Time's an illusion. Lunchtime, doubly so. (1/2)

It is done. Their memories were compiled and adequately rewritten to further fact from fiction. Did it take him long to revise his work, or did it take no moment at all? Zerathur closes his book and carefully cradles it in his arms. Every lover, every friend, every acquaintance, forever with him. None of them shall ever be forgotten. The breeze died millennia ago; The endless forest was illuminated solely by the illusionary phantoms that moved back and forth in their unending routine. All of their names, their ambitions, and their emotions now rest between his arms. He saved them. All of them. The sky above remains dark and empty. It's been too long since the last surviving spacefarers came upon his domain. Or was that just yesterday? He still sees them begging for help and shivering cold; He still hears their joy and laughter, even as their phantoms stumble across the graves he dug for them. Zerathur couldn't save his kind. He couldn't save the Equestrians. He couldn't save those that came after, not from death. He saved them from being forgotten. The Chloromancer stands at the very End, just outside the gate of his old wooden house. Here, he casts the last spell he'd ever weave. As the Universe becomes undone, a slit opens in the fabric of reality. He steps into the unknown...