Eschec

Disgusting. It’s absolutely disgusting. Blood with my cheese? It’s almost amusing, just a moment ago I thought it looked wondrous… Huh? Okay, you can start.

Our troops fashioned ranks as the enemy waited in anticipation. This was just a battle in the war that had persisted a millennium and a half. Though our abilities, strategies, and codes of conflict had evolved and though our commanders were supplanted, our heart was the same. We were always impelled by a loathing of the other skin and a yearning for our enemy’s vulnerable yet undeniably invaluable prize. The Shah. It was our skin faced against their skin. Black against White. But, beyond all else, it was our prize faced against their prize. Shah against Shah. Lifeline against lifeline.

Baidaqs stuffed up in the front, frail and timid. They didn't have to be adept warriors, they were nothing more than disposable bait. Behind the numerous Baidaqs stood specialty. Rukhs, like bulls, could burrow through enemy formations. Alfils were swifter creatures who were used for slicing in the center of the action. Faras were sneaky unlike any other warrior because they could soar far above anything else.

Baidaqs, Rukhs, Alfils, and Faras were vital to conflict, but there was yet another warrior who lacked all of their weaknesses. She was not near sighted like a Rukh, nor trappable like an Alfil, nor constrained by a short distance like a Fara. She was the perfect warrior. She was the Fers. I was the Fers. I embodied supremacy.

As we prepared, a thick shadow prowled across the field like a child's hand creeping towards the last sweet. Sounds from the enemy swelled. They were ready to strike first. Our descending spirit and ascending terror shook even the commander as loads of White Baidaqs surged to the center of the battlefield. There was no time to contemplate strategy. The clock was set. The battle had begun.

Our commander sent out troops in a panic. Soon our Black Baidaqs juxtaposed their White ones in a wavering collage that sprawled across the field. Alfils and Faras joined the tedious process of configuration. With every movement the tension built until, finally, real combat ensued.

A group of White Baidaqs struck first, attacking and slaying a number of our Black ones. One of our Alfils swiftly cut to the action at the center killing numerous White Baidaqs who held no contest. A White Fara jumped over its own ranks and began defending Baidaqs and matching the Alfil’s aggression. As more warriors joined the growing fight, the field became chaos.

Baidaqs, Alfils, and Faras were being slaughtered everywhere. But, as things became more dangerous for the Shah, I could no longer observe the bloody scene. I went to a well protected area in front of the Shah to ensure that all was safe as a Rukh corralled it to the corner of the field. I looked downfield once more to discover that the conflict was slowing down. The fog had settled. We were losing.

I have seen death, smelt death, and heard death. At this moment, I could feel the death. I suppose this is foolhardy, but I could taste it.

I never ordered bloody cheese. It might taste decent out of context. Bitter, but I can taste some salt in the sweat and some very rare steak in the blood. Careful not to choke, though, it's very dry... Damn it! I didn't see that scheme.

Now was the time for the premier warriors to enter the conflict. Most of the rest were dead. The remaining Rukhs and I were the last hope in this lopsided predicament. We moved around a bit hoping to find a penetrable point to attack, but they seemed to have no disadvantage.

But then I felt a tickle from the inside. A cross between nausea and excitement. I felt a simultaneous beckoning and repulsing towards and away from the most defenseless part of the field. I knew it was a call from the commander. I began to move, so numb from my contradictory feelings that it was as if someone else were pushing me. I learned at this moment who I was and who I wasn't. It was wondrous. It was disgusting. I was not the Fers. I was the bait.

This dish is so strangely satisfying. I dare say I felt a wondrous disgust after vomiting! Oh, and, by the way, that was a bad maneuver.

I was dying. My heart was choking. Was this what the race war had come to? Were we not the same substance? It was too late to know. I was overwhelmed by my concluding senses.

The last taste was salty and bitter. Like a potent and rotten cheese. The last smell was bloody. It filled the atmosphere with redness. The last touch was wet. My whole body was drenched in death. The last sight was a flash of Black. Too small to be anything other than a Baidaq of my own kin. It looked so triumphant. It was the real Fers.

Then came the last sound. It exuded transcendency, but felt so tangible. It teased my ears. It teased my soul. This final voice was my final emotion. Wondrous Disgust. Checkmate.