Altair could feel tears building up even as he shut his eyes tighter. He was sick of not sleeping, sick of being tossed into the same dream every night. The moment he drifted unconscious, there it was, that damned, marble gazebo.

Let me sleep, he begged his own head. Please, for the love of gods, let me sleep!

Cracks ran through the carved pillars and much of the ceiling had fallen inwards, its pieces scattering the ground. A birdbath stood in the center, broken like everything else as the shallow pool of water reflected a full moon.

I just want to sleep! Let me go to sleep, I don’t care about this!

An overgrown garden surrounded the gazebo was surrounded by an overgrown garden, abandoned by everything but time. Cherry blossoms drifted from the trees that grew along the fence. Grape vines mingled with cords of blackberries. Patches of blueberry and raspberry bushes grew through branches of salmonberries and roses. Boxes hung between the pillars, flooded with strawberries. Two of them had fallen, their remains spilling down the chipped stairs.

Altair sat up and let out a breath of frustration. He rolled out of bed and ambled across the room. He pulled back the curtain, then shoved open the window. The gentle air kissed his face as he leaned outside. Dust rose up from the dirt road below, stinging his nose. He brushed his hair back, and his hands followed the curve of his horns.

The half moon shone down on the world, as blissful as it was chilling. Altair moved to sit on the windowsill and began counting all the gods he could see.

Nes was in the moon and stars, lounging in the shadows of trees and buildings. The darkness shone with his beauty. Balen was in the warm breeze as spring enveloped the city with the sickly sweet smell of blooming flowers. Reema was in the stonework of every road and wall, in the very layout of the city. Nin was in the plants that grew outside each house, in the weeds that peeked through the cracks in the cobblestone. She was in his own home, living through the succulents that congregated on his desk.

Que was everywhere.

She stood at every memorial, breathed through the hushed cries of mourning families. She was in every meal sent to feed soldiers while the citizens were left to starve. She was in the draft that came to every city, sweeping up the young and able. She was the goddess of bloodshed, and she was in everything.

Altair knew the draft was coming for him. He would stand face-to-face with Que when he watched the enemy lines push through their borders or tended to the wounds of the forsaken he fought beside. He would find her in the inevitable caskets, see her between mass graves or burning pyres.

Altair scoffed out a laugh. He knew he was lying to himself. The gods had long since abandoned them. Prayers went unanswered for centuries simply because there was no one to hear them. When he looked back at the moon, he frowned. Nes wasn’t there, it was just a sphere of rock orbiting their dying world. When he stepped onto the battlefield, he wouldn’t find Que, just the lonesome void of death.

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” Altair seethed, “I’ll believe you’re real if you let me get one night of good sleep. I’ll go as far as making sacrifices or whatever you guys want, I just want to wake up refreshed for once.”

No answer came as he returned to bed. He collapsed into the mattress, and as soon as his head hit his pillow the world disappeared.

“Are you kidding me?” he groaned, looking up through the jagged hole in the marble ceiling.

A full moon stared back at him, unblinking.

“I said I wanted to sleep, not go on a bad trip!” he yelled. “The only thing I smoked today was incense!”

Still, the moon did nothing. It never did, regardless of how loud he shouted at it.

“Come on, just let me sleep!”

He stomped down the steps, crushing strawberries under his hooves. He knew the gate would be locked to keep him in, and if he managed to get through it, he’d enter the same place. It was an endless loop no matter how he got there; he could climb over, break through, dig under, but nothing would change.

Altair wrapped his hands around the top of the gate and braced his hooved feet against it.

“Not even going to greet your host?” a bored voice called after.

He froze. No one else had ever spoken before. Altair looked over his shoulder.

He recognized the figure, but a name refused to come to mind. He had seen paintings of their slaughter and heard every version of their story, but a name was not something that graced his memory.

They tilted their head, and their ears flicked curiously. Four white horns grew from their skull; two where their eyes should be and two more on either side. Their hair cascaded down their pointed shoulders in waves of violet that turned to magenta and pink. Some strands twisted around the points of their horns.

They set their hands on their hips, he saw ribbons of scars growing from the beds of their black claws. The corner of their lips twitched with a grin. A black robe swarmed their starved body. Its neck was split down to the middle of their chest, exposing more of their scarred, colorless skin.

“Your hair is the same color as mine,” they noted, “but your horns are black and your skin is dark. Did you put the gold caps on your horns yourself? Cute.”

Altair didn’t respond, as if speaking would permanently trap him in this dream.

They tilted their head. Their ears were exactly like a ram’s and flicking with curiosity. “Altair, yes?”

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He nodded.

They smiled and introduced themself, “My name is Alioth.”

Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.

“You were once so fascinated by the gods … was I one of the ones you explored?”

Alioth was behind every story, he remembered that much. They were the first fate, interpreting the path of every life, mortal and immortal, until they began murdering the gods. They learned to dictate and manipulate fate, and slaughtered the other divine to become the only holy being.

Just a dream.

“I learned all about you.”

Alioth had been stopped by three mortals, who strangled the fate with their own threads. The three became the new fates in their vacant place. Their mortal selves died as they drank in the power of Alioth’s body.

“Did you?” they inquired. Their grin turned to a scowl. “Or did you simply listen to the falsities that were shoved down your throat?”

Altair flinched at the sudden harshness.

“All those damn teachers lie about me,” Alioth snarled as their ears pinned back. “How I’m the one true monster, the only real murderer in the pantheon.”

They're crazy.

Their frown deepened. “Says the one talking to a dead fate in his head.”

He blinked and stuttered.

Alioth bared pointed teeth in a grin. “Your mind is mine, Altair, as long as I'm in it.”

This is just a dream. You can wake up.

“Do you know why you’re here?” they pressed. “Why your mind always comes back to this lonely place?”

“I’m stressed,” he concluded. “Stress can cause more frequent dreams.”

Alioth started laughing. “Ah, so you really are stupid. Many dreams go forgotten, but that has never been the case for this one. Now you speak with a dead fate, unable to wake up. Does this feel normal to you, Altair?”

He began counting on his fingers. “Well, it happens often, been happening for …” He looked at his hands, having lost count. “All my life? Only recently it’s become nightly. I’d say pretty normal.”

They dragged their hands down their face. “You’re insufferable.”

“Rude—”

“Silence, I’m talking.”

He closed his mouth and waited as they took a breath to brace themself.

Alioth looked up at him, as if they could see. “Your dream is my realm. The reason you of all godsforsaken idiots can visit is because you are the reborn me. The heir to my throne above the gods.”

He stared at them for a second, then burst into laughter.

“You are senseless, Altair!”

“You are ludicrous, Alioth,” he mocked as he fought to regain his composure. “Can I wake up now?”

“No!”

“Fair enough.”

They released a frustrated growl, then lashed out towards him. They grabbed his jaw and yanked his head closer as their nails bit into his skin. He was helpless to do anything more than drool between slurred sounds.

“Does this feel more real to you, Altair? I can rip your throat out with my teeth. You are a disgrace to me. I will have no issue killing you even if it means I wait another century to be reborn.” They tipped their head with a pout. “I’m sorry, was that too many words for you? Let me shorten it: You are disposable, and I will happily dispose of you.”

He stared up at their pale face, unable to form a coherent thought. Alioth smiled.

“The sun rises soon, I’ll let you go until tomorrow night. I expect you to listen to me then.”

He tried to nod.

“And in case you ever decide I was lying about anything—” They tore their hand away, scratching across his cheek.

A stinging pain immediately flared to life, and small beads of blood blossomed over his skin. Alioth smiled wider. Altair lifted his hand to his face, seething with pain.

He blinked.

The realm reset. Him and Alioth stood on opposing ends of the gazebo.

“Done staring?” they asked, flashing pointed canines.

A strange sense of deja vu flooded his mind. Altair had seen this person, spoken with this person, and yet it was completely new. A slight stinging pulsed through his cheek, and when he touched his face, his knuckle came away bloodied.

This hasn’t happened before.

“Who are you?”

They feigned a hurt gasp as they brushed a hand over their chest. “You don’t know? I suppose you wouldn’t. Not well, at least.”

He watched them shift their weight to their other hoof.

“I am the one rightful fate, the one true hand of life and death. I am Alioth.”

The name clicked. They were the first fate and a crazed monarch.

This is a weird dream.

“Great, good to meet you.”

They laughed, and the harsh sound cut into his chest.

“So dismissive!” Alioth exclaimed with a giggle before adding, “You look the most like me. None of the others looked quite so similar.”

They were right, of course. He had the same hair, same height, same body. When he looked down at his arms, they wore the same outfit of black sheer.

“Well…” they started after pondering. “You have more blue in your hair, and your skin looks… alive.”

Altair swallowed and folded his hands in front of him. “What others do you mean?”

They lifted their head and smiled, holding out their arms. “Welcome to your fate, Altair. You’re my reincarnation.”

He blinked, then asked, “Can I go to sleep now?”

They huffed and dropped their hands. “Do you want to go to war?”

“Wha— No.”

“You don’t wish to serve your country?” they mused. “Don’t want to help the slaughter of thousands of innocent, hungry people?”

“I just— there’s other ways to solve this.”

“In this world? No one will simply give something,” Alioth said. “You claim your land with the blood of your enemies. You did not submit.”

“Joining the war does nothing for me. I will just end up being another useless body on the battlefield! Countries can form alliances, share resources through trade instead of wreaking havoc on their lands!”

They examined him for a moment, then reared back.

“What does benefit you then? Specifically, what can aid you and your world?”

“I…” Altair faltered, looking around the gazebo. “If I just had a little more time, a little better options, maybe born a little differently, then I could’ve been a scholar, a priest, anything but a soldier.”

“Are you scared to suffer?” they questioned.

He glanced back at Alioth.

“You are,” they concluded.

“Aren’t you?” Altair argued.

A wicked grin flashed across their lips. “Oh, darling… I’m already dead a thousand times over.”

That’s right. Talking with a dead fate.

Everything felt real, it always did in this place.

He touched his cheek again. The blood had begun to dry.

“What is this from?”

Alioth cocked their head. “What do you mean?”

Altair sucked in a breath as his eyes flew open. He rolled onto his back and set a hand to his heart. His cheek had a subtle burn, and his fingertips were painted with dried blood.