The Castle of my Dreams

Again. Again, I was having that dream.

I was fully lucid while I was dreaming. A frozen lake that blurred into a bright white as it stretched into the horizon. A castle glistening in the colors of an aurora. Myself, dancing upon the ice. Gracefully, freely, as if skating were second nature to me. My arms and legs were long, my body much larger than it is even now.

Jumps that almost seemed physically impossible, steps with deep edges, spins in complex positions, and hydroblading just a hair’s breadth away from the surface of the ice all came to me as easily as breathing. And as always, the Polovtsian Dances were playing to accompany it.

This dream hadn’t changed since the first time I saw it all those years ago. The only thing that had changed is my understanding of it. I grew to realize something about it that I didn’t when I was younger.

I was always skating as if I was praying to something, as if I was dedicating my being to someone. As if I was bestowing my whole body, my whole heart, to someone. I somehow knew that I wasn’t skating for the sake of winning a medal. I could barely even say that I was skating for myself.

So why?

Who was I skating for…?

If I discovered the answer, would I be one step closer to the version of myself I saw in that dream? I held the thought in the depths of my mind, skating in a style out of my reach, experiencing its beauty⁠—an ideal even within the expanses of a dream.

“Flight 023 to Tokyo is currently delayed due to maintenance. All passengers…”

In my late elementary school years, I flew to Hokkaido with my father to participate in a novice competition. The day after it ended, our flight back home was considerably delayed, leaving the two of us with an overabundance of free time in the airport.

I placed second in the competition and took home a silver medal. It was the first time I had ever made the podium, and I wasn’t very far off from first place in terms of points. Logically, it wouldn’t be considered a bad placement. I was happy when I received my medal, as most would be.

But even so…

I let out an unconscious sigh. “Maybe I would’ve been more genuinely happy if I won gold instead of silver,” I found myself thinking.

I did everything I could. I didn’t make many mistakes. I only fell short on my axel⁠—the axis of my jump was good, but I almost fell on the landing. If I had just made that jump, I could’ve won gold. I thought that I had finally gotten the hang of axels; even my dad was happy when he saw me land one for the first time.

After the competition yesterday, he was glad to see that I made the podium, but after we got back to our hotel, he kept telling me how I should’ve been able to win gold instead. I had the feeling that he was trying to tell me that I wasn’t perfect unless I won first place.

With that thought weighing on my mind, I started to recall the dream I had that morning. Ever since the first time it occurred, I would see it again every so often.

The image of myself as an adult, skating peacefully on a lake of ice. One thought constantly crossed my mind: “If I could just skate like that…”

If I could just skate like that, I would win gold. But that way of skating held something that couldn’t possibly be expressed by a medal alone. Something far, far more dazzling.

“Looks like it’s delayed for about an hour,” my father sighed while looking at the flight board. “I can’t believe this.” Although he was quite talkative at the ice rink, most would consider him to be taciturn otherwise. So, while we were waiting in the airport together, he barely said a word. He instead spent his time whipping his head around, trying to find something to kill time with.

If my uncle were here, he’d pull me by the arm and invite me to “find something good to eat!” But my dad isn’t the type of man to act that way, despite being the younger of the two.

That being said, I wasn’t very talkative myself either.

“Dad.” I decided to try calling out to him. “…If you had an ideal skating style, what do you think it would be for? Who would you dedicate it to?”

The dream version of myself was an adult, like my dad was. As he was previously a professional skater, I figured that he would know the answers to my questions better than I would.

But he only furrowed his brows and soured his face in response. “What it would be for? To win gold at the Olympics, what else? It would be for your own sake, of course.” He answered in the same way he always did when I was at that age. I used to just accept his words as they were, but something about them felt off on that particular day.

“Oh, that’s it? But I think there can be other reasons. I don’t think everyone wants a gold medal or skates for themselves.”

“If you want to win gold, you can’t afford to think about other reasons.”

That may be true, but…

I couldn’t put my thoughts into words. Was the journey of a figure skater truly that linear?

“Are you trying to make excuses for yourself because you won silver? You’re plenty skilled enough to win gold. You’ll get it next time.”

That wasn’t what I meant. I already explained it. I wanted to know what it meant to have an ideal skating style.

“Dad, do you…not have an ideal skating style?”

“Any program that can win first place. That’s all.”

I had an odd feeling he only said that to shut me up. There was an unfathomably large gap between the life my father lived and the life I lived. I realized that. It was the first time in my life I had ever had that thought.

And in all honesty, it made me confused. I had always thought that my dad and I shared the same wishes, but I might’ve been wrong the entire time.

I had to skate. It was natural for me. It was natural for me to hone my skills, to compete for medals, to desire to stand on top of the podium at the Olympics. I never doubted that.

But in my dream, I wasn’t skating to win any medals. I wasn’t skating for myself. That version of myself wasn’t my father’s ideal. The version of myself he wanted wasn’t the one I wanted. I had never considered that before. The thought smacked me in the back of the head, and for a moment, I barely even recognized my own father sitting next to me.

“Well, either way… Although you only won silver, you scored quite well. I’ll buy you a book. You can choose whatever you want.” He awkwardly cleared his throat and led me to the airport bookstore.

I was still caught up in the shock of realizing the difference between our ideals, but I decided to look for a book in the store for the time being, pacing from shelf to shelf to find something I wanted.

Noticing there was nothing I had in mind, I headed to the photobook section. My aunt and uncle were both photographers who published pictures they took from their travels all around the world, so I thought that I’d be able to find one of their books, but I didn’t spot one.

As I walked around to the other sections, I suddenly stopped my gaze on a particular artbook.

“Ma… Ma-leese…?” The title was written completely in English. I was taking English lessons at the time to prepare for international competitions, but I still wasn’t able to read it very well.

Drawn in by the beautiful landscape on the front cover, I opened the book and was met with drawings of mighty dragons and gallant knights. Eventually, I realized that it was an artbook for a card game. I recognized it from watching my classmates play it. MotG, it was called. I knew that it was decently popular.

Goblins launching a vicious attack, an eerie swamp made of poison, the side profile of a mysterious elf… Every page was filled with mesmerizing illustrations.

Suddenly, my hands stopped turning the pages, and I started to shake as I stared at what was in front of me.

“Ic…icle… Pal…ace?”

I was somehow able to read the English name.

An aurora-colored castle of ice floating over an infinitely-wide frozen lake. The drawing in front of me perfectly matched the scenery I always saw in my dreams.

Why was it in this book? I had never told anyone about that dream, not even my precious, adorable little cousin, so why? Someone must have peeked into my dreams and drawn this straight from my thoughts. That was the only explanation that made any sense.

I heard a sound that made my soul quiver. I was completely entranced by it. It sent my heartbeat racing, almost as if I was in love.

…I wasn’t just imagining this castle? It actually existed for someone else?

“Is that the book you want?” My father’s voice snapped me out of my trance. I must’ve been staring at the drawing of the Icicle Palace for quite a long time.

I closed the artbook and nodded my head firmly. “I do. I want this book, Dad.”

That day, I had my first meeting with Malice of the Guardians⁠—the card game that I would be in love with for the rest of my life.