He sat outside upon the balcony watching the diminishing rays bring to light this hectic, noisy road. The curtains remained undrawn behind him as he observed the final reddened images of the setting sun. He observed, for observation was his essence. The city observed from afar, its early evening travellers’ lights emerging out of darkening shadows. The stars observed above in predictable circling passage, dimmer portents dulled by city glow and dust. The stars observed, a single mind, a single man below, one of many set against their eternal vastness.

Thomas was satisfied. He had spent the day firstly in writing, then in appreciating the magnitude of his decision. The work was complete, he had resolved to do no more.

"Twenty-six chapters derived from the last four years research into the nine hundred and forty two verses. Who else would see the beauty in their number?" He knew the answer but still it pleased him to dwell upon the numerology. "Three circles, a hundred units wide giving three hundred and fourteen places on each rim, nine hundred and forty two verses in all. Three circles to protect the code. Two are not enough. Only the third confirms which is right and wrong."

Thomas inhaled the evening air, light wisps of leaden breeze flowing through the nearby trees. No grass, just a few leafless ashes, that in their naked exposure linked him to the universe of stars and men, the same three spheres his novel bound.

His room still lit by the incessant flicker of the ongoing analysis. Long hours of rapid boolean searches diminishing time while he read and thought. Now, his papers stored away, the end result of thought possessed him. He would not be alone for some time yet but it didn’t matter. He was used to the disinterest of others in this remote task but once more he would enjoy the warmth of its contemplation.

She is safe, she also was destined to be safe now that the words are in their proper place. There is enough written to show it has been resolved, enough for that antecedent man.

Four years of research and of writing. Four years in which he explored forgotten concepts of time and mind. Now it was finished far more would he see of her, far more feel the other’s presence. And she was safe, that he already knew.

Four years of research that ignored the dire nature of the prophecies. Four years underlying the writing and maybe more to come. There could be more writing based on these visions, the visions themselves would not abate. There was still time left in his life but no other words would he pen in relation to this distant past. He knew the subtlety of his words. In writing of the past he helped prepare its course, helped, not changed it and brought into being that which must be. He had used the past well and this gave him pleasure, for his work would succeed because of it. Succeed when it was needed. So the use of the past ensures the future, a neat twist bringing the end back to the beginning.

But there is need for more. Now she is safe, his part is played and mine will take its course.

Thomas thoughts returned to the impact of his choice. He knew its magnitude He knew that human nature would allow few others to understand or even contemplate its meaning. "They will be more interested in what I have written, not what I chose to do. And of those few who question the fantasy even less will ponder on reality.

"But why should they?" he mused, "for they can not know the answer unless they know the task. They cannot know unless they share my hidden needs. I alone was with those beings of the past and know the way we learned. I alone know what was involved, the risks we took and the anguish of our minds."

Thomas lingered on the thoughts of them, the future beings that were both the source and reason for his work. He found no pleasure in foreseeing future times but drew exhilaration from the special power, the special bond between himself and those it enjoined to him.

"But that has not ended. My aims are not fulfilled. Although she is safe I now have more mortal souls in growing need of me."

THE END.