The Writing Desk

The Chess Game

"Are you ready then?"

"Yes Sire."

In a moonlit room, the drapes hung heavily over the few windows a single table holds sway over the proceedings. Two men sit across the simple worn mahogany table. Both look to be of the same age, the cut of their clothing of the same kind. Clothed in black, well cut, finely tailored suits which are in fashion at the moment and which reek of the wealth held by both individuals. The first a blonde, blue eyed individual with skin so pale that it casts a striking contrast to the sombre black of his suit. The second has his hair dark black hair combed straight backwards, held down and tight by the application of gel. Brown eyes stare downwards at hands covered in skin that is beginning to pale from the lack of sunlight. Placed between both men is a simple oak chessboard, worn with age and use. The pieces are already in place, carved with infinite care from ivory taken from beasts many nights pass. They stare forwards, at their opposites with looks of resignation and determination, faces carved with the knowledge of an eternity spent in battle and hardened by the resolution to continue onwards.

One glance and the play of power within this room is revealed forthwith to an observer. The words, attributed to the correct speakers. There is no doubt of who is the Lord and who is the servant within these rooms, the sire and childe. Even seated and at rest, there is a presence that surrounds the blue eyed gentleman, a coldness and a force of personality that draws the eye towards it. In the sun that is the Sire's presence, the childe can only be a midnight flame lit by bewildered travellers to ward against the darkness.

There are no more words to be spoken as the players begin their game. A hand as pale as marble, the fingernails drained of blood shifts the queen's pawn upwards by two simple squares. The Queens Gambit is begun as has the game. A hand silently returns to it's owner, to rest in the lap to await another order. Yet no other movements take place, not for a minute or 5 as brown eyes gaze upon the board in deepest concentration. Slowly at last a hand moves forward, a counter is made. The game continues. Outside a raven crows, a missive of death at one time. Its cries like the thousand noises of the city are unheeded by the players within the room, filtered through thick glass windows and darker curtains. A moon, half full in its naked glory struggles to shine through gathered clouds as murder and treachery dance through the city's streets. A baby cries as tires screech and a life is lost to a drunken driver in a badly lit street. And in a room lit only by the pale moonlight that filters through windows of thick bullet-proof glass, shrouded in shadows and the comfort of the night two predators play for a prize as yet unspoken.

In the closed darkness of the room pieces are moved, each action predicated by minutes of intense thought and concentration as action after action, combination after combination of moves are endlessly reviewed within a mind eye. Infinite variations are trimmed down, foolish moves discarded or never even considered as the game touches upon levels rarely seen outside a chess tournament. There are no words spoken between the two, this game perhaps too important to break the sanctity of silence that envelopes them both. No idle chatter on moves taken within the minor Jyhad played against others of their kind, no discussions upon major financial trends within the global economy nor the losses or gains of one's stock portfolio. The silence that lies within the room is complete, broken only by the whisper of cloth shifting upon cloth and the harsher placement of a piece.

As a piece moves, a queen to take a pawn a carefully orchestrated defence seems to crumble. No longer does the King lie defended beneath a hollow shell of pieces. A line is broken the smallest of cracks appearing - a move that would preclude the torrent that would come. The slightest hint of a small appears, centuries old lips drawing upwards so imperceptibly that it would be missed by any other; any other but for his childe.

"It would seem you have yet to learn. 7 years ago to the night I used the same strategy and yet you fall for it once more. Will you resign?"

A heartbeats pause as dark brown eyes gaze upon the board and its ivory figures locked in eternal battle. A heartbeats pause in a pair of hearts that no longer beat before chains of iron control wrap around the Beast that rages within and a voice as smooth and as calm as it's Sires speaks. "No my Lord. Let us continue the game."

The slightest of nod issues forth, the choice made. A reprimand perhaps at a later date, for the incivility and the ungracious acceptance of defeat that does not befit one of their lineage. Yet, there is a degree of nobility in the very choice, to continue onwards even in the face of known defeat. These thoughts flicker as quick as lightning in a summer storm behind emotionless blue eyes before being discarded, the matters to be taken at another date. A game is afoot and it will be played, till the end.

An hour, two passes; the board to one unversed in the game not seeming to have changed in the interim. Yet within the room, as a hand carefully places a single pawn upon a white square the atmosphere changes. The tension increases as realisation like the coming dawn slowly filters through. A trap was sprung and now the jaws have closed, the defence that had been broken no longer an issue. In the silence the tension within the room increases tenfold, the weight bearing down evermore as the implacable ending slowly slides home. Blue eyes flicker, casting anew for an escape like that pulled by his childe but none arise to the mind of the old one. As doubt sets in a Beast paces it's kennels, testing the bands of control that hold it at bay, searching for the bar that will give it it's freedom for another night. Minutes crawl by, the noises that were hidden by the mind through the game seeming so loud now to the childe who sits, waiting for the ultimate test of his plan. No longer wrapped in the protective cloak of concentration, exposed to the terror of a Sire angered at being bested the sounds of the night screech through his senses, unnerving him beyond ken. A door opens and shuts, a grandfather clock's ticking sounding through the solid oak door, the ravens cry remembered. A wild thought flickers through the childes mind, the chill of the thought and possibility. An omen of death - his own or another's? The silence is broken as suddenly as a clap of thunder might springs forth on a clear summer night, without warning or presumption. The voice that comes is cold and hard, yet within its depths lie a sense of amusement and respect, of subdued anger and unblemished pride. "What is your desire then my Childe?" A moments pause before he speaks again, prompted by the teacher within him "Know that in this instance I can give no advice. This choice must be yours, unburdened and unshackled by my desires or perceptions"

"I..." A catch in a voice and the figure pauses, trying again "I wish for my freedom."

"Freedom? I see that you have yet to learn as much as I thought." Blue eyes flicker to the board for a moment, an indication of a raised evaluation that has fallen short "But so be it. You will be released at the next Elysium."

Silently the Sire stands and without a word turns away, moving to the heavy oaken doors. He opens them and steps outside, to return to his lair to rest and plot again as his plans shift in light of recent events. A childe lost to the world and to a world that now casts a different set of shadows. Yet within the room the childe still sits, his head bowed as he listens to the thread of his Sires feet upon the carpeted hallway. At last brown eyes raise slightly, to the lone figure of a black king. His king.

"You were wrong my Sire. I have learnt my lessons well." Slowly he stands, the hand brushing the board and the pieces gently before he leaves once more for his haven. Like his Sire, he has plans to make and a world to meet anew. His presentation must go smoothly and for it to happen he must prepare himself, to ensure that no others spoil the night wherein he comes of age.

As dawn approaches, a loyal ghoul enters the room. With gloved hands he moves to the board to place the pieces away, tired eyes falling upon the black king that lies on it's side. And in his mind, the ghoul notes that the young master has lost again.

posted by Tired @ 10:25 PM