the Voyager realized that some of that bitterness had drifted through the contact as well. So, this ability extended beyond images and memories into emotions.
“You’re stuck here,” the Phantom confirmed, their voice laced with concern. “That must be difficult for one as well travelled as you.” The Phantom’s voice turned ponderous. “The Knight and I have never felt the desire to leave Paris, except for curiosity’s sake. It is our birthplace. But you were born in the stars. I’d imagine being separated from that part of yourself must be quite painful. I wonder what changed. I would say it was the Games but…”
The Voyager gave them the memory of being pulled away from the closing ceremony. The meaning: If it were just the games, why did I not remain?
The question was one the Voyager had been pondering as well. So much of this visit was different from the last. The last time, they’d been summoned with a purpose, fulfilled that purpose, and had taken their leave. But this time felt aimless, redundant. They kept coming back to why? It made their head spin, and they came to a stop, breaths quickening as the full weight of their worry crashed down upon their shoulders.
“Hey there,” the Phantom noticed their distress and swung around to face them again. “It’ll be ok,” they soothed, “We’ll figure it out.” They ran their thumb across the Voyager’s knuckles, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. The motion was grounding, and the Voyager found themself focusing on that feeling, focusing on the figure in front of them. The Voyager watched the Phantom’s easy breaths and found themself matching each inhale and exhale. The night seemed to slide back into focus.
The Voyager dipped their head in thanks, as the air settled properly in their lungs once more. The Phantom gave their fingers one last squeeze, then resumed walking. “If anything, the Knight might know what to do. They’re the smartest person I know.” The Voyager nodded in hesitant agreement. “And, hey! I would hope Paris hasn’t been all bad. You seemed to enjoy the boat ride.”
The Voyager surprised themself by agreeing. It hadn’t been all bad. They’d enjoyed their walk through the city, and the sense of discovery as its history was laid before them. And they enjoyed the Phantom’s company. They couldn’t remember the last time they’d made a connection with someone in their lonely travels across the universe. The Phantom’s gravity had filled a hole they hadn’t realized they needed to fill. They sent a reflection of the Phantom’s face back to them, and they laughed jovially.
“You flatter me! But I am glad you value my company.” The walk went easier after that. The Phantom led them across a bridge and through the densest, oldest part of the city, where the buildings crowded together between tight, mazelike streets that had clearly been laid before the invention of the automobile. Despite the densely packed buildings, the Voyager found themself not minding the confined space so much.
They at last stopped before a massive, columned building topped by a copper cupola stained green with patina. The Phantom gestured toward the building. “The Parthéon.” They strode up to one of its walls, placing a gloved hand on the façade. The Phantom turned toward the Voyager, something playful in their demeanor. “You up for a climb?” The Voyager looked at them, knowing somehow that the Phantom was smirking beneath their mask. They placed their own hand against the wall in answer: You’re on. They could feel the Phantom’s grin before they took off up the wall.
The Voyager considered themself a good climber. One had to be when they were an adventurer. But the Phantom scaled the side of the Parthéon like a squirrel, finding hand and footholds in tiny bumps and cracks in the façade. By the time the Voyager pulled themself over the lip of the first layer of the roof, the Phantom was already twenty paces ahead of them, starting on the rotunda. They chased the Phantom regardless, letting the call of a challenge fuel their limbs.
At long last, the Voyager pulled themself into the arched window of the upper cupola, pride only slightly wounded. They looked around the small room. A winding staircase was carved into the center of the floor, and across from them, half-hidden in shadow, was the Phantom, leaning against the wall as they talked with a second, slightly shorter hooded figure, their arms crossed over their chest. The Voyager recognized the silver plate and long white cape; the Knight’s appearance was just as they remembered it at the Closing Ceremony.
“-not late,” the Phantom was saying, voice full of faux regret, “I just took a little detour! And then I decided to explore that tunnel we found last night, and, hey, you won’t guess who I found!” They gestured to the Voyager, and the Knight turned their head to look at them.
The Knight tilted their head, a surprised smile growing at the corners of their mouth. “Oh! Hello again. You’re the Voyager, correct?” They nodded, suddenly feeling oddly bashful. They switched their weight, unsure of what to do next.
The Knight turned back to the Phantom, “Very well, you’re forgiven.”
The Phantom regarded the Knight, full of false hurt, “Is that all the acknowledgement I get? Not even a good morning? You wound me.”
The Knight sighed in exasperation, but there was laughter in their tone. “My dear, you reap the reward you sow.” They grabbed the Phantom’s hand and placed a delicate kiss on their knuckles. The Phantom laughed, then swung themselves out the opposite window so they were seated on the sill. The Knight sat next to them, but kept their legs neatly crossed inside the cupola. They turned their smile to the Voyager. “Come now. This is the best angle to see the sunrise in the whole city. It’s not something you’ll want to miss.”
The Voyager forced their heavy feet to move. They crossed the small room and stood awkwardly at the window. The Knight, gently elbowed the Phantom’s ribs, “Let them in.” The Phantom hopped off the sill, standing on the ornamental lip that ringed the cupola’s base. The Voyager sat, turning their eyes to the city, drawing their legs to their chest. The Knight was right: the view was a good one. Paris’s greatest monuments spread out before them, jutting up from the rooftops like rocks from a river. “Of course,” the Knight murmured, half to themself, “the view would look better with some stars but…”
The Voyager thought for a second, then tentatively offered the Knight their hand. The Knight smiled curiously, “Oh?”
The Phantom hummed, “They’re trying to tell you something. Trust me, you’ll understand.”
“All right then,” the Knight conceded. They gingerly placed their armored hand in the Voyager’s black-clad palm.
The Voyager recalled images of stars, a myriad of interstellar vistas from across their millennia of existence. The Knight’s fingers tightened around their hand as they shared in the vision, “Oh, oh wow.” They let the glimmering picture hang between them for a moment, then dropped their hand, sheepishly waiting to read the Knight’s reaction. The Knight looked at the sky, staring off into the orange haze that was beginning to lighten with the greys of dawn. Then they laughed to themself, turning towards the Voyager. “I cannot say I have ever seen stars like that. Thank you.” The Knight’s voice was soft, filled with the same wonderment that the Phantom’s had when they’d first shared their memories with them.
The Knight tilted their head, “Is that where you’ve been then? Travelling the cosmos? You are a different sort of spirit from us.”
The Voyager nodded.
“They have a problem, though,” the Phantom interjected. “We thought you might be able to help.”
“A problem? Would you mind showing me?” It was the Knight’s turn to offer a hand.
The Voyager took it. The connection between their fingers held the same sort of gravity, the same comforting tug that the Phantom did. It was an odd realization, one stained with a new scent, one of steel and cotton and the Seine, the smell of grass and wind. The Knight’s comfort was a different one, they mused, solid and unwavering where the Phantom was fluid and adaptable. They pushed their memory, showing the Knight an abridged version of the evening’s journey, and a taste of their life beyond, letting through the barest hint of the longing, the uncertainty, the fear of remaining in one place. They hoped they would not overwhelm the Knight with their negative emotions, but when their hands disconnected, the Knight simply nodded thoughtfully.
“I see,” they began ponderously. “You’ve been travelling for eons. I can see why being stuck here is concerning. I am sorry you are feeling that way.”
The Voyager nodded, though they weren’t sure what the Knight had to be sorry about.
“The last time you were on Earth was for the closing ceremony, yes? The Engineers called you, however that worked. We aren’t sure ourselves of what the Designers did to connect so thoroughly with the spiritual, but I digress. Did something happen during the Closing Ceremony? Did something change?” The Knight studied them quizzically, hand on chin.
The Voyager was about to shake their head when a thought struck them. Something had changed during the ceremony. Something had shifted, an anchor cast, when their hands had brushed the Phantom’s. The feeling of starlight, a glowing point on the celestial dome, not tied to a heavenly body but an individual, or pair of individuals, forever linking them to an ancient city on a river, on a little blue planet in one of a trillion spiraling galaxies.
The Voyager jerked their head upward, tapping the back of the Knight’s hand in question. The Knight hummed questioningly and turned their hand over, letting the Voyager take hold of their fingers. The Voyager shared their realization excitedly, replaying their perspective of the closing ceremony, the Phantom’s gloved hands brushing theirs, the Knight’s silver hood retreating into the smoke like an apparition.
The Knight looked at them; like the Phantom, they had to crane their neck a little to look the Voyager in the face. “You are connected to us.” They said.
The Phantom leaned toward the pair, balancing on the edge of the lip, “Is that why you’ve returned, you think?”
The Voyager tilted their head one way, then the other. Maybe. The connection could have secured a link between the Voyager and Paris, allowing them to pick it out from the vastness of the universe. But it did not explain why they were unable to leave. The Voyager blew air from their nose in a sigh, sinking down so they were sitting on the sill rather than crouching, legs out the window. They felt worn, stretched thin. They didn’t want to worry about travelling anymore. They wanted the ache in their bones that told them to move, to vanish. Most surprisingly, they found they wanted to appreciate Paris and her guardians without feeling afraid that stagnation would spell their end. The Voyager slumped, leaning against the edge of the window.
The Knight reached over, placing a kind hand on their knee. “It’s ok not to feel alright. Life can be complicated, and you’ve been alone for…” They paused as if a thought had occurred to them. “Voyager, how long have you been travelling?”
The Voyager turned to the Knight incredulously. How long? Nearly an eternity. They were the traveler, adventurer, explorer, their reality, their very existence defined by that identity. They’d never not been in motion, never not been chasing the greatest vistas of the universe. That was what they were… wasn’t it?
In lieu of trying picture the concept of infinity, the Voyager simply shrugged.
The Knight nodded, “I wondered. Have you ever taken a pause before? Have you ever not been in motion? Have you ever rested?”
The Voyager shook their head emphatically. To take a pause would have been antithetical to their very nature. They were the Voyager, they were… tired. The realization hit them like the shockwave of a supernova. They hadn’t even realized they could get tired. But, putting a term to it, tired explained the drawn-thin feeling, the persistent drag of their limbs and mind, the unsteadiness, the tangled ball of unprocessed fear and unease that had plagued them since arriving in Paris the second time.
The Phantom shook their head, too, “That’s not good for you. Even for us, we can’t run forever. We might not need regular rest like humans do, but time to turn our brains off, I suppose, is something every being in existence needs. Even the gods rest from time to time.”
The Voyager shook their head again. They couldn’t just… stop. They’d never stopped, never-
“Hey,” the Knight’s voice cut through the rising static, “Look at me.” The Voyager turned their head towards the Knight’s voice. The Knight gently placed their hands on the sides of the Voyager’s helmet, holding their head in place. “Maybe the reason you can’t travel is because you don’t have the energy to. You are the Voyager, that is true, but taking time to rest does not make you any less of a traveler.”
“We’ve been trying to figure out who we are,” the Phantom added, “and if there is one thing we have learned, it is that identities are more flexible than you might think. The universe is graceful, sometimes. Allow yourself that grace, too.”
The Voyager let their words soak into their skin, letting the twin feelings of starlight unravel their unease, willing them to trust their companions’ words. Perhaps they had been alone for too long. Perhaps they could allow themself this moment, this rest. They nodded, first tentatively, then more confidently. They were surprised to find they actually believed it.
“I’m glad you feel better,” the Knight smiled. “While you are here, we will be by your side. If we can help you in any way, know that we will offer what we can.”
“And when you feel ready to leave,” the Phantom placed their own hand on the Voyager’s shoulder, “the Knight and I will be there to see you off, as we were for the Closing Ceremony, and we will be here to welcome you back when you need another rest.”
The Voyager placed one hand on the Phantom’s and the other on the Knight’s, and pushed through as much gratitude as they could muster, willing their fellow spirits to understand how much it meant to not be alone, to have a place to return to, to face the uncertain future and look past fear. They took a breath, and for the first time, it felt as if their lungs were full. As dawn painted the sky with streaks of pink and red, the rays of the sun jutting over the city, bathing it in golden dust, the Voyager rested their head against the Knight’s shoulder and closed their eyes.