The Game of Kings

"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin." ~The Book of Daniel

March 2012. Vienna, Virginia.

It was strange, being home after being away for so long. It looked the same, and yet it felt different. The air felt weird in her lungs, like it was weighted with something, and it even smelled different.

Erin shut the back hatch of her crossover, taking a second to look over her shoulder, through the open garage door and out at the quiet street. Home. This was home. She was home. After fourteen weeks at the Riverview Treatment Center, she was finally home.

Paul gently took the handle of Erin's luggage, moving towards the garage door without even glancing back to make sure that she was coming.

"Thank you," she said quietly, though she didn't think that he heard her. She followed him, softly and unbalanced, feeling as if she were walking underwater. He'd been very quiet on the drive from the center—there was so much to talk about, so much to decide and discuss, and it was all too much to handle, so they simply didn't talk about anything at all.

Her children were on the other side of that innocuous-looking door, and that simple knowledge was enough to fill her stomach with the deepest sense of dread. They had visited her several times while she was in treatment, but she'd tried to keep them away—not because she didn't want to see them, but because she didn't want them to see her (they were still just babes, still too young and fragile, they shouldn't have to see her like that, shouldn't have to know what it was like to sit in the cold antiseptic lobby and wait for a ten-minute meeting with their own mother). And since she hadn't seen them very often, she had realized that she had no idea what their reaction would be whenever she finally returned home.

They knew that she was an alcoholic. They knew that she had fallen from grace on a scale of epic proportions. They knew that their parents were in the process of divorcing. They knew that her alcoholism was certainly a factor in that situation. For the past fourteen weeks, they'd been forced to survive on their own, because Mommy was too irresponsible to take care of herself and too selfish to contemplate the ramifications of her actions and had to be locked away in a drink tank. How could they ever forgive her for failing them like this? How could she ever expect them to forgive her?

She didn't. She didn't expect their forgiveness, and she didn't deserve it. Of all her accomplishments, of all the things she'd done in life, Erin Strauss had always felt that her deepest and best were those three shining lights that fate had decreed would be hers to keep and guide—and now she had to live with the crippling realization that she'd failed them, she'd failed at this awesome and weighty task in so many ways and on so many levels.

She felt sick, but she knew that she couldn't avoid this moment any longer, so she took another shaky breath and entered the house which suddenly seemed so distant and unfamiliar.

The three pieces of her heart were standing quietly in the kitchen, lined up like some modern-day version of the von Trapp children, all tight-lipped and nervous-eyed as they waited for her to make the first move.

It was painful, standing only a few feet away and yet knowing there was a huge unspoken gulf between them—all of the amends and apologies that she needed to make, all of the words she needed to say that could never truly heal the damage she'd caused, all of the wounds that would never fully disappear.

She didn't know what else to say, so she simply stated, "I'm home."

With a sudden sob of relief, Anna launched into her arms—the simple solidness of holding her daughter again was enough to bring tears to Erin's eyes as well.

There. That was home. Anna's head on her shoulder, Chris and Jordan hugging her as well, as they all murmured how much they'd missed her and how happy they were for her to finally be home.

She didn't deserve this. Then again, she'd loved her own mother, who had also been just as undeserving of her children's love. Elaine was the very reason that Erin had been so petrified of being a mother in the first place—she had never wanted to put any other child through the strange and unknowing hell that she'd experienced growing up (because even now, at age fifty-three, Erin Strauss still couldn't comprehend her mother, or even classify her relationship with the woman who'd been gone for almost ten years), and when Jordan was born, Erin had held that unbelievably tiny and achingly perfect child and had fiercely promised that her daughter would never know the pain and disappointment that Erin had always felt with her own mother.

She'd made that promise to each of her progeny, had sworn to heaven above that she would never hurt them, that she would kill anyone, destroy anything that ever tried to bring them pain or harm. And yet, without even trying, without even realizing it, she'd done the one thing that she'd feared doing ever since she was old enough to contemplate having children of her own.

Suddenly, Erin Elaine Breyer Strauss understood her mother on a level that she had never before. It was a total gamble, having children—a promise you could never truly keep, a commitment that you could never break, a decision that you could never fully comprehend until after you made it, until after it was too late. So you did what you could with what you had, and you understood that mistakes would be made and scars would be left, and you just had to pray that the damage was something that your children were strong enough to overcome.

Her children were Breyers. They were strong, stronger than she gave them credit for. And they loved her, despite her many flaws and failings, despite the fact that she did not deserve a single ounce of their love.

She was sobbing now, telling them how sorry she was, and they were trying to tell her that they loved her, that they forgave her, which only made her cry even harder.

Finally, the tears subsided enough for them to all take a step back, and then they were laughing shakily at their own disheveled appearances.

Paul had disappeared, so Jordan took charge, wrapping her arm around her mother as she quietly pronounced, "C'mon, you need to rest."

"No, no, I'm fine," Erin offered a reassuring smile. She reached for Chris' hand and gave it a squeeze before wrapping her arm around Anna. "I just need to be with you guys. I've…I've missed you all so much."

There were more tears at her admission, and her children melted towards her, enveloping her in a hug again.

"You do need a shower, though," Anna informed her. "You smell like that weird hospital smell."

Erin started laughing, "Ah, there's the charming daughter I know and love."

The others grinned at the quip. Erin stepped back, looking around for her bags, "I'm not sure…."

"Dad's staying in my old room," Jordan informed her. Suddenly, she became nervous again, looking to Christopher for some kind of support as she continued, "He's…he's looking for an apartment, but the counselor had mentioned that he would probably need to stay here for a few weeks, just to make sure…to help you…."

"Yes, we've discussed it," Erin assured her, taking a deep breath. "I just…it's an adjustment."

Her three beautiful children nodded solemnly, and again she felt a wave of self-loathing for what she'd put them through, for what she was continuing to put them through.

Jordan seemed to read her thoughts, because she simply rubbed her mother's shoulders reassuringly, "Go take a nice, hot shower. We'll finish dinner."

"Dinner? You cooked?"

"Your favorite," Christopher pronounced dryly. "You better know we love you, if we're willing risk life and limb by letting Anna around an open flame."

"Hey!" His little sister cuffed him on the shoulder. "I'm a good cook."

"Sure you are," he returned easily. "When you aren't busy being a good pyromaniac."

Anna didn't reply, but rather shot him a dark look of mostly-feigned anger. Erin laughed again, feeling that she was truly home, now that her children were sparring again. Deciding to take her eldest daughter's advice, she disappeared into the master bedroom.

Paul was sitting on the edge of the bed, his red-rimmed eyes informing her that he'd overheard the tearful reunion in the kitchen.

"I…I thought it was best, not to ruin the moment," he spoke quietly, and her heart broke for this man, this man who felt like a stranger in his own home, in the home that they'd built together, in the place they'd filled with so many sweet and tender memories.

"I'm sorry," she said, because really, that was the only thing to say. "I don't want you to feel like….I don't want you to feel this way, because of me."

She moved to the bedside, gingerly lowering to her knees so that she could look up into those blue eyes she knew so well. She gently reached for him, cupping the side of his face with her hand, "I'm so sorry, Paul."

"I know," he answered simply, turning away from her touch to look out the window. She lowered her hand, letting it float just above his knee (she didn't want to touch him, feared shattering him in some way). His voice filled with emotion as he quietly asked, "How did we get this way, Erin?"

"I don't know," she replied, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"Me either," he admitted wearily. He looked down again, at her hand that still bore the ring he'd given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary. He gave a bittersweet smile as he held out his own left hand, which also still wore a ring. "I guess we're both waiting for the right time to let go."

After everything, this man was still standing beside her, still trying to save her, still trying to care for her, still putting his own life on hold because she still needed him, because he still wanted to be her friend and protector and all the things that he'd been for so long.

Life wasn't fucking fair. For the first time, Erin was grateful for that—because if life were truly just and fair, then she would be alone, and yet, here she was, still surrounded by people who loved her, who sacrificed so much for her.

"I never wanted this for you," she told him, her voice shaking with unshed tears.

"I know." He gave a small sigh, because deep down, he knew that it was true—Erin had never asked him to give so much, to go so far, because it had always been something he'd given so freely, because it had always been his choice, his and his alone. It wasn't always the best choice, but it was still his. It was the codependent foundation upon which their life together had been built, and he couldn't deny that anymore.

She looked down at their hands again. That little ring of gold around his finger had kept him here for so long, had taken so much joy and happiness away from him, had forced him into being someone and something that he'd never wanted to be for so many years.

It was time to set him free.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she spoke again, breaking the stillness, "I think…maybe…maybe we should do this together. We put them on together, maybe we should take them off together."

He gave a small nod, his voice barely audible as he agreed, "I think that's a good idea."

With trembling fingers, they each took off their band. Paul held open his hand, and she dropped the ring into his palm. He gently set them on the edge of the bed, and they both stared at the simple little pieces of jewelry for a long, quiet moment.

So much history, so many promises, so many thoughts and emotions and failings, contained in those seemingly-insignificant bands. And now all those things were simply to be put aside, the game called on account of rain, the story ending on a sad, plain, quiet note.

"I think…I think we did well," she gave a small sniff, suddenly overcome with emotion at the simple sight of those two rings, still sitting side-by-side.

"We did, Erin." He agreed warmly. "We tried."

"We did."

This knowledge did not stop the sob rising in her chest, and she quickly clamped her hand over her mouth to smother the sound.

Paul turned to her, his face lined with concern. She pushed back the tears as she simply shook her head, "I just…I never thought….I never thought it would end this way."

"I know." He did know, because he never thought it would end like this, either.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth, quietly, gently, chastely, so bittersweet and nostalgic. She smiled softly against his lips, understanding and accepting this little token of forgiveness, this final farewell of what they had been. We put these rings on together, we take them off together. We started this journey with a kiss, we end it with a kiss.

They had tried, they had fought, and for a while, they had won. They had created a life together, they had raised three children and had shared a thousand moments of knowing and understanding, and yet, it wasn't enough.

It simply wasn't enough.

After dinner, Erin had sat in the huge bed, which suddenly seemed much too large and much too cold for just one person, and she'd almost melted with relief when Jordan had padded into the room, not even offering an explanation as she slipped under the covers and snuggled closer to her mother, placing her head on Erin's shoulder as Erin kissed her forehead, like she'd done so many times over the past twenty-two years. Pretty soon, Anna was in there, too, bringing Constantine the family cat with her, and then Christopher joined them, sitting on the edge of the bed as they stayed up late into the night, regaling their mother with all of the adventures she'd missed during her absence.

The next morning, Erin awoke to find Constantine staring directly into her face as he sat on her chest, with Jordan and Anna curled up on either side of her, and Chris still asleep at the foot of the bed. And for the first time in a very long time, she truly felt happy.

There was still a big bad world waiting for her, just outside her door—Andrew was getting worse, she still had to face the repercussions of her actions with the Bureau, she still had to learn the steps to this awkward and uncertain new dance with Paul, there were still so many miles to go on her journey to recovery, but oh, this moment was worth the pain and angst and fear of all those other things.

This. This was enough.

July 2012. New York City, New York.

This time, John Curtis had not been surprised to see Alex Blake's name in the FBI brief, which announced the newest addition to the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico.

His hunch had been right—Emily Prentiss had left the BAU directly after the Lady X case, and the next week, another short list had been issued. Again, his name was not on the list (lost your last chance, Strauss), and Alex Blake's was (the most logical choice…years of dedication and experience). There were a few weeks of general red-tape bureaucracy, and then Supervisory Special Agent Alex Blake was officially announced as the latest addition to the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico, Virginia.

And although he'd seen this one coming, nothing had softened the heavy blow of reality at the simple fact that John Curtis had just lost his final chance at the recognition and appreciation that he'd spent his entire life trying to achieve.

So here he was, back in the place where it all started—New York City, his own personal Waterloo.

He didn't have a specific agenda; he just felt the need to be here, to walk the streets and let his mind wander down paths and through valleys in which he'd walked a thousand times. It was like some strange, mournful funeral march, some final farewell to all the promise and splendor that his life had once held, to all that was taken away (no, it wasn't lost, because that would imply some mistake on his part, some ineptitude or inattentiveness, as if he were just walking along the street one day and dropped it, when all along it had been stolen from him, taken by force), to all that would never be, simply because Erin Strauss had been too weak and too selfish to stand beside them in the end.

Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity. Obviously Erin didn't have the moral tenacity to be a true member of the Bureau.

John had already decided that he was going to make them all pay for their sins against him—their sins of forgetfulness, of pride and self-preservation, of willful ignorance and cheap, petty politics, of being so self-absorbed that they couldn't even notice him, even when he was walking among them. They were all going to notice, soon enough. They were going to remember, and they were going to realize their egregious mistake, and they were going to fall to their knees, begging for forgiveness. He just wasn't sure how he was going to exact his pound of flesh.

He sat down on an iron-wrought bench, taking a moment to observe his surroundings. It was the typical asphalt jungle of so many run-down neighborhoods—the well-worn basketball court, the chain-link fence, the little metal table and folding metal chairs. At the table sat an old man and a much younger boy, both focused on a beautifully carved chess set, which seemed out of place in the impoverished settings.

Obviously, the boy was just learning the game, because he was tapping each piece as he recited, "Rook, queen's knight, queen's bishop, queen..."

John smiled softly at the familiar exercise—it had been decades since his own grandfather had taught him the game, but he found something oddly comforting in hearing all these basic concepts again.

"Good," the old man gave a curt nod of approval whenever the boy finished his litany. "Now, rank them according to power."

"King, queen, rook, knight, bishop—"

"Bishop, then knight."

"But knights can move more."

"Movement isn't always power, son. Knights and bishops start out with relatively the same value, and it's a rookie mistake to think that just because the knight can move more freely, then it's somehow more powerful. Knights are useful, but when it gets to the endgame, you want a bishop. They can influence both wings at the same time, and they can pin other pieces and even hinder knights. For example, your bishop can put other pieces in a zugzwang, which is something your knight can never do."

Something prickled across the back of John Curtis' brain. Of course, he had to plot a revenge that didn't just strike once at the BAU—it had to be something well-planned, a slow and intricate dance, something that pulled the team through their own mire, something that allowed them time to reflect on their actions, something that showed the rest of the world just how superior his intellect was. Something like a chess match.

"Zugzwang?" The young boy looked at the old man in confusion.

Zugzwang. The word popped like a shattering light-bulb in John's brain. Yes, yes, it had to be exactly that—he had to force the team into a position where every move they made filled them with dread, because they knew that every move they made only weakened them, only conceded more power to the man who would be their greatest rival and ultimately their conqueror.

John Curtis was too logical to believe in God. However, he did believe in a sense of destiny, though it came from a much more practical place. Some people were so gifted, so intelligent, so uniquely qualified, that they were destined to achieve certain things. Through no fault of his own, his destiny had been subverted (to the intellectual wasteland of Kansas, that Stygian swamp where his talents and abilities had been left to wither and die), but it had actually provided him with a greater chance of garnering the recognition that his superiority so richly deserved.

In hindsight, he realized that his dream of joining the BAU had been an unlofty goal, a consummation far below his own ability. He was too brilliant to simply sit behind a desk, to be a part of a rag-tag team of profilers, to be forced into sharing glory, to spend the rest of his life capturing people who were less intelligent and yet who would garner more fame and attention than any work he could do as a Bureau analyst. No, he was meant to stand alone, to rise above, to win.

Destiny had led him here, to this moment in this shabby little cement lot, to the old man and the young boy quietly talking about the game of kings, to the final puzzle piece in his quest for the perfect revenge upon his unwitting enemies.

The handwriting was on the wall now, and nothing could undo this edict written by the hand of the God in whom John Curtis didn't even believe, written by those who thought they were decreeing John's fate when really they were writing their own life's verdict.

You have been counted, you have been weighed and measured, and you have been found wanting. Your kingdom is divided and given to your enemy.

*Author's Note: John Curtis' final thought ("You have been counted...found wanting...") is a loose translation of Daniel 5:26-28, in which the prophet Daniel interprets the writing on the wall (mene, mene, tekel, upharsin) for Belshazzar. Also, it's very similar to the phrase used by Adhemar in "A Knight's Tale". Just FYI. Also, I know absolutely NOTHING about chess, so every chess-related thing you read is simply from research. Apologies in advance if I misinterpret it.*