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“You know it’s not, or else we wouldn’t be having this
conversation,” I replied. “Yet I wonder if you’re telling the
truth. For what insanity was ever purposeful?”
“Pray tell, what good was ever intended by a dream?” the
angel returned. “One might argue, if they were so inclined,
that it’s you who’s not being very honest, Vincent. You
more than suspect her, now. You’re a player in more than
just the one game, and you know it. You just won’t admit it.
Because if you did . . .”
“I would belong to you.”
The angel laughed mightily, howling, “Bingo! So why
not derail the whole train while there’s still passengers to
pulverize? Why wait until it’s too late, and you’re merely
forced to come with me? They’re still advancing you across
the chessboard, making plays and calculations, minding
rules. Imagine the chaos you’d cause if you just leapt off
the board! You and that wonderful Jack Lantern, both. I’m
sure it’d take very little convincing for him to join you—us.
By the gods, imagine the trouble we could cause, the three
of us!” Deleriael proved a master artist, painting the most
exquisite pictures in the gallery of my mind. The three of
us, joined in the sweetest madness an angel could supply,
riding the lightning across the world.
“I can’t deny the beauty of your offer,” I admitted. “As
an artist, I’m impelled to see it both for what it is and what
it could be, given certain cosmic adjustments, of course.
But I’m afraid I must refuse, much to my own chagrin.
This whole journey of mine, this quest, Game—whatever
it turns out to be—harbors a chaos none of its players or
even its hosts can contain or control, despite their efforts
to the contrary. I can feel that as surely as any of the truths
you’ve uttered. It’s my chaos to cultivate, my dream. I must
see it through, to give it life.” I finally turned to look at the
angel, waiting for its response, truly sorry for rejecting its
splendid offer.

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