The half-completed puzzle lay cast aside, gaping open like half-eaten fruit. The boy sat among the remaining pieces, reticent, head buried in his knees. He gripped one piece tightly in his hand.

It's alright, said the White Dragon, stroking his auburn hair with the tip of her tail. It will be alright.

"No," he said, his voice muffled with fabric. "I don't want to."

Do you want to finish your puzzle?

Very soft: "...Yes."

Then you must. It hurt her to hurt him, to tell him this.

Her dear one lifted his head. Tears ran from his wounded eyes. He had always been compassionate; he didn't wish to inflict upon himself the pain that had already happened.

"Will you do it?" he asked. He offered her the piece he held, plaintive, entreating. It broke her heart.

You know I would, if I could. But only you can do it.

He glared at her, trying to hate her, but she knew that he knew she was right. His head slumped back to his knees. The White Dragon felt his fear—palpable, rolling waves of fear—and if she could not do it for him, she longed to help him somehow.

Dear one.

The faintest movement. "...?"

Would monsters help you?

He looked up. "Monsters...?"

Monsters like me? To give you courage? To fight the darkness?

He swallowed. Before he gave an answer, the White Dragon drew herself to her full and mighty height, threw back her head and roared. It crashed and echoed through the void like thunder. The boy scrambled to his feet and huddled near her, listening, afraid.

Out of the dark rang an answering cry. And the monsters came.

The boy beheld them as flowers behold the morning. His understanding blossomed in phases, unfurled into effulgent reverence. These monsters were his memories, both ancient and unborn. They knew his highest highs, his lowest lows; they knew everything. And with thrashing power they approached him—dragons, creatures, warriors all—and they bowed down.

The monsters prowled and settled into an instinctual formation around the boy and his dragon, some beside them, some before them. Their chests heaved; their wings and weapons shivered. The boy reeled, overcome with awe.

"Chess," he found a sliver of voice, "it's chess, right?" He counted the monsters, counted again, rounded on the White Dragon. "You're the queen? And I'm the—" His breath caught.

King, she supplied.

His tears from before had dried into pale tracks; new ones raced down them now. He shook his head. "No...that's not—"

The White Dragon gathered him under her wing.

Don't be afraid, she said. I know you. You never give up after just one game. We will not let it have the last word. I will not let it.

Think of all the games you have played, and will play, out of love.

He rubbed his thumb over the puzzle piece, agonizing.

Go on, she said. You have our strength behind you.

The boy stepped forward, shouldering past the monsters. His half-finished puzzle and its loose pieces lay strewn across the invisible center of the board. When he reached it, he knelt.

"Games comfort weary souls," he whispered to it. His mantra; his prayer; his desperate belief. He turned the puzzle over in his lap, crying, wanting for all the world to believe that he was a king—so powerful that he could close his eyes and rest and never have to worry, never have to fight again.

He slotted the piece in. Behind him, the monsters bellowed and rattled their shields in triumph.

Through misty eyes he raked another piece toward himself. Was it easier with an army behind him? Or was it just humiliating? In the end, did that matter so much, as long as he put it together? He found where this piece fit and twisted it into place.

Well done, he heard her say.

PIECE #10: DUEL MONSTERS

Doctor's Note: I'M GOING TO TARGET TO GET MORE TISSUES, DO YOU NEED ANYTHING?

Thank you for reading! - Dr. MP