Author's note: Don't mind the microcosms.
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies.

A single beam of evening light filtered through the thick window pane, illuminating the flocks of tiny dust particles, as they gently floated to and fro, perpetually disturbed by the slightest drafts, before they could settle again on the first surface they were able to find. And in this room the surfaces were particularly interesting.

Some flocks came to rest on silvery devices, which shook them off again as they spun around themselves, as though annoyed at the sudden besieging. Others lowered themselves on a curious glass contrivance, competing with the beam of light that had already claimed the territory and was quite casually busying itself with making the glass glint with myriads of sparks.

A few daring flocks ventured settling on a foreboding square board, sitting on a shelf in a shadowy corner, trapped in between thick dusty volumes with equally ominous air surrounding them. One particle choose a small pastel coloured figure on the board as its future seat, only to be rudely brushed off by it, seconds after landing.

From the perspective of all things affected by slight breezes, chaos broke out as the door to the circular office was opened and shut again. The Player had entered the room. A hurricane followed, as the Player slowly began pacing through the room, up and down, up and down, and the situation got even more perilous as a silent sigh escaped the figure's mouth. It seemed to turn into a very exciting day at last.

Eventually, the Player stopped in the middle of the room, and the beam of light hurried to make his eyes sparkle, for it had never encountered such keen and bright eyes, that appeared so full of wisdom and warmth, and it knew it would greatly regret missing such an opportunity. And even if it couldn't make the sorrow in those eyes disappear completely, it could at least help turning the troubled dimness into a sharp sapphire-like intensity. And who knew, it just might help.

The Player ran a hand through the white beard, a frown creased his forehead, and all the inhabitants of the room, who had been here longer than the impetuous and young flocks of dust, caught their breath and perked up, waiting expectantly. The Player placed absentminded fingertips on a silvery device, which preened at the attention, and all the other devises envied its luck. Especially the spindle legged table, on which the device was sitting, for it could have been easily been him to receive the gentle touch, and not that boastful gadget that was weighting down on him, day after day.

The bright eyes turned towards the shelf in the shadowy corner, and after short time of consideration he walked over to it. The beam of light was feeling sad about this, because it couldn't follow him there, and then it sulkily wondered what he was going there for anyway, when he could have such magnificent brightness just here. All he could receive there was monochrome dullness enwrapping him. Who would want that? If he would stay here, the beam of light would offer him its finest selection of colour palettes out of the colour spectrum. It would be more than happy to make him glint.

The Player regarded the board contemplatively, and then took it from the shelf, much to the dust's chagrin. He placed it on the desk, which in return sank its clawed legs even further into the unprotesting floor. The Player sat down behind it. The figures on the board slowly woke from their doze, and snapped to attention at the inquiring gaze from above. Except for the little black rook on the side, who was always a little bit slow on the uptake, and had to be poked awake.

But to be fair, the other figures were just as weary as the little rook. This particular game had been lasting so incredibly long already. And each move was contemplated so carefully, that it often took the Player several months to make it. And they could all remember a time when there hadn't been a move for almost a decade. And the only attention they had got in those times was that sinister blanket of shadow that kept visiting them, and the impertinent flocks of dust, shed by their neighbour tomes. Who, by the way, weren't sorry at all about that.

But within the last five years, movement had returned to the board again. Perhaps, today the Player might even give an order. Expectation gripped their hearts and all the figures on the board looked alternately up at the Player, and at the black(haired) king, who in turn seemed considerably annoyed at all the attention. Just like he had in the last few years.

But the Player didn't make a move. He just contemplated his black pieces. Said pieces were wondering what this look could mean. Perhaps he was counting them. The wise gaze fixed on the sly looking black Bishop for a moment, who was slouching on his square. The other pieces didn't considerably like that one, but they couldn't help but to admit that he was vital to their match. The Bishop always ran diagonally in everything he did. He often rushed towards the enemy, breached their front line, did unknown but certainly very dangerous things over there, and then came rushing back again.

But sometimes the Bishop did something very strange. Sometimes he hopped onto a square of the wrong colour and, yes, even changed his own colour in the process. This made the black pieces uneasy. They were sure no proper chessman should behave like that. Of course they never said anything about it, but they did give the Player uncertain looks. But the Player merely was smiling benignly at the Bishop whenever he was doing exactly that. And so they thought it must be okay. Rumours had it, the Bishop was feeding false information about the Player's Strategy to the other side, and was even bringing back information about the pastel coloured foe.

A wizened hand reached down at the board, and a thrill ran through all of them. But instead of grasping a piece, the Player took the velvet pouch, that was attached to the side of the board, and opened it. They knew it contained all their comrades, who had to leave the board early.

The Player carefully took out one regal piece and held it between his fingers, and all the black pieces sighed longingly at the sight of their queen, who had sacrificed herself very early in the game. Oh, they hadn't seen her for so long! She was as beautiful as ever. The red haired Queen nodded curtly at the Player, and then immediately turned her green eyes at the black King, as she always did whenever she had the chance to do so. And as always the King didn't seem to notice as she was keeping guard over him.

As a matter of fact, the King didn't seem to notice anything much lately. He looked constantly troubled, often resting his contemplating eyes on the ground with a frown that might equal the Player's in its severity one day. The pieces weren't certain, but they thought the King didn't seem to agree with the Player's latest decisions. And both weren't looking at each other anymore. Perhaps, they thought, perhaps the King didn't trust the Player anymore.

Little did they know that the black(haired) King once in a while did look up from the board at the Player, and then wondered. Wondered about the Player himself. Lately, the Player hadn't given him attention at all. So that the King had to move on his own accord, without the Player's gentle guidance. But in the last five years, he had done that several times. That wasn't what was troubling the King.

No, the difference was that this time he had given an order to one of the other pieces, and he feared it had been a mistake. He had involuntarily sacrificed his Knight. He hadn't planned on doing so, but something went wrong, and now his Knight lay in the velvet pouch on the edge of the board. And now the King was angry. Angry at the Player. Angry, that he had been forced to make such a decision. Angry, that he hadn't known the Player's Strategy, because if someone had told him, he was sure he could have saved his Knight.

The Player's plan, the Strategy was the greatest mystery for a chessman. It was sacred. And the King had often been told that it was not for the chessmen to know it. And this, too, angered the King, because the Player was using the oddest Strategy. Both kings danced in and out of their front line, getting dangerously close to each other, time and time again, and he felt less like a King and more like a Pawn. Not that there was anything wrong being a Pawn, of course.

And there was of course his Bishop, whom he didn't trust. But the Player did. And the King though, that the Player must trust the Bishop even more than him, because he was sure the Player told the sly piece all about the Strategy.

And - and the rook on the left was always looking at him funnily.

But that wasn't all that was wrong. His best two Pawns had somehow manoeuvred away from. They stood far away on the side of the board, together, and he couldn't reach out to them from where he was standing. It seemed they were drifting even further away, and he could see that they were already dangerously close to the front line. He feared for them. What if the Player suddenly decided to sacrifice them? The Player had that much power.

It made him wonder how far the Player was willing to go in order to reach checkmate. Was he willing to give up everyone on the board so that no one except him and the White King were left, so that the both of them had to sort it out amongst themselves? Because sometimes he really thought that was the idea. Odd strategy. Who had ever heard of a game of chess that ended with one King beating the other?

What if it really happened? And he won? Would he then have to stand alone on the board? Being left to gaze longingly at the velvet pouch? It couldn't really make much difference to how it was now. He already felt distanced to the rest of the chessmen, even if they surrounded him closely, and he already wished he could catch a glimpse into the pouch. It seemed so peaceful in there. His Knight was in there. And others.

Would the King have looked up at that moment he would have seen his Queen smiling at him as she was tenderly being placed back into the pouch. He would have also seen the wizened hand descending upon the board, casting a sinister shadow and making a grip at another piece, as one more necessary step closer to fulfilling the Strategy was taken. The Strategy that the King would not know in its entirety before it was finished.

The move was completed with another sigh out of Player's mouth. The silvery devices and the glass contrivance, even the jealous spindly legged table, breathed in sympathy, ruffling their flocks of dust, who as always were completely oblivious to the Player's plight.

And not even the beam of light could have produced a twinkle in the Player's eyes now.