And in that moment, the final, liberating truth of his damnation crystallized.
His immortality was not a curse of endless loss. It was a freedom. A profound and terrible freedom. Because he had forever, he was released from the desperate, mortal need to build monuments that would outlast the stars. He was freed from the Quiet Wrath of the archivist who only records the fire. His purpose was no longer to witness the story, but to live within it, fully and completely. He could pour the entirety of his boundless attention into the people in front of him, right now. He could dedicate his eternity to making their fleeting, brilliant sparks shine all the brighter against the vast, indifferent dark.
Without a word, he knelt. The mud soaked through his robe, cold and final. He did not dig a hole with a tool, but with his bare hands, carving a small, dark wound in the earth.