Checkmate

It was easy for me to learn my place in life. As the queen of Bianca, I am the most powerful piece my kingdom has. I am their champion of hope. I am the swiftest, strongest, and most resilient that my kingdom has to offer, and it's my duty to try to end this war, defeat the kingdom of Noir, and bring my people peace at last.

It is my destiny.

The kingdoms of Bianca and Noir have been at war with each other for as long as their citizens were able to wield weapons. Countless lives have been lost, the bloodshed surpassing the volumes of all the lakes and oceans, and yet there seems to be no end. The cause of the fight was lost centuries ago, and for that, I am resentful. My heart aches to watch my citizens fall on the rolling black and white hills I call home, their deaths adding to the body count on my conscience.

Destiny, the fallen soldiers echo.

Every one of my waking minutes plays to the tune of a thousand swords clattering against shields, my life sung to the soundtrack of my kingdom's anguish. I spend my days running around the countryside, carrying out the plots my husband thought up. I spend my nights studying the plans, checking my sextants, readying my moves for the next day. When I dream, I wish for another life, for happiness that never comes.

Destiny.

I may have learned what my destiny will be, but accepting it is nearly impossible.

I love my kingdom, but I cannot stand for the mindless deaths of my countrymen. The lives of my people are worth too much for me to try to solve our problems with destruction. My husband, Blake, does not agree. He is the strategist between us, a calculating and distant man who almost exclusively lives in the castle's war room. He insists that the only way to bring peace is to conquer Noir, that while they still have autonomy they could ambush us at any given point.

I am supposed to be a champion of hope, but I have no hope left.

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When I was young, I knew the most beautiful girl. She had hair as dark as midnight and wild as the wind, skin so warm the sun must have been her mother, and the richest brown eyes in existence. She was called Sauda, and she was my best friend.

We both trained on the border between our countries, for a cause I wasn't yet aware of. Every day, we spent hours sparring, not with each other, but with countless fighters from our homes, fighters that looked like us.

Every week, it was the same. On day one, we'd spar with foot soldiers, the pawns. They taught us basic techniques that nearly every soldier knew: the basics of sword- and footwork. On days two, four, and six, we took lessons from the bishops. They taught us the best evasive maneuvers: how to use the landscape to our advantage, and how to most efficiently dance around your opponent. And on days three, five, and seven, we sparred with rooks. Where lessons with bishops taught us how to use agility to avoid injury, rook lessons were always about beating your opponent with brute strength.

Every day Sauda and I would spar under the watchful eye of whatever people our kingdoms sent us, and at night, we were left to our own devices. We talked under the stars, and I learned that Sauda had the most beautiful laugh I've ever heard.

As we grew older, our training became more rigorous, and it became harder to spend time together. Training hours became longer, almost every moment of sunlight being used for intense combat training. My nights were no longer filled with soft laughter and secret smiles; Sauda became a blur in my peripheral vision.

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Wind whips through my hair as I sprint towards the castle, breathing labored. My husband's latest plot had proved unfruitful, and I am was due at the castle to help him regroup. He can never know that I don't believe I can bring myself to ever hurt the queen of Noir, not now, not ever.