chess

Oneshot

She doesn't look like much: a scrawny soldier, face dirty with the remnants of blood. She smells like the fold: that wonderfully familiar mix of ozone and iron. She looks scared as she speaks, as if you're the king and she, a peasant, brought in to pay for her crimes. A mere pawn, one that you'll test its mettle in the board.

Right. You ignore it. You ignore her words, approaching, sauntering in. There's words spilling out of your mouth. You're not even hearing yourself speak. How long since you have? All your words seem like you've said before, and you're so tired of the sound of your voice.

There's a question itching under your skin: is she? Is she the one you've been looking for? Underneath the dark smell of the fold coming from her, something else drumming, a heartbeat begging for freedom: the warmth of a sunny day.

Your body moves before your mind: a quick cut on her arm, a gasp of pain. She doesn't bleed in red.

When she lights up the room, you know your downfall has started.

Do you know how to act like a human being anymore? That's the question that begets an answer, and it seems more and more like it being a negative one. Every move you try seems rusted, like humanity has fled you when you... Nevermind.

It's been - how long? How long since you actually trust someone else? Yes, there's Ivan and Fedyor and Genya, but these are pawns, mere chess pieces, spendable and useful until they are not. You trust them with information, but bits and pieces, morsels of truths and lies. Every day there are new Heartrenders, new Tailors. A Sun Summoner, holy and saintly and not so mortal, does not come by every day.

Maybe that's why you tell her your name: Aleksander. a name of peasants and kings alike. A human name, not the title your shoulders have been carrying for so long. How many did you have? Black Heretic, Eryk, general Kirigan, a long list that only grew with every decade, with every century.

Aleksander had never been an option you'd given before. Only one person knew it. Now two, you supposed.

At least you didn't loathe Alina. That was a start.

But how could you loathe her? When she smiles, it's like there's no one else in the room. When she speaks, the world's noises grind to a halt. And in the spare few moments her hands reach for you? Oh, that's as close to whatever sort of paradise there is for someone like you, whose hands are coated in blood.

Are you in love? That's a question you'd rather not answer. Feelings are not something you need, do you? You've managed so well so far.

You spin lies that are half-truths and truths that are half-lies. Maybe you should pick up weaving as a hobby; you're so good at this.

The story about the coin is truth enough. The loneliness is real. The boy is real. The child he once was, and that never admitted to it, grown: how proud are you of yourself? What a life you created for grisha.

She smiles, holds your hand. There's light in the darkness, and it is her: a beacon in the night you produce. Alina summons the sun into your miserable life, and saints, you allow it. It's so terribly lonely, to be the only one of your kind, cursed with immortality, blessed with longevity.

She'll make a wonderful partner, one day - the realization startles you, so sudden the thought is. What are you, a teenager? You haven't been one in centuries. You don't even look like one. There are no excuses for these thoughts.

It's her youth. It's the fact Alina is still enamoured with life, that she still sees beauty in the mundane. From pawn to queen, promoted across the board: there's a beauty to it you cannot possibly describe. You haven't seen something akin to that since... since...