Lost Confessions: Guardian

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Pawn

On felt feet he glided across a checkered battlefield and noticed he was alone. No knights clashing against bishop, no battle cry of gathering forces to bolster courage. Just the groan of a dying battlefield. He slid past fallen banners and crumbling castles. He came to his fallen king and dropped to an obsidian knee. He took off his black helmet and lowered his head, wincing against the stinging sweat of his brow. Around his king in a twisted knot lay his fellows, all dead. The knight pinned under his horse, the bishop run through with a bone white blade. He rose and looked across the field, wondering at his existence. Something was wrong. Something was missing.

He came across a brother fallen at the feet of a dead rider. The queen had been through here. His brother had sacrificed himself for her. He looked down at the dead pawn’s face frozen in a look of bliss. He had suffered his mighty death. He earned his smile. The pawn stood dazed above his comrade. He fought a losing battle with his emotion.

Tears rolled down has obsidian face and dropped like rain on his armor. Winds blew towards him from all directions for he was the only one left. The sounds of the field were pushed at him, the groans of the slow dying, the crackle of flames. The smoke stung his eyes and he cried. Vultures tore at the stone throats of the fallen around him and he fought to understand why he was still alive.

With the king dead, what was his life for? He was supposed to have fallen defending his betters. What was his life for now? He laid down, resting his head on his fallen comrade. He waited for death.

(Brother, that was your purpose. The game is over. You are not of that game anymore. A new one has started and it is not chess.)
—Artist, 2007

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