Leon Regaard sat down at his reserved table at The Menelo-Renast. The tablecloth was made of fine fiber spun from the flowers of the Jill tree, rarely seen outside the southern country coastlines in spring. It was as white as his beard, with the fabric catching the reflections of hanging lanterns from the ceiling. The waiter that led him to his table scurried off, to be replaced in a few minutes by another that took his order. As Leon waited, he glanced around the room he was in, filled with various tables that matched his own, their chairs occupied by other people lucky, and wealthy, enough to have reserved a seat. The din of chatter filled the space, but it was quiet and low, like the soft sounds of a stream in a forest. Leon sat back and sighed, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the nice atmosphere. 

He’d always wanted to come here. It was on his list of things to do if he ever became extraordinarily wealthy, and now he was, so he didn’t hesitate to reserve a seat. He ordered some of the most expensive items on the menu, and he didn’t regret it. He was looking forward to trying them out. 

He felt a prick at his consciousness, which he frowned at. He tried to ignore it, to justify spending this money now that he had it, but it came again. Deep down, a part of Leon knew that he didn’t deserve any of the money and fame and recognition he received since the catastrophe had been averted. He had been in charge of researching it, of coming up with the best solution to stop it, but all of it had been in vain. On the day of doom, Leon had given up on trying to find a solution. He’d stayed in his home, and watched from the northern-facing windows as a bright light, brighter than any dawn, began shining on the horizon, growing even bigger, even brighter. He had failed in his mission, and his shame prevented him from showing his face to anyone else. 

And then, it stopped. The light flashed once, a flash that nearly blinded him, and then it disappeared. He hadn’t breathed, hadn’t dared to do anything but continue staring out the window, to look for any signs of the catastrophe, but there were none. He waited with bated breath the rest of the day, the whole world did, but nothing else happened. Once Leon had accepted what happened, a barrage of questions flooded in his mind. 

He had no idea what happened. Nothing, in any of his research, led him to some understanding of why the catastrophe seemed to stop in the middle of the end of the world. It was foretold, eons ago, that this day would come. Remnants of ancient civilizations from the land they now lived on gave warnings to this day, that the end would come for everyone. They listed signs of the impending crisis, signs Leon and his peers came to recognize, but nowhere in those ancient records was a solution recorded. Leon had a prophecy foretelling the end of the world, and not a single idea of how to stop it. He tried everything he could, visited dozens of ruins of past civilizations with various explorers and scholars. They found many things in their search, but none of them helpful in finding a solution. Leon, at some point, understood that they never would. An answer would never come, and Leon would never come up with one. He had accepted his own death, everyone’s death, and the inability to stop it, yet the sun was setting right now and he was still here, still drawing breath. 

The world should have ended hours ago. Leon, who had accepted his failure and his demise, was stumped. He didn’t know what to do, or what to feel or think. All he’s done for so many years was try to figure out how make it past this day, and now he has. It left him feeling lost and empty, as if his entire reason for existing thus far vanished in the instance that bright light on the horizon did. 

Leon got dressed, deciding to go for a walk to clear his head. He grabbed his house keys from the small table in the entryway, opened the front door, and was faced with all of his fellow scholars, gathered on his front doorstep. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline, not having expected the surprise visit. When they saw him, they crowded around him and started shouting many questions at the same time, their faces filled with relief and shock and… gratitude? Leon’s initial confusion at their appearance grew. Some had tears trailing down their face, some where laughing as they stared at the sky, others didn’t seem to have changed out of their sleepwear. Finally, Brenan, a scholar second only to Leon, shushed the others and asked him a question that Leon fully understood, but left him rattling in his shoes. 

“What happened with the catastrophe, Leon?” 

The rest of the world would continue to ask him the same question, but his answer for every one of them was determined at this moment, when Leon’s mind raced trying to decide whether to tell the truth, or to lie and claim credit for something he hadn’t done. 

“I figured out how to stop it at the last minute. I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to tell you.” The words fumbled out of his mouth, leaving a bad taste on his tongue before they left. Leon had no answer to give Brenan, or anyone, but he figured he could make up a well-crafted lie, especially with his range of knowledge and expertise. A small part of Leon felt extraordinary guilt and shame at what he has done, but a much larger part reveled in the attention he was getting, the fame and wealth he was sure to amass. His pride as Leon Regaard would be reinforced, not crumbled into dust. The world would remember him as a victor, a hero, a savior, and not a failure. 

Right now, sitting in a prestigious restaurant, about to eat food he could have only dreamed of before, he didn’t feel much different from how he did back then. Yet, every single time he spent the money his kingdom rewarded him with, he couldn’t help the stab of deep shame and guilt that came. And every time that shame and guilt came, he buried it underneath the praise he’d received, the compliments he amassed, the mansion he lived in, the luxury he bathed in. He would feel that guilt and shame for the rest of his life, but once he passed on from this world, it would disappear, and only his great reputation would remain.