Robin & Talbot

In winter, the cold wind bites, but it is the damp that chills. Sheets of frost cling against the sunlight.

Layer upon layer a man braces himself. Shirt, sweater, coat, hat; all worn with age. His armor, like him, have served for too many winters already and seem to not have continuity for even one more. Thick, black boots slide on, one foot and two. Snap goes another lace. The man sighs, and continues. Maybe shorter grows his time as well. Maybe he is not even due one more winter.

The doubt he feels for his time uneases him. He is a man of belief. It is what sustains him. He would not know anything else. There is no other force driving him ahead except the belief that his continuation is as it should be.

It was his belief that saved him during times of revolution, and faith in purpose that led him to this little island in a new world, and to this new life. And it is this purpose that has sustained him through so many days, eternal moons, and endless winters. It his belief in something better, and his role in achieving that place that keeps him moving forward without the knowledge of for whom or what he waits.

He steps out onto the stone stoop of the brownstone and stands perfectly still at the top step. He looks only straight ahead and waits as the door opens again behind him. Out steps another.

Not his match, he is of slighter build and fairer appearance, but this man does  share his partner's seemingly inconsequential position. This friend has less repose, but stands straighter and seems to move every step and if to a beat, with a grace that stands out against his companion's bulk.

The two man stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment, frosting their lungs with the cold morning air. The grey wind whistles off the drifts and down the empty sidewalk as the pair begin to move in unison, unspeaking. None of the sparse morning commuters turn a head to notice the dusty men walking their way through winter.

The two men walk on through the city without speaking, and if there was any one observing observing them, it would seem as if noiseless.  But there are no greetings from neighbors or invitations, as if they were ghosts. The pair simply keep moving down the block as they do every morning.

Left, then right, then straight for a while; the men continue their daily journey. Slowly the houses around them grow larger and better tended. Soon there is more traffic on the streets. They pass a coffeeshop where the people of the city dart in and out. Cars slide past and taxis ferry the city's population on their morning duties. The men take notice of the goings on around them, and are in turn ignored. One more block up, and they pass unbothered through a large gate, and into the park.

Choosing an uncleared path, the fresh powder floats around them, but does little to deter their progress. The small, frozen tables, quiet  in a corner of the park even during sunny summer afternoons, are evn more camouflaged by the current climate, but the pair in their heavy wool coats arrive at their destination anyway and begin to clear the little benches and tabletop. Soon enough, there appears an oasis in the snow and the little stone table, grey and worn, matches the men who have been called there.

They sit, and each of the men pull a small treasure pack from pouches under wrap from the elements. Opening the treasure packs, the men each line up their pieces; knights, castles, kings & queens, and a row of pawns each, and the game begins.