One Shot: The Tinkerer

Molten steel ran down the edges of his new project. His welding machine cast its fire onto the alloy he himself had created and formed new shapes. Slowly the pillar grew before him. Build into it was a staircase out of this alloy to allow him to climb up to the tower more easily. He had to keep an eye on the movements of his enemy. His tinkering had allowed him to build a fortress out of steel. A dozen new alloys had he created to build lasting walls, flexible gates and dark red towers. He had collected ores and bought metals of traders to accomplish this.

After the war had ended his sole goal was to stay alive and to create a place where he would be left alone of these political shenanigans his brothers and sister had played. It was their doing that they had waged war for so long, destroying the plant life of the beautiful island in the process. He never had been a warrior, but the war had forced him to become one. Even now he was caught by nightmares of all this bloodbaths. Cruel and long had the war waged, killing some of his siblings in the process – but the rest was still hungry for power, keen to conquer all that remained.

It had taken a lot of effort to separate from them. They had spend an eternity together, but the war had made him realize, that his path was another. Never had he imagined turning his back on these people. A dark shadow engulfed his heart since his departure. Loneliness. That was it, what clouded his days. His trust into others had been shattered. Whenever one of the brokers of the free-lands came to his Fortress he had his knife ready – just in case. He never slept deeply anymore. To big was his fear to be back-stabbed again. In the evening when the sun began to set, he always walked around his Fortress making sure every gate was locked, every booby trap was activated an not a soul could come in without him noticing.

The smell of burnt carbon filled the air, as he continued to weld this staircase. More swiftly than some-people could fold paper he created wonders of metals, bending it to his will with heat, air and fire. His siblings had him respected for this skill, he was it that had forged their masks, those powerful relics lost in time and war. If they’d ever come looking for him it would be because of the masks.

While he was caught in this train of thought he heard a noise outside the gates. A rock being knocked over or something similar. In an instant he put down his tools, jumped up on the ledge, pulled himself up and climbed like a monkey on the topmost viewpoint of the tower. His eagle eyes gazed into the vast wasteland before him. For miles and miles he saw nothing but burned planes, where thick forests had grown only ash remained. They’ve scorched everything. A pain stung inside his chest as he remembered that he also played a part in this madness. Between the crater and desolate rocks a figure was moving.

‘Master-tinkerer?’

The voice was shallow, but of a young man. The Tinkerer was sure it didn’t belong to one of his brothers. Just in case he pulled out his gun and pointed at the figure.

‘Come forth in the light, so I may see who seeks me.’, he barked. His voice full of power and threat. He did not remember, when he had last spoken.

The man moved into the light; he was tall grown but still young in appearance. It seemed like he had just reached manhood. Clad in red and yellow armor with a backpack over his shoulders he looked up to the Tinkerer. Only as the veteran saw the mask of the young man, something reminded him of the war.

‘What do you want?’

‘I bring a gift and a request.’

‘A request?’

‘I want to learn from you the noble art of forging. Without a teacher I’ve only come so far.’

The young man sat down his backpack and pulled out a sword of dark red alloy. Right in the middle was a stream of bright silver, as if it had been reforged in this place. The Tinkerer knew this weapon.

‘My sword?’

‘Yes... I’ve tried to mend it, but it's not sturdy yet.’

With the weapon came a lot of flashbacks from the war days. He remembered how he had fought in the narrow streets of their capital, how this blade had danced and slain their enemies. Then something came up from deep down his memory. A young boy lost in the streets surrounded by enemy soldiers. The scream of fear had drawn his attention back in the days. With haste he had taken on the enemy force. With blade and gun he had been able to fend them of and defend the boy. But the last soldier standing had put up a honorable fight. His morning tail had had quite the punch and the Tinkerers sword broke as he protected the boy from one of his blows. The soldier finally fell to the gun of the Tinkerer. Seen that the boy would live he had left the scene of the fight – leaving the broken blade behind to meet his siblings at the new front. Now he knew what had become of the boy.

‘You are Calix, aren’t you?’

‘I am.’

Somewhere deep inside the old man felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: compassion.

‘How did you find me, son?’

And then Calix began to tell his tale. How he had been wandering since the war had ended. Living of the land in search for the man, that had saved him from death. From other wanderers he had heard tales of a strange old hermit wielding flame and building a fortress of iron on the southern most ledge of the mountain pass. So he had made his journey here, in hopes that he could return the blade.

Where had been ice and threat since so long, the Tinkerers heart seemed to come back to life, when he heard this story. Maybe there was still good in this world. Finally he lowered his gun. Was he able to trust again? He was not sure, but he couldn’t let Calix go back to capital without granting him one good nights rest.

‘Come around. I’m gonna lower the gate to have a look at this work of yours.’