Life's Gambit

“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat.”

“How so? What if my plan was to lose?”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“Everyone needs to lose sometimes. And sometimes it helps to see how your competitor wins.”

“That sounds counterproductive.”

Dull scraping and hollow thuds echo in the quaint chamber, the stone walls dampening the sounds of the outside world. The fireplace's crackle and burn: gave warmth to the chilly situation, casting a focused glow about the two figures seated opposite each other—everything depending on the next move. Their positions are far from settled; however, the final outcome has been clear from the start. This game defined before the inception of either side, far before either sat in their rightful places. The spectrum dissolved as all colors bleed into black and white: prompting a contrast, one in harmony, and one reflux – neither wishing to blend. Black is the compilation of all colors and sees no difference in their paths – while white takes anything other as a stain on perfection.

“I don’t know. There is a lot to tell about a person after a win or loss. There are so many types of games and people. I’d even say life itself is a game.”

“Pff, life is no game.”

“Hm. I disagree, but even a game can be deadly serious to someone; take up every aspect of their life: always training, always competing.”

“You’re wrong. There’s no more serious a matter than life itself. I would say it takes talent and will – a special type of character.”

“And that doesn’t sound like a game to you?”

“You know I don’t appreciate it when you take that tone with me.”

“Nevermind then, it's your move.”

They play on in silence as the pace quickens, pieces fall into place, and others are toppled by grace, over maneuvering the other; the defenses begin to fall away, and the board opens up for a fresh attack.

“Ha! Take that!”

“Hm. Good play.”

“You know what I think?”

“Enlighten me.”

“I think calling everything a game is just an easy excuse for generally sucking at life. Saying, ‘I’m no good at games’ gets you pity, so you can be forgiven for lackluster performances.”

“Ouch. Sounds like something you have a lot of experience in.”

“What?”

“Maybe an overestimation of the self is an automatic underestimation of everything else.”

“My patience is growing thin with you. Remember that.”

The air sucks out the room as the threatening stare and inquiring eye took in the other before it deflates and the high-pitched whine of insult simmered with the next move.

“…Your turn.”

“Geez, like I said, it doesn’t count if you’re not trying. What the hell are ya doin’?”

“Playing. Can I ask why you feel so superior?”

“Simple: breeding.”

“Ha! Now that is something special.”

Another vacuum suck of a menacing glare and a straightened backbone. The tone wants to reach a cataclysmic crescendo, but the conductor waits, carrying out the drums' rhythmic building, before the cymbal crashes and the entirety join for a harmonic resolution.

Our two competitors find the distance between accomplishment and reverence growing smaller; their divide deepens, and the game takes an unnoticed turn.

“Mind your tone.”

“Apologies, your turn again.”

“I wouldn’t be in the position of power if I was not special. Generations of advanced cultivation of divine royal characters have brought this marvel of a person, whooping your ass, before you.”

“Wow. Bloated for sure.”

The drums roll on.

“Excuse me?”

“Your ego is magnificent. Quite something to behold, for sure.”

The horns begin to blow, and a twinkle of the cymbal warns of what is to come. They take in the other’s steady gaze, with discrete goals: one to suppress and one to behold. Two tones are blended to where only one can be heard. The room grows darker, and the game is no longer friendly.

“Remove that sarcasm from your voice, and I just might begin to respect your words.”

“That’s unfortunate. It’s your go.”

“You should just quit now. This is definitely not going your way. And my time is quite precious miss thing. You sparked my interest with your cavalier offer. I like a little madness in my life; a game with serious stakes is nothing but an easy win for people like me. But my guardsman vouched for your prowess, now it seems I’m going to have to kill you both. Although a game of chess for your life was a loser's way from the start. Not only am I queen, I am by far the shrewdest ruler of the age. How you ever thought this would work, I can only ponder on distraction. But here we are at the end and nothing. Quite frankly, I’m disappointed. When we caught you lurking about like a little black knight in the forest, and put up no fight. I figured you’d taken up your meddling ways, but it seems you have just given up. It's all the same to me. You peasant folk are a queer exasperated sort. Your move.”

There’s a pause as the felt is heard, sliding across the board with a final tap, “Checkmate.”

Cymbal crash! The orchestra erupts in its grandiose rondo. The guardsman cooly walks through the door at the sound of the queen’s raging shouts and violent cries of utter confusion. The sight of the spiteful smile - of the once-beloved and trusted sted – ripping the shield from her breast and tossing it into the aghast queen’s face.

“You’ll find your place in the cellars now.” The guardsman said with a coldness that darkened the queen’s resolve.

“Impossible. How dare you! Th-th-this will not stand, I say! Treason! GUARDS! GUARDS! SAVE YOUR QUEEN! GUARDS!”

“That’s enough now.” The black knight stood, with a sorrowful look on her face, and looked boldly down into the stuttering queen’s face, “If you could direct me to the north gate, that would be most excellent. I’ve got a newly freed army of the peasantry to congratulate. And you were quite right about your time being precious; it’s your life we’ve been playing for…your king is trapped, and the queen has fallen.”