the last sovereign of infinity

Lucien had discovered an unfortunate truth.

The universe possessed priorities.

This, in itself, was not particularly surprising.

What was surprising was that those priorities appeared to be:

1. Family.

2. Food.

3. Ensuring Lucien ate something before attempting to save another existence.

4. Everything else.

He found this deeply unreasonable.

"No."

"There it is."

Lucien ignored the collective amusement of several million beings.

The first dawn continued shining across eternity while an impossible number of tables remained occupied by people who had, for reasons he still did not entirely understand, decided that his continued existence was worth celebrating.

This remained suspicious.

The distant light at the edge of the next universe flickered again.

Patiently.

Waiting.

Interesting.

Apparently, waiting had become contagious.

"You are not leaving before dinner."

Lucien slowly turned toward Tomorrow.

"I fail to see how those two events are related."

"They aren't."

"Then why—"

"Because you've skipped approximately five trillion meals."

Silence.

"That number remains excessive."

"It is."

"And likely fabricated."

"It isn't."

Lucien had begun to suspect that immortality caused people to become alarmingly accurate regarding statistics they should not reasonably possess.

The child who remembered every goodbye had somehow acquired a plate containing enough desserts to threaten several natural laws.

"We made pie."

Lucien frowned.

"We?"

"Everyone contributed."

"That explanation concerns me."

"It should."

Fair.

Astrael appeared beside him carrying what appeared to be an entire cake.

Interesting.

"Where did that come from?"

"The stars."

"That does not answer my question."

"They've been practicing."

Of course they had.

Lucien was rapidly reaching the conclusion that he should never have taught cosmic entities hobbies.

It inevitably led to complications.

The silver-haired Architect quietly placed a cup of tea in front of him.

Naturally.

Lucien had stopped questioning the tea approximately six chapters ago.

"You once declared that no important decisions should ever be made on an empty stomach."

"That sounds wise."

"It was immediately after attempting to negotiate peace between two galaxies."

"And?"

"You were hungry."

"Reasonable."

The Architect smiled.

"That was apparently not considered a sufficient diplomatic strategy."

Interesting.

Lucien was beginning to suspect history had edited a significant number of his accomplishments.

Across the endless gathering, conversations and laughter continued. Dragons debated recipes with stars. Architects attempted to explain board games to confused celestial beings. Somewhere in the distance, Orion was winning an argument he had almost certainly started himself.

Everything felt...

Warm.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

He was becoming increasingly suspicious of happiness.

The distant light flickered once more.

This time, he heard it.

Faint.

Small.

A voice carried across the space between universes.

"Hello?"

Lucien froze.

Tomorrow noticed immediately.

"You heard it."

"Yes."

The First Dream smiled softly.

"It sounds lonely."

Silence.

"Profoundly."

Of course it did.

Naturally.

Lucien was beginning to suspect loneliness had developed a personal vendetta against him.

"You can go tomorrow."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

Tomorrow laughed.

"You really should stop naming things."

"That seems unrelated."

"It rarely is."

Fair.

The child beside him tilted his head.

"Do you know what's funny?"

"I suspect I won't."

"In every life, whenever you hear someone call for help..."

The child smiled.

"...you always stand up before realizing you've done it."

Lucien looked down.

Interesting.

He was already standing.

That seemed problematic.

"I object."

"Noted."

"No, I genuinely object."

"We know."

Of course they did.

The Dragon King suddenly lowered his head beside him.

"Sit."

Lucien blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"You have spent fourteen billion years walking."

Silence.

"You may sit for one meal."

The simplicity of the statement caught him entirely off guard.

"I..."

Interesting.

Words had apparently become difficult again.

That was unfortunate.

The ancient dragon remained perfectly still.

"It will still be there afterward."

The distant light flickered in agreement.

Lucien looked toward it.

Then toward the people surrounding him.

Then back again.

Dangerous.

Everything remained dangerous.

"You know..."

Tomorrow smiled.

"Yes?"

"I've never actually had dinner before."

Silence.

Absolute silence.

"What?"

Lucien frowned.

"Properly, I mean."

The room beyond the final door had tea.

The ruined city had conversations.

House Arkanis had meals interrupted by catastrophes.

But this?

This was different.

This was...

Family.

Dangerous.

The child beneath the blanket—who no longer required blankets but continued using them on principle—laughed softly.

"Oh."

"There it is."

Lucien ignored him.

"I dislike that phrase."

"We know."

"Please stop saying that."

"No."

Fair.

Tomorrow gently pulled out a chair beside them.

"Then perhaps it's time to try."

Lucien stared at the empty seat.

Interesting.

It had his name carved into it.

Of course it did.

Naturally.

He was developing increasingly complex feelings regarding universal sentimentality.

"When was this made?"

"Approximately eleven billion years ago."

"No."

"Yes."

"That seems premature."

"We were optimistic."

The stars overhead brightened.

Apparently, they approved of optimism.

Lucien considered the chair carefully.

Then, with all the caution of a man approaching an unknown cosmic phenomenon, he sat down.

The universe cheered.

He immediately regretted everything.

"This feels excessive."

"That's because it is," Orion called from somewhere behind a mountain of desserts.

Fair.

Someone placed food in front of him.

Then someone else.

And another.

Soon, Lucien found himself staring at enough food to sustain several small kingdoms.

"This is absurd."

"We missed a lot of birthdays," Tomorrow explained.

"That's not how mathematics works."

"We had time to compensate."

That was somehow worse.

Lucien picked up a fork.

The universe collectively held its breath.

Interesting.

Apparently, this was important.

He took a bite.

Silence.

Then—

"Oh."

"There it is."

Laughter erupted across existence.

Lucien looked down at the food.

"This is...good."

Tomorrow smiled.

"I know."

"No, I mean exceptionally good."

"I know."

He hated when people were right.

The distant light beyond the next universe flickered once more.

Patient.

Waiting.

Lucien looked toward it and found, to his surprise, that he wasn't worried.

It would still be there tomorrow.

And for the first time in fourteen billion years...

So would he.

Somewhere beyond the first dawn, reality quietly made note of that fact.

Because the universe had learned many things from Lucien over the course of eternity.

How to wait.

How to forgive.

How to say hello.

And now, finally...

It was learning how to let him rest.