Deja Vu

They came from the darkness and would return to the darkness. Of that he was sure. It was a womb-like existence at those times, but they were safe there, until, of course, the next time.

The battle took place over and over. Nobody wanted it, but their minds and bodies were seized by some greater force and they were forced to comply. Even he, as King, was made to observe these atrocities - on the battlefield itself - for he was weak, very weak, though his subjects refused to accept the weakness as his fault. Seemingly, everyone knew that it was the woman close to him who held the real power, as she insisted on playing a large part in every conflict, donning her armor in the form of mental strength. She had usurped his masculinity and thereby was responsible for his ineptitude. Cherchez la femme – as it was known. Despite this unfair focus of blame though, the Queen was quick and agile – and even aided and abetted by those forces which controlled her, it had to be acknowledged that she did indeed have her own innate power that superseded those forces.

For the most part, he watched the battles dispassionately, observing his brave knights and even the higher members of the church act in a protective manner, guarding him zealously as they always did. And then one by one, the forces who instigated those battles, spirited people away. Where did they go? Were they tortured? He knew not. There were no cries of anguish to be heard, no groans of pain or despair or fear, for they were a mute race, each individual being locked in his own mind, unable to speak or communicate apart from the vaguest telepathic output. At some point he knew he would meet up with those missing individuals who had served him so bravely on the battlefield and peace would be restored. This, perhaps, was the reason he could detach somewhat from the eternal conflict.  

This time, this particular battle, felt different. Perhaps they would not win this time? Perhaps the valiant efforts of his subjects would not be enough? He looked towards his castle longingly. Was it really still there? His vision, dimmed by age and the ability to look to the future, would not allow him such a comfort. He even wondered if it had used its wings and flown away. But where would it fly to? Back to the darkness he supposed. He knew his subjects deserved more from him – but the prolonged skirmishes had taken their toll and affected him both physically and mentally. Each battle now seemed slower than the preceding one and this one, now it had started, felt like it would be the longest battle of all.

After many days, possibly weeks, he saw his brave subjects severely depleted. The witchcraft or whatever the force was, had taken them, whilst their antagonists still boasted a large number to send forth.

He turned then to his church, to those ecclesiastical beings whose mere presence reinforced what strength he had - but they could offer him little comfort and soon they too were carried away, no doubt screaming inwardly. Usually the forces spared those elevated individuals. But this time it was as if all his faith and hope had vanished somewhere into the expanse of sky beyond them. That white comfortless sky, full of burning light and magic; shapes coming and going, with vast shadows from a primal world that he wished would vanish and not intermingle with his own.

He was trying to stand firm and not show his usual discomfiture, trying to look brave for his subjects. But then suddenly he toppled. And all that he was, or thought he was, was ripped from him as he fell. Defeat! He had never fully comprehended the meaning of the word until then.

And then he heard a voice.

“Checkmate!”

It rang in his ears. He had heard the word before but on this occasion it cut into him, deeper than any battle sword. Never had he felt so wounded.

And then he was lifted by the unknown forces into the darkness, where all were restored. And all was peace.

Until the next time.