White Bishop to d5

Killing was hard at first. It grew exponentially easier. The nameless Runners, the oblivious Stalked, or even the occasional servant of the Black King do not strike any emotional chord with you. So, will details help me? Will they assist the Fiddler in his cause? No. So instead I direct your attention to another time from my past, one from four years ago.

I was at a concert. The Black King had plans for the night, or so He told me. As opposed to my usual station in the orchestra itself, I was the conductor that night. After the first piece I walked offstage and announced into the microphone, "Now, a piece from Tchaikovsky." The audience in the hall seemed disinterested until I brought the cannon forth. It wasn't loaded at the time, but the audience didn't know that. It made the proper impression. The audience panicked. They stampeded out of the concert hall. The orchestra was made of stronger stuff, but when I pantomimed lighting the weapon they fled as well. When all were out of the building, I doused the floors in gasoline and rolled a cannonball into the barrel of the cannon. The fuse was just long enough to reach the soaked carpets.

A matchbox. A match. A strike. A flame. A drop.

Arson. A glorious activity. Truly fantastic. There is no sight like it.

The cannon's boom rocked the once-still night. This was no simple act of terrorism - there was indeed a greater plan. Unfortunately I was never told what it was.

Fiddler

Black Pawn to d5

It's tricky, sometimes, serving the Black King. If you do not perform exactly as He asks there is a good chance that you will be punished. The last time I was...blessed with such an experience was two years ago. I have learnt since then. I have become more efficient. I have become stronger. I have honed my vision until I could pick out the dust motes on your collar. I have learned many alluring melodies.

I have not killed in two years. It is time to begin again. To eradicate most pests, a sweeping reconnaissance is a solid first step. It is then that I can pick up my instrument once again. I'll start at the bottom - cleaning up the dust bunnies, one by one. Easy enough. Then the cockroaches, and the rats. Leading them all to drown in the river. It's a pyramid, really. A food web. Each rank gets ten percent of its prey's energy. At the peak is the tiger, the eagle, the man, predator to all, friend of none. That would be the Black King.

The head of the food chain has benefits. Other animals will join out of fear, or a lust for power, or maybe in sight of an opportunity. Those who can picture a classic food web, however, will notice two things missing, the first being scavengers. You might say the scavengers are the lowest of the low. But who cleans up after the scavengers? Who remains after all else has died?

The decomposers. And that's me. Mercer Rackham. Fiddler. The garbage collector. The junkyard boy. The man with the fiddle shouting "Hey, diddle diddle!" The poor old man who, despite his best efforts to make a good first impression, inspires nothing but hate in his Audience. No matter. The finale is a long way off, and a standing ovation is ensured, no?

No, probably not. Well. Enough with the vague allusions and cryptic quotes. Time to get to work.

Fiddler

White Bishop to c4

White Knight, gone. White Bard, gone. White Temple, gone. So many lost in one day, and countless more, unnamed, unnoticed. It brings me back. It really does. Unfortunately no resistance was mounted. I would have liked to see what some of you could come up with. It's all futile in the end, anyway. Surely you know that.

No, I am not lording my station over you. Everything is futile in the end. Sometime, somewhere, all our efforts will amount to nothing. In the end, all that will be left is the Black King.

And He won't even wait for the applause.

Fiddler

Black Pawn to a5

I'm an old, old man. I've played many a sold-out concert, and quite a few where nobody came. I've noticed that some of my best performances come from when I play in the streets. The people of this world are both enraptured and repulsed at my prowess.

There was no slow descent into madness for me. There was only a week between when I first met the Black King and when He took me for His own. It was not a simple introduction, nor a particularly complex one. I had come home from a friend's musical, in the orchestra of which I had participated. A young child, a boy, I think, stood at the huge tree outside my apartment building. His cat had scampered up the branches and the boy could not get her to come down. I offered to rescue her for him. I set my case on the sidewalk and climbed up the tree, awkwardly, but familiarly, like a lame mountain goat.

In the tree, something touched me. Something slid my fingers off of the branches, seconds before I reached the cat. I fell, and when I awoke again the doctors told me my back was broken. They told me to rest for a time and they would transfer me to a hospital where I could be properly treated and cared for. I paid no attention to them. Sometimes in my dreams I can still see the shocked faces of the doctors when I swung out of bed and left the clinic mere hours after I was admitted. Sometimes, in my nightmares, they are shocked at the things I have done since then. But I hold no regret. No remorse.

My case was right where I left it. The cat was spread across the street. I did not see the boy again for two months.

Fiddler

White Pawn to e3

"Rome's burning," whispers the Wayward Queen. The other pieces scream. They do not understand the significance of her words. It may be that even she does not. Over the wails of men and women set ablaze, the faint screeches of a fiddle can be heard. Rats and birds flock to him, drawn by the bloodcurdling sound. And yet, even while its disgusting notes ring out above their heads, the Pawns cock their heads and cup their ears, eager to hear more of the song. The mysterious Fiddler stops. The Pawns cry out for more, but he cites the case of The Pied Piper vs. The Townspeople. Can they pay? Will they pay? No, they say, we're poor as strays! I smile. I bring my instrument up to my chin. I play. The Audience is swayed. They do not even notice when the burning beams crush their backs.

Fiddler

Diplomacy

I'm going to kill my brother and then kill you on the pretext that your brother did it.

This is what the Black King makes people do. He drives them insane, forces them to kill their loved ones. And strangers. All the same. All heaved into the mass grave of the Black Army. In the end, what are a few more dead Pawns? I can answer: they are nothing. To the Black King, Pawns are no better alive than dead, no better whole than reduced to ashes.

Anticipation

I'm going to kill you because I killed your brother.

This is what He does. He kills or Turns, and before anyone can return the favor, He kills them. The Black King leaves no stone unturned. No piece unattacked. The Pawns are at the most risk here. The Pawns are easy to cut down, one by one, until there is not a single one left. But the Black King does not simply remove Pawns from the board; oh, no. He turns them against their own people and marches them towards the edge of the board, the end of the world, and He transforms them into something much more powerful, much more obedient, and much less human.

Retribution

I'm going to kill you because you killed my brother.

This is what some try to do. This is what some fail to do. This is what I wanted to do. This is what I tried to do. This is what I died doing. It doesn't matter whether you're a Pawn or a King. A piece can be taken at any time. All it takes is a well-executed move. Everyone dies in the end. Even if you momentarily escape through some contrived means - memory loss, hiding, or even switching to the other side - there has never been a life that did not end in death. And chances are, you were knocked off of the board by the Black King.