When Proto was stricken down by Fate, it wasn’t like he’d imagined it. There were no lengthy flashbacks to his life’s key moments. No red wave flowed and dribbled over his sight, like in Goldeneye.

  Instead, he found himself dreamily observing the pink sakura petals above him, swirling in strange patterns, trying to understand them. At least, he did so for a moment.

  Then, he peered closer at the pinkish things. Petals? Or butterflies? He’d thought they were merely whirling in the winds, but now they seemed to be flapping in circles around him. And each of them was trailing something barely visible—a gossamer thread.

  Do butterflies even make threads like those? Wasn’t that moths? . . . Wait, are those hands?! He squinted—then gaped at what he saw.

  Fae figures with sparkling pink eyes were beaming down at him. They flapped their multicolored wings and spiraled down toward Proto, holding threads in little hands.

  He opened his mouth to ask something of them—at least, he thought he did—but nothing came out. Instead, he just lay and watched as they dove toward him. He did nothing as he felt the threads being tied to him, one after another.

  But where were the threads being tied? Not to his flesh. It felt like they were being tied to the him inside of him. Something more essentially Proto than the part of him that could be seen and touched.

  Part of him supposed this was just a flighty delirium induced by trauma and blood loss.

  Meanwhile, however, another part of him was being borne aloft by a fairy host, flapping their way toward a far off place—a place unknown and foreign to most in Proto’s situation, but ever so familiar to him.

  Indeed, he knew where they were going. He’d gone there every time he’d passed out lately. He knew it well now.

  As Proto flew toward that far and misty place, strangely, he still received occasional snippets of sensory input from the body he’d left behind.

  For example, he heard a voice repeating his name insistently for a while. Following a pause, it started saying something about a “dark red car,” “didn’t get the plate,” “driving like a loony,” “almost seemed to be trying”—or was it “crying”?

  Whatever. He wasn’t focused on the voice or its words. He knew it was Yemos, of course, and he knew well enough what had happened with the car.

  No, Proto was still pondering that lava rock and the fortune underneath it. Who had placed that there?

  More snippets came and went as he brooded on that question. His body was being moved somewhere. His eyes were closed but could perceive the changing dimness and brightness of his surroundings. His ears discerned male and female voices—usually vaguely, like speech heard through water, but occasionally distinct words.

  “ . . . figured I should call you,” Yemos was saying.

  “Is he . . . ?” asked a woman. More speech followed, male and female, but it sounded further away by the second.

  The woman’s voice sounded familiar. Ausrine, I think? I guess that makes sense.

  He focused on her words—then frowned. No, it was two women’s voices. One was Ausrine, but the other . . . Is that . . . ?

  Proto felt warmth tingling through him, and he focused on that voice as hard he could. But it’d gone silent now, and he didn’t hear it speak again. Indeed, he heard nothing from the breathing world for quite a while, as he winged along through mirk.

  It thus was disconcerting when he suddenly heard an unfamiliar man speaking boldly and plainly: “He’ll be in cryogenic storage, safe as safe can be. Every red country in the world could nuke us at once, and he’d sleep right through it! He’ll be a sort of time traveler—waking up unchanged, in a time not his own. Frankly, I envy him.” The voice abruptly cut off, and no reply was audible.

  Of course, mused Proto. I miss the part where the unidentified woman talks about me in heartfelt tones. And I hear the part where some Cold War-era doctor talks about cryogenics and time travel. It’s like Fate wants my life to be a B-grade sci-fi!

  He seemed to hear some laughter on the wind.

  . . . Or was that just the sound of his own voice? He realized he was singing a song to himself, as he flew toward the realm of dreams. He focused on the lyrics being murmured by his incorporeal lips: “Atlean University Cryogenics Facility = Safe Place.”

  Oh, for F’s sake!

  More half-heard laughter, billowing on the breeze.

  At this point, Proto randomly realized something: He definitely hadn’t gotten to know Red in the original timeline, unlike this week.

  Somnus had shown him his thoughts in the moments before his accident: His lips quirked into a self-deprecating smile. Hmph. Maybe he’d finally ask out that barista at Starbucks. “Hi there. Yes, this medal’s bronze. Do you like tiramisu?”

  Clearly, he and Red hadn’t gone out this week in the original timeline. He hadn’t even known her name!

  That also meant he likely hadn’t gone to Black’s Rock—the bar next to the Starbucks—to celebrate after meeting Red. Which suggested he’d never reunited with Black either, in the original timeline.

  How would these changes affect his time at Somnus’ Palace?

  Before he could ponder that question, another realization struck him: Wait. I must have gone to Black’s Rock in the original timeline. I met Helen and Himari there. They remembered it in Helen’s dream! They remembered me as “Porno.” They gave me that nickname at Black’s Rock!

  Reks, the artist dreaming he was a barbarian, also had remembered Proto during his visit. That suggested that, somehow or other, in the original timeline, Proto had gone to the concert at the Summit Exhibition Grounds. Had he gone with Black?

  No, that couldn’t be it. A memory shared by Somnus flashed through his head: Maybe he’d medal at that race next week. He’d gotten bronze last time. It wasn’t a Nobel Prize. But at least then he wouldn’t be a total loser, right? Late twenties, no girlfriend, dull desk job, tiny house, lots of video games—and a race medal.

  There’s no way he would’ve had that despondent thought if he’d gone to the concert with Black just a day earlier.

  And yet somehow, in the original version of this past week, he’d met Helen, Himari and Reks. What in the world had happened in that Lost Week . . . ?

  No answer came, but there was a response: “The future’s not an endlessly branching set of possibilities. No, it’s a set of roads. The roads are laid by Fate,” Somnus’ voice echoed through his recollection.

  Well, okay. He understood that. A car could make lane changes, slow down or speed up in various ways, and still end up at the right place at the right time. Likewise, as long as Proto didn’t change things too much—as long as Proto didn’t cause history to veer onto a new Fate Road—Fate would keep steering history toward the same destination.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  So, back in that Lost Week, Fate had caused him to meet Helen, Himari and Reks in different ways. Everything important to Fate had happened again in this timeline, and would continue happening. Like his visit to Mercune’s dream.

  But what about things important to him? Like his other treasured memories at Somnus’ Palace?

  Apparently, it hadn’t been fated for him to meet Red and Black this week. Meeting them had been merely an accident of history. Fate would’ve brought him to the same destination either way—his car accident.

  Was the same true of Astrid, Lilac and Dahlia? And all his other friends at Somnus’ Palace? Was befriending them just an accident of history too? Was it possible that, this time, he’d never know them? Or they wouldn’t like him?

  At this point, Proto noticed that the pale wisps that had been swirling about him now had thickened into a dark mirk. Inhaling it, he felt sleepier by the breath. He felt he was being lured toward unconsciousness.

  Well, that was okay. He didn’t really want to keep thinking about this.

  He allowed the light of insight to go dark, and he allowed his mind’s eye to sink shut.

  Time passed. Who knows how long he spent in that state?

  All that Proto knew, upon coming to, was that it was cold. So very cold. How could he possibly be so cold . . . ?

  A question I often ask myself, Miss Beatrice’s voice lamented. How could he possibly be so cold?

  . . . Miss Beatrice, are you punning on my pained thoughts? asked Proto groggily.

  Oh, pipe down. We both know you’ll be all right, she dismissed.

  What’s this about puns? asked Somnus-Proto Lawyer. Because whatever it is, I’m here for it.

  Well, we’d best change the subject, Miss Beatrice sighed to Proto, now that You-Know-Who is here.

  It’s “whom,” Miss Beatrice, corrected Proto.

  Oh. Why, yes it is, isn’t it? Mm. There was a pause from his fifth-grade teacher. I like a man who knows his whos and whoms.

  Did you hear the one about the Ent who met the owl? asked Somnus-Proto Lawyer. “Hoo,” called the owl. “It’s hoom,” said the Ent.

  Ugh. You see what he does to me! lamented Miss Beatrice. It’s like a dad joke and a bad pun met and had babies.

  Well, Bea, I’ll be the dad joke to your pun any day! declared Somnus-Proto Lawyer triumphantly.

  I’ve just been frozen solid, and you’re both making puns! complained Proto.

  We are two peas in a pod, aren’t we? bemoaned Miss Beatrice. Two voices, one head.

  What’s that? Two voices, one bed? asked Somnus-Proto Lawyer.

  Sir! gasped Miss Beatrice; then, in a murmur: Let’s wait for the kids to leave, yes?

  Welp, I’m not going anywhere, being in my own mind and frozen, observed Proto.

  Then we won’t wait! exclaimed Miss Beatrice gleefully.

  Ugh! Proto silenced the voices. Then, he shivered. So cold.

  Thankfully, the cold didn’t last. Indeed, it was almost cliché, the way that he got colder and colder until he wasn’t cold anymore, but simply numb. Numbness?—or was it warmth he felt seeping through his limbs? Were these limbs that he felt, or simply projections of a mind no longer moored to its body?

  Proto found no answers to these questions. He did, however, find himself eventually on a barren plain of reddish brown—mostly empty, but with some whitish wisps here and there, thickening to mists upon the horizon. And he found himself wandering that plain.

  Sometimes, a short time feels like a lifetime. That’s how this past week of life had felt to Proto, and in the best way possible—for the most part. But sometimes, in the blink of an eye, you can while away a very long while.

  That’s how it was as he wandered the wastes. He found himself in what felt like a fever dream—seeing dreamt-up people, places and things, feeling that they were real, while also seeing the barren plain around him. He dreamt about what was and might have been, and what would be and shall be.

  His consciousness of the surrounding badlands waxed and waned. Usually, he saw nothing near him but the sprawling red flats.

  Sometimes, there were mists nearby, swirling and shifting. Sometimes, he wandered into those mists, but rarely far. The instant he touched those swirling vapors, he descended fully into dream. By the time he woke—or at least, became semi-lucid again—the mists were nowhere to be seen.

  Occasionally, he saw a cliff beyond the mists, looming sheer and unscalable. A few times, when he’d roved into the mists, he seemed to see atop that cliff a castle—nay, a palace, towering mirky and blue.

  Proto wasn’t the only one on this barren plain. Often, he saw others shuffling about, their eyes glazed over. They said nothing, and they never met his gaze. Indeed, they seemed even less conscious than him—fully immersed in dreams within themselves.

  Well, he couldn’t blame them. Why bother focusing on this? He, too, was happier dreaming.

  So it was that, rapt in such a dream one day, Proto saw a girl with red hair. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t make out her face. Squinting, he followed her.

  . . . Or was she following him? Chasing after him?

  Proto looked at her in confusion, then down at himself, then back at her.

  Which of them was moving? Which of them was being moved?

  “Proto! Proto!” she hailed him in ethereal tones, growing in his prospect by the second.

  I know I know her, mused Proto, squinting at the blurry figure. He could see her red hair. “But which one . . . ?” he murmured.

  “Which one?!” the red-haired figure cried. “You nincompoop!” She waved a hand glowing crimson.

  Abruptly, Proto’s bleariness swirled away like mist borne off by a gale. He blinked a few times at the unfamiliar clarity.

  Before him, eminent underneath a starry sky of black, stood a lady. She wore radiant raiment of starlike leaves. Behind her sunset-colored tresses was a queenly gaze of green.

  “‘Which one,’” repeated the Queen of Heaven, disgusted. “‘I can see her red hair,’ he thinks to himself. ‘But which one!’” She shook her head grimly. “Is that all you see in us? One trip to Ireland, and you’ll forget about us!”

  “No, literally, all I saw was red hair!” protested Proto.

  “Oh, I bet!” she admonished.

  “I mean, how could I know it was you, just from the hair?” he pressed. “There are a few others it could’ve been.

  “You’re only digging deeper, Proto!” Flua-Sahng sweetly noted. “To start with, I called you Proto—not Slick, not Moo, not some other mockingly affectionate moniker. That narrows the field, doesn’t it?”

  “ . . . yeah, well, it could’ve been Mercune,” he muttered. “She calls me Proto too. And she looks like you.”

  “Oh? You thought Mercune would meet you here?” Flua-Sahng prodded playfully. “Hmmm. Twenty-nine divided by two plus seven . . . ”

  “Well, you met me here,” Proto replied. “Aeons divided by two plus seven . . . hmmm!”

  Flua-Sahng tittered. “All right, enough of this line of thought. This is no way to begin a reunion!”

  “I think this is exactly how to begin this reunion,” he said.

  She giggled again. “Touché. Okay. Lovely to see you again, Proto.”

  He nodded. “I had a feeling I’d see you here.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?” The Queen of Heaven seemed to wax with ruddy radiance. “Were you having doubts about finding your way through the Mists on your own? Were you remembering my son’s remark about how ‘you roved so far along the borders of the dream realm that you managed to find’ his palace? Or maybe you recalled what Lilac said—‘That’s the thing about you. Somehow, you made your way through those Mists all the way up to Somnus’ Palace’? Must’ve felt flattering! Makes you feel like the Hero with Strange Abilities in some middle-grade fiction! The one guy who navigated the Mists!”

  “But maybe you wondered why,” she continued, “with your Strange Abilities, you’ve always needed Mercune to guide you through the Mists here. Perhaps you thought to yourself, ‘Hm! I wonder if, in addition to my Strange Abilities, some Queen of Heaven conveniently might chaperone me through the Mists to her son’s house’?”

  “ . . . actually, I just I thought I’d see you here since I always see you here,” answered Proto. “Eventually.”

  Flua-Sahng’s lips quirked up sympathetically. “I am sorry I kept you waiting so long. But it really is necessary that your Evaluation Day and your Saturn Return coincidentally be the same day. Which, coincidentally, is why I’ve deprived you of my presence for the last year and change.”

  “A year?” blinked Proto. “I’ve been wandering here for a year?”

  “A year and change,” she corrected politely. “Closer to two years.”

  “So, that means I’m . . . ” spoke Proto slowly.

  “Yes. As Himari would say, you’re late twenties now, Proto! You’re twenty-nine!” declared Flua-Sahng. “Happy late birthday! Correction, birthdays!” Two red fireworks bloomed in starry Heaven.

  “I was going to say, that means I’m going to Somnus’ Palace now, doesn’t it?” said Proto.

  “That’s what I said, right?” replied Flua-Sahng. “Said, or will say. Bottom line is, today’s the day! You’re leaving my service, Proto. Seer today, gone tomorrow. Off to join my son’s cabal of creepsters, dreamstalking innocents left and right! Off to be a visitor! And, alas, I’m here to guide you there. I’m here to guide you through the Mists!”

  “Guide me? Or just blow a path through like Mercune does?” asked Proto.

  “‘Blow a path’?” she repeated with distaste. “Come, Proto, let’s describe my role in a dignified way, shall we? I’m here to guide you. I’m Queen of the Elements. I don’t blow Mists or anything else.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Proto, “didn’t you say you and the Elements were the Mists? Or maybe Somnus said that?”

  “Takes one to blow one!” Flua-Sahng double-gunned the Mists, sending a red flash streaking through them, blowing them asunder and leaving a path. Then, she coolly blew away some Mist rising from her fingertip.

  Proto shook his head. “You really are like Mercune, you know?”

  “Yes, I do feel I get younger when I’m with you. You certainly do, so why not me?” Flua-Sahng replied. “Anyway, thataway!” She pointed toward the gap she’d shot through the Mists and ambled toward it, her star-leaved raiment radiant in the starlight.

  He followed in her wake.