The Manhunt/Chapter 8

To be fair, it wasn’t much of a surprise that the two found themselves stuck in a repetitive cycle of chess, while (responsibly) drunk.

Slightly dejected about having his whole life dragged by some total random, Bastion had ended up obliging to Airmid's request, purchasing alcoholic drinks of their choice.

In the middle of a bottle, Airmid Valerian had stopped. “Chess,” they had declared, rather suddenly. “Why have we never played chess against each other?”

“Due to a multiple of perfectly sensible reasons like time constraints and the fact that we are hardly friends.”

“Oh, hush. I mean, isn’t chess a game of like, political tactics?”

“War tactics.”

“Which are like, pretty much the same thing as politics back in the day.”

"A generalisation."

Despite everything, the two ended up playing chess for no good reason. As if chess itself was not reckless enough, Airmid Valerian somehow had the bright idea to turn it into a drinking game. Lose a round of chess, and take a shot.

“And is there any consequence for the drinking game’s loser?” Bastion had asked.

“There is no loser. Either you get drunk–“ Airmid added as a bit of an afterthought “–responsibly, or you have bragging rights for winning more games."

Bastion frowned because this was veering to the edge of irresponsible and ridiculous. But Airmid apparently gave no thought to this, for they now took Bastion’s MirrorPhone out and was installing a free chess app on it already.

“And now,” the physician declared, setting up the game on Bastion’s phone, pointing the white side of the board in Bas’ direction. “We play the game of gentlemen."

“And ladies,” Bastion whispered under his breath. He chose not to mention that he had played this game frequently with Pythia Adalinda, and always got beaten by her tactics.

“Did you say something?”

“Oh, no, let’s play.”

And so they scattered knights and destroyed rooks and massacred armies of pawns. Except, of course, this being chess, the actual game was a lot more dull.

Their moves were swift and fluid, less than a second of thought over each move. It would have been a lot cooler if they didn't look like two idiots intensely huddled over a MirrorPhone screen.

"Checkmate," Bas said lightly, after a half hour and a bit had passed.

“How on earth–“ Airmid said, looked at the board and shook their head. “Swap sides. Again."

And yet again, they played. Bastion checkmated, again.

And again.

And Airmid finally managed to checkmate.

And then Bastion checkmated!

When one is an unskilled narrator, there is not much to narrate in terms of chess games. After taking a well-deserved hot chocolate break, the narrator would like to announce that the scoreboard began to look like 5 to Bas and 2 to Airy.

At that point, Airmid Valerian was not that drunk, certainly not drunk enough to start rambling philosophically, and managed to enunciate a phrase: “How in Ever After?”

“I used to play against Pythia Adalinda,” Bastion leaned back. “So, a game of gentleman, as you said?"

In one swift motion, Airmid grabbed the MirrorPhone off the table, and threw it behind them.

"-hexcuse me," Bastion said, watching his poor phone fly three metres in the air with a pathetic whistle and land on the carpeted floor with a sad little thud.

Instead of apologising for flinging Bastion’s phone carelessly, Airmid simply sat up straight and made a firm statement. "We are gentlemen, we are playing chess, I say that's a prerequisite enough for a game of gentlemen."

"The best chess players in the world are robots," Bas said dryly.

"A game of gentlemen and robots.”

“And ladies. Because ladies play chess.”

“And nonbinary figures, because they also play chess. Chess, a game of gentlemen, robots, ladies and nonbinary figures.”

“Can’t we just say ‘Chess, a game of the people’?”

They shook their head. “Well, it’s debatable in the case of robots, and most people find it boring, so I don’t believe it works."

"Can you please return my phone now?" Bastion said, quickly so Airmid wouldn't continue on with their derailment of the conversation. "Unless you're absolutely wrecked, I'm up for more chess."

So the two played four more rounds, in which Bastion won two, Airmid won one, and the last of which was a stalemate.

"Ugh," Airmid slammed their head onto the table. "Pathetic."

"No, it's quite impressive," Bastion said. "We've played chess eleven times tonight and you show hardly a sign of tiring."

"I would contest to that."

"You did end up throwing my phone up in the air in mild rage."

"No, I would like to contest to that with another round of chess."

"You're impossible," Bastion said, but the two played again anyway.

"You know how I picked up this game from Pythia. Might I ask how you did?" Bastion said when the round was done, closing the app on the phone.

Airmid sighed. It was a short sigh, a sharp intake of breath that indicated the physician was going to begin rambling. Bas leaned forward in preparation.

"People say if you come across a Reaper, just before you're about to die, it's possible to challenge them to a game of chess. If you win, you're granted your life back," Airmid explained. "That, of course, makes no sense because Death would just end up coming at a later date. The actual guidelines of the legend are quite murky, mostly because no one ever beats Death."

"And you learnt chess for the purpose..."

"Of besting Death. Yes," Airmid sighed again, but in a disappointed way. "Of course it's not going to work. But at least I cannot deny that I tried."

It was a memory often repressed, but on the day Bastion had found out he was the next Ambassador Fanfarinet, he had been in the midst of a chess game.

Pythia had checkmated twice already, and Bastion only once. When they weren’t forcing fashion dolls to reenact revolutions and riots, the two spent their grand time playing respectable board games. Chess, of course, was one of them.

The game was kept interesting in a number of ways, mostly due to Pythia attempting to amuse herself. The board would be filled with all queens, they would put checkers on the board in attempt to play that simultaneously, they would invent ridiculous rules in mockery of current politics. There were no phone-throwing then, and no mild rage when losing. Only two respectable kids playing their respectable games.

When that particular chess game was going on, it had been the cusp of the summer just before Ever After High started. Bastion had known Pythia would leave him – off to a prestigious boarding school to serve as the next Serpent Queen in the Singing Springing Lark. He had thought he would be left to himself, best friend hours away, until a messenger tapped at the door to the throne room they were sitting in, and announced he wanted to talk to Bastion.

He had known of the Princess Mayblossom destiny much earlier, of course. Had known that he was part of the Fanfarinet Family, yet hardly considered the idea of him being a potential heir of the destiny. It had been his uncle’s story, not his mother’s! And surely, with all the gossip and stories the maids whispered of that man, he would have left behind a son that could be readily sought and used as the next Fanfarinet.

For years, he had accepted that childhood would one day end and he would have to be split from his best friend, for he did not hold an honour like she did.

“A private message, young sir,” said the messenger.

“Is it really so private that you can’t say it in front of Princess Pythia?” Bastion asked.

“It’s sensitive information."

“Well, if you’re truly a good person, and it’s classified, then why do you things to hide?” he pointed out. “And if it were, say, rude, then who is spell is sending me rude messages? It shouldn’t happen in the first place. You can read it here, or not at all.”

The messenger sighed. This was an irrefutable argument.

He opened up the letter, and handled it to Bastion.

Then, he took a deep breath. “You are being assigned the destiny of your uncle, the previous Ambassador Fanfarinet of the Princess Mayblossom. You can either accept this destiny, or be forced into accepting this destiny. In preparation for it, you will be enrolled in Ever After High for the rest of your schooling life."

“… and probably for the rest of my life in general,” said Bastion, in a very small voice. In his hands, he gripped the letter. His eyes could only glance over it, it was too hard to process the words right now, not with so many confusing emotions swirling in his head.

“I’ll give you time to think,” said the messenger, who spun around and bolted.

But he couldn’t think.

He had not expected this.

Instead, he just sat there, with his letter in hand, staring at it blankly.

Pythia Adalinda did not know of the Princess Mayblossom. She was a Grimm, after all, and the tales of D’Aulnoy have faded from popularity in recent centuries. Unaware that her friend was going to die, all she did was grin.

“We’ll be going to Ever After High together, then!” Pythia had said, with no clue of the implications Bastion’s destiny carried with him.

“Yeah!” he said, in an imitation of Pythia’s happy tone, but the cheer softly left his voice. “I’m going to die.”

“Aw, Bas, highschool can’t be that bad! It’ll be fun! Like in the movies, but better, because it’ll be us two!”

There was nothing much to do except to sit there, very quietly, staring at the letter without really reading it. “I mean… for a villain, Pythia, you’re lucky. Not only do you survive, you don’t get any repercussions! In fact, you get free stuff!”

“The dress, the chickens…”

“Yeah! But I’m going to die, and have people think badly of me."

“I don’t think badly of you! And I won’t let anyone else ever!” Pythia jabbed a thumb towards herself. “I swear on it!"

And at that, she stuck out a hand so rapidly that she knocked half a dozen chess pieces off the board between them.

“Deal?"

Ignorant of two years of feeling isolated from the rest of the student population, having to grapple with the idea of being a teenager and going to die soon, and a load of other pretty nasty things as a result of his newfound destiny, Bastion shook that hand.

“Deal."

Bastion Fanfarinet woke up with a raging headache and the realisation he was getting nowhere. In the pit of his chest was a growing sense of unease.

The names that he had been given: true, they were all fathered by Jacques Fanfarinet, but unfit for the destiny. They either had things going for them in their life, or they were not into girls, or were already in a relationship or married.

One consistent thought invaded his mind.

These people had a life. They found their purpose, outside of a predestined story, perhaps with few people telling them exactly what to do.

More importantly, whatever life they had – it had been achieved in recent years. Had he attempted this quest a year ago, or even two years ago, there would be no such difficulty wrenching these people away from their lives.

In fact, upon thought, he hadn’t even been in Ever After High two years ago.