the last sovereign of infinity

Lucien had discovered that there were certain sounds the soul never truly forgot.

The laughter of someone long dead.

The first time a dragon called your name.

The sound of stars being born.

And, apparently...

The sound of your own voice crying behind a door at the end of existence.

He stood perfectly still.

The final door had opened only a single inch, yet it was enough.

The sound continued.

Soft.

Young.

Broken.

Lucien found that he suddenly did not wish to hear any more of it.

Dangerous.

That realization was dangerous.

Tomorrow, however, merely watched him with the patient expression of someone who had seen this exact moment occur thirty-eight times before.

"You hear it."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Oh."

"There it is again."

Lucien ignored them.

The crying beyond the door was unmistakably his own.

Not his current voice.

Not the voice of the older Lucien who carried the black sword.

This voice was younger.

Smaller.

The voice of a child who had discovered that promises could break.

"I dislike this."

"I know."

"No, I genuinely dislike this."

"I know."

Lucien resisted the urge to walk in the opposite direction.

That, unfortunately, would require admitting he was uncomfortable.

He had a reputation to maintain.

"What is behind the door?"

Tomorrow was silent for a long moment.

Then—

"The last thing you allowed yourself to remember."

There it was again.

Memory.

He was developing a deeply adversarial relationship with memory.

"It sounds upset."

"It is."

"Why?"

Tomorrow looked at him with impossible gentleness.

"Because it's still waiting for you to come back."

Silence.

Lucien found that his hands had clenched into fists.

Interesting.

That kept happening around conversations involving waiting.

"I was a child."

"Yes."

"Children shouldn't have to wait forever."

"No."

The answer came immediately.

"Then why—"

"Because you asked him to."

The words struck with uncomfortable precision.

Lucien hated when reality was internally consistent.

The lantern beside the door flickered softly.

He noticed, for the first time, that it wasn't fueled by fire.

It was fueled by memories.

Every time it brightened, he caught glimpses of moments reflected in the glass.

A child laughing.

A hand reaching through darkness.

Someone sleeping beneath an unfinished sky.

"This lantern."

"You made it."

"Of course I did."

"You said no one should ever wait in the dark."

Dangerous.

Everything his previous selves said was dangerous.

Lucien had apparently spent multiple lifetimes speaking exclusively in statements designed to emotionally compromise his future self.

This felt deeply inconsiderate.

Tomorrow slowly approached the door.

"Do you know why Astrael waited?"

"Because I asked."

"Yes."

"Sol?"

"Yes."

"The Architects?"

"Yes."

Tomorrow rested one hand against the wooden frame.

"And do you know why I waited?"

Lucien was silent.

"No."

Tomorrow smiled.

"Because you couldn't."

The world stopped.

"What?"

"The first time you left, you tried to stay."

The crying beyond the door grew louder.

"You fought."

A memory surfaced.

A child clinging desperately to a hand made of starlight.

"I DON'T WANT TO GO!"

"YOU HAVE TO."

"NO!"

The memory blurred beneath tears.

"I PROMISED!"

Lucien stopped breathing.

"Oh."

"There it is."

He ignored them.

"You left me here."

Tomorrow shook their head.

"No."

"Then what happened?"

For the first time since meeting them, Tomorrow looked genuinely sad.

"You died."

Silence.

Absolute silence.

"What?"

"The first time."

The road behind them disappeared completely.

"There was no war."

The stars dimmed.

"No Architects."

The lantern's light softened.

"No dragons."

Tomorrow's voice became impossibly gentle.

"There was only a child trying to keep a promise."

Lucien felt something inside him go very still.

"I don't understand."

"I know."

"No, stop saying that."

Tomorrow laughed quietly.

"You say that every time."

Of course he did.

"The first death was different."

"How?"

Tomorrow looked toward the endless darkness surrounding the final door.

"You gave me your word."

Silence.

"And then..." Their smile trembled slightly. "You discovered that even promises have limits."

The crying beyond the door suddenly stopped.

Lucien immediately found that infinitely more concerning.

A voice emerged from the darkness.

Small.

Fragile.

"Did we come back this time?"

The world stopped.

Lucien froze.

The voice wasn't speaking to Tomorrow.

It was speaking to him.

"No."

"Yes," Tomorrow whispered.

Lucien slowly turned toward the narrow opening in the door.

"I..."

The voice interrupted him.

"It's okay if we didn't."

Something in his chest hurt.

"We tried really hard."

The voice sounded sleepy.

"I remember that part."

Lucien took a step toward the door before realizing he had done so.

Interesting.

That seemed important.

"Who are you?"

Silence followed.

Then—

"I'm us."

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"We say that a lot."

Fair.

Tomorrow smiled softly.

"He doesn't remember much anymore."

"What?"

"He gave most of his memories away."

Lucien stared.

"I'm sorry?"

"He thought everyone else needed them more."

Of course.

Naturally.

Lucien was beginning to believe that his previous selves were actively malicious.

"What memories?"

Tomorrow looked toward the stars.

"The ones that hurt."

The door opened another inch.

Lucien could now see part of the room beyond.

A bed.

Small.

Simple.

And curled beneath a blanket...

A child.

No older than eight.

Black hair.

Golden eyes.

His face.

Sleeping.

"What is this?"

Tomorrow's answer was immediate.

"The part of you that never learned how to say goodbye."

Silence.

The child shifted beneath the blanket.

"He stayed here."

"Why?"

"Because someone had to remember how much it hurt."

The words settled into the stillness like falling snow.

Lucien found himself unable to look away.

"He waited?"

"Yes."

"For me."

"No."

Tomorrow's smile became impossibly sad.

"He waited for everyone else."

The lantern brightened.

"You taught yourself something before you died."

A memory surfaced.

A child crying in endless darkness while speaking words no child should ever have to understand.

"If someone has to remember being sad..."

The memory blurred.

"Then I'll do it."

Lucien felt the world tilt beneath his feet.

"No."

"Yes."

"You left him here."

"No."

Tomorrow's voice was soft.

"You trusted him."

That was somehow worse.

"He remembers every goodbye."

The sleeping child stirred.

"Every person we buried."

The stars dimmed.

"Every promise we couldn't keep."

Lucien couldn't breathe.

"And every time we had to leave someone behind..."

Tomorrow looked directly at him.

"...he remembered it for us."

Silence.

Absolute silence.

The child in the bed slowly opened his eyes.

Golden.

Tired.

Ancient.

"Oh."

The word was small.

Sleepy.

Familiar.

Lucien hated that word.

The child sat up slowly.

"You're back."

There was no surprise in his voice.

Only certainty.

"I told Tomorrow you'd come eventually."

Something inside Lucien broke.

Not violently.

Not painfully.

Just enough.

The child smiled.

"I kept all the sad parts safe for you."

The final door opened another inch.

And for the first time in all his lives, Lucien realized something that terrified him more than anything else.

He had never forgotten his pain.

He had simply asked a younger version of himself to carry it.

And somehow...

That child had never once complained.