Chapter Text
ONE - Not Quite A Corpse
It began in a place where one might well expect it to end - an alleyway in The Shades. A dim, sickly yellow street lamp barely illuminated the scene, as if the light were scared of what it might see. And, well it might be. Lying face down in the alley there was a man, although from the blood, this wasn’t going to be a man for much longer at all. This was about to be a corpse. Heard by nobody came the click of bone on wet cobblestone, and the faint rustle of a robe as old as life itself. Death took out the man’s hourglass, leaned against his scythe and waited.
And waited.
‘HUM,’ he said, in a voice like a mausoleum.
He gave the hourglass an experimental shake.
‘BLOODY THING,’ he said, after a moment. ‘SORRY ABOUT THIS - THIS IS THE SECOND TIME IT’S HAPPENED IN A MONTH. THOUGHT THE FIRST TIME WAS A FLUKE, BUT PERHAPS THERE’S A PROBLEM ON MY END.’
The not-quite-a-corpse groaned, but didn’t move.
‘DON’T TRY TO GET UP JUST YET,’ Death told him, kindly, ‘I’M AFRAID YOU’RE NOT QUITE DEAD. IT’LL ONLY HURT LIKE BUGGERY AND REALLY THERE’S NO POINT, UNTIL I CAN… OH, COME ON.’
The man painfully moved his head anyway, and looked into two blue pinpricks of light, two ancient and eternal little flames, illuminating the smooth skull of the Grim Reaper.
‘OH,’ sighed Death, ‘YOU MOVED ANYWAY. NOBODY EVER LISTENS TO MY ADVICE. HURTS, DOES IT?’
The man grunted.
‘WELL, THAT AT LEAST WILL BE OVER IN A TICK. JUST AS SOON AS I…’ Death flicked the hourglass, and sighed. ‘HAS ANYBODY PLACED A CURSE ON YOU, THAT YOU KNOW OF? IT’S NOT LIKE YOU’RE IMMORTAL OR ANYTHING - I’D KNOW IF YOU WERE. IT’S JUST… IT’S ODD. I COULD HAVE SWORN IT WAS YOUR TIME, BUT LOOK. ACTUALLY - DON’T LOOK, IT’LL GIVE AWAY HOW MUCH TIME THIS SILLY THING RECKONS YOU HAVE LEFT NOW, AND MORTALS NEVER REACT WELL TO SEEING THAT. MY POINT IS - I WAS SURE IT WAS EMPTY, AND NOW IT’S NOT.’
Death crouched down, and studied the bit of the man’s face that was visible beyond the cobbles and the blood and the mud and the shit he’d been left in.
‘ANOTHER AGATEAN, JUST LIKE THE LAST ONE. MAYBE THERE’S SOMETHING IN THAT. I’M GOING TO HAVE TO LOOK INTO THIS.’
The man uttered something that sounded like a grunted question mark.
‘I’M SORRY,’ Death told him, genuinely. ‘I KNOW IT HURTS. IT SEEMS THAT I CAN’T HELP YOU YET, AFTER ALL.’ The blue flames glimmered with what appeared to be a bright, cheery inspiration. ‘ONE THING I CAN DO IS LET YOU KNOW - THE CAT GOT AWAY. SHE’S GOING TO BE FINE. HER HOURGLASS IS SMALL, BUT STILL ONLY ONE FIFTH GONE. SHE LOST HALF OF HER TAIL, BUT SHE CAN LIVE A PERFECTLY NORMAL LIFE LIKE THAT - SHE STILL HAS ENOUGH COUNTERBALANCE, YOU SEE.’ Death paused. ‘PERHAPS ANOTHER THING I CAN DO FOR YOU IS TO SAY “WELL DONE”. YOU KNEW THAT THERE WERE TOO MANY OF THEM, AND THEY HAD KNIVES AND A BLOODLUST WORKED UP FROM TORTURING A DEFENCELESS CREATURE, AND YOU INTERVENED ANYWAY. ALWAYS NICE TO MEET ANOTHER CAT LOVER.’
The man tried to push himself onto all fours. Every noise he made betrayed a new pain.
‘I LIKE THEIR LITTLE FUZZY WUZZY FEETIES BEST,’ added Death. ‘AND THEIR FUNNY LITTLE WHISKERS. WHAT DO YOU LIKE BEST ABOUT THEM?’
‘Erthng’ mumbled the man, through a mouthful of blood.
‘“EVERYTHING”,’ clarified Death, with an approving nod. ‘GOOD ANSWER. I’M AFRAID I CAN’T HELP YOU UP. I WOULD IF I COULD.’
‘Srigh’, said the man. He managed to push himself into a semi-seated position, slumped with his back against a wall. ‘Whappns now?’
‘YOU GO ON LIVING, I’M AFRAID. AS I SAY, THIS ISN’T QUITE RIGHT, I SHALL LOOK INTO WHAT WENT WRONG, WITH YOU AND THE OTHER… I MEAN, AT LEAST YOU’RE NOT AS FAR GONE AS THE OTHER… WELL. IF IT’S A FAULT ON MY END AND I’M ABLE TO FIX IT, THEN DON’T WORRY, I SHALL BE OVER AS SOON AS NECESSARY, TO… YOU KNOW.’ Death indicated to the scythe. ‘UNTIL THEN, I’M NOT SURE. I’M AFRAID CLOSE BRUSHES WITH ME CAN ALSO CHANGE ONE. IT CAN MAKE MAGIC… AGITATED. IT MAY ACT DIFFERENTLY AROUND YOU.’ Death considered the not-dead man. ‘IT MAY ALREADY DO, IN FACT. YOU’RE NOT A WITCH, ARE YOU?’
The man shook his head.
Death looked at the man some more. ‘HAVE YOU CONSIDERED BECOMING ONE? YOU ALREADY LOOK LIKE A WITCH, AND YOU’VE GOT THE CAT THING GOING FOR YOU. DON’T WORRY ABOUT GENDER, I HEAR THEY’RE OPEN TO MAN ONES THESE DAYS. OR THERE’S ALWAYS WIZARDRY, BUT YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU’D BE INTO THE BREAKFASTS. ANYWAY. I’LL STOP RATTLING ON AND LET YOU GET ON WITH THINGS.’ Death turned to go, then paused and turned back again. ‘GOOD LUCK. I DO HOPE THIS HASN’T CAUSED YOU TOO MUCH BOTHER.’
The man managed a painful shrug.
Death still dithered. ‘YOU REALLY DID DO A GOOD THING, YOU KNOW. THANK YOU, SHOUTA.’
And, Death was gone, leaving behind only pain, and blood, and the stench of The Shades.
The man was able to push himself to his feet, with a lot of help from the nearby wall. He wasn’t scared of Death - that was interesting. He wasn’t angry at Death, either - that was even more surprising. He leaned against the wall, and took a few, painful, experimental steps. There was a witch he knew who could help him - well, she called herself a witch, at any rate. She didn’t live too far away. Only… gods, at this speed, maybe a couple of hours stumble through the streets?
He had met Death.
And Death had been, against all of his preconceptions, reasonable. Soothing. Kind. Shit - was he crying?
He had met Death, and Death had been just a really nice guy. It was frustrating, now that the moment had passed - infuriating, even. He’d had a bone to pick with Death, for some time now, but when the time had come, he’d felt too overwhelmed by Death’s surprising gentleness to share the few choice words he’d been saving up. Instead he’d dumbly accepted compliments and talked about cats. Stupid. Stupid!
What Death had said was still bothering him, too. His hourglass wasn’t working properly. Was that due to the… the Event? Death had mentioned someone else from Agatea with a faulty hourglass. That couldn’t be…?
No.
And what was all that about magic working weirdly around him, now? He didn’t feel magic acting weird around him, and magic on the Disc was everywhere, even in a stinking, slimy alley in the rotten heart of Ankh Morpork.
‘Well, well, well. Look what’s still alive.’
He recognised the faint Ramtops accent of the Cat Bothering Gang’s ringleader. His heart would have sunk if it hadn’t already been as low as a heart could go. Most of the gang had dispersed - some of them, he hoped, to attend to their wounds. He’d managed to knock a couple of them out and break a few more of their arms and legs before becoming overwhelmed. There was only the ringleader now, smoking a nasty little roll-up, and a young Troll that the ringleader was likely grooming to be his personal bodyguard. Besides a gratifying black eye, the ringleader was largely unscathed from the fight. In his current state, the man knew that he had no chance against the ringleader and a Troll.
‘Not so fast any more, are you?’ leered the ringleader. ‘Not so jumpy-jumpy sneaky-sneaky.’
‘Sneaky,’ echoed the Troll, as if the ringleader had just said something hilarious.
‘Gotta watch them Agateans, I always say, don’t I, Tuff?’
‘Gotta watch em.’
‘Sneaky bunch,’ said the ringleader. ‘And here this one is, still not dead. Can’t be having that.’
‘Nope,’ agreed the Troll.
The ringleader easily darted in front of the man, blocking his path. The Troll loomed behind him. There were ways out - scrabble up the wall and over the ringleader, or kick off the ringleader’s chest and backflip over the Troll’s shoulders - but those involved his body being considerably less mangled than it currently was.
‘Well,’ grinned the ringleader, ‘if fists and feet don’t work against your kind, I’ve got a solution.’ The ringleader pulled out a knife. It shimmered with magic. ‘Been wanting to use this for a while,’ he grinned, ‘ever since it, ah, fell off a cart.’
‘Magic weapon,’ mumbled the man, eyeing the thing.
‘Well done,’ replied the ringleader. ‘I tell you, when the Thieves Guild find out about this, they’ll change their tune. Stop pestering us for dues. The Choppers have magic weapons, The Choppers are to be respected and feared, and oi, what are you doing?’
Honestly, he wasn’t sure what he was doing. But as he focused on the magic knife, it… changed. The octarine glow faded away to nothing.
‘He’s eating the magic,’ said the Troll, in a tone that sounded frightened and offended in equal measures.
He wasn’t eating the magic. It definitely wasn’t going into him. The magic on the knife was just being sort of dampened down, like a wet cloth being put over a pan fire. His whole head tingled. Was he doing that? Putting the cloth on the pan?
‘It’s a witch or something,’ added the Troll. ‘Dimparcio said he looked like a witch, didn’t he? Look at his hair! Look at his eyes.’
‘Tuff,’ warned the ringleader, but his voice sounded worried.
‘I don’t like it, boss,’ fretted the Troll. ‘He’s eating all the magic off that thing! Elf magic! S’Dangerous! Dimparcio said you shouldn’t mess with magic knives, and he’s from Llamedos so he should know!’
‘Yeah, well I’m from Lancre, so I should know magic even more, and I say it’s…’ the ringleader trailed off.
The man tried taking a little step backwards. Magic or not, it was still very much a knife, it could still be used to stab him. As he’d calculated may be the case, the Troll was by now so spooked that she shuffled backwards to accommodate the man’s movements.
‘Tuff!’ warned the ringleader, but his tone was getting less and less sure of itself.
‘I don’t like it, boss,’ repeated the Troll. ‘Dimparcio was right. Shoulda listened. I’m… gonna… I’m gonna go and find him.’
Behind the man, the Troll turned and started hurrying away as quickly as a troll could be expected to move through a narrow alleyway. The ringleader growled with frustration, and also turned and ran away, throwing the now distinctly unmagical knife to the ground with a sad metallic clatter. With the immediate danger passed, the man slumped against the wall again, closed his eyes and groaned. He realised from the dry, itchy complaint of his eyes, that he hadn’t blinked while he’d been focussing on the knife. As soon as he closed his eyes, the tingle all around his head stopped. He felt his long hair fall back on his shoulders, which was weird because he hadn’t put it up at all. The Troll had said something about his hair, hadn’t she, and his eyes.
He opened his eyes again, and looked down at the knife that the ringleader had thrown. Now that he wasn’t intently focussing on the thing, it glowed again. It was still as magical as ever. His head didn’t tingle any more. He touched a lock of the hair that hung over his shoulder. Totally normal, if rather caked in blood and other unpleasant substances.
He picked up the knife, and tried focussing again. There came the tingle. The octarine fizzled out. With his free hand he reached for his hair, which was no longer on his shoulder. He found it, floating above his head, as if his hair was under the impression he was sinking underwater. He blinked hard again. The tingle stopped. His hair flopped back down. He looked at the knife normally and the magic was back yet again.
Huh. So, Death had been right. Of course Death had been right - Death was Death.
He pocketed the knife, and carried on making his painful way towards the witch who was not a witch.