Grax had guarded bridges for forty-three winters. This was his seventh bridge, or maybe eighth. Hard to remember. The old bridges blurred together after a while, like trying to recall which sunrise was which.
This bridge was good. Stone arch, solid foundations, nice echo underneath. He'd claimed it two seasons back when his last bridge fell down. Not his fault. Rivers rise, bridges fall. The way of things. That last fight where he'd used one of the pillars as a sledge had nothing to do with it.
He sat in his favorite spot where the arch met the bank, a hollow worn smooth by years of previous guardians. Morning ritual came first. Check the stones for cracks. Chase away the goats that tried to nest underneath. Practice his challenging voice.
"None shall pass," he rumbled to himself. No, too quiet. "NONE SHALL PASS." Better. The birds scattered, complaining. Birds always complained.
Then he heard footsteps. Two people coming. One walked heavy and sure. The other walked lighter and talked. Lots of talking.
"...completely unreasonable," the talker was saying. "Boots shouldn't need 'breaking in.' They should just fit properly from the start. It's basic craftsmanship."
"Mm," said the heavy walker. Patient sound. Grax knew that sound well.
He readied himself. Timing mattered. Jump out too early, they run away. Too late, they're already across. Had to catch them right at the bridge's edge. That was proper guardian work.
The steps came closer. Closer. Now.
Grax rose to his full height, nine feet of gray-green muscle and honest troll strength. He spread his arms wide and boomed the words every bridge guardian knew from birth:
"NONE SHALL PASS!"
The smaller human squeaked and grabbed for her walking stick. But the tall one just stopped. Looked at him. Tilted her head.
"Why not?" she asked, like he'd said the bridge was closed for repair.
Grax blinked. In forty-three winters, maybe five people had asked why. Most ran or fought or tried to bargain. This one was in no hurry.
"Because... I guard bridge," he said, struggling for the right words. "Is what I do."
"Guard it from what?"
"From crossers. From wrong crossing. From..." How to explain? It was like explaining why water was wet. "Bridge is important. Not just stones. Is... passage. Should mean something."
The tall woman nodded slowly. "It should be earned."
"Yes!" Grax felt relief. She understood. "You know bridges."
"I know a little more every day. I'm Reyn. This is Venn."
The smaller one, Venn, still gripped her stick. "You're not going to eat us?"
"Eat?" Grax was offended. "Don't eat talkers. Only eat goats. Sometimes fish. Once ate whole deer, but gave me stomach troubles."
"Oh. That's... good to know."
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Grax studied them properly. The tall one stood like a warrior, weight balanced, ready but not threatening. Big sword on her back. Very big. The kind of sword that had stories. That made stories.
"You're warrior," he said.
She nodded. "I'm on pilgrimage."
Ah. Grax had heard of these. Warriors who wandered, doing good things. His cousin Brix had met one once. Lost an arm, he did. Said they were cursed to help people. Sounded exhausting.
"Hero type," he concluded.
"No, that's for children’s tales. Just doing what needs doing."
"Same thing." Grax had met heroes before. They all said they weren't heroes while doing hero things. Very confusing.
"We need to cross," the small one said. "We're traveling to Rivier. It's important."
"Rivier?" Grax frowned. "Bad place now. Red hand people there. Make trouble."
"The Crimson Hand?" Reyn leaned forward. "What kind of trouble?"
Grax scratched his tusks, thinking. "They come by sometimes. Want to pay gold for crossing. I say no, need challenge. They get angry. I throw them in river." He smiled at the memory. "Big splash. One tried to stab me. Threw him extra far."
"So you've fought them?"
"Not fight. Just throw. Is different." Fighting was complicated. Throwing was simple. Grax liked simple.
"Will you let us pass?" Reyn asked. ?Or throw us over, if that suits you better.?
The small one, Venn, squeaked.
The question hung in the air. Grax wanted to say yes. They seemed like good people. But guardian ways were guardian ways. Can't just let people cross because you like them. That way leads to bridges with no meaning.
"Need challenge first," he said. "Is proper way. You choose type. Riddle, combat, or contest."
"What kind of contest?"
"Strength contest. Arm wrestle. Rock throwing. Lifting heavy things." He gestured at a nearby boulder. "I lift that yesterday. Good workout."
Reyn smiled. "Arm wrestling sounds fair."
Grax smiled. Good choice. Clean and simple. He just had to try not to break her arm. They found a flat stone for a table. Grax sat on the ground, Reyn on a rock, making their arms level.
"One round enough?" he asked.
"Best of three?"
Grax considered. Three was a good number. Solid number. "Three, yes."
They clasped hands. Hers were small in his but hard with callus. Worker hands. Fighter hands. Good hands.
First round went to Grax. She was strong, though. Stronger than any human he'd wrestled. Made him actually try, which was nice. Been a while since he'd had to try.
"You're very strong," he said, pleased.
"So are you." She flexed her fingers. "Ready?"
Second round, she'd learned his rhythm. Smart. Waited for him to push, then used his own force against him. His hand hit stone.
"One and one," she said. "Final round?"
The last round became a real contest. Their arms locked in the center, trembling with effort. Grax felt sweat on his brow. Good sweat. Honest sweat.
"Question," Reyn said through clenched teeth. "Why guard bridges? Really?"
"Don't know," Grax admitted, straining. "Just... need to. Feel wrong when not guarding. Gives purpose."
"I understand," she said. "I feel the same about my pilgrimage. Can't walk past people who need help."
"That's hero curse," Grax said. "Very sad. No cure."
?Wouldn’t say curse. As cursed as having to guard. Maybe just... who we are."
"Still exhausting," Grax pointed out.
She laughed, and in that moment of distraction, surged with renewed strength. Not more power, but better focus. Like she'd remembered why she needed to cross. Grax's hand touched stone.
He stared at it, then burst out laughing. Good laugh from deep in his belly. "You win! Good contest. Best in many moons."
They stood, both rubbing their arms. "Thank you for the challenge," Reyn said.
"Thank you for accepting." Grax stepped aside. "Bridge is yours. Cross with my blessing."
As they walked onto the stones, Venn whispered, "Why didn't you just force our way across? We're in a hurry."
"Force our way past someone doing their job?" Reyn sounded confused. "That would be wrong. He guards bridges. It's what trolls do here in the west. Isn’t it?"
"But we have urgent business in Rivier."
"And we proved we deserve to cross. That's how it works."
Grax watched them go, careful with their steps, respectful of the bridge. Good crossers. At the far side, Reyn turned back.
"Guard it well, Grax."
"Always do," he called back.
Then they were gone, heading toward Rivier and whatever trouble waited there. Grax settled back into his spot. The birds returned, chattering their complaints. He threw a pebble at them. Missed. Birds were tricky.
Sun felt warm. Contest made him happy. Good to meet someone who understood about having to do things. Most people did things for reasons. Gold, fame, fear. But some people, some things you just had to do. Like guarding bridges. Like helping strangers.
He dozed in the warmth, dreaming of bridges that guarded themselves and heroes who could walk past problems without stopping. Silly dreams. Neither could exist.
Nature of things.
Somewhere down the road, a hero who refused the title continued toward a town that needed helping, because that's what she did. And under his bridge, a guardian settled in for another day of doing what he'd always done, because that's what he was.
Both cursed. Both content.
Strange how that worked.
What would happen if you arm-wrestled a troll?
