Chapter Text
Thousands of years after Belle is long gone, the Flock has grown to the hundreds. Alcor remembers each of their names, makes sure to speak to every single one of them at least a few times a century, because Mizars come and go, but the Flock is always the same.
One million years and there are thousands of them. Alcor is not quite a demon anymore, but he is not yet completely something else either. He owns most of the mindscape. Other demons hardly dare act anymore.
One billion to eternity, time has stopped mattering so much. He still speaks with the Flock, still keeps up with Mizar, still craves human company, but he passes time by creating stars now, then blowing them up like a child overturns block towers.
How long it has been, neither of them know, nor care. There are fifty-two-thousand, eight-hundred and seventy-three sheep in the Flock. There has been for a very long time. There is no one around to dream anymore. Mostly they hibernate now, sleeping away the eons. He does not wake them, but spends his time blowing up the rest of the stars, and gathering black holes in his right hand.
At first, it was just to see if he could, but when it became clear that he did, a plan started forming in his mind.
Bill Cipher spent hundreds of thousands of years on his plan to change or break the world. In the time this new plan will take to be complete, Bill’s entire lifespan as a demon could be replayed a thousand times and still count as nothing. Not that it matters, Dipper has time. He has all the time in the universe.
He wakes them when he is almost finished. He wants someone to be there to see as he ends the universe, to watch his final moments. He wants to talk to old friends, because he has been a God for so long now, and he has not felt more human since the last time he breathed.
He explains his plan, and they marvel at it, then congratulate him for finally finding a way to off himself, and for making it spectacular.
“What will happen to us?” asks the one named Lolonja, a word that meant nothing when she chose it, and has meant a thousand things in a thousand languages since, most of them by coincidence.
He does not know, because to recreate the universe, he has to bring all the lines together to a single point, and it is impossible even for him to follow them after that, but he can look at them now.
He looks at them and laughs, because he never even noticed that they were far closer to demons than he is, now, far closer to angels, and he tells them this.
“Will we remember you?” asks another, and again he does not know, but if they do…
They will take care of each other, they swear, and the new world, for him. They will tell his story, along with every other story they know, and they will remember, they will, they promise.
He takes his time to say his goodbyes to every single one of them, because he knows them, and remembers them, and he spends days with each of them, revisiting ancient memories, making up new jokes, the last jokes of the universe, and then he puts them to sleep again, shields them together with the souls of the long dead, and pulls everything together.
Everything burns.
Burning, the world ends to clear the way for a new order.