King Beowulf || The White Chess King

PROLOGUE "In the depths of the glass, a world would appear,

Where laughter came easy, and there was no fear.

Yet every morning, the mirage would break,

Leaving just pain and regret in its wake."

-The Bottle's Deceit

---

Sometimes, a man grows tired of being the cause of thousands of deaths.

Like the weight of the bodies carried back from the battlefield, his heavy crown felt more like an executioner's mask than a symbol of peace. No amount of scrubbing his hands raw could clean the blood of deaths that were in vain. To look at the eager, young faces of pawns who passed their promotional rites in the eye and send them to their inevitable death sent him into a spiral of depression. Because it was to a war with no end. It left him restless at night, roaming the empty grand halls of his palace where nothing could reach him. Where the next time he would hear of their names, it would be scrawled on an obituary or in the grieving sobs of a mother who learned her son wasn’t coming home.

He sent sons to their deaths. Fathers. Brothers. Men with dreams and aspirations. Yet he did so behind the safety of his palace walls. Because if the king fell, the game was over. Beowulf lived while others died for him, and all he had to show for it was a war inching closer to their homes. They were losing, and all he could do was pour hours into textbooks and scrolls trying to find a new solution. But before he was a king, he was a man. And a selfish man at that with one wish that changed as the years stole his youth and vigor.

In the beginning, he wanted to win the war for the glory of his father.

Now he just wanted to end it so he could rest.

And so, King Beowulf stood at the front doors of his palace as a white stallion galloped through his pristine gates with the only survivor of this morning's battle astride. It was the middle of the day, and the knights around him used the clearing to train under the sun. The clang and clash of their swords barely were quiet under the rushing in his ears. Though the world fell muted around him as the guards beside him stepped forward. Black blood coated the horses hooves, smeared across the white ground, squelching with each step as the horse reared back with a panicked cry. With the knight came the strong scent of death, as if the souls of those who didn’t live followed on their dead horses to protect the soldier. Just so they wouldn't be forgotten.

He whisked two fingers, and the knights beside him surged forward to grab the horse by the reins and calm it down. Still trapped in a panicked flight from near death, it kicked and cried and grunted, nearly throwing its rider off.

“Easy, easy!” The soldier on top snapped out of his haze, finally stroking the horse's mane until it let out a nervous sound and restlessly paced. Everyone in the clearing was watching as the soldier dismounted, taking his helmet off and sending splatters of black fluid on the ground. He had a cut on his cheek bleeding white as his strength suddenly left him all at once, and he stumbled down to his knees in front of Beowulf. The genuflection made Beowulf’s stomach drop, churning disquietingly.

The lack of anger sickened him.

“My White King, the others...” the soldier gasped. But Beowulf didn’t need to hear it. He already knew. The group of hundreds of men sent out this morning to push back against the growing border skirmishes were meant to return victorious. Instead, only one survived. His hand trembled by his side, tightening into a fist before relaxing. He knelt in front of the knight, resting a hand on the man's shoulder.

“Go home,” Beowulf whispers, “To your family, rest your mind. You have finished your duty.”

Each breath was choppy, and the knight's pupils were dilated and raw with unshed tears. But he whispered his thanks profusely, and picked himself up, stumbling towards the gates. Beowulf watched him go, glancing at his guards guiding the trembling horse back towards the stables. At his brief glance, one of the knights bowed and followed after the survivor to assist him home.

Only when the gates closed behind them both did he turn, his white cape billowing as he climbed the short steps and threw the gates of his palace open.

There was no sound in the grand chasms of the palace. No reason for celebration. News travelled like resentment; The war was closer to home grounds. The board was shifting away from their favour and the black pieces were drawing closer. Soon, the king would fall, and they would be no more. He couldn’t see them gossip, but he could feel their voices on his skin like chills. Begging him to end the war. Believing in him until the light faded from their eyes.

His nails dug into his palm, pressing into the skin until a sharp sensation melted into liquid warmth. White blood trickled down his fingers and soaked his sleeves. Only the sound of his boots against the hard floor echoed in the emptiness, and the sound of his hitched breaths threatened to let the dam fall. But he held onto his wrist tight enough to whiten his knuckles quickening his steps until he turned the corner and saw the door to his chambers. His safe place.

Beowulf glanced both ways, checking if the coast was clear before he swung open the doors and slammed them shut behind him. He twisted the lock and exhaled shakily, vision blurring. Even here, the silence was heavy with questions. What would the king do now that his latest mission failed? Who else would die by his hand? Nails dragged up his wrist before he threw himself onto the ground by his large bed, burying his face in the white sheets. His grief opened like a festering wound, and he felt tears trail down his chin.

The tears fell as he clawed at his sheets, reaching for that familiar comfort under his pillow. Still full, he slammed the top on the sharp end of his bed frame and brought the bottle shakily to his lips. Each gulp left a burning sensation in his gut and mind, burning away the frenetic thoughts. When he tore the bottle away, he gasped, throat stinging as he sobbed. He threw the bottle at the wall, and it splintered and exploded into glass seeping into his carpet. They haunted him. The spirits of all he sent to die a paltry death. He couldn’t bear it. Bottle after bottle emptied by his side, until he hadn’t the mind to throw them at the wall anymore. Then he sunk further to the floor with a low groan.

“I’m sorry...” he moaned, his voice brittle and weak. Sorry to everyone he sent away. To every young pawn with a dream. To every Rook and Bishop who believed he would eventually win the war. Believing him with a blind faith he simply couldn’t endure being directed at him. Everything was in his will, and everything was a step forward; that was repeated across his entire kingdom. Everyone refused to believe anything else. The King always had a plan.

Right?

So why did it feel like all his efforts were in vain?

Or like he was marching all his subjects in a row to the guillotine?

---

Hours later, Beowulf was still in the darkness of his bedroom. The mind-numbing effects of the alcohol was fading, leaving him nauseous and empty. Like the countless bottles hidden under his pillow or in the closet. His subjects needed him during these trying times, but he could not put on a mask right now for them.

His head lolled to the side, staring at himself in the full-body mirror propped against the wall. What sat in the mirror was not a king, but a pitiful display of a drunkard who scraped the bottom of a wine bottle for some peace. For the comfort he couldn’t get from those around him because he was their comfort. He gagged at the foul taste in his breath, dragging his tongue across the fuzzy texture on his teeth. His eyes burned red and he looked pale, all the life now resting in the bucket beside him where he'd emptied his stomach. The royal robes he wore had alcohol stains all over. Beowulf looked every part of the man who lived in the gallows waiting for his hanging. After scrubbing his face, he picked himself up off the ground, causing the world to tilt around him as one foot and another led towards the mirror.

He couldn’t bear looking at himself and seeing fear. Validating every nightmare he's had in his brief rests. Beowulf grabbed the golden-decorated edge and kicked the glass. It turned out to be too much momentum for his stupor, because not a second did the mirror fall silently on the carpet did Beowulf stumble backwards onto his bookshelf.

A book landed on his head and he barely had time to process more books piling over him. One large textbook hit him right on a bruise and the floor rushed towards him.

---

The cold surroundings of his room greeted him as he stirred, crust gathered in the corner of his eyes and his stomach protesting. Beowulf groaned, resting a hand over his eyes to shield himself from the world for a moment. When his stomach calmed, he eased upright and picked through the books on the ground. Battle formations, how to rule. He'd have to clean this up, take a bath, restore himself to the picture of health and power.

One book stood out to him, one he hadn’t read yet. It was a gift from his father while he still ruled the Kingdom. His father was never allowed to be on the front lines of war, but he never let rules stop him from appearing on his white horse. It was on his last fight that he found the book. It was ancient, papers falling, and the pages yellowed with age with the spine nearly torn off. On the front it said in faded golden ink, ‘Legends of the Immortal Game’. He took it home and bequeathed it to Beowulf the moment he took over. His father always preached that the book had some truth in it, but Beowulf would have none of it. He didn’t believe in fairytales.

Beowulf leaned back against the bookshelf and flipped open the pages. Each chapter spoke of legends and myths surrounding their eternal war. In one of its chapters, it spoke of a Chess Hero and the spell to invoke his presence. But chess? What was chess? They said the hero would be cunning, brave, knowledgeable, and would win the war of whoever summoned him as long as they met the requirements. Creating war on a board with pieces, speaking the ancient words, and having a good soul.

His first reaction was to toss the book. His father wasn’t bright any more, he didn’t know why he chose to believe in fallacies. But what has Beowulf done ever since then? Lose a war his father at least kept at bay? The Black Chess Kingdom were at their doorstep, and to lose to them would mean the death of all that was good. He thought of the soldier that delivered the news. He thought of the thousands who never made it home.

For them, he would believe in a fairytale.

So Beowulf got to work. He got to his feet, changing out of his thick royal robes for a cleaner pair, and splashed water on his face in the adjacent bathroom. Then, he grabbed a flat board and laid out the map of both their kingdoms. One side black, one side white with a great split in the middle. It was easy getting the pieces, his room was a war room more than a restful spot. He was in the back, the King, he put his knights and pawns up front, then his rooks and bishops on either side of him. Beowulf knew the formation the enemies were using. It was one of the strongest, and they coined the term themselves: the Ruy Lopez formation.

When everything was in order, the King stepped back to admire his work. Even in his drunken stupor, he managed a decent small view of the Immortal Game. Flipping the book to the right page, he adjusted his crown nervously. Now all he had to have... was a good heart.

Beowulf didn't know if he did, being the cause of so many hopeless deaths. But he had to hope they weren’t all in vain, and that they would forgive him enough to grant him this hero. With the book clutched to his chest, he took a deep breath, then closed his eyes and uttered the words.

“Alla fine del gioco, re e pedone finiscono nella stessa scatola.”

Moments passed. Beowulf opened one eye, scanning his room. Nothing was out of order, the books were still scattered by his feet, the board still. No sound except the quick breaths escaped him and his heart raced in anticipation. Nothing was happening. His stomach drooped, heat rushing up his neck. Who was he to believe in silly fairytales? Was he truly as mad as his father?

The book fell from his hands on the ground uselessly when an explosion of light appeared over the board. Beowulf tried to stand his ground, but the powerful wind knocked him back against his bed with a sharp pain hitting his lower back. He shielded his eyes, squinting as the pieces on the board began to move in strange order. The board trembled and all the pieces fell off, and then it snapped in half.

A gaping hole in the board grew exponentially, and the board floated to the ceiling and flipped upside down. A body suddenly fell through it, landing on the ground with a thud.

The portal groaned before shutting away with a wink. The board fell to the ground, split in half, filling the air with a sizzling, burning smell.

His breath hitched, eyes wide at the slowly stirring body of the... person that fell out. Did it work? Was the fairytale true? Beowulf swallowed carefully, slowly pulling himself up using the edge of the bed. He took one step forward, peering at them from overhead. They looked strange, wearing multiple colours instead of the rigid white or black. Was this... the chess hero?