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It was one of those games where he knew, from the very first pawn rising against him, or perhaps from the moment his opponent sat on the tiny stool, that he had won. Pieces moved one at a time, orderly, as they should, but they did not dance, and they did not escape their monochrome prison. Despite his best efforts, chess was a lonely game.
He controlled the itch to stare at his left, a difficult feat. Anand was a blazing heat wherever he sat, and Magnus had spent most of the tournament exerting himself, keeping his eyes down. Aronian was not a worthy opponent for Anand; Pons was not worthy of Magnus. They were both wasting their time.

Once he had waited long enough to not feel guilty over it anymore, he glanced discreetly to his left. It took only a second to memorize Anand’s expression and Magnus could not help seeing a gleam of displeasure in the droop of his lips.
They had not seen each other in years, not properly. Magnus had been too busy being dragged around as the latest shiny chess prodigy; Anand had welcomed another child in his family, had been busy teaching, had been abroad. They had not played together in months, and the score sat still on a series of draws that had only increased Magnus’ frustration. Three years ago, in Chennai…but that was not good. He had promised himself to stop conjuring those memories. Yet time was excruciatingly slow – having won a thousand games while his opponent wasted his minutes, he could not prevent his mind from invoking the other chess, the one he played in his mentor’s garden in his house in Chennai, that summer.
At the time he had thought he knew everything about the game. Yet it was not the crushing defeats he suffered for three weeks that had left an impression on him – it was the hands that moved him to his end, the eyes that caught his sometimes while they calculated, the secret smile before a nasty, nasty move. He had not known chess could be painted in orange hues and suffocating greens, the color of Indian summers. He had not known chess could be danced until he had found the secret place where their souls, when perfectly in sync, would join in calculation to play together in the secret of their minds.
He had thought, after Chennai, that Anand had shown him how all Grandmasters play chess, what it looks like to play a master at his craft. Yet he had played countless Grandmasters since with no deviation from the dull black-and-white he had in front of his eyes.

He glanced again at Anand’s board for some comfort, a bad habit long noticed by cameras, proving his reputation as a young, arrogant prodigy so bored he could afford distractions during his matches. Yet this time, he caught Anand’s eyes on him. does he look at me too does he wait for me like I wait for him does– he stopped the flood of emotions at once. Anand had simply turned away to calculate, and he did not even see Magnus at first. When at last he noticed his gaze, he smiled, looking straight into his eyes - supportive, confident in Magnus’ ability to win. Unable to muster a smile back, Magnus turned quickly and was confused when he saw Vishy’s pieces on the board. His mind, like a well-oiled engine, started calculating by reflex for a few seconds, starting the dance before letting go of the absurd, impossible configuration. In his flustered state, he had memorized Vishy’s positions and superimposed them onto his own board, forcing them together, closing the distance. Gods, he was so shameless! He clutched his head, containing a moan of frustration.

He played immediately when Pons finally made his move, watched his opponent cower in his seat, which made him regain some of his own composure.
Magnus had learned, along with the self-discipline he lacked in his teenage years, that defeating a weaker player took a great deal of patience. You had to indulge them, push them out slowly, build the path. Winning was easy, but defeating an opponent was a skill he didn’t have, not like Vishy, who was always so generous when he beat you.
He heard the cheers from the crowd and turned, but was crushed to find Vishy had lost, over a stupid mistake. He sought Vishy’s eyes but did not find them; Vishy shook his opponent’s hands, bowed and left to speak with interviewers. Magnus, infuriated for reasons he refused to elaborate, took out some of his anger on his opponent with a vicious move – checkmate in three. Vishy, how long must I wait, playing these idiots?
Why did he want to play Anand so badly? What would it be like to face him in a room like this one, no one else but them, at last. The chess board would not be so dull, it would be a world, made only for two, and they would reign there, heads bent over their domain, knees brushing against each other, speaking the other language, the words obvious to all but the meaning…the dance belonged to the players, on the other board, where they took possession of each other’s pieces until one came on top of the other, and seized his victory. He recalled an old line from somewhere, had a brief vision of a crownless king on a battlefield, begging “My kingdom for a horse!” He smiled a little – such was chess with Anand, a battle he was desperate to win and eager to surrender.

He did have to win, eventually. He would let no one else take the World title from Vishy. It had to be him. He could picture, clear as day, the long line of World Champions, and in secret he traced the uninterrupted stroke, the unbreakable bond, from Vishy to him, from him to Vishy.