The pawn remembers.
It remembers its king as general and marshall, emperor and shah. It remembers the rook, those mighty stone towers, as robed and screaming cavalry, riding camels in a vicious desert. It remembers its queen, beautiful and terrible, as counselor and advisor, not as warrior queen but as lackey and sycophant. It remembers being moved by ancient lords, by shogun in their battle tents, by the people of a hundred nations, in a hundred generations.
And it remembers, once as always, when it was a scared little boy, clutching his weapon on a strange and brutal battlefield.