Prologue
A bottle of champagne pops in the night.
It's as satisfying a sound as it is startling in the silence. The sky outside is pitch black, but this room is lit by one, singular flickering candle.
The champagne spills from the neck of the bottle, racing down his index finger. It drips to the ground, sliding across the floor with the rhythm of the waves.
"Cheers." He lowers his hand to the ground and drinks, enjoying the simple taste. At one point in time, it would've taken ages to list all the things He lived for, all his pleasures, but now it's down to just two: champagne and a good game of chess. This case of the latter calls for the former.
The spilled drink slides back over the floor upon cresting a whitecap. He places the bottle back on the table, clasping his hands together. He closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the stillness of his win. It's a mesmerizing full circle moment: two powerful birds killed with a stone thrown by one of their very own. A momentary queen, a fleeting position of power, a dead body on the ground—how funny is it that so little separates those states?
The story is a glorious one. He's heard everywhere from pubs to ports, whispered through the entire ocean. What a stunning, utterly ironic story that He adores the stone-thrower for telling so perfectly. What if He hadn't been able to hear all the gritty details? He wouldn't be sure of his newfound safety, of course. Without such a widely accepted and beautifully told story, He would've have been able to let his guard down, stop putting all his energy into keeping her from the map, relax, take a break—
His fingers tighten around the bottle. Perfect words, perfect stories. Letting down his guard, believing in his safety.
The stone-thrower didn't tell the story, the bird did.
The undead, unkillable bird is still playing chess.
He finds his lips spreading into a grin. He's a simple man, living only for his chess and his drinks. If she wants to keep playing chess, He'll play.
It's quite obvious, in the end, that He is not, in fact, a very simple man. But who cares about sanity, morals, rationality—who gives a damn? He certainly doesn't. He likes things that scream, things that shred, things that bleed. He lives for them.
"Game on," Hewhispers.
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