Anatoly Segievsky was absolutely miserable. After two weeks home with his wife and children, he was so depressed that he had condensed his activities into three things- playing chess alone, eating (only occasionally), and thinking of Florence.
He missed her terribly, and wanted nothing more than to jump on the next plane to England and make it to her home in time for dinner. Yet Anatoly knew that he was shackled, chained down to his family by his own country. He had once loved Russia, his homeland and birthplace, but after all it had put him through, he began to wonder how much of his love for his homeland had been built on lies and half-truths. His love for Russia had been a deeply powerful thing, the tangible binding point of his soul. He shook his head, chancing a sad smile. It had been the tangible binding point for his soul, until something else replaced it.
Florence was the one person he knew he could trust now, the one person he truly loved, the only thing he had left that was entirely, unconditionally his. She had said so herself, the night before the championships.
"Anatoly, I just want you to know one thing. Whatever happens tomorrow and from then on, I will always be yours. I am unconditionally and entirely yours, and I love you more than anything else in this world."
A tear sprang to his eye as he recalled her gentle and sincere words, each one a needle-like pang in his chest. He longed to hold her again, to whisper sweet nothings into her ear and to console her, to apologize for all of the madness he had put her through. Even as he thought of what he would say, he could picture her response perfectly:
"Anatoly, Anatoly, I allowed myself to be a part of the madness long before you. None of this is your fault, it's mine. I'm the idiot who's father is trapped in Russia, not you. I'm the one who dragged you away from your wife and children and home and I'm the one who ruined your life."
Of course, she would be blowing things entirely out of proportion, taking all of the blame. He would probably also try to take all the blame, and the two of them would just end up agreeing to disagree. Anatoly had decided that was part of love, wanting to take all the blame for your other half. He rolled that phrase around in his head. His other half, Florence. She was definitely his other half- she completed him and made him feel alive.
Anatoly sighed and continued fiddling with his chess pieces. He was unable to think or move them correctly tonight, his mind was far too occupied with thoughts of Florence. He dug into his back pocket and removed a white queen, the matriarch from his personal chessboard he had used in Merano over a year ago. It was with this queen that Florence, playing Anatoly for the first time, had made quick work of him, toppling his kind in a mere ten minutes. He smiled recalling how determined she had been to win, and how foolishly he had let her looks and charm befuddle him, causing him to loose focus, and therefore the match. Ever since that match, the queen had sat sentinel in his back pocket. It was a small piece of Florence to hang on to, a miniscule reminder of her for him to cling to. He sat it upright in his hand and simply examined it, staring wistfully at the small wooden piece as if it would transform into Florence herself.
"If only." He mused aloud, "If only, Florence."
