the last sovereign of infinity

Lucien had spent the majority of his existence, both remembered and forgotten, making an unfortunate number of promises.

Some had been made beneath the first sky.

Others had been spoken upon battlefields, in ruined kingdoms, or beside fires that no longer existed.

And apparently, a significant percentage had involved assuring immortal beings that he would remember them after they were gone.

This was becoming a pattern.

He stood upon the golden road while three hundred and twelve Architects watched him from the broken heavens.

No one spoke.

Lucien had noticed that immortals possessed an irritating tendency to become quiet whenever they expected him to do something emotionally significant.

He disapproved of this habit.

"The forest."

The silver-haired Architect nodded.

"Yes."

"It contains their names."

"Yes."

"And I created it."

"Yes."

Lucien considered this.

"That seems excessive."

The Architect smiled faintly.

"You cried for six days while planting the first tree."

Silence.

"I refuse to believe that."

"Everyone says that."

The Dragon King snorted.

"You also attempted to fight the concept of death during the third day."

Lucien slowly turned toward the ancient dragon.

"Why?"

"It had poor timing."

"Fair."

The Dragon King remained silent for several moments.

Then, quietly—

"You were very sad."

Dangerous.

That feeling again.

Lucien was developing an increasingly hostile relationship with emotions.

The mountains shifted beneath Sol's golden light.

"THE FOREST HAS BEEN WAITING."

Of course it had.

Everything waited.

Lucien was beginning to suspect that if he remained absent long enough, reality itself would eventually join a queue.

"Does anything in existence not wait for me?"

Orion raised a hand.

"The moon remains somewhat offended."

"Reasonable."

"The Dragon King maintains that it started the disagreement."

"It did."

"It was a moon."

"It knew what it did."

Lucien chose not to pursue that line of discussion.

Instead, his attention remained fixed upon the distant horizon where the outline of an endless forest stretched beyond sight.

He could see it clearly now.

Golden leaves.

Silver bark.

And stars hanging from the branches like fruit.

Interesting.

That seemed unnecessarily poetic.

"You made it beautiful."

The voice came from Astrael.

Lucien turned.

The child stood at the entrance to the room within his soul, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Interesting.

He had not considered whether entities beyond the black door required sleep.

"You're awake."

"I heard the word forest."

"Reasonable."

Astrael smiled.

"You always took me there when I couldn't sleep."

Silence.

Of course he had.

The child walked forward until he stood beside Lucien.

"They liked you."

"The Architects?"

"Everyone."

Dangerous.

Lucien found himself increasingly suspicious of universal approval.

It suggested either a fundamental misunderstanding or a catastrophic lack of standards.

"That seems unlikely."

The silver-haired Architect laughed.

"You once spent eighty years helping one of us learn how to paint."

"Why?"

"He asked."

Fair.

"And?"

"He was terrible at it."

"That seems unfortunate."

"He painted exactly three things."

Lucien had a very bad feeling about this.

"What?"

"You."

Naturally.

The Architect pointed toward the forest.

"The paintings are still there."

Of course they were.

Everything remained.

Everything waited.

Lucien was beginning to understand why his previous selves had been so tired.

Memory, he had discovered, was a heavy thing.

The walk to the forest took exactly one step.

This did not surprise him.

Places tied to memory rarely respected conventional concepts such as distance.

One moment, he stood upon the golden road.

The next—

He stood beneath silver trees taller than mountains.

The forest stretched endlessly in every direction. Leaves of gold drifted lazily through the air, each carrying fragments of laughter, conversations, and names whispered across forgotten centuries.

It was beautiful.

Lucien immediately distrusted it.

"Oh."

"There it is," Astrael said helpfully.

Lucien ignored him.

Every tree was different.

Some were young and vibrant, their branches reaching toward the heavens.

Others stood ancient and immense, their roots disappearing into the stars themselves.

And carved into every trunk...

A name.

He approached the nearest tree.

Its bark was smooth beneath his fingers.

Etched into the silver surface were two simple words.

Alerion the Kind.

The moment Lucien read the name, a memory surfaced.

A man laughing while attempting to teach him a card game.

"You're cheating."

"I'm teaching."

"Those are not the same thing."

"They are if you're sufficiently creative."

The memory faded.

Lucien remained silent.

Interesting.

"Every tree remembers."

The silver-haired Architect's voice was unusually soft.

"When one of us chose to rest, you planted a seed."

Lucien looked upward.

"How many trees?"

"Ten thousand."

Silence.

The number settled heavily over the forest.

Ten thousand names.

Ten thousand stories.

Ten thousand goodbyes.

That was...

No.

He refused.

That was profoundly unfair.

Astrael quietly took his hand.

"You visited every day."

Lucien looked down at the child.

"For how long?"

The answer came from the Last Witness.

"Twelve thousand years."

Lucien stopped breathing.

"What?"

The old man stood beneath a nearby tree, his expression unreadable.

"After you disappeared, Astrael came here every morning."

The child looked away.

"I didn't want them to be lonely."

Something inside Lucien hurt.

He was becoming increasingly tired of that sensation.

"You remembered all of them."

"No."

Astrael's answer surprised him.

"I forgot some things too."

Silence.

"But the forest didn't."

The child smiled softly.

"So I would walk here and read their names aloud."

The stars hanging from the branches brightened.

"I thought..."

Astrael hesitated.

"I thought if someone remembered them, then maybe waiting wouldn't feel so long."

Lucien found himself without words.

Again.

This was becoming unacceptable.

The forest suddenly stirred.

A warm wind passed through the silver branches.

And then—

"Lucien?"

The voice was old.

Gentle.

Impossible.

Lucien froze.

One of the trees had spoken.

No.

Not spoken.

Remembered.

Another voice joined it.

Then another.

Soon, the entire forest whispered with countless voices.

"Welcome back."

"You took your time."

"Still shorter than I remember."

"Has he remembered the moon incident yet?"

"Don't tell him about the moon."

Lucien stared.

"Oh."

"There it is!" shouted approximately several thousand trees simultaneously.

Silence followed.

Then laughter.

Endless.

Warm.

Familiar.

The forest itself was laughing.

Astrael buried his face in Lucien's side to hide his own laughter.

"You say it exactly the same way."

"I've been informed."

The silver-haired Architect closed his eyes.

"We missed that."

Dangerous.

Everything missed him.

It was becoming unreasonable.

Lucien walked deeper into the forest.

Eventually, he stopped before the oldest tree.

Unlike the others, it possessed black bark and silver leaves.

There was no name carved into its trunk.

Only a question.

«Did we wait too long?»

The world went silent.

Lucien stared at the words for a very long time.

Then, slowly, he raised one hand and rested it against the bark.

"No."

The answer came easier than expected.

"You didn't."

The forest held its breath.

Lucien closed his eyes.

"I was simply late."

Golden light spread through the ancient tree.

The question vanished.

In its place, new words appeared.

«Welcome home, old friend.»

The moment the final word appeared, the entire forest erupted into light.

Ten thousand trees.

Ten thousand names.

Ten thousand stars rising into the heavens.

And somewhere beyond the broken sky, the Architects quietly began to cry.

Because after fourteen billion years of waiting...

The keeper of their names had finally come back.