the last sovereign of infinity

Lucien had come to an unsettling realization.

Everyone was watching him.

This, admittedly, was not unusual. By this point, Lucien had accepted that simply existing tended to attract an unreasonable amount of attention.

The unsettling part was why.

They weren't watching him because they expected him to save reality.

Or open impossible doors.

Or accidentally begin another cosmic conflict over the questionable treatment of lonely entities.

No.

They were watching him to make sure he drank enough water.

He found this deeply offensive.

"No."

"There it is."

Lucien ignored Astrael.

It had been three days since he had slept in the house with the lantern.

Three remarkably peaceful days.

Three days of breakfasts, books, and discovering that the universe had developed an alarming tendency to organize itself around his schedule.

This remained suspicious.

For example, the weather.

Whenever he wanted to read, it became pleasantly overcast.

Whenever he sat in the garden, a cool breeze appeared from nowhere.

And whenever he looked vaguely tired, it started raining softly.

Lucien had many questions.

Unfortunately, every answer so far had been, "The universe is trying its best."

This was unhelpful.

"It just cares about you."

Lucien looked toward Tomorrow, who was currently helping Astrael water the Dawn Lilies.

"There are currently fourteen thousand flowers."

"Fourteen thousand, two hundred and six."

"That does not improve the situation."

The First Dream smiled.

"It means you're doing better."

Interesting.

Lucien had discovered that apparently his emotional state now possessed measurable horticultural consequences.

This felt like a significant invasion of privacy.

"I maintain that flowers should not have opinions."

"They don't."

"They clearly do."

One particularly enthusiastic Dawn Lily had somehow grown through the porch floor to lean against his chair.

Lucien distrusted it immediately.

The child who remembered every goodbye was currently sitting beside him with a book.

"What are you reading?"

The child held up the cover.

«Fifty-Seven Ways Future Lucien Will Attempt to Avoid Resting»

Silence.

Lucien slowly lowered his cup of tea.

"I'm sorry?"

"You wrote it."

"Of course I did."

"It's very detailed."

"I imagine it would be."

The child nodded solemnly.

"Chapter Twelve is about pretending to meditate while actually planning expeditions."

That...

That sounded accurate.

Dangerous.

"How many chapters are there?"

"Seventy-three."

"That seems excessive."

"The last twenty were added after the moon incident."

"We do not discuss the moon."

"That's fair."

Lucien had begun to suspect that the moon incident would haunt him across multiple eternities.

This was unfortunate.

A knock sounded at the gate.

Interesting.

People had begun visiting the house regularly.

Apparently, once an immortal civilization discovered you had finally stopped wandering, they developed an intense desire to bring you baked goods.

Lucien had received approximately four hundred pies in the last week.

He remained uncertain why.

"It's Seraphina."

Lucien blinked.

"How do you know?"

"She always knocks twice."

Silence.

"Interesting."

The child smiled.

"You remember things like that."

Dangerous.

Lucien was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with discovering that he had spent eternity paying attention to people.

This felt deeply unfair.

Seraphina entered the garden carrying a basket.

Of course.

"Good afternoon."

Lucien narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Is that another pie?"

"No."

Silence.

"That was too immediate."

"Fine. It's two pies."

"Why?"

Seraphina looked genuinely confused.

"Because you've never tried blackberry."

That...

That was not an answer.

Lucien was rapidly learning that family operated according to entirely separate rules of causality.

She sat beside him on the porch and handed him one of the pies.

"It took me three hundred years to learn the recipe."

"I'm unsure if that makes this better or worse."

"It makes it delicious."

Fair.

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

Lucien noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

This time, however, something was different.

There were two lights.

Interesting.

"Tomorrow."

"Yes?"

"There appear to be more lonely things."

The First Dream looked toward the horizon.

"Oh."

"There it is."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

Tomorrow laughed softly.

"I was wondering when you'd notice the second one."

"How long has it been there?"

"Three days."

Silence.

"I've been distracted."

"That's allowed."

Dangerous.

That word had become dangerous.

Allowed.

Lucien had spent fourteen billion years operating under the assumption that permission was unnecessary.

Apparently, this was no longer the case.

The Dragon King landed nearby with enough force to shake the hill.

He was carrying a newspaper.

Lucien decided not to question this.

"You have mail."

Silence.

"I'm sorry?"

"Mail."

"I know what mail is."

"Do you?"

"That feels unnecessarily hostile."

The Dragon King handed him a stack of letters.

There were hundreds.

"What is this?"

"The universe discovered your address."

"No."

"Yes."

Lucien stared at the envelopes.

Some were from people he knew.

Others carried names he had never heard before.

The first letter simply read:

«Dear Lucien,

Thank you for teaching my grandmother how to laugh.

She still tells stories about you.

—Someone you forgot»

Silence.

The second.

«Dear Lucien,

The stars above our world finally sing again.

We thought you'd want to know.

—The People of the Seventh Sky»

The third.

«Dear Lucien,

We named our daughter Tomorrow.

Sorry.

—A Concerned Parent»

Lucien slowly put the letters down.

"This is absurd."

"It is," Tomorrow agreed.

"And?"

"And we thought you'd like to know."

Interesting.

Lucien looked toward the horizon once more.

Two lights.

Waiting.

Patient.

Then he looked toward the stack of letters.

Then toward the people sitting on his porch.

Then toward the house with the lantern.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

"You know," Seraphina said softly, "you're smiling again."

Lucien froze.

"I am not."

"You are."

"I object."

"Noted."

"No, genuinely."

"We know."

Of course they did.

The afternoon passed quietly after that.

Tea.

Books.

Letters.

And somewhere, at the edge of existence, two small lights continued waiting in the dark.

Lucien watched them for a long time.

Eventually, Tomorrow spoke.

"You can go whenever you're ready."

"I know."

Silence.

"But not today."

The words surprised everyone.

Including him.

Tomorrow's smile was impossibly gentle.

"No?"

Lucien looked around.

At the porch.

At the flowers.

At the people who had somehow made a home large enough to contain fourteen billion years of waiting.

Then, quietly—

"I think..."

He paused.

Interesting.

These words were becoming easier to say.

"...I would like another slice of pie first."

The universe, which had been listening very carefully, immediately began celebrating.

And somewhere beyond the stars, two lonely lights burned a little brighter.

Because they had learned the same lesson everyone else eventually did.

Lucien always came.

He was simply learning that it was alright if he arrived after dessert.