Starting to End

For the first time since they had begun, the men were starting to show signs of stress. Their eyes were feverish, sometimes white. It was as if they felt that the Beings had locked themselves up. But how could they know. Not even the messenger, the Shadow Rajah, knew. He flickered by their side, and yet, he was stronger and firmer than before. The darkness was spreading over the world. The last few chess games had declared it to be so. It was evident which way the tides were turning. But there were many more to go before it would all be over, and so they continued playing. Their hands shook, and trembled with the weight of holding so many pieces, and staying up for so many days, sleepless nights, the elements raging all around them. Yet they strayed far from the board. It seemed to glow now, emanating a power and light that could not be seen, only felt by those in its umbrella. It was electric, as if your very skin was on edge, fiery, igniting the passions in your heart and loins, arid and dry, turning your mind numb, and humming, your ears trembling as tiny pins and needles of noise entered them and made their way to your head. The world around them went to hell. Protected by the board’s shadow, the three of them kept watch, the two players, fulfilling their role, and the shadow, feeling no need any longer to traverse the world. Fire roamed outside, thunder, lightning, rain, aridity, all of them with their own smells and sounds, and taste and touch, and colors. Burning as if good food were charred to a crisp, pricking the fingers with heat and making the tongue shiver, and red and orange and yellow and black, and hot. Sizzling as if it had just struck a spot right in front of you, hair standing on edge, the cracking of electricity, every sensory bud in the tongue on high alert. Yellow and bright blue, and white, and cackling. Not the good kind of wetness, but the bad, you could almost feel, if not see the water up to your knees, threatening to drown you, overwhelming, strong, overpowering, who knew how much longer the earth could keep soaking in the water from the deluge. Constant drizzle, loud, obnoxiously reminding you of its presence. Your fingers moist from it all, clothes drenched, it tasted like salt and of alkali. The aridity smelled like nothing, and sounded like a dry cackle in your ears, reminding you of a desert, or worse, a world without life and water, just heat and death and dryness. The tongue became parched, thirsting for water, and the fingers tingled, moisture seeping out as sweat. The players kept on playing. People had long since abandoned the park, forgotten the city, some had died, many had died, some had moved away, running from the elements, but you cannot run from the wrath of the world. The world is merciless, unforgiving. No one could place when they had started playing. No one remembered, consumed by their own personal worries as they were. The chess players played on.