[ WP ] Describe a chess game in the form of an epic battle from the perspective of a pawn who survives long enough to be turned into a queen .

The stillness in the chill, predawn air is broken only by the nervous shuffling of the other pawns lined up to either side of him. From his position in the center of the front line, he unsuccessfully struggles to prevent his own anxiety from spreading across his black enamel features, announcing his status as a fresh recruit to anyone who bothers to glance in his direction. Nobody does. Among the ranks of his sixteen-unit detachment, the pawn is treated as fodder to distract the enemy while the more senior units position themselves for victory. He knows his place, but this knowledge does nothing to alleviate the dread blossoming from his base to his tapered neck. The novice pawn is still trying to force macabre images of his imminent death from his mind as the sun rises over the hill opposite his detachment's position, revealing the enemy forces stationed there with excruciating slowness. 
 
 The pawn barely has time to notice the symmetry of the opposing forces before the battle is thrust upon him. The king urges him forward, and he jumps quickly at the command, moving out ahead of his peers. He stumbles twice without slowing his advance. If only he could see out from under this damn helmet. Oh well, the enemy are easy enough to see, their white garb reflecting in the day's early light. All thoughts of fear have escaped him since his charge began, his mind floods instead with visions of heroism, a single pawn turning the tide of the battle. An enemy knight bounds overhead, barely noticing the pawn in his hunt for more valuable targets. Cries of battle and the metallic clang of steel against steel fill the pawn's ears as the two forces clash in an organized frenzy around him. An enemy pawn moves to block the advance of a friendly bishop to his front right. He has a special disdain for the bishops of his detachment -- they seem to rarely come down from their pedestals long enough to fight -- but he takes advantage of the distraction and lashes out wildly at the enemy pawn with his sword. It is an amateur move, but the blow connects solidly with the enemy's neck. With the enemy pawn gasping on the field behind him, the pawn resumes his half-blind charge into the enemy lines. 
 
 Except the lines are n't there. The pawn suddenly realizes that the enemy have largely ignored him in their own advance across the field. With his dreams of heroism beginning to falter, the pawn feels a deep anger welling up inside as the battle continues behind him. It is hard enough to face the jeers from the senior units in his own detachment, and now he does n't even deserve the enemy's respect? His anger is red-hot by the time he turns to face the field. And then the anger gives way to power. This is real power, power that the pawn has never experienced before. As the pawn begins his slow march back into the fray, he feels his weakness stripped away as his body begins to grow. He feels strangely different, more elegant, as he slides through the back lines of the foe, using his new-found strength to cut down first a knight and then an enemy bishop. As he removes his sword from the bishop's chest, the battle around him comes to an abrupt halt. The enemy king is surrounded and is already negotiating terms for his release. Those kings do n't waste any time. The pawn, returning to his detachment, receives a mixed reaction from the gathered units. His fellow pawns try to hide their grins as the senior units, with looks of wonderment on their faces, begin to each fall to a knee. The pawn casts a glance down at his body and reels back temporarily in embarrassment. He'll have to find a wardrobe more befitting a queen.
