The Bridge

He had stayed up until dawn the night before, sketching his idea. The bridge would solve so many problems. No longer would people have to scurry down and clamber up the walls of the massive canyon to get from one village to another. No longer would food and supplies be lost down that crevasse. The brigands and thieves of the canyon would be hard pressed to ply their trade in such open territory. But first, he had to be sure it would work.

As he pushed aside the blanket and stretched in the noonday sun, he mentally scrutinized his blueprint. He could remember every detail perfectly. The first realization had been that it was possible to span such a gap. The canyon was both wide and deep, it was impossible to build piles all the way down to the water below, the water was to strong, the distance too far, the conditions too perilous.

He felt a surge of pride as he considered his idea of a single span bridge, with no pillars or other supports, just a single simple arch accross the pit.

The sun shone into his workroom, where he had planned and tested so many schemes. Blue prints covered the walls, scraps of wood and tools lay everywhere, glistening in the light. He pulled back his chair, his eyes going to the desk before him.

The plans were destroyed.

They had been burned, the ashes lay in place of the plan that would have meant so much. In the middle of the remains a note was pinned to the table, a spike deeply driven into its once pristiine surface.

"Dear Solver,

Some problems are best left alone. Save your talents for other matters.

- A Friend"

His body tensed in frustration, anger at whoever had written this.

The brigands that haunt the canyon would lose much be such a bridge. But he swore, then and there, on the tools of his trade, that he would build it, alive or dead.

Old Friends

He sat at his desk, depressed. What was he thinking about? I don't know. I am his Guardian Spirit. I was long ago assigned to him by the Great One, and I watch him by night and by day. I can deduce much, for I know much, but I cannot read his secret thoughts.

He does not know I exist, though I believe he suspects it.

A note was delivered to him today, unsigned and unmailed, it must have been placed there by hand.

"Do you remember your old friends? We will be arriving shortly. Prepare."

I tried to think who they could be. Why would he be distressed at this epistle? Old friends visiting should be an occasion of joy. Who could be coming? My charge's life had been a happy, if uneventful one. He had no enemies beyond the ordinary caliber, rivals, unfriends, competitors. Never anyone of import. Perhaps he had been mistaken for someone else? No, I think not. Something about the letter told me the writer knew my charge.

Unless the one I guard is... One of the Recurrences.

I know of them, but not who they are. They are sometimes found, but lost in death, save to themselves. The Recurrences are nearly immortal, if anyone may be. They die often, but never for good, and will be reborn until the End of Days.

My mind was filled with many clues, many hints in the past of this truth. He was one of them.

The sender of this note must know him... Perhaps better than I. Some associate of his past existence, some enemy or nemesis from his from an earlier life.

I checked the door with my invisible hands, the window with my invisible eyes.

I must protect him.

Power

I bend over the gasket again. I feel like I've already adjusted this one a dozen times tonight, but it needs tightening again. My wrench, named Orville, is so worn that my fingers are imprinted in the iron handle, but is still solid as ever. I run back to the main control panel, swinging levers to balance the pressure and mentally noting low pressure areas in the system. We need all the power we can get tonight.

I reflect, as I slide down the ladders to tighten the gaskets in the lower levels, how strange it is that it should all come down to one night. All this toil could be undone so easily. We are lifting the Spire tonight.

Originally we'd planned to raise the Spire in the daylight, but the wind today had been too strong, only dying out after sunset. It had been built on its side, and through the whole process everyone remembered that all could be undone by lifting it erect. The Power Machine is powerful, but unreliable. If the power fails, the Spire falls, and all our labor is undone.

I check myself mid-slide down another ladder by locking Orville between the struts, then I frenziedly claw my way upward. An explosion is the last thing you want to hear down here.

I get to a catwalk, I have a view of the entire Power Machine.

A whole wing bad blown, only eight were left in operation. The steam was already clouding my vision. I would die if I couldn't stop the leak.

I ran to one of the main gaskets, swinging Orville into motion, trying to check the flow if not stop it. The gasket was jammed. The thought of sabotage flashes through my panicking mind.

It's going to be a bad night.

The Fire

The fire was spreading, Aldren knew. It had already claimed hundreds. Soon it would engulf the entire city. From there it would spread even more quickly.

He wandered the streets of the city, watching its progress. Others would have seen no fire, but in his wizard's eyes it blazed brightly. The Cleansing Fire had come to Fannen City.

Burn, burn on! he exhorted it in his mind. It had been a long and a hard quest to bring and start the fire here. Many good men, mages and others, had died.

But now it blazed in the very heart of the Dark Ones' dominions. And he saw their power was no match for it.

All around him were men and women who, all their lives, had walked with darkened minds and deadened hearts. Thoughtless, hopeless, with no chance of knowing freedom unless, by the strongest of spells, they had been rescued by one already free, and brought beyond the scope of the cloud of evil. But without great protection, the rescuers themselves would fall under its influence. Its strength seemed irresistible.

But as they caught the Cleansing Fire, they were freed.