Sacrificial Endgame

The chessmen lined the sidelines of the board, uniform in their impeccably arranged rows, awaiting their inevitable demise at the hooves of their celestial leaders. White faced black, black stared wordlessly back. The acceptance at their situations had long since been confirmed; all that was left was to await the command. The command that would lead them into the thick of battle, with no regard for the potential consequences.

The silent white king regarded his men. Loyal soldiers, willing to sacrifice their own lives for his own protection. His ever-faithful queen stood by his side, silentious as always, her resolve unquestionable. Even when the last of the pawns had fallen, she would remain, even to death.

The king’s reign could only last for so long.

Octavia moved the last pawn to its designated square gently, nudging it perfectly into place with a delicate hoof. Her placement was accurate to the last millimeter—it had taken her almost an hour to arrange the board.

Normally, she wouldn’t have been quite as meticulous about the chessmen. Normally, her games were played against Vinyl or Symphony. Neither one of her friends appreciated her practically artistic arrangement of the small, wooden pieces, but to Octavia, it was a ritual—a holy ordeal that could not be rushed. But being given so little recognition for her efforts, she had abandoned it. The observant eye would be able to determine that the attention that she usually gave to her pieces was less than flawless, and it annoyed the conscientious cellist.

For this occasion, her layout was to be exact. No room for error, when the stakes were so high.

This game was to be different.

Octavia’s ears perked up at an unfamiliar noise. Her eyes rose from the last piece—the black queen—and scanned the room, searching for the source of the disturbance.

It was the sound of hooffalls, but they did not match the rhythm or tone of any of the other orchestra members, which surprised Octavia—she could identify almost anypony who was approaching her from behind, judging by the deafening cacophony of their walk. Many ponies didn’t realize it, but everypony had a distinctly signature walk, even more defining than their hoofprints, at least to Octavia.

The weight of the falling hooves suggested that the owner was male, most likely an earth pony, and by the regularity of the clops, he carried himself carefully. Meticulously, without a wasted movement. There were few ponies that Octavia could think of with such a fastidious form of travel, with one of them being herself. The sound reached a crescendo as it approached closer, advancing on her from behind.

“Knock knock,” said a very familiar voice, sounding from her doorway.

Octavia stood abruptly, knocking a sheaf of sheet music off of her coffee table, strewing it across the floor. The mess was accentuated by the fresh breath of air from the opened front door. Her face assumed a rosy shade of pink, and she suddenly found the oxygen in her apartment to be a bit sparse.

“Frederic!” she gasped.

“Surprise!” the stallion said jovially. He was light brown, with a blonde mane and lime green eyes. His cutie mark was two sets of barred musical notes—one black and one white. Clinging to his neck was a stiff white collar, framing a crimson bow tie. “You didn’t hear me coming? I’m surprised, Octavia.”

“Well . . .” The mere sound of her name escaping Frederic’s lips had almost induced a faint. Octavia took a deep breath, flustered by how her demeanor was coming across. “I heard something, but I wasn’t sure if it was you or not.” She didn’t allude to the fact that his hooffalls had utterly mystified her—Frederic didn’t need to know that.

“I see.” Frederic cast his eyes about the strewn papers, whirling about the carpeted floor. “I’m sorry about the mess. Allow me to assist you in cleaning up.” He bent to his knees, making to snag an oncoming page with his teeth.

“No, it’s quite all right . . . Frederic.” It was hard to formulate his name and force it out with the rest of the sentence, and upon hearing the butchered result, Octavia cringed at the awkwardness she had caused. “I can handle it by myself later,” she added, hoping to negate a bit of the shame she had exerted upon herself.

“Nonsense,” Frederic countered. “It will take but a moment.”

“But . . .”

“I will not take no for an answer.”

Octavia regarded the crouching stallion with timid admiration. “I suppose.”

Smiling smugly to himself, Frederic clasped a paper in his jaw, snagging it out of the air effortlessly. Then, with a fluid twist, he turned and grabbed another, stacking it with the other. His coordination was clearly impeccable—with every grasp, he captured another target. Following her visitor’s example, Octavia bent and began to gather the papers as well, careful to avoid unnecessary eye contact with the pianist. Her form wasn’t nearly as accurate as Frederic’s—some of the pages required three or four attempts to catch.

With the two musicians working on it, the mess was erased in a matter of moments. Frederic deposited his neat stack of pages on the coffee table. Once sure that Frederic’s face had retreated, Octavia spat her sheaf on top of his. The taste of paper and ink assaulted her tongue, and she once again found herself thinking enviously of the unicorns and their magic. No need for them to carry things around in their mouths all day.

“Just out of curiosity, what is this?” Frederic wondered, moving a page aside so he could read what was under it.

Octavia reddened again, despite herself. “It’s a piece that I wrote myself.” She tried to force confidence into her voice, but she was afraid that it came out sounding feeble. If Frederic noticed her quavering speech, he didn’t let on.

“Really?” Frederic seemed genuinely interested as he flipped through the pages. “This seems extraordinarily complicated, Octavia, but I would wager that it sounds amazing when in the right hooves. This is written for your instrument of choice, I presume . . . the cello?”

“Well, actually . . .” Octavia slid another paper out from under the table, one of the few that had escaped them. “I had intended it as a duet.”

“Is that so?” Frederic smiled knowingly. It was as though he could see right through to her soul, spilling out all of her darkest secrets for him to peruse. And oddly, Octavia didn’t mind the intrusion.

“Cello and piano,” Octavia let out the sentence in a quick exhalation of breath.

Frederic’s eyes rose from the music, surprise evident behind the white orbs. His stillness indicated that he didn’t expect the outburst. Octavia regarded him anxiously. Something danced across the pianist’s face. A quick movement, where his expression seemed to shift from surprise, to jubilation, then back to his usual casual relaxedness.

“Is that so?” he repeated, slower this time. He slid the paper back in place with his nose.

“Yes,” Octavia replied, not sure if it was the correct response.

“Well then . . .” Frederic drew himself up to his full height. “Shall we?”

Frederic moved first: a white pawn, slid forward two spaces.

Octavia followed, her own pawn mirroring her opponent’s. Two foot soldiers crossed on the path of life, unable to step to either side to dodge each other. They stared resolutely at each other, each wishing a swift death upon the other. Not because of personal animosity, but because the cause they had been recruited for required it.

A white bishop slid through the hole that the pawn had left in the defenses. It positioned itself to the right of the pawn, with a single white space between them. Wistfully, the pawn regarded its companion, envying its freedom.

A black knight moved across the wordless line of pawns, intent upon apprehending the intruder into its territory. Octavia could almost feel the malice behind her own piece, its determination to defend the land which it had been charged to protect.

Frederic evidently sensed the piece’s intent as well, for he withdrew the bishop back to a safe distance. “Trying to take a player off the board already, eh?”

“I might as well start early,” Octavia replied, as her knight swiveled into position just outside of the enemy lines, out of reach of the pawns. “I know for a fact that you’ll make it difficult for me later in the proceedings, so I’m attempting to get my jabs in as soon as possible.”

“Your stratagem seems a bit generic, don’t you think?” Another white pawn slid across the board, taking up position next to its brother. It was vulnerable, sitting in the black pawn’s line of sight, but at the same time, it was reassured by the watchful eye of the queen stationed directly behind.

“That is hardly all I have planned.” Disregarding the pawn’s protector, Octavia’s piece took the life of its adversary. The wooden piece was slid to the side, placed on the side of the board, the first casualty of the battle.

Frederic’s brow furrowed at the loss. “Interesting.” The queen immediately advanced on the vulnerable piece, taking revenge on its actions, delivering instant justice.

“And so it begins.”

“And so it does.”

“Okay, your turn. Tell me something that you’ve never told anypony.”

Octavia and Frederic Horseshoepin reclined, sprawled on the grass in a quiet, secluded corner of the Canterlot Gardens. Filtered afternoon sunlight trickled through the overhead canopy of greenery, pooling in golden puddles on the ground. A soft breeze found its way to the couple, ruffling the grass in a many-headed, mesmerizing cavortion.

The cellist pondered the request. Nothing hidden in the deepest recesses of her mind seemed sufficient for this; Frederic always seemed to be able to read her mind, anyway. What could she say that he didn’t somehow already know?

“Well, when I was back in grade school . . . or even throughout my university days,” she amended, looking back on her own history. “I was always the introvert. The shut-in, if you will. My list of friends was comprised of only Vinyl, basically. Interaction with other ponies scared me to death, to be honest.”

Frederic made to wrap a foreleg around Octavia, but apparently thought better of it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright. What’s done is done—it’s in the past.”

“I see.” The two simple words were Frederic’s go-to when he had no better response. Some might have found it annoyingly repetitive, but Octavia considered it an endearing feature—something personal between them.

“What about you? I’d like to hear a few of your dirty little secrets, Frederic.” Octavia winked suggestively. The gesture was in jest—she merely wanted to see how the stallion would react to the subject shift.

Frederic reddened at the implication. “Uh . . . Octavia . . . I’m not that kind of stallion . . .”

Octavia laughed. A pure little outburst of jubilation that only Frederic could draw out of her. “Of course not. You know what I mean, though . . .”

“I see. Well . . .” One of Frederic’s hooves went to his mane, ruffling it impressively. “Er . . . well, there was the time when I was kicked out of Manehattan University.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. There was a misunderstanding with the headmaster, a few items of construction equipment, and a large vat of gelatin. I won’t go into any details . . .” he added when Octavia burst out laughing. “But I will say that my accomplices weren’t the most . . . er . . . civilized of folk. You may actually know a few of them.”

“Is that so? Who was it?”

Frederic’s eyes pointed upward in concentration as he tried to remember. “There was . . . a pegasus named Thunderlane. No?” Octavia had shaken her head. “What about . . . uh, Bruce Mane?”

“The name sounds familiar, but I wouldn’t be able to match a face.”

“Ah! What about Neon Lights? Or as he is known by his fans,” Frederic said, he voice oozing sarcasm. “DJ-Wish?”

“Oh. Yes. I know him, yes.” Octavia’s jaw tightened and her eyes hardened, the reflective violet of her irises suddenly much more opaque.

“Sensitive name?” Frederic, perceptive as always, immediately picked up on her animosity.

“Not really. I just personally have a bit of a disliking for him, ever since he was in and out of me and Vinyl’s apartment all day, with very little regard for a closed door. He was seeing Vinyl, you see . . .”

“I could only imagine,” Frederic chuckled.

“It got out of hoof very quickly, but for the week that it lasted . . . let’s just say that there were a few awkward—accidental—intimate moments,” Octavia said darkly.

Frederic’s eyes widened. “I see,” he said, the nonchalance in his voice hardly matching the alarm on his face.

“Nothing extreme, but there were a few instances which I wish I hadn’t walked in on.”

“Okay! New subject, shall we?” Frederic said, louder than usual. His complexion had stayed steadily pink throughout the exchange, but had now accentuated into a deep crimson. Normally so collected, the conversation had driven him into uncomfortable territory, and Octavia immediately felt horribly guilty.

“Sorry,” she squeaked meekly.

“It’s quite alright, Tavi.”

Octavia stiffened. The nickname that Vinyl had always used around her, the two syllables that she detested the most, but had never been able to bring herself to admit to Vinyl. But when Frederic said it . . . it was quite the opposite reaction. Yes, Tavi would quite viable.

Frederic noticed the cellist’s silence. “Do you not like that?”

“No,” Octavia said quickly. “It’s just fine.”

“Then may I continue to use it?”

Octavia nestled her face in close to the pianist’s neck. “By all means, Freddy,” she replied, eliciting a contented sigh from her partner.

“I suppose that I’m Freddy now.”

“Irrevocably.”

Frederic lowered his head to whisper in Octavia’s ear. “I can live with that.” Octavia felt his muzzle slide down the side of her face. His hoof found her chin, and turned it towards his own. The cellist had barely time to widen her eyes, before the pianist’s lips found hers.

“Yes,” Frederic said contentedly, once the kiss had been broken. “I can most definitely live with this.”

The chess game progressed, with the lines of defeated pieces growing steadily, starting only with lowly pawns, but soon moving on to the more versatile, valuable pieces. With the loss of both a bishop and a knight, Octavia’s strategy had to be severely revamped.

Before, she had been playing the offensive, but was now forced to pull back to lick her wounds and try to brace the impact of the waves of pieces that Frederic assaulted her with.

But her opponent hadn’t come out unscarred, either; Frederic’s arsenal had lost half a dozen pawns and both knights. His remaining soldiers were scattered across the board, with no means of organization. The ragtag group of pieces had still forced Octavia to the ropes. The white king was huddled in a corner, with only a bishop for company, contentedly watching as his men carried out his commands indomitably.

“Out of curiosity, what is your strategy now, Octavia?” Frederic inquired, watching as his opponent sent her remaining knight out into the open, dangerously far from the walled fortress of pawns. Frederic’s bishop eyed the newcomer uneasily; it out of the bishop’s line of fire, but its presence made the man of faith nervous.

“Admittedly, there is less of a focus on taking pieces off the board,” Octavia replied, not meeting Frederic’s eyes out of timidity. “My thought process is more about survival now.”

“Well, don’t rule yourself out already. Even the bleakest of games can reemerge from the ashes, if in the hooves of a skilled player. And Octavia . . .” The sound of her name caused Octavia’s gaze to rise to Frederic’s level. “There is no doubt in my mind that you are that kind of player.”

Octavia had no response. She stared wordlessly, lost in thought, as Frederic pushed a rook out into the open—a risky move, but a move that would have a high payoff if executed correctly. It was positioned with a perfect angle to punch a hole in the black defense, directly in front of the king. The attacking piece had little to fear; Frederic’s queen watched over it, ready to apprehend and attempts to counter its assault.

The cellist frowned, searching for a free piece, one that could retreat back to the forward command center to ward off the potentially fatal assault.

Frederic smiled, satisfied that his gamble had paid off.

In a last-ditch effort, Octavia moved her king to the side one space, prolonging the game by at least another move. In doing so, she accidentally opened an opportunity for her own rook to take the king’s place, and therefore giving it another chance at life. Arrogantly oblivious, Frederic didn’t notice the addition of another player—he blindly commanded his rook into the fortress, pursuing the presumably helpless king.

In the split second before Octavia countered, realization flashed across Frederic’s face. Disappointment that his endeavor had failed, and respect. Respect that Octavia had become the phoenix, rising from the ashes.

Frederic’s brow furrowed. Octavia was empowered by the small victory.

It was anypony’s game now.

“What do you mean, cancer?”

The sentence was shot as an accusation, aimed at the bold-as-brass nurse before Octavia. The nurse, for Celestia’s sake! Not even the doctor, but a lowly nurse to break the news.

The nurse had just entered the sterile white room that Frederic and Octavia had been stationed in to await the doctor’s diagnosis, his verdict. The good news that the pair had been expecting was not forthcoming—instead, the nurse delivered a death sentence.

Octavia was standing, her hooves apart in a combative stance. Fire flashed behind her eyes, her fury and her despair exiting her body through her irises. Nurse Redheart stood firm, completely oblivious to the hellfire that the cellist was prepared to rain down upon her.

“I’m sorry,” Nurse Redheart said stoically. “But it’s exactly what I mean. Frederic has about a month.” She then exited, without another word of comfort, turning tail to leave the grieving couple completely and utterly alone. She left, leaving as soon as she had come.

Frederic had stayed silent. He reclined on the provided bench, his head down and eyes closed, the realization of the inevitable already beginning to sink in. His demeanor had barely shifted from his usual, but the sadness present in his body language was heartbreaking to Octavia.

“I’m sorry,” Octavia whispered, the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, but not yet spilling. She was not yet prepared to open the floodgates, for she knew that once they were open, they would never close.

“It’s okay.” Frederic’s words were empty, an automatic response. Both knew that the situation was not okay, by any means. “We all have our time, right? I suppose mine has come a little sooner than I expected.”

“You could beat it,” Octavia suggested hopefully, searching desperately for a shot in the dark.

“It’s always a possibility.” Frederic’s response seemed genuine, but Octavia knew him well enough to tell that he was humoring her. He had accepted his fate, and there was nothing his companion could say to fool him into thinking otherwise. In an attempt at cheeriness, he contorted his face into his signature winning smile.

At the sight of such forced happiness, Octavia lost her composure. She threw herself into Frederic’s shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. Crying for the loss of her companion. Crying for how little time that they had together. Crying because of the victim’s innocence. What had Frederic ever done to deserve such a dramatic shortening of his life? It wasn’t fair.

“Octavia . . .” Frederic whispered, his own voice now trembling. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“No . . . stop. I don’t want to accept this yet. I mean . . .” Octavia sniffled mightily. She raised her damp face from Frederic’s beige coat, leaving a soggy residue on his spotless fur. “We still have a month, right? Can we just . . . make the most of it?”

Frederic closed his eyes. He pulled the cellist back in close, keeping a tight foreleg around her, a protective gesture that seemed more to steady himself than his companion. “Yes, Octavia. We could do that.”

The white king toppled over with a resounding crash that shook the world on its hinges.

The remaining alabaster pieces looked around in shock, not fully realizing the enormity of the event. The king, the stoic monument that had forever commanded them was now gone, snuffed out by their opponent.

Its corpse lay at the feet of its killer: an obsidian bishop. Not even the king or queen, who would cause the white king’s downfall, but a lowly foot soldier. A single piece that had found the white army at a moment of weakness, and exploited it.

The silence permeated the air like a disease. Both players were silent, staring resolutely at the toppled royalty. Neither could accept that their game was over so suddenly and violently. The king seemed to gaze up at its heavenly commander, acceptance in its demeanor. It had been defeated fairly, and that was all it could ask for.

“Checkmate,” Octavia uttered irrevocably.

The month hadn’t passed.

It was only ten days. Ten glorious days—some of the best that Octavia could remember. Ten days, until life was peacefully extinguished from Frederic Horseshoepin. The only consolation that Octavia could force into her mind was that he didn’t suffer—his death was how he wanted it to be: quick and painless.

The day was bright, with not a cloud to be seen in the sky.

Octavia hated it. Frederic was gone from this life; there should have been lightning and rain running rampant. Why did the world continue to spin, when it no longer had reason to? Why did life continue, when the only one who deserved to live was gone?

The cellist did not cry. Her grief was far beyond tears; it would have been an insult to Frederic’s memory to shed any more moisture in his name. Her cello, her most prized possession, was tucked into her shoulder. The accompanying bow slid across the strings, coaxing a beautiful melody out of the instrument. Her recital was unrehearsed—the piece came from deep within her very soul, conveying her emotion when tears couldn’t.

The gilded coffin was lowered into the ground, and Octavia’s music stuttered, sending a flat note ringing across the silent afternoon. The gathered ponies, the ones who knew the deceased best, lowered their eyes in embarrassment, in respect to Octavia. The cellist’s jaw tightened. Her eyes were dry, and there was no chance of anything otherwise, but her heart threatened to pound out of her chest. The ceremonial box that would carry Frederic Horseshoepin into the afterlife disappeared into the dark, rectangular hole in the ground, leaving Octavia’s life forever.

Half a dozen ponies had spoken, going on about “honor” and “moral fortitude”. Octavia had let the meaningless words wash over her, and when it came her turn to speak, she abstained, staying silently in her seat. She only moved when the elderly pony who was in charge of conducting the service requested that she play a song. She played until the coffin disappeared.

The procession scattered. Some departed immediately, while others stayed longer to give their last respects. Octavia remained on the stage, he cello still poised, appearing as though she was just waiting for a conductor’s baton to fall. Any who would come close, however, would notice that her stare was glassy, that all life had gone from her face.

The next stage of her life, she would have to go it alone.

Much later, Octavia sat in the same position as she did when playing with Fredric, facing her chessboard, the pieces arranged as impeccably as ever.

Across from her, a different stallion smiled back. A grey pony, with a cobalt mane and a cutie mark bearing an octave of piano notes.

“White goes first. Your move, Octavia.”

~ Fin