Names carried weight.
Noctyrr had learned that early, back when he still allowed others to speak to him as an equal. Mortals believed that naming something was a way to anchor it in the world. To acknowledge existence. To claim familiarity.
His name had once been spoken often.
On battlefields, shouted with urgency. In halls of stone, whispered with caution. In moments of triumph, spoken with awe. In moments of defeat, spoken with blame.
Now, it was no longer needed.
No one climbed the mountain to call for him. No messengers risked the ascent. No banners were raised bearing sigils he recognized. The world had found other protectors, other calamities, other myths.
That was how it should be.
Noctyrr remained motionless, yet his awareness stretched outward, brushing against the edges of the land below. Villages stirred with morning routines. Livestock moved. Children ran, unaware of how fragile such moments were.
He withdrew.
Observation led to memory. Memory led to comparison. Comparison led nowhere.
Once, a hero had asked him why he continued to fight alongside mortals.
"Because they asked," Noctyrr had replied.
It had been true then.
Now, no one asked.
The silence was not oppressive. It was simply complete. The kind of quiet that came after every question had already been answered.
Noctyrr exhaled slowly.
A name unspoken eventually faded, even from the one who bore it. He did not resist the thought. Forgetting would be a kindness.
If the world no longer remembered him, then perhaps, one day, he would no longer remember the world either.
For an immortal, that was the closest thing to rest.