the last sovereign of infinity

Lucien had spent the better part of his existence learning that there were few things more dangerous than incomplete memories.

They lingered.

A fragment of laughter. A half-forgotten promise. The feeling of warm sunlight on skin that no longer existed.

And now, standing before the black door at the center of his soul, he had discovered something considerably worse.

Complete honesty.

The thing beyond the door had admitted it had spent an eternity waiting for him.

Lucien found himself entirely unprepared for that.

This was unfortunate.

He was accustomed to monsters.

Monsters wanted things.

Power. Destruction. Revenge.

They were simple.

The being beyond the black door wanted only one thing.

For him to come back.

That, somehow, was infinitely more terrifying.

The Infinite Mindscape remained silent.

Two hands now rested upon the edge of the black doorway, fingers curled around the ancient stone as though whoever stood beyond it remained uncertain whether it was welcome.

Lucien noticed that immediately.

Interesting.

It was afraid.

Not of the Last Witness.

Not of the dragons.

Of him.

"That's ridiculous."

The words escaped before he realized he intended to speak them.

The voice beyond the door was quiet for a moment.

"What is?"

"You're afraid."

"Oh."

"There it is again."

A faint laugh answered him.

"You taught me that."

"I am beginning to regret teaching people things."

"That would explain several historical incidents."

Lucien slowly turned toward Orion.

"What historical incidents?"

The old immortal immediately looked elsewhere.

"None worth discussing."

The Dragon King snorted.

"He once attempted to teach a hurricane philosophy."

Lucien froze.

"I'm sorry?"

"It was becoming violent."

"It was a hurricane."

"Exactly."

Lucien pressed a hand against his forehead.

"And?"

The Dragon King lowered his head slightly.

"It became significantly more violent."

"Reasonable."

The thing behind the door laughed.

The sound was soft.

Young.

And painfully familiar.

"I remember that."

Silence settled across the Mindscape.

Lucien found himself looking back toward the door.

"You remember many things."

"Yes."

"Everything?"

The answer took longer this time.

"No."

That caught everyone's attention.

"No?"

The voice seemed embarrassed.

"You made me forget some things."

Lucien immediately disliked that sentence.

"I did what?"

"You said some memories should belong only to us."

The black door trembled slightly.

"I didn't understand at the time."

"And now?"

"Now I think you were trying to protect me."

Dangerous.

That feeling again.

Lucien folded his arms.

"What kind of memories?"

Silence.

Then—

"The happy ones."

The words settled heavily over the Infinite Mindscape.

Lucien frowned.

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It didn't to me either."

"Then why agree?"

The answer came immediately.

"Because you asked."

Of course.

Naturally.

Lucien was beginning to suspect his previous selves had relied far too heavily upon the phrase, "Trust me."

The older Lucien suddenly laughed.

"Oh, no. Tell him."

The voice beyond the door hesitated.

"I don't think—"

"Tell him."

Lucien narrowed his eyes.

"Tell me what?"

The older version of himself was smiling now.

"You used to abuse the fact that everyone trusted us."

"That sounds inaccurate."

"It isn't."

"No."

"Lucien."

"What?"

"You once convinced the Dragon King that clouds migrated south for the winter."

The ancient dragon remained silent.

Slowly, Lucien turned toward him.

"You believed that?"

"It was a very convincing explanation."

"It was objectively incorrect."

"How was I supposed to know that?"

Fair.

The older Lucien continued.

"You also spent three centuries telling Eternity that fish became birds when sufficiently motivated."

Lucien blinked.

"...Did they?"

"No."

"Disappointing."

The hand beyond the black door shifted again.

"I liked that one."

"Of course you did."

"You sounded very confident."

"I was apparently a menace."

"Yes," everyone answered simultaneously.

Reasonable.

The black door opened another inch.

This time, Lucien saw more than hands.

A sleeve.

Black cloth.

A shoulder.

The figure beyond remained hidden by the darkness of the doorway, but he could tell one thing immediately.

It wasn't large.

It wasn't ancient or monstrous.

It was his size.

No.

Smaller.

"You look surprised."

"I expected something taller."

"Oh."

"There it is again."

The voice laughed quietly.

"You always expected me to grow eventually."

Silence.

"What?"

"You said I'd probably become taller than you."

"And?"

"I didn't."

The answer carried an odd sadness.

Lucien felt the now familiar ache in his chest.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

"How old are you?"

There was a long pause.

"I don't know."

"Approximate."

"Older than stars."

"Physically."

"Oh."

Lucien waited.

"...Ten."

The world went silent.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Lucien."

"What?"

"You left when I was ten."

Something inside him stopped.

Ten.

The same age.

He slowly looked down at his own hands.

Then back toward the doorway.

"You..."

"I know."

Silence.

The realization settled over him with unbearable weight.

It hadn't waited as an ancient being.

It had waited as a child.

A child who had spent eternity holding onto a promise.

That was—

No.

He refused.

That was profoundly unfair.

"You should have grown up."

"I didn't know how."

The simplicity of the answer hurt.

"I waited where you told me to."

The Last Witness quietly sat down.

Lucien noticed.

That was perhaps the most alarming thing to happen all day.

"You knew."

"Yes."

"And?"

The old man looked tired.

"I hated you for it."

Lucien blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Not you."

The Last Witness looked toward the black door.

"The version of you that made that promise."

Silence.

"He asked a child to wait at the end of eternity."

The voice beyond the door answered softly.

"I said yes."

"You shouldn't have."

"I know."

"Then why?"

The answer came immediately.

"Because he asked me."

The Last Witness closed his eyes.

"I know."

No one spoke after that.

The Infinite Mindscape felt smaller somehow.

Quieter.

Lucien stared at the opening in the black door.

"Why didn't you leave?"

The figure beyond hesitated.

Then, quietly—

"Because I was afraid you wouldn't know where to find me."

The words struck harder than anything the Architects had ever done.

Lucien had no response.

No clever observation.

No dry remark.

Only silence.

The figure beyond the door continued.

"I thought..."

The voice faltered for the first time.

"I thought if I stayed where you left me, then eventually you'd come back."

The black door opened another inch.

Enough for Lucien to finally see a face.

Golden eyes.

Black hair.

A child no older than ten.

His face.

Smiling uncertainly through the darkness.

"Oh."

Lucien hated that word.

He hated how small it sounded.

How inadequate.

And yet, somehow, it was the only response he possessed.

The child beyond the door smiled.

"There you are."

Three simple words.

Spoken with the relief of someone who had spent longer than existence itself waiting to say them.

And for the first time in any of his lives...

Lucien found himself wishing he had come home sooner.