It was the war of ages. That traversed millennia. Destined upon us by the scriptures of Valhalla. Our kingdom, they called impure like the crimson black of falling snow. A threat, they labelled us to the world beyond our monochrome quadrant. A menace, they called our King to the ones who dare hear a fool’s folly. Yet we rallied, from the common beggar, to our royal Queen. Draped in the colours they feared us in, we took to war, to defend our Kingdom, to defend our home. It was inevitable, as it has been for centuries in the past. Through the history books that passed down through generations, it has always been. We are the evil of this land. The purists, they called themselves. Yet it was their swords that carried the blood of the impures, it wasn’t black in colour.
“It brings me shame that I must ask you this,” our King said. The ebony prickles of his royal mantle ran stagnant. His voice carried the burden of a thousand generations, as pitch black tears ran down the crevices of his eyelid. “Another war has come.” The words echoed through the heavens. Neither Zeus, nor Thor could break the thunder his voice carried. Struck by black lightning, we, his trusted warriors, stood with our arches straightened. “Many will lose their lives. Many will not return to their homes at night.” The Queen’s hand fell upon him. “But many will sleep peacefully for the blood we are to sacrifice.” His heroine wore her armour like a goddess. Athena would be an infant to her might. Yet her hand comforted her mighty king in matrimonial grace. “They brought the war to us…” he said. Our eyes met his, a thousand to his one. Black flames rose in each, unbound by nature’s rulebook. “None of them shall return to tell that tale. Will you, my warriors, help the cause? Will you defend your home? Your sons and daughters? Your honour and pride? Your Kingdom?” His words were pleas, yet still tore the heaven. To which we replied, breaking thunder from the ground and splitting the heavens into a thousand.
The gates opened, our enemies emerged. Donned in poisonous white, their pompous king took the coach farthest from the battlefield. We could see him, in his bashful mantle, with curls of fat curdling around his unenviable physique. His warriors were large in number, and far from the king they defended. Their eyes bore white hot flames, their hands gripped the metal leather with craze. They were like us, they were defenders. But unlike the black plague they were fighting against, they were merely pawns in a game their tardy king enjoyed.
“Those are men like you!” cried our Queen. “Honourable as honourable can be. They are putting their blood in our hands like we do them. So, my warriors!” The roar came. “Let us honour them in battle! Give your hearts!” With the neigh of her Valorant, the Queen rallied our troops to the battlefield with fire.
In a moment that lasted longer than any other. Like the hope of joy which precedes a moment of ecstasy. Like the calm of clouds right before the storm takes over. Our horses rode with a circadian rhythm. Even the Gods who tore the skies looked upon us in awe. “Watch us, you mere immortals!” I wanted to roar. In a silence that humbled our thunderous ears the moment flashed by as if it were hours. Until the first metals intertwined and deformed to signal the birth of our duel, a thousand soldiers felt the ecstacy of serendipitous mortality. Our King, roaring us on with his black majestic flame. Their king, a cowardly lion, sitting with a grandeur gaze.
And then it came! Like the bells of winter chime, the clattering swords made noises that reverberated through our souls. To my left and right were black soldiers, falling in numbers. But none fell alone, their swords were coated with pure blood of our rivals. One of which tried to split my torso in two, but I am the King’s apprentice, my evasion was diagonal, and diagonal did I strike. My other half, Lord Jason, the bishop of vertigo, he was called, looked with a glare of pride.
“You must own the King’s second bishop.” Which I was to be granted at the end of war. A lowly soldier from the streets of brutality, to the King’s aide, right by the royal hide.
Lord Jason tore through the branches of our enemies. His command of war was second to none. Reaping white blood in his crossover. I saw the enemy staring in awe, as I used to in the past. Unlike me though, their heads fell to the ground making not a thud in the quadrant of inequality.
Yet the war was far from over. They still had a weapon of mass destruction. They had the souls of Aphrodite and Nemesis bonded in one. Their warrior that surpassed all warriors to a pity. The white queen, she was called. The White Death, she was honoured. As the thundering hooves of her behemoth grazed the battlefield, I heard the echo of a thousand clattering hearts. The White Death was upon us. With eyes colder than the age of ice. With tusks longer than the mammalian mammoth. She cut down our ever-so-evasive knights in close combat. Her moves were of a different demeanour. Her drive, equal to the rampage of our black elephants. Her slashes, longer than Lord Jason’s diagonals. Her soul, brutal and cold as she brought down heads one after the other. The White Death rampaged still.
“DO NOT FALTER!” cried our Queen. All heads turned, our Athena stood fearless. “DO NOT FALTER!” she repeated. Staring at the white ghost turned red, with eyes of a deadly black panther. Our King’s sight was donned in pride, in fear, and in utter gaud of respect to his matrimonial Queen. The men stood to their feet, by their Queen’s side, with a new found blaze coloured in royal black.
The White Death was upon us. But Athena was still beside us. Her swords, coated with a glaze of red velvet, her soul braised with the blaze of a black droplet. She rode. We soared. In a battle of the ages, the queens emerged outrageous. Our black hope, a skill rivalled by none, strong unlike anyone, brave as brave can be. As she rode past us in her Valorant, the smell of black blood soaked our nostrils. The drops of purity danced off her sword, the soul of the world shrouded in her own. “COME!” she called her white mirror. “COME!” she called with the grace of respect.
The white death charged, her eyes thawed in comparison. Her slashes evaded for the first time, our Athena was not one to write over. Aphrodite and Nemesis in one, the queen of our rivals, her swerves awed even us. Her mortal enemies froze in admiration. But not our Athena. She was a god. A god unlike any other. A god of her people. Her blade slashed and pushed in rampage, as the white strikes fell upon her in carnage. We saw her royal blood loosen from her impenetrable hide, and yet not a cry of pain emerged from the grit of her teeth. The battlefield stagnated to watch. The women engaged were unlike any other. Their skill unmatched by any warrior, they were queens, the true queens of Valhalla. Like Thor’s mighty laughter, their swords clattered with a thundering thoughtafter. Blood of white and black coloured our monotone land in glory. The queens battled still, a battle like no other. They fought till the sun died, they fought till their souls cried. At last they fell to their feet, still none cared for a bleeding teet. The battle around them remained an afterthought, the war hell-bent on their magnificent glory. Our Queen fell. Our Queen stumbled. The blood of her heart began to leak. The nectar of her soul began to emulsify.
“MY QUEEN!” We all cried. But not a single soul did it in pity. Our eyes were full, our souls were in tears. Our resolve still rested amidst her black obsidian armour in heat.
The white death was upon her, and none were strong to rescue. None except one… The only one that mattered.
In a fury that killed Zeus, our King tore through the battlefield. His armour inexistent, his sword, tumultuous. In a rampage to protect his mighty queen, he rode in a grandeur unlike any other. “ARTEMIS!” he cried out his love’s name. She turned, a blade still to her unyielding neck. “ARTEMIS DO NOT DIE!” he commanded. Even the queen wasn’t immune to the weight of his words. With a spring in her step, she took the sword in hand. Bleeding out the hand she bore, tumbling the step of her opponent.
“AAHHH!” The King roared as his sword slashed. The white death was no more.
“My King!” I called. “You are not to be here!” He had no armour. He was a naked man in a war. Yet his eyes were black diamonds. Tougher than tough can define.
“If a king does not lead, how can he expect his warriors to follow?” He stood. The war was ours. Only the white fool remained untouched.
The fear in his eyes was obvious. The blubbering fool was blabbering no more. A folly that brings shame to the world he surrounds. A colourless rainbow, a liquid diamond.
“Please! I beg you!” he told our King. “Please!” he cried, again and again. A slash came thereafter. A royal one with a blade made for the night. He spoke no more. Not a voice uttered in grief. Another head fell. The final one to hell.
“THE WAR IS OVER!” Our King roared.
“THE WAR IS OVER!” Our souls soared.
…….
Magnus Carlsen shook his opponent’s hand. Another mighty game of chess had concluded. His victories were recurring, his soul still undying. With one last look before he took leave, Magnus noticed, admiring the heroic attempts of his royal pieces. The black king, his warrior queen, and the kingdom her ruled. It was not a game to him, no. To him, each match was a war indeed. And this war he had won.
“The war is over,” he assured his king. It was another night’s end. The war is over. Another one was to come.
