the last sovereign of infinity

Lucien had always maintained that birthdays were a fundamentally flawed concept.

This opinion was based upon several entirely reasonable observations.

First, existence had a troubling tendency to become emotional regarding the passage of time.

Second, people insisted on celebrating accomplishments for which the recipient had contributed very little.

And third...

Lucien had been born considerably more times than was mathematically appropriate.

He felt this alone should exempt him from further participation.

Unfortunately, the universe disagreed.

"You've been suspiciously quiet."

Lucien looked up from his tea.

"I am always quiet."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

Tomorrow smiled over the rim of their cup.

"You've looked at Orion seventeen times in the last hour."

"That proves nothing."

"It proves you know he's planning something."

Interesting.

Lucien did know.

This was primarily because Orion possessed all the subtlety of a collapsing star.

The old immortal had spent the entire morning pretending not to hide behind increasingly obvious objects.

At one point, he had attempted to conceal himself behind a flower pot.

The flower pot had objected.

"I remain unconvinced."

"That's fair."

Lucien looked toward the horizon.

The first dawn was behaving strangely.

Again.

The sky had developed an unusual amount of glitter.

He deeply distrusted glitter.

Nothing good had ever resulted from excessive sparkle.

"This feels coordinated."

"It is."

"Interesting."

"No, concerning."

Fair.

The Dragon King landed beside the house carrying an enormous bundle wrapped in cloth.

Lucien immediately narrowed his eyes.

"What is that?"

"A surprise."

"I object."

"Noted."

"No, genuinely."

"We know."

Of course they did.

The child who remembered every goodbye appeared next, carrying what appeared to be a very large stack of papers.

"What are those?"

"Cards."

Silence.

"I'm sorry?"

"Birthday cards."

Lucien stopped moving.

"No."

"There it is."

He ignored everyone.

"Absolutely not."

"It is too late."

"I refuse."

"Also too late."

Interesting.

Lucien had discovered that immortals possessed a deeply concerning tendency to plan things several billion years in advance.

This remained unfair.

"What birthday?"

The room went silent.

Interesting.

That was never a positive sign.

Tomorrow smiled.

"The first one."

Silence.

"I'm sorry?"

"The one you missed."

The words settled heavily across the porch.

"You were eight."

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

"And after that..." Tomorrow's smile softened. "You were always busy."

Lucien found himself unexpectedly unable to respond.

Interesting.

This continued happening.

"You never had one."

The child quietly placed the stack of cards onto the table.

"So we thought..."

Astrael appeared carrying an alarming quantity of ribbons.

"...that perhaps we should fix that."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Lucien."

"What?"

"You taught an entire universe that every life is worth celebrating."

Silence.

"It seemed rude not to apply the lesson consistently."

Dangerous.

That sentence was dangerous.

The first dawn suddenly changed colors.

Interesting.

The sky now read:

«HAPPY VERY LATE BIRTHDAY»

Lucien stared upward.

"The universe knows."

"It helped organize."

"Of course it did."

Naturally.

He was beginning to suspect that existence had entirely too much free time.

Orion finally abandoned all pretense of subtlety and emerged from behind a tree.

The tree looked relieved.

"We've been planning this for approximately eleven billion years."

"That seems excessive."

"We originally wanted balloons."

"Originally?"

"The stars objected."

"The stars objected to balloons?"

"They felt they already occupied that niche."

Fair.

Lucien was rapidly losing the ability to distinguish between reality and collective insanity.

This felt significant.

The first card was handed to him.

It was written in uneven handwriting.

«Dear Lucien,

Thank you for teaching me that monsters can still be kind.

Also, thank you for punching my uncle.

He deserved it.

—A Friend From Three Universes Away»

Interesting.

The second.

«Dear Lucien,

We still tell stories about the time you convinced winter to arrive two weeks early because a child wanted to see snow.

It was deeply irresponsible.

Thank you.

—The Northern Kingdom»

The third.

«Dear Lucien,

I found my way home.

I thought you'd like to know.

—Someone Who Doesn't Feel Lonely Anymore»

Silence.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

Lucien slowly set the card down.

"There appear to be many of these."

"Approximately two billion."

Silence.

"I'm sorry?"

"The universe has excellent handwriting."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

The Dragon King quietly placed a massive cake onto the table.

Interesting.

It was absurdly large.

"I feel obligated to point out that this cake could feed several civilizations."

"It can."

"That does not improve the situation."

The ancient dragon looked genuinely confused.

"It wasn't intended to."

Fair.

Tomorrow gently placed a small box in front of him.

Unlike everything else, it was simple.

Wooden.

Unremarkable.

Suspicious.

Lucien opened it carefully.

Inside rested a small silver key.

Interesting.

"What does it unlock?"

"The front door."

Silence.

"The front door is not locked."

"I know."

"Then—"

"It's a spare."

Lucien stared.

"A spare key."

"Yes."

"For your home."

The First Dream smiled softly.

"In case you ever forget where you put the first one."

Dangerous.

Everything remained dangerous.

"That seems..."

He paused.

Interesting.

Words had become difficult again.

"...unnecessarily thoughtful."

"That's family for you."

The stars overhead suddenly brightened.

Then, one by one, every lantern in existence lit simultaneously.

Across galaxies.

Across worlds.

Across the spaces between universes.

Billions of lights burned against the dark.

The universe had only one thing to say.

«THANK YOU FOR BEING BORN.»

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Lucien remained perfectly still.

Then, quietly—

"I don't know what to do."

The admission surprised everyone.

Tomorrow's expression softened immediately.

"You don't have to do anything."

"No?"

"No."

The First Dream took his hand.

"You've spent fourteen billion years giving pieces of yourself away."

The child smiled beside him.

"This time, you just have to let people love you back."

Dangerous.

That was perhaps the most dangerous thing anyone had ever said to him.

Lucien looked toward the countless lights burning across existence.

At the cards.

The cake.

The spare key resting in his hand.

And somewhere, beneath the first dawn, he finally understood why coming home had always frightened him.

Not because he was afraid no one would be waiting.

But because some part of him had never believed anyone would.

"Oh."

"There it is.

And this time, as the universe sang a terribly off-key version of a birthday song it had spent eleven billion years practicing, Lucien found himself laughing.

For the first time in all his lives...

He celebrated the simple miracle of having existed at all.