Proto remembered something while he was tumbling through the light-dotted mirk—a recent exchange between Flua-Sahng and Mercune. He hadn’t dwelt upon it at the time, as he’d been focused on more pressing things. But it suddenly felt more significant than he’d realized:

  “Our Sleepwalker here is a rare bird, isn’t he?” nodded Flua-Sahng. “Chaos Progeny. To think, we have two of them at once! You won’t see their like again for a millennium.”

  “A millennium, is it?” Mercune seemed to be looking over his shoulder. “A wanderer. A prince. Oh, my.” She blinked. “My, he’s interesting!”

  She spun to Flua-Sahng. “Have you seen what he might do? Forget Eremon and Yemos and his—”

  The memory cut off there, so abruptly that it reminded Proto of an old VHS movie in which his parents had taped over a risqué scene.

  The missing part must be one of his memories that Flua-Sahng had erased. That would explain the sharp, sudden gap in his recollection. Yet it seemed odd how much of the memory she’d left there—enough to make clear that both Proto and Yemos were “Chaos Progeny.”

  Proto didn’t know what that meant. And normally, he wouldn’t have worried about it. He’d never dwelt much on trivial worldbuilding details in video games, and he wasn’t inclined to do so in real life either. But he’d heard enough about Yemos’ ominous future that being lumped in the same mystical category as Yemos seemed concerning.

  “The flames will fall, and he will not fall. Not until he walks through the flames to recover their source. And in his dying will he turn undying,” Dahlia had prophesied about Yemos at the Shadowcaster.

  “Yemos and Ausrine will be together as long as the Fates allow. And, alas, there’s no possible future where that’s very long. One or the other must shuffle off this mortal coil,” Flua-Sahng had told Proto.

  Was that because Yemos was a Chaos Progeny? If so, what did that mean for Proto?

  Was Proto’s car accident the equivalent of Yemos “walking through the flames” and “shuffling off this mortal coil”—in other words, shuffling off to Somnus’ Palace? Or did some other doom await Proto?

  It almost felt like Flua-Sahng had erased part of Proto’s memory to keep him from having this insight, but hadn’t quite erased enough. Like she’d stolen a puzzle piece to hide what it showed, but he’d figured it out anyway by building the puzzle around it and studying the surrounding context.

  Was this bad? Would this forbidden knowledge affect Proto’s choices, leading him and the world down the wrong Fate Road?

  Before, this knowledge about Yemos had just been a trivial detail in the back of his mind. Now, it had significance. It had seeped throughout his head and infiltrated his broader way of thinking. Did that mean Flua-Sahng would have to erase more from his memory? Much more?

  Could Flua-Sahng hear what he was thinking right now? Was she listening? Was she on the verge of blotting out huge tracts of his memory? Spilling the ink of oblivion over the book of his life?

  Proto felt like he was in a whirlpool, gyring inward in circles, tilting precariously toward dark depths.

  He struggled to shake himself out of it, even as he hurtled through the aethereal grey, spangled with stars united in their motions.

  Then, quite abruptly, in a splattering of psychedelic colors and distorted sirens, he found himself lying atop something soft. The strange sights and sounds dwindled. He opened his eyes, and bleary forms slowly took shape against a dim blue glow.

  Proto was lying in his tracksuit on the couch, right where he’d gone to sleep. As usual, he’d left his game playing on the CRT T.V. From its speakers came the dreamy notes of Longing for the Past.

  His lips curved up grimly. He’d have his past back soon enough, like it or not.

  This would be Proto’s last day in the waking world for a long time, perhaps forever. He probably should spend the time he had left doing something poignant, something that tied off the loose ends of his life—say, making final phone calls to loved ones and gazing one last time upon the ruddy flush of dawn.

  Instead, bizarrely, he just wanted to eat. He felt ravenous. It was like Mercune had said—dream-eating a dozen milk bread sandwich squares and creamy scones with jam had merely left him hungrier.

  He’d always found it odd how picking last meals was such a big deal for death row convicts. Now, knowing he’d be shuffling off this mortal coil in a few hours, with his belly rumbling like Vesuvius, he saw eye to eye with them. Or stomach to stomach?

  Whatever. He had to go find some food. Where could he get milk bread sandwich squares? Do we have afternoon tea here? On Sunday mornings?

  As he pondered this, memories drifted across the periphery of his mind: first, eating beneath the stars with Mercune just minutes earlier; then, like a faded echo, memories of his picnic with Lilac beside the Sea of Dreams.

  It felt like whenever happiness welled within him, sadness rose just high enough to drown it out. Soon enough, he’d be eating pastries baked by the bartendress of Somnus’ Palace. But first, he’d have to cast his memories of that beloved past into oblivion, losing all he had of Lilac and Mercune in the process. And so much more.

  Proto liked to keep his past close enough that he could get back to it—and indeed, he would—but only after losing what made him long for the past.

  A wistful smile formed on his face as he refocused his attention on the SNES music, ready to savor the reminiscent strains of Longing for the Past, as he had so many times this past week.

  So it was disconcerting when he found it wasn’t playing. Instead, the adventurous melody of Awakening the Wind was fluting and drumming and trumpeting from the television—the music that played while the hero was rambling about with weapon in hand and slaying monsters.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Proto had resigned himself to go quietly to his dreamward doom, reminiscing on what’d come before, longing for his lost past. Instead, this music was beckoning him forth unto a quest, daring him toward danger and valiant hazard.

  He felt mildly vexed, like when his mom had run the garbage disposal during the ending of Return of the King.

  Then, he felt baffled. Why would the game’s song change . . . ? I didn’t push any buttons. He squinted at the screen, his sight still bleary with sleep.

  Then, his eyes went wide. Illusion of Gaia was playing itself.

  The hero was walking through one of the game’s early areas, only it was nighttime. Most enemies were either absent or sleeping. A few sprang from the shadows, and the hero slew them. But mostly, he just roved from place to place, discarding excess items from his inventory onto the floor as he went.

  Actually, maybe not “excess” items. That was a good sword he’d just dropped!

  Proto beheld this in bafflement at first, but gradually detected a pattern in what the hero was doing. He was going to all the hardest parts of the game and dropping items that’d be useful there.

  Proto always had found it funny how, in video games, the toughest bosses conveniently left the game’s most powerful equipment strewn just outside their lairs, ensuring that anyone who challenged them would be wielding the finest gear in the universe. But this made more sense of that—the hero himself was leaving the gear to be found later.

  Why? Why leave stuff for himself . . . ?

  Proto’s musings were disrupted by another, more pressing thought: This game can’t play itself. Is someone else playing?

  Suddenly alarmed, he scanned the shadows of his room. No one seemed to be lurking there—but he also didn’t see his controller. He’d rigged up his old SNES with a wireless controller. It was nice, but the downside was, it was much easier to lose.

  Is someone I can’t see playing my game right now? Using my controller?

  As he continued searching the room, he absently patted his tracksuit pockets—and, lo and behold, he felt something there. He reached inside and pulled it out. But it wasn’t a controller.

  Instead, he found that he was holding a palm-sized red rock, so dull it seemed to be absorbing the meager glow of his CRT T.V.

  Proto stared dumbly at it. What in the world is going on here . . . ?

  Then, an even more disturbing thought struck him: Wait, Illusion of Gaia doesn’t have droppable weapons!

  Proto looked left and right anxiously, half-convinced the world would come collapsing down upon him any second.

  So, when he felt a tap upon his shoulder from behind, it wasn’t surprising that he whirled around with his fist upraised in self-defense. More surprising was the fact that Proto now seemed to be wielding what looked like a cane-sword.

  Its sharp edge stopped just shy of the shoulder-tapper’s neck.

  “Zounds!” exclaimed Wentsworth, flinching and reaching to guard his neck. “I do like a good cane. But that’s a bit much, wouldn’t you say?”

  “This is why I tell you not to creep up and tap my shoulder,” noted Uberta. “I can’t be responsible for what I do back. Pure animal instinct!”

  “Yes, well.” Wentsworth brushed off his three-piece suit. “Next time, I’ll be sure to wear my armor. Like that lad.” He waved toward the T.V. screen, where the hero was battling some skeletons.

  Apparently, Proto was still dreaming. He’d just dreamt of waking up. That explained why all these weird things were going on.

  Still, he felt irked. The future lay on his back. He’d never felt so burdened down with stress. He hadn’t learnt what he’d been charged to learn. His final practice-dream had been a failure. His body would be broken to bits in mere hours. His sad farewell to Flua-Sahng and Mercune still echoed poignantly within his memory.

  And now, two bumbling servants of a squidman had come to make his final moments goofy.

  He took a deep breath, preparing to say something simultaneously witty and devastating.

  Then, Proto’s gaze went wide. Words failed. A little laugh escaped his lips.

  “You, ah, alright there, lad?” asked Wentsworth. “You look a little loony, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I hear Luna’s sweet, actually,” replied Proto, barely hearing the man. For now, he knew what he must do. This wasn’t bad luck—it was Fate! It was deus ex machina!

  . . . Well, maybe it was bad luck too. Why did all his life’s most fateful events put him in comically vexing situations?

  Anyway, at least he had a plan now. “Sorry, just got distracted,” he assured the mustachioed man.

  “Worry not. Spontaneous wonder. Happens to me all the time,” agreed the fan of H.P. Lovecraft.

  “So,” began Proto, excitement thrilling through his veins, “there’s something I wanted to ask—”

  “Actually,” interrupted Wentsworth with an apologetic wince, “I’m feeling parched. Perhaps you’d spare me a tipple first?”

  “As long as you’re getting one, how about a second?” said Uberta.

  Proto took a deep breath, counted to three, and let it out. “Of course. What would you like?”

  Wentsworth shrugged and waved. “Always give the host a chance to prove his good taste, eh?”

  “Give me something he won’t like.” Uberta thumbed at the man in the suit. “Not to be contrary. It’s just a good gauge for what I like.”

  Wentsworth nodded grimly at Proto. “They told us to eat the apple, and it’s all been downhill from there, eh?”

  “One Highland Scotch and one Appletini, coming right up.” Proto sheathed his cane-sword and walked out toward his liquor cabinet.

  “Good man!” called Wentsworth to his back.

  “That does sound good,” declared Uberta. “Sinfully good!”

  Proto had bought his liquor cabinet a few years back and stocked it with cheap mixers and vodka. Since getting back from Somnus’ Palace, he’d bought a few good spirits. In short, he had exactly what he needed.

  It only occurred to him after carefully measuring and pouring the drinks that this was a dream, and he could’ve conjured any cocktail in the universe with a mere thought.

  Sighing, he started back toward his bedroom—then blinked and halted.

  That dull red rock was sitting on his kitchen table now, absorbing the light.

  This made no sense. He’d found the rock in his pocket minutes ago and left it in the bedroom. What is going on here . . . ? He stared and pondered.

  Then, he shook his head, glancing at the window and seeing grey mirk swirling just outside. Just a dream. Of course it doesn’t make sense! Focus, Proto. He headed back toward his bedroom.

  Then, overhearing the conversation within, he paused uncertainly outside the doorway.

  “Don’t you dare take off my clothes!” Uberta had just admonished.

  “Now, now, don’t be feisty!” Wentsworth protested. “I merely suggested you try on that nice frilly dress! The one we saw the other day.”

  “Ugh! My grandma wore that dress,” said Uberta.

  “We’re Lost Spirits! You have no grandma!” replied Wentsworth.

  “You don’t need to rub it in.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I don’t take fashion advice from a guy who wears a suit to the beach.”

  “I wore linen! It’s breathable!” he argued. “Also, the Sea of Dreams is scarcely just a beach. Why, just the other day, I saw that bartendress sporting a kimono there!”

  “It’s called a yukata, Wentsy,” corrected Uberta.

  “Eh, don’t even try, Birdie,” waved Wentsworth. “Old dog, new tricks; old Englishman, new words. Why, it took me till 1997 to stop saying ‘oriental’! You know I thought it was still the polite word?”

  “You did not think that in 1997!” she scolded.

  “Well . . . maybe not,” he allowed.

  Uberta tsked. “They told me not to date prewar British gentlemen, but did I listen? Nope! A sucker for a posh accent and a three-piece suit. That’s me! Alas, my romantic imagination has been colonized by them. Along with the rest of the world.”

  “Ah, don’t flatter me. Sun never sets on us, eh?” Wentsworth twiddled his mustache. “Also, you see? I knew you liked my suit!” He tugged its peak lapels in satisfaction.

  “Hmph! Try this on for size!” She pointed at Wentsworth. His clothes faded away.