Silly narrative.

Another archaic English class piece.

Another damn narrative to read

i.e.:

The ever-so-slightly-more-than-a-donnybrook-but-not-quite-an-apocalyptic event between two foes and what transpired between them in this seemingly-fortuitous battle of the ages*

 

       The clash of steel made a deafening roar. It permeated the skin, and subdued the

 

senses. Eyes glazed-over with disillusion. Smells united into a grisly stench of death. One

 

could only taste blood, or simply be another’s sample. Horrific displays of strategy, gone

 

for less than expected. Brilliant plans, lain to waste: to rot among the lifeless.

 

Infrastructure collapsed without incident, and lesser men fled. The clash of aged-iron and

 

bone, of steel and flesh, of sword and man: torn and sinewy chunks of meat, sent to the

 

Hounds of Hell, along with the lucky-skewered and punctured; it was a glorious

 

engagement.

 

         

          I pondered the status of my remaining soldiers. Bodies piled on one another; it was

 

a horrid sight. The enemy was fierce and unrelenting, full of ignorant, unpremeditated,

 

and vicious bloodlust.

 

         

          Once the smoke dissipated and the dust settled, it was clear who had achieved

 

victory. I had been the better man. However, the price was steep, and my coffers proved

 

barely sustainable against the debt I could not repay. I had initiated the battle, the war, on

 

the grounds that my foe’s defeat was imminent. I had studied tactics to a depth

 

unparalleled heretofore. My enemy was fresh to the field. The attack was nearly pre-

emptive.

         

 

          Yet, he stood strong. He countered my plans with plans of his own malevolent

 

upbringings. He used tactics beyond the territory of my ears, much less that I had ever

 

even seen! He fought with valor. But, worst of all, he almost won.

 

         

           On the surface, I seemed ecstatic, overjoyed with a wave of accomplishment that

 

seemed to more than satiate my hunger for victory. Truly though, I was consumed with

 

defeat. I felt as if it had been my limbs that were torn asunder, rather than my soldiers’.

 

The world temporarily, for at least a fleeting moment, crashed; or rather, suspended

 

animation. I immediately put away my chess board.

 

         

There was a span of time when I lived in the past, absorbing the nutrients to be

 

found in the age-old clashes of the masters.

 

 

There was a feeling of accomplishment when I devoured the carcass of a subdued

 

strategy.

 

 

There was an unassailable monument of contentment with my newfound thirst for

 

knowledge.

 

         

          My foe and I assembled our men on the battlefield once again. The hardened, war-

 

torn infantry: front and center; the proudly-standing guard towers: protecting the flanks;

 

the gallant cavalry: furthering the flank protection; the church: rooted as morale support

 

in the minds of the believers and the dying; and, finally, the king and queen: surveying

 

the battlefield. I was ready. We were ready.

 

          The battle was different this time. It was calculated, planned, and premeditated.

 

There was less recklessness. I freed from my foes’ soldiers their mortal duties, and

 

furthered the scope of mine. Minutes seemed to pass in days, and lesser men still fled.

 

Much blood was shed, though the victor was far clearer. Among the rotting corpses, the

 

souls sent to whatever damnation predestined by their creed, there was a champion, one

 

born from not just a glorious engagement, but a glorious victory.

 

         

          Since then, I have lost my passion for chess. It was a fleeting obsession. I still play

 

occasionally, though I make no claim to being even remotely skilled. However, I’ll never

 

forget to commemorate the hundreds of soldiers who surrendered their lives for no reason

 

other than that I set them up to do so; for nothing other than pride, I fought.

 

 

And I’d do it again.