the last sovereign of infinity

Lucien had officially reached the limit of his ability to be surprised.

This was, admittedly, a conclusion he had arrived at approximately seventeen revelations ago.

Unfortunately, reality had repeatedly demonstrated a remarkable talent for treating his limits as friendly suggestions.

The room beyond the final door had gone completely silent.

The lantern no longer flickered.

It trembled.

The stars beyond the window had vanished entirely, leaving only an endless expanse of darkness stretching in every direction.

Interesting.

Lucien immediately disliked darkness that caused ancient cosmic entities to become uncomfortable.

It suggested a concerning lack of perspective.

The knock came again.

Three soft taps.

Polite.

Patient.

For some reason, that made everything worse.

"We've come to bring our child home."

The voice continued to echo through the small house.

It wasn't loud.

It didn't shake reality or cause stars to collapse.

It simply existed.

And somehow, every part of Lucien's soul immediately understood one thing.

The voice was old.

Not ancient.

Not eternal.

Older.

Older than words.

Older than silence.

Older than the concept of old.

He found this deeply offensive.

Tomorrow remained standing before the door, perfectly motionless.

"You have parents."

It wasn't a question.

"I..."

For the first time since Lucien had met them, Tomorrow appeared genuinely lost.

"I don't know."

"That seems like important information."

"I agree."

The child sitting upon the bed had pulled the blanket around his shoulders.

"Astrael did that too."

Lucien blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"When he gets nervous."

Silence.

Tomorrow looked mildly offended.

"I do not become nervous."

The knock came once more.

The room immediately disagreed.

The lantern dimmed.

The books upon the shelves quietly rearranged themselves.

And somewhere very far away, Lucien heard Sol sneeze.

Interesting.

"What happens if we ignore them?"

Tomorrow stared at him.

"What?"

"I am simply exploring our options."

Lucien folded his arms.

"They've apparently waited since before existence. Surely another few billion years wouldn't make a significant difference."

Silence.

The child on the bed slowly raised one hand.

"I think that's where we get it from."

"Get what?"

"The inability to recognize when something is a terrible idea."

Fair.

Lucien was beginning to suspect that poor decision-making might be hereditary.

This was an unsettling possibility.

The silver-haired Architect suddenly appeared in the room.

Interesting.

Lucien had not realized one could simply enter the final house at the end of existence.

The Architect's expression suggested he had not realized this either.

"This is impossible."

"I've heard that repeatedly."

"No, Lucien, I mean genuinely impossible."

The Architect looked toward the front door with an expression Lucien had not previously believed him capable of making.

Fear.

"We've searched for them."

Silence.

"Who?"

"The First Dream."

Tomorrow looked toward him.

"You knew?"

The Architect laughed weakly.

"No."

That answer somehow felt worse.

"We knew there had to be something before."

The stars outside briefly reappeared.

"The universe cannot emerge from nothing."

Lucien frowned.

"I've been informed it can if sufficiently motivated."

"That was you."

"Ah."

There it was again.

The knock came a fifth time.

This time, the voice spoke once more.

"We know you're awake, little one."

Tomorrow went completely still.

Little one.

Lucien slowly turned toward them.

"Interesting."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

Lucien pointed toward the door.

"They called you little one."

"I noticed."

"You are older than existence."

"Apparently."

"And they still consider you a child."

Silence.

The implications of that statement settled heavily over the room.

"Oh."

"There it is."

Lucien ignored everyone.

The child version of himself had buried his face beneath the blanket.

"I think we're all having an existential crisis."

"Reasonable."

"No, not reasonable."

Fair.

Tomorrow slowly approached the door.

Their hands were trembling.

Lucien noticed immediately.

Interesting.

"You really don't remember them."

"No."

The answer was painfully quiet.

"I remember darkness."

The lantern brightened slightly.

"I remember being alone."

The stars beyond the window flickered.

"And then I remember you."

Silence.

Lucien found that his chest hurt again.

He was beginning to suspect his soul was fundamentally defective.

The voice beyond the door spoke once more.

"You still remember your first friend."

The room stopped breathing.

Lucien blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Hello, Lucien."

There was no accusation in the voice.

Only warmth.

Only familiarity.

Only the quiet affection of someone who had watched him grow across impossible spans of time.

This was deeply concerning.

"You know me."

"We've known you for a very long time."

Lucien considered this.

"That seems statistically unlikely."

A soft laugh answered him.

"Oh, child."

There it was again.

Child.

Lucien immediately disliked being addressed in a manner suggesting he was approximately fourteen billion years younger than the speaker.

"I object."

"We know."

"Has anyone in existence ever respected my objections?"

"No."

Fair.

The voice continued.

"You used to visit often."

A memory surfaced immediately.

Not of stars.

Not of dragons.

A garden.

Impossible flowers beneath an impossible sky.

And a much younger Lucien sitting cross-legged beside two figures he could never quite bring into focus.

"Tell us about your day."

"I found a lonely thing."

"Again?"

"Again."

The memory shattered.

Lucien stopped breathing.

"Oh."

"There it is."

He ignored them.

"That was real."

"Yes."

The voice sounded amused.

"You were very small."

"Define small."

"You still measured time in birthdays."

Silence.

The child on the bed slowly lowered the blanket.

"Wait."

Everyone looked toward him.

"If they know us..."

The room fell silent.

"And if they know Tomorrow..."

The child's golden eyes widened.

"Oh no."

Lucien immediately disliked those words.

"What?"

The child slowly pointed toward the front door.

"That means..."

Tomorrow finished the sentence.

"They know Astrael."

Silence.

Absolute silence.

The front door slowly opened.

Warm light spilled into the room.

Not golden.

Not silver.

Something softer.

Older.

And standing beyond the threshold were two figures.

Lucien could not see their faces.

Every time he looked, his vision blurred.

Yet one thing remained impossible to ignore.

They were smiling.

"There you are."

The words were spoken with the unbearable relief of parents finding a lost child.

Tomorrow didn't move.

The figures looked past them.

Past the room.

Past the final door.

And settled their gaze upon Lucien.

"My."

The second voice carried quiet amusement.

"You've grown."

Lucien stared.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's good to see you again, Lucien."

Silence.

"We've missed having you around."

The world stopped.

Lucien pointed at himself.

"You've missed me."

"Terribly."

"I don't understand."

"We know."

"Stop saying that."

The figures laughed softly.

One of them stepped forward and gently rested a hand atop Tomorrow's head.

The First Dream immediately began crying.

"Oh."

"There it is."

Lucien ignored them.

"We've spent a very long time looking for our child."

The second figure smiled.

"And an equally long time waiting for yours to come home."

Silence.

The room had gone impossibly still.

Lucien slowly looked toward Tomorrow.

Then toward the child on the bed.

Then back toward the two figures standing in the doorway.

And for the first time in all his lives, he realized something that terrified him beyond words.

His family tree was becoming cosmologically complicated.