A little dressed up

Phantom was not one to dress well. A crying shame, really, for his ornate shell was truly charming and well complimented by almost anything one could wear- alas, the mage much preferred his horribly unflattering coat and wiry sweater. A combo made somehow worse by slapping on some actually decent boots, like chucking one clean sock onto the laundry pile.

However, on really special occasions, King Merikh could manage to haggle him into wearing something decent- and for a scant few hours palace guests and residents alike could oggle the living doll. Much to his dismay.

It always made Feyn laugh. At some point Phantom would wriggle away from the public eye and shadow behind her, hissing "Let it end" in the most dire tone. Good friend that she was she would take pity (the poor sod) and help him slip away. Sometimes that wasn't good enough though, greedy twig, and he demanded she come with. On those nights they would sneak their way up to the balcony- a specific lookout at the very top of the palace, high enough to scrape the clouds. They'd sit there for hours, talking spit about politics and pleasantries and whatever else they could think of, into the deep of night, until someone was sent to fetch them. 

...

Many years later, Feyn would forget what it felt like to laugh. To talk. To think.

But she could never quite forget the night breeze.