#ctvgexchange

It hadn’t hit him yet. Anish was sure that it would in good time, but everything still felt normal. Like he’d made it through yet another Wijk, and only somewhat worse for the wear. The wind hadn’t blown him away, though that certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d won some games. Drawn some games. But things were different this time. Because this time, the trophy that sat innocuously on Jereon’s desk would be going home with Anish. It had taken him a good few tries, but he’d done it at last. Anish Giri was the Champion at Wijk aan Zee.

Well, Anish Giri was unofficially the champion at Wijk aan Zee. Technically speaking, things wouldn’t be official until the last of the results came in. Which meant they were waiting for Parham, Levon, Magnus, and Arjun. The results weren’t exactly in doubt any longer, but the games weren’t quite over yet. And so perhaps Anish wasn’t quite the champion yet.

Olga seemed rather unconvinced. Anish’s dear companion had watched the tense moments of Jorden’s game from Anish’s lap, barely even blinking, but once it had been over and done with she had retreated to what passed for a patch of sun. Anish didn’t imagine it was any warmer than the rest of Jereon’s office, but Olga lazed in it all the same. For all she didn’t exactly look the part, Anish’s daemon was so often more of an overgrown housecat than anything else.

She was certainly the smallest of the cat daemons Anish usually saw. And unlike all the other cat daemons, she actually fit under Anish’s chair during tournaments. Not that the others didn’t try to cram themselves under said chairs, but Olga was the only one who ever properly managed it.

Anish almost dropped his phone when the door opened, and he certainly lost his place in the twitter doomscroll. He’d have to make sure he didn’t miss a congratulatory message from anyone important later. Because as much as he wasn’t the most beloved figure in the chess world, the denizens were still lining up to congratulate him in that performative way of theirs, even if a good many of them were most certainly typing the messages with clenched teeth.

Anish isn’t quite sure who he had been expecting to open the door in the moment. Jereon would still be busy as the last of the games weren’t quite done, and the media that were here knew better than to trespass on Jereon’s space. Fenrir, however, had no such compunctions.

It was something of an endless joke that the young Magnus Carlsen had named his daemon after the great wolf of Norse mythology, what with the fact that said daemon had settled into a black panther, but it’s not the great cat that catches Anish’s eye at first. It’s the rusty-red hen in the panther’s mouth.

Peter Heine Nielsen’s daemon is an objectively obnoxious bird. Anish supposes that he and the rest of the chess world should probably be grateful that Peter’s daemon is a hen rather than a rooster, but no one seemed to have gotten that memo to the hen. It was about as cantankerous as its master was on twitter, and even that might have been an understatement. It took a lot to get a daemon banned from the playing hall. Biting one's opponents would sometimes do it, but not always. Hens couldn’t really bite, but Peter Heine’s hen was still categorically banned from just about every tournament’s playing hall all the same. A fact which he never ceased to complain about on twitter if he ever ran out of other issues to prattle on about.

Anish’s fingers move quickly. On instinct, almost. The picture is comical in its own way. Fenrir looks like a fox that has stuffed its mouth with more birds than should be possible for it to carry, but in truth it was just that Peter’s hen was so obnoxiously large.

Trouble in paradise?

Anish sends the tweet off quickly and locks his phone. Let the masses feast on that. Perhaps there was some truth to the rumor Anish had caught wind of that Magnus and Peter had been arguing. Something about Magnus blaming Peter for his loss against Anish and Peter none-too-subtly hinting that perhaps if Magnus bothered to actually repeat files then his opening outcomes might be a bit better.

Fenrir might remind Anish of a fox in the moment, but a moment later Magnus’ daemon seemed rather more like a terrier, shaking the hen back and forth, more like one would do with a rat than a bird. Perhaps Magnus was a good bit angrier than anyone had suspected. That tended to happen when he came up just short, and Magnus would view his result at this Wijk as coming up just short.

With the hen suitably subdued - only weakly flapping one wing and not even making much noise - Fenrir almost pranced over to where Olga was lazing in the sun. Anish’s daemon wasn’t asleep, and Anish could tell by looking at her that she was tense and ready to spring away at a moment’s notice. Which given that it was Fenrir in front of her wasn’t exactly a surprise. Magnus’ daemon certainly earned the title, and he was large enough to throw his weight around with the others, but most especially with Olga. Not dissimilar to the way that Magnus did at the chessboard, really.

But instead of startling Olga into jumping halfway to the ceiling in a moment of fright, Fenrir rather unceremoniously dumped Peter’s hen on the floor and headbutted the bird in Olga’s direction. Said bird was evidently more stunned than Anish had first thought, because it moved like an exceptionally drunk man. Stumbling and only taking two steps before falling to the floor.

Fenrir’s chuff was a soft sound, but it sent a shiver of something Anish didn’t quite want to put a name to running down his spine. For all the chess world as a whole was more familiar with Fenrir’s snarl - usually paired with bared teeth - Anish had heard the chuff before. Not often, but often enough to know it. Magnus’ daemon could be almost as single minded as Magnus. Fenrir just preferred tuna tartare as his vice.

Olga gave a half-hearted hiss of sorts. One that could have been directed to Fenrir or to the hen between them. Anish’s daemon wasn’t quite as much of a selfish jerk as Magnus’ daemon, but such things were in degrees. Olga had her own habits, and with how small she was she could be quite the terror. No water bottle was ever safe from her, and while Fenrir was no doubt more likely to decide that a walkway was his nap space, no matter what anyone else thought, Olga was more likely to dissuade a reaching hand with her claws. 

Not that the policy of responding with claws was limited to hands, of course. Jorden’s golden retriever daemon - an animal that to be fair wasn’t exactly intelligent - had gotten some rather impressive clawmarks on his nose for the crime of disturbing Olga’s sleep at least twice.

The hen stumbled back to its feet and took an unbalanced step, then two more. But before it could take a fourth, Olga’s elegant paw shot out and gave the obnoxiously large bird a full body blow, sending it tumbling to the floor once more with a rather pathetic sound.

Anish would happily admit that he was grinning as Fenrir chuffed and gave the hen another whack with his own paw, this time swatting it into the wall. Trouble in paradise indeed. The rusty red feathers that were now on the floor of Jereon’s office were simply the proverbial cherry on top of things.

The daemons continued their little makeshift game under Anish’s watchful eyes for a few minutes. It was a cruel game to be sure, but so was chess. So Anish couldn’t be faulted for smirking as Olga pounced on the hen properly. It was about time that Peter finally got his just desserts. A chicken that kept company with a panther was bound to end up as lunch eventually. And Magnus was such a fan of football. Of course he’d find an excuse for faults in his own play.

The hen isn’t so much forgotten, but little by little Olga seems a little less wary of Fenrir. Standing closer to him, then brushing her shoulder softly against him in a way that had Anish a little incredulous and Fenrir happily chuffing and mirroring the action. Did he really dislike Peter so much that his daemon would be practically flirting with Magnus’ over the torment of Peter’s daemon?

Anish didn’t have much time to consider that line of thought, because the door to Jereon’s office opened once more, this time revealing a somewhat sheepish looking Magnus Carlsen. Fenrir and Olga paid the new arrival absolutely no mind. Fenrir was still chuffing while Olga purred and let the large panther curl up around her. It was funny, really, to watch as Magnus’ eyes found little bits of the room. Peter’s hen, in a heap against the wall. Anish’s phone, held loosely in his hand. The daemons behaving so scandalously. And the trophy that would be Anish’s this time, sitting on Jereon’s desk. Gone were the days of Anish’s ever-increasing army of second place plaques. Now they would at least have a king to lead them, though Anish liked to think he had enough of an appreciation for his own luck to expect the army of plaques to increase by a few more before his career ended.

Magnus’ eyes flicked back to the pair of cats, then to Anish, then to floor, and then to Anish once more. He looked plaintive. Nervous. Like he didn’t know if he was supposed to be happy or sad or mad.

Anish stood out of habit more than anything. He didn’t like looking up at Magnus in a literal sense when he didn’t have to. Because despite what the cameras at the boards always made it look like, Anish was every bit as tall as Magnus. Usually taller by dint of better posture if nothing else.

The handshake also feels habitual. Like a chessboard will simply appear for them, never mind that they don’t actually need one.

“Congratulations, Anish.” Magnus’ voice is soft, and he’s smiling in a shy sort of way as the words linger in Anish’s ear.

“Thank you.” Anish’s response is automatic. He’s a good little media friendly chess player. 

Magnus glanced over at the daemons, then back to Anish.

Finally, he nudged Fenrir’s tail with his foot and the collective pile of daemons hissed back.

“Your game was beautiful.” Magnus sat down on the sofa, looking at Anish expectantly. Anish sat. Magnus wasn’t normally like this. Magnus was usually the one accepting heaps of praise - worship, even - for his play. And he certainly wasn’t the sort to be dolling out compliments to anyone’s chess skills lightly.

“Thank you.” On some level it feels so strange to be thanking Magnus. Anish always tried not to be like the prodigies that worshiped the ground Magnus walked on. But there is something about Magnus’ words. About the fact that it’s Magnus who is praising Anish’s chess. Who is looking at him with soft eyes. Who is keeping him company until their daemons come to their senses.

Anish doesn’t know what the feeling in his chest is called. It’s an ephemeral thing. Fluttering like a bird that longs more than anything for freedom. 

Peter’s demon of a daemon chooses that moment to finally make a sound. It’s quiet by the standards of the rotund hen, but it’s plenty loud enough to break whatever spell had been building. The clock striking midnight, perhaps.

Olga was bounding into Anish’s arms a moment later, tucking her head under his chin as she so often liked to. Fenrir looked rather bereft in the way that only he could for a moment, but he seemed to accept his fate, trudging over to the hen and picking it up in his mouth. Ever the drama queen, he let his tail drag on the floor as he did so.