Page 88 of All Saints Day
Immediately I know it's a dream, because I'm not a kid and my father still looks the same; about mid 40s—not much older than I am now.
It’s strange to me as an adult, how much we look alike, how little I look like my mother. Staring into his face is almost like staring into a mirror.
We don't speak; we just sit in silence—a chessboard laid between us.
I watch, unable to will myself into motion as my father moves a shining black rook from space g3 to g7, claiming one of my white pawns and forcing my King into check—thereby initiating the first move in a brutal Windmill. Though I know it is futile, I move my King from space g8 to h8; my father moves the rook one space to the left, claiming another pawn, while opening up the way for his bishop to push me into check once more. And so, bishop and rook move, causing a cascade of discovered checks—gobbling up my pieces and leaving me with a nearly empty board before checkmate.
“I lose, again,” I grunt out tersely, losing my patience with this dream version of my father as he sets up for another game, pinning me again with the Windmill as I do my part to move my king out of check, allowing my father to move the shining blackrook down the board—once more placing me in a discovered check from his bishop.
“Look!” he urges me, and this time when I regard the board, I see the bishop—the only one of my father’s game pieces that is not a gleaming black, but instead a brilliant red.
I look back to my father's face as if he might be able to give me some answer, but all he does is nod and tap the table.
When I look down again, there is no chessboard, but the single tarot card bearing the tower, just like that day at Kitty O’Leary’s.
Furious, I flip the table over—sending the card and the piece of furniture flying.
I want to ask the terrible apparition why he visits me now? Why do my dreams tell me what I already know to be true: that I have destroyed my own life—certainly with the help of the Windmill, but even if they hadn't intervened, wouldn't I have just ended up like my old man, anyway?
For a moment, everything is quiet and the quality of the air changes—like a spring breeze, sweet and cool.
I reach out along the bond to find Louise.
Over great distances, using the loops and ties of the bond to fold space and time—so we can be here together in this place—set apart from the rest of our horrible reality. I catch hold of her spark, and she makes the connection, warm and resonant.
I stand before her on the checkered board made of cold black and white stone.
Louise stands tall, her entire body swathed in a gown of rich cream-colored velvet, a crown of gold and diamonds perched atop her scarlet waves. Her hands lay folded over the jewel-encrusted pommel of her sword—a queen standing atop the pedestal of a white marble pillar.
To her right stands Quentin, another vision—an ivory satin-lined cape fixed at his shoulders with gilded epaulets, a spicate crown of gold and diamonds perched atop his copper brown coif, a spiked golden scepter cradled gently in his arms.
To Louise's left, Dennis stands in a crimson mitre and matching silken vestments—a heavy golden tome folded into one arm and a golden shepherd's crook in the other.
Bracketing me, Sébastien stands over me in his heavy gilded alabaster plate armor—hand closed around his spear while Caz, in his ivory and scarlet livery bears the pack banner; a red coin, a silver starburst, a white crown, and a black tower—a golden ring encircling them all.
“Please, if someone must bring me my end—may it be you,” the words escape my lips as I open my hands, raising them up to my queen. “Exact my punishment, for it is your right to do so, and I accept it willingly.”
“There will be time for that, and for much more. We still have a long way yet to travel,” Louise speaks, cold and authoritative.
Of course, it would be right that she should even the scales—that she should get her revenge. I have not yet paid my dues.
Louise lifts her chin—those cinnamon eyes catching in the light.
“Kneel,” she instructs.
I do as commanded. To take my life is her right.
It isn't until I lower myself onto my knees that I see myself in the reflection of the polished marble of her dais—plate armor as black as night, my own sword with its pommel like the crenelated tower of an onyx stone castle.
I watch as Louise lifts her sword high into the air.
It's right that it should be her.
And so I bow my head, awaiting the fall of her blade.
“Frank Stone,” she speaks, clear and true—allowing the tip of her shining blade to touch my right shoulder. “Rook,” she calls again, her sword lifting up and over my head before once again touching down on my left shoulder. “Francis Castle,” she concludes with certainty, her blade gently touching the crown of my head. “You are all these men, and all these men… are you. With joy, with hope, and with no small amount of fear, I accept you. All of you. Rise anew, Frank Rook Castle.”
Unable to contain my joy, I spring to my feet—the chessboard and the other players, our fated mates, momentarily disappear from view, leaving Louise and I alone inside a tranquil golden sphere.
