Lucien had spent the better part of his current existence learning that there were very few things in reality more dangerous than memory.
Power could be resisted.
Enemies could be fought.
Even death, apparently, could be negotiated under sufficiently unusual circumstances.
Memory, however, possessed an unfortunate tendency to wait patiently until one had grown comfortable before destroying entire assumptions about oneself.
He stood beneath the first sky and watched the horizon fill with versions of himself.
There were thousands.
At least, he thought there were.
Distance behaved strangely in this place. Some figures stood only a few steps away while others seemed separated by entire eternities. A few were unmistakably human. Others...
Others were not.
One possessed eyes made of living starlight.
Another wore armor carved from dragon scales.
A third appeared to be made entirely of shadows and silver flame.
Every single one of them was watching him.
"I've decided I don't like this."
The child beside him smiled.
"I know."
"Do they all do that?"
"Do what?"
"Answer questions as though they've already heard them."
The child's smile widened.
"Yes."
"That's deeply irritating."
"We've always been deeply irritating."
Lucien considered this.
Unfortunately, he was finding it increasingly difficult to disagree.
The first sky continued changing overhead. Stars were appearing now, one at a time, as though reality itself had decided to slowly remember how to exist.
He recognized several constellations.
That was troubling.
"I've never seen this sky before."
"No."
"Then why do I know those stars?"
"Because you named them."
Silence.
"Of course I did."
The child began walking toward the waiting figures.
Lucien followed.
"What happens now?"
"That depends."
"On?"
"How much you're willing to remember."
A familiar answer.
Dangerous.
"Suppose I decide I don't want to remember."
The child stopped.
For the first time since meeting him, his expression became unreadable.
"Then you wake up."
"That sounds reasonable."
"You wake up in the ruined city."
Lucien waited.
"The mountains close."
The child looked toward the horizon.
"The dragons continue waiting."
"And?"
"You spend the rest of this life wondering why everyone who loved you looked sad whenever they thought you weren't watching."
Silence.
"That's manipulative."
"Yes."
"You learned it from me."
"Also yes."
Lucien was beginning to regret every version of himself equally.
They reached the first figure after what felt like several minutes and several centuries simultaneously.
It was a young man with silver hair and golden eyes. He couldn't have been older than twenty, though Lucien was becoming increasingly suspicious of appearances.
The man wore simple black robes and carried a book beneath one arm.
"You're late."
Lucien stared.
"I wasn't aware this was an appointment."
"It was."
"With whom?"
"Everyone."
Fair.
The man closed his book.
"This is the fourth time you've made us wait."
"The fourth?"
"Relatively speaking."
Lucien had no idea what that meant and had decided not to ask.
The silver-haired version of himself studied him quietly.
"You look tired."
"So I've been told."
"You should sleep more."
Lucien blinked.
"That is unexpectedly normal advice."
The man smiled faintly.
"I spent that entire life trying to convince us to rest."
"And?"
"I failed."
That felt oddly disappointing.
"Who are you?"
The man's expression softened.
"I was the one who learned how to forgive."
Something in those words felt important.
Before Lucien could ask another question, the man stepped aside.
"You should keep moving. They're becoming impatient."
Lucien looked toward the horizon.
The other figures had begun approaching.
Interesting.
He had somehow become the center of his own gathering.
That felt appropriate.
And deeply inconvenient.
The next figure to reach him was a woman.
She wore armor made of white crystal and carried a spear taller than she was. Her eyes were blue instead of gold, though he somehow knew they had once been the same.
She stopped before him and crossed her arms.
"You're shorter than I expected."
"I've heard that before."
"Did it annoy you then as well?"
"Yes."
"Good."
The woman smiled.
"I missed that."
There it was again.
That word.
Missed.
Everyone missed him.
Lucien was beginning to suspect his previous selves had developed an unhealthy habit of making emotional connections.
A dangerous character flaw.
"You are?"
"The Fifth."
"That's not a name."
"No."
"Then what is your name?"
The woman's expression became distant.
"I gave it away."
Silence.
"Why?"
"Because someone needed it more."
That raised considerably more questions than it answered.
Unfortunately, she had already moved past him.
"Try not to die too quickly this time."
"I'll do my best."
"You won't."
"Fair."
The horizon continued drawing closer.
Or perhaps he was.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to determine.
The child walked beside him in comfortable silence until Lucien finally asked the question that had been bothering him since their meeting.
"Why are you still here?"
The child looked up at the stars.
"Because someone had to wait."
"For me."
"Yes."
"Why?"
The child stopped walking.
The first sky reflected in his golden eyes.
"Because everyone else kept leaving."
Lucien felt something tighten painfully in his chest.
The child continued.
"The dragons had their mountains."
"Seraphina had time."
"The Last Witness had his duty."
"And me?"
The child smiled sadly.
"You had tomorrow."
Silence followed.
Lucien found himself without an immediate response.
Again.
Interesting.
The crowd had begun to gather around them now.
Hundreds of faces.
Hundreds of lives.
Some smiled when they saw him.
Others simply watched.
A few looked disappointed.
He chose to ignore those.
"This is absurd."
"Yes."
"I dislike all of you."
A man wearing a crown of stars laughed.
"We know."
"Good."
The man stepped forward.
Unlike the others, he felt...
Heavy.
Ancient.
His presence reminded Lucien of the Dragon King.
Or perhaps the Dragon King reminded him of this man.
"You wore that crown."
It wasn't a question.
The man touched the crown of starlight resting upon his brow.
"For a while."
"The Crown of the End?"
"No."
Relief.
"This one was significantly less problematic."
"Wonderful."
The man looked at him carefully.
"You've seen it."
"The other crown?"
"Yes."
Lucien nodded.
"I remember hating it."
"Good."
"Good?"
"That means you're still you."
There it was again.
That implication.
"As opposed to?"
No one answered.
The silence stretched uncomfortably.
Lucien narrowed his eyes.
"You're all terrible at answering questions."
"We learned from experience."
"Whose?"
The man smiled.
"Yours."
Of course.
Naturally.
The child suddenly tugged at Lucien's sleeve.
"It's time."
"For what?"
The child pointed upward.
Lucien followed the gesture.
The stars had finished appearing.
The first sky was no longer empty.
It had become familiar.
He recognized every constellation.
Every pattern.
Every light.
Because he had put them there.
The realization arrived without warning.
A memory.
A younger version of himself sitting beside the ancient being beneath the mountains, carefully placing stars into the darkness one at a time.
"That one will be called the Wanderer."
"WHY?"
"Because I think he'll need somewhere to go."
Another memory.
"That one is the Dragon."
"IT LOOKS NOTHING LIKE A DRAGON."
"Use your imagination."
Another.
"And this one?"
"That one..."
The memory blurred.
He couldn't hear the answer.
But he remembered laughing.
The stars overhead suddenly shifted.
They began moving.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Forming words.
WELCOME HOME.
The assembled lives fell silent.
The child smiled.
"It missed you too."
Lucien stared at the sky.
"All of this..."
"Yes."
"The stars."
"Yes."
"The constellations."
"Yes."
"I made them."
"Mostly."
Lucien closed his eyes.
This was becoming unreasonable.
When he opened them again, the crowd had parted.
At the very edge of the first sky stood a door.
Not the black door.
This one was white.
Simple.
Ordinary.
Light spilled from beneath it.
Lucien immediately disliked it.
"What is that?"
The child's expression became complicated.
"The way back."
"Back to the ruined city."
"Yes."
"And?"
"And once you open it..."
The child's voice grew quiet.
"You'll remember one more thing."
Lucien looked toward the door.
Then toward the assembled lives.
Then back to the child.
"What if I don't want to?"
The child laughed softly.
"Then you're definitely still us."
Silence.
Lucien found himself smiling despite himself.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
He looked back toward the door.
"What will I remember?"
The child was silent for a long moment.
Then, quietly—
"The name you almost gave the first thing that ever loved you."
The words settled into the first sky like falling stars.
And for reasons he couldn't explain, Lucien suddenly found himself afraid of remembering.
Because somewhere beneath the mountains, an ancient being was still waiting for the rest of its name.
And somehow...
He was no longer certain he deserved to give it.