Florence was both sufficiently shocked and not at all surprised, a now very common pair of contradictory emotions in her ever more complex mind. As if to solidify the fact to which she was reacting, the arbiter, in his raspy voice and with a wolfish grin, proclaimed the result of the match once again.
"Anatoly Sergievsky is the winner, and remains world champion."
The audience gathered was thrown into a tumultuous wave of hysteria, pummeling those on the raised platform with a cacophony of thunderous applause and enigmatic bellows, visibly setting the petite Hungarian born Florence on edge. Florence inauspiciously massaged her right temple, a ritualistic action now, as her stress levels furiously climbed. She then joined the foray, clapping politely, a convincing, yet false smile upon her chiseled face. Anatoly was shepherded to the anterior side of the table on which he had just achieved victory by the canine-featured arbiter, where he gave a modest bow followed by a curt nod and small wave.
Florence masked her amused snort with a couple of pseudo coughs, her entertainment being derived from the manner in which Anatoly was always adamant on maintaining his pristine public image- particularly the overall formality of his minimal body language in this, his greatest victory. He was stoic and stone-faced, and Florence had no doubt that his mind was still tracing the last moves leading up to his final play, analyzing each gambit with an internal ferocity that would shock most. At last, Anatoly's dark eyes wandered to those stationed behind him, his gaze passing over the figures of Molokov, Viigand, D'Courcey, and Freddie, straight to Florence, her white and black dress a beacon in the sea of drab suits. Florence could feel him, sense his brown orbs burning into her own flesh, imploring her to lift her head and meet his desperate gaze. Yet Florence too was a professional stoic when required of her, and she continued staring at the floor, attempting to ignore the man she loved.
Gradually, the deafening noises of the crowd faded away, as did the pivotal players to their hotels and post-match interviews, leaving only a scattered handful of people left to discuss the match, Florence included. She ran a quick mental check and concluded that she had no where to be, no reasons to stay, and no one left to talk to, so she too slipped away, desiring to walk through the gardens of the esteemed Hotel Aurora.
It took her a short four minutes to casually walk to the oasis of the gardens, and perhaps it would have taken her less time if she had not wistfully watched after a younger couple heading for the hotel. She let out a heavy sigh filled with angst and resignation, wondering how she had managed to let herself stray so far from the dreams she had held as a child.
"You said dreams were foolish, remember?" She mentally chided herself; all the while stooping to pluck a spray of miniature yellow flowers of a variety she did not know.
Daring to sniff the tiny blossoms, Florence found that they had a bittersweet scent, poignant and pure, much like the current tone of the day. Acting on a strange impulse, she tucked the sprig into the pocket of her stark white and charcoal black vestment, intending to perhaps look up the plant later, for sentimental value. Just as she did so, the overwhelming and cool feeling of being watched overcame her. Florence shuddered in anticipation and turned, already knowing who stalked her from yards away.
Florence had always made the comparison of Anatoly's boyish gait to that of a young stallion- it was the one flamboyant and proud physicality he could not subdue, and Florence often pointed it out. It was quite muffled now though, as if he was ashamed by his approach. He cautiously sidled up to her side, not making any sort of communication, and squinted into the horizon as he often did, as if attempting to discover the perfect combination of words to say.
However full of trepidation Anatoly was, Florence needed no prodding.
"So you've done it. You're still the champion."
Anatoly now gathered enough gumption to pivot and look into her cavernous green eyes, fixated on her expression so as to not disconcert her further.
"I had to win. To be free." He digressed, removing his hands from his pockets, unfolding his arms in a gesture of defeat.
Florence found herself gravitating towards him, subconsciously inching into him, all the while finding the bitter humor in their situation.
"Free for what?" She queried, genuinely curious of his reply.
"Free to help your father, if I go back. Free to play chess. It's the only thing I can stay true to." He offered, obviously still both very distressed and reluctant to say the words Florence could feel coming.
Anatoly reached for her soft hand and she permitted him to take it, allowed him to caress it and place a gentle kiss on the back of it.
"Doesn't it seem like we've been here before? In this same terrible situation?" Florence contemplated, now pulling away from the lofty, dark haired Russian, palpating her right temple once again.
"You mean how life and all those around us just seem to imperceptibly interfere with us, with our love?" Anatoly returned, leaving Florence to her physical space for the time being. "Florence, I..."
"I would give the world to just… stay this way. To remain here, with you forever." She yearned, now finding a place on a small bridge to lean over.
Florence stared vacantly at the oddly clear and immaculate water as Anatoly repeated his struggle of before in finding an appropriate response.
"Ignorance is bliss, as they say. I would travel to the moon and back if only to return to a time when you and I could simply be together in our naïveté, not too wise, not aware of the lies nor the truth." He lamented.
Florence was wrought with emotion, trembling now, wishing only that she could escape into Anatoly's arms and never emerge again. She could feel her eyes watering, brimming with the moisture that betrayed her to the rest of the world.
Anatoly too, was near explosion, his desires and duties conflicting within him, wrestling with one another in a horrendous battle. Knowing that in conclusion he must stay true to his responsibilities rather than the wants of his heart and soul, Anatoly resolved to the losing side for the moment, electing to offer Florence some comfort in the form of a long embrace. It was mutually understood that the embrace they shared was communicating significantly more than physical attraction, that instead the embrace symbolized all the injury and desperation in a tangible form.
When at last they parted, Anatoly took both of her hands in his and resumed his address.
"I want you, I need you, and I love you, yet still, here I am, walking away. I don't understand, Florence. How have I strayed this far?"
"I've been a fool, really, to allow all of the dreams I had to become my glorified expectations. All I have done is disappoint myself, among others." Florence choked, just barely holding back her tears at this point.
"All we can hope for now seems to be that the time will eventually numb the pain, that eventually we will be able to move on in some way." Anatoly remarked, now absolutely miserable in this collective admittance of failure and guilt.
Florence gave a sorrowful laugh, peppered with salty tears and quickly put her left palm to her cheek.
"You and I, we've seen everything, experienced it all as we've chased our frivolous desires, as we've watched countless others around us fall, bombarded by one shattering catastrophe after another. Yet we still keep on pretending that stories like ours have happy endings. We really are quite delusional."
Anatoly thought on her words for a brief period of time, weighing them in his skilled mind. Florence too, seemed to be considering the magnitude of her sentences, unaware that she had just presented the perfect phrase to summarize their dire situation.
"Florence, before we…" He floundered, unable to bring himself to utter the word 'part', "…I just want you to know that I will always love you, and if you ever hear otherwise or dare to think differently, it's not the truth. I love you."
"Anatoly, I love you t—" Florence began, only to be cut off as a hoard of rumor mongering reporters interrupted their acrimonious and private goodbye.
Florence did not bother to turn as Anatoly called out his protests from within the throng of journalists, and instead she simply walked, disappearing to wallow in her grief and melancholy alone, as she assumed she would until the end of her days.