The place should be familiar, but without him, it is as strange as her solitude. She looks at the rugged landscape, the desolate ruins, and the massive tower, the alien sentinel. Alone, she would now face the Enemy, in her hands his swords, in her heart his courage, and her eternal love for him. How is it, she thought, that I am immortal and he was not? And she knows the answer: he was human, and she no longer is.
They walk, silent and invisible, through the crowd of passersby, only seeing that today the living are outnumbering the dead. She smiles at him, a smile that would have sent him to paradise, not long ago: he smiles back, they get closer, and once again they become each other, one spirit.
They follow their preferred route, along the river, watching the past flow by, besides ancient statues, over bridges overflowing with memories. He senses her, deep inside himself, the stir of her tender and beloved soul, embracing his.
In front of Henri IV, on the Pont Neuf, they stop, not because of exhaustion, for they don’t feel physical effort, but to look again at the little island where, one night, he had possessed her, her living, beautiful body, goddess and witch, with a hunger that defied evil. She, then, had taken his blood, making him hers, enslaving this boy who had dared make her human again.
So they chose their destiny, eternal lovers in the city of light.
His shop is in one of the oldest streets in the city: uneven, ancient pebbles cover the ground, for him a difficult feat to negotiate every morning, as, in the small hours, he walks from his house to his work.
He too is very old, almost as old as one of the stones in the ancient buildings of the neighbourhood: and his craft is centuries – some say millennia – old: he makes the most beautiful and deadly swords, an art he’s received, as he was taught patiently over the years by his parents, as all his forebears.
They say the products of his labour have a soul: and they possess their owners, the few who are deemed worthy of such weapons, after all, it takes years of skilled craft to make one sword.
Today his latest customer is with him, standing tall, admiring his work: the katana he is now polishing reflects the light of this winter morning, and the flames of the furnace: the layers of fine steel glow in the semi darkness.
He knows this will be his ultimate masterpiece: the cycle of his years is coming to an end, but as she turns towards him, her smiling eyes penetrating deep into his soul, her red hair a halo, he knows the angel will be pleased with the result: a blade fit for a knight immortal.