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Further Reflections
Fandom: Discworld/Sandman
Written for: Katta in the Yuletide 2004 Challenge
by Darwin
Summary: Susan meets a girl wearing very silly make up. (Susan Sto Helit,
Death of the Endless)
With thanks to my wonderful betas. You know who you are.
Merry Christmas, Katta! I hope you enjoy.
===
Further Reflections
===
Elsewhere, the planets dance around each other like angels on the head of a
pin, with suns for gods and moons for lovers. Elsewhere, the demands of duty
and family are key.
But here and now, perhaps, they who were there before the dance began and
will be there to hear the final note may be allowed a moment of respite.
The Prince of Stories is, of course, the first to come to the world of
stories more often than the needs of his realm dictate. He takes a lover: a
dwarf with a silky-soft beard and her grandmother's axe. When his younger
siblings find out, two laugh and two sigh. None are surprised.
Soon, though, they all come here to rest.
===
Wesson Thripplecreak swallowed. The Archchancellor was looking at his notes
again, in a manner designed to convey that when he looked up he was planning
to forget he was supposed to be playing the Good Nightwatchman. Ponder
Stibbons, reluctant to give up his role as the nasty one[1], gave one final
glower at Wesson.
"What drove you to it?" he asked. In a stern and unsympathetic manner, of
course.
"I-" Wesson paused. It was, of course, about a girl. It always is.[2] But
even if it hadn't been for the inconvenient fact of the wizards' vow of
chastity, he wasn't about to tell this to the Unseen University's Board of
Discipline. The board's pomp and circumstance - designed by wizards, whose
magpie-like fascination with all things sparkly extended well into such
matters - did not inspire such confessions. It's very hard to confide in
sequins. "I was under a lot of stress."
This was too much for the already much put upon Archchancellor. "Stress?
Stress? When I was a student, we knew about stress! You young
whippersnappers today-"
Wesson, drawing on those special powers he shared with all people under
thirty, could automatically tune out any speech containing the word
"whippersnapper". It was all her fault. If only she had noticed him, he
wouldn't have been driven to such lengths. He'd tried, he really had. Maybe
the Nanny Ogg's Special Tincture had been going a little far, but, in
fairness, he couldn't have known not to enter the library wearing it.
"-we didn't resort to suicide. We pulled ourselves up by our breeches
and set about dealing with our problems. And if we tried to kill ourselves,
by gods we did it right. None of this-"
Admittedly, trying to kill himself by means of an adapted version of the
Rite of AshkEnte had been a little flashy, but - as recourse to the Special
Tincture had demonstrated - he was willing to try anything to get her to
notice him.
"-and if we had tried to kill ourselves," the Archchancellor continued, the
be-sequinned fellow members of the board nodding in agreement, "we would
have damned well done it right."
At that, there was a gentle smattering of applause.
[1]It was less effort. Also, Ponder found that radiating avuncular concern,
while fun, had the not unpredictable effect of making him look younger than
the students he was supposed to be interrogating.
[2]Well, sometimes it's about a boy. And in one case, expunged from
University records, a goat.
===
Destiny sits and reads by Hex, occasionally looking up to watch the movement
of the ants around an ancient teddy bear. Ponder Stibbons brings him tea,
and does not tell the librarian about the book.
===
One of the Discworld's most popular writers, Isaac Behemoth, once wrote that
the phrase in magic that heralds the most discoveries is not "Eureka!"[1]
but "That's funny..." This statement is much reviled by real wizards,
who know neither phrase leads to the kind of discovery preceded by "Oh dear
gods... DUCK!".
Mr Thripplecreak's ill-fated attempt to deliver himself into the waiting
rather bony arms of Death with a mere 4cc of mouse blood, a pickled herring
and some dribbly candles did succeed up to a point. The point up to which it
succeeded was currently sitting in a chalk circle in the middle of his room,
smiling up at a local schoolteacher, who had with a minimum of fuss been
brought in to talk to her.
If there's one thing wizards hate more than fresh vegetables and healthy
exercise, it's having to ask for help. And if there's one thing wizards hate
even more than that, it's having to ask for help from someone who isn't a
wizard. By the time they have to ask for help from a non-male non-wizard,
many find themselves having odd cravings for broccoli and an early morning
run. The fact that the lady in question was Death's granddaughter didn't
help, either. But after Thripplecreak's misadventure and the entire
faculty's failed attempts to send the summoned creature back, it was either
Susan or her grandfather. Susan, at least, could be relied upon not to grin
all the damned time.
"That's funny," said Susan, who didn't find it remotely funny. "You don't
have a blue thread."
The girl smiled at her. For all her pale and interesting make up - she'd
be quite pretty if you could see her through the face paints, Susan
thought, resisting her inner governess's urge to spit on a hanky and wipe
some of that dreadful stuff off - she seemed to be taking the business being
summoned by a love-sick wizard rather calmly.
She looked like the type of mildly hysterical girl the Ramstops witches
would reject for training out of hand, sending her away with a scowl or a
sweetie. Maybe beneath the cheap jewellery and black lace - and really, if
not for the obvious, she'd catch her death of cold wearing so little - there
was some genuine magical pragmatism, biding its time until its owner
discovered the joys of sensible shoes and a nice, warm coat.
"Blue thread?" she asked.
Susan's sensible hair untied and retied itself in consternation. "You are
dead, aren't you?" That was what normally happened when something like this
went wrong. A botched Rite of AshkEnte - and really, why they didn't
just ask Grandfather to visit, rather than doing such unpleasant
things to the mouse - summoned someone whose link to their body had not
been as completely severed as one might hope. It was just a case of snipping
the blue thread correctly and hoping Grandfather didn't find out.
The girl smiled again. "You could say that, yes."
Of course Grandfather would find out. Or rather, of course Grandfather would
know. All she could hope was that he didn't say anything.
"And if I did say that," Susan asked, "would it be an accurate summary of
events?"
The girl laughed, a glittering tinkle of a laugh that spoke of babbling
brooks and lazy summer afternoons watching butterflies flit from flower to
flower. Susan's teeth gritted of their own accord. Girls like this could
benefit from a few months spent balancing large, heavy books on their heads.
Not, as at the Quirm College for Young Ladies, to teach them deportment,
merely to keep them from skipping merrily about the place.
"No." The girl was smiling apologetically, as if she really did wish she
could be dead, just to help Susan out. "I'm Death."
Susan took a deep breath[2] and turned to leave, thanking all the gods who
could be relied upon not to listen for the chalk circle keeping the girl
from following her out.
Behind her, the girl stepped out of the chalk circle. "Would you like to get
something to eat? I know a peachy-keen restaurant over on Esoteric Street."
[1]Lit: Who stole my towel?
[2]The one every child in Miss Susan'TMs class recognised as his or her cue to
sit down, shut up and try very, very hard not to attract the teacher's
attention for the rest of the lesson.
===
Desire, recovering from a tree thrown at the back of its head by an amorous
troll, stays up into the wee small hours with Nanny Ogg. They drink apple
juice - well, it is mostly apples - and swap recipes.
Its twin keeps her rats safe from the dwarfs, sitting on a mountain top
listening to the trolls' legends of the sunset of the world.
===
Susan sipped her drink warily.
After leaving the University, they had sampled Cut Me Own Throat Dibbler's
meat product products. Susan had been so surprised that Mr Dibbler had given
the girl her sausage in a bun for free she'd taken a bite of her own before
common sense kicked in with its steel toecapped boots. After that, she'd
needed a drink to steady her nerves, and where better to take the girl than
Biers?
"I know, I know," said the girl. "I can't be Death. Death doesn't exist. And
if he did - which he doesn't - he'd be a seven foot skeleton with a scythe
and a robe."
WHO TALKS LIKE THIS, added Susan, almost to herself.
"Oh." The girl fell silent for a moment, frowning at her drink[1] as if she
had tried to sit down on a chair that wasn't there. "He really is
your grandfather. I though you were just one of Del's."
If Susan had removed the girl's chair, the girl had retaliated by
confiscating all her furniture and her ceiling, walls and floor. It didn't
seem quite fair.
The girl threw back her head and laughed loudly, frightening a pair of
skittish vampires huddled together in the far corner.
"That's what I love about this world! You're not one of Delirium's.
You're not even one of Dream's. You people are your own stories, and your
stories are fun!"
Susan gave the girl a Look. It was that or cough politely, and that was the
start of a slippery slope. One day it was polite coughing, the next it was
apologising when people bumped into you.
"I like people. Not like my brother. He-" She leaned forward over her
drink conspiratorially. "He has a new girlfriend. She's called Glod
Stronginthearmson."
Susan, who'd found herself leaning in to hear this titbit in spite of
herself, pulled back quickly in order not to laugh in the girl's face. She
was hardly in a position to pass judgment, but... Well, while she wouldn't
say that Glod Stronginthearmson couldn't be a name that spoke of epic
romance, the romantic epics in question concentrated more on the precise
classification of the veins of semiprecious metal found in the suitor'TMs coal
mines and less on hearts and flowers than the girl's expression suggested.
"See, he likes one person at a time. He doesn't even like the person - he
likes the stories he can tell himself about them. He likes your world a lot.
But he doesn't like people." The girl stabbed her straw down into her
drink for emphasis. "I like people. And I like you."
[1]It was pink, with a cute curly straw. The barman had been so surprised to
discover Biers served such monstrosities that he'd forgotten to charge her
for it.
===
Delirium makes velvet frogs that taste of moonshine and croak in yellow for
Lord Vetinari, whose kindness reminds her of her doggie.
===
SQUEAK, said the cowled figure on Susan's mantelpiece.
INDEED, said the cowled figure on Susan's best chair. IT IS COMPLICATED.
Susan nodded encouragingly. It was a nod her class would have recognised as
Miss Susan's Patient Nod. They would have been surprised to see it followed
by Miss Susan's Losing Patience Eyeroll, but then, so was she. It was a new
addition to the repertoire and one she suspected was the girl's fault.
SHE IS DEATH. HER FAMILY ARE . . . WHO THEY SAY THEY ARE.
SQUEAK. The Death of Rats began gnawing on a decorative silver knickknack
given to her by the grateful parent of one of her former students. For
reasons known only to the parent, it was in the shape of a duck.
"Stop that," Susan said absentmindedly, knowing it wouldn't. "But then, are
you you, Grandfather?"
YES. IT IS, AS I SAID, COMPLICATED. I AM TIED TO THIS WORLD. IT IS TIED TO
ME. THERE ARE MORE BONDS BETWEEN HER AND THE UNIVERSES, AND THOSE BONDS ARE
BOTH TIGHTER AND LOOSER. Death grinned. Susan was used to this. THAT IS NOT
A GOOD EXPLANATION.
A skull is not the ideal canvas on which to paint a picture of guileless
innocence, and Susan suspected her grandfather wouldn't have been very good
at it even with a better starting base. SHE IS VERY PRETTY.
Susan's teeth, only just ungritted from having to deal with those bloody
wizards, clenched together again. She raised an eyebrow pointedly.
SQUEAK SQUEAK EEK.
"Don't be silly," said Susan, ignoring her grandfather in favour of the rat.
"She's far too young."
NO, said Death, SHE ISN'T.
It was, she had to admit, true. The girl was, well, old enough to be Susan's
grandfather. "Then I'm far too young. Either way, one of us is. And this
silly and uncalled for speculation isn't helping matters."
HUMANS BENEFIT FROM THE COMPANY OF THOSE THEY FIND ATTRACTIVE, said Death.
THEY WRITE POEMS ABOUT IT.
The Death of Rats squeaked at length, while Death and Susan sipped their tea
from bone china cups. The crockery gave her a mean and petty pleasure. It
was a lot easier to feel guilty about that when she wasn't having her
romantic life dissected in such unflattering detail.
"Grandfather," she said as the smaller skeleton paused emphatically to
resume chewing on the silver duck. "Do you have anything to add to this
lecture?"
YOU LIKE HER.
Susan's hair tightened in its terribly sensible bun.
===
Destruction, whose presence here Destiny has not revealed to the others,
lends Leonard of Quirm his paints. Neither of them can get that damned smile
right.
===
The next time Susan saw the girl[1] was during a brisk stroll around the
school grounds one lunchtime.
"Cute." The girl's voice perched on the border between approving and
mocking, enjoying the view.
Susan hid her smile before turning to face the new arrival. "May I help
you?"
"I don't know. May you?"
It was time to invoke the name of a higher power. Not a higher power than
Susan, admittedly, but she felt sure that in the distant world of other
people, the headmistress was a higher power. "Madam Frout prefers
visitors to the Academy to make themselves known before wandering the
grounds." This measure was intended to protect the children from unmediated
contact with the outside world. Susan suspected it was also intended to
protect Madam Frout from much the same.
"You know me," the girl pointed out. "And since when were you concerned with
Madam Frout's preferences?"
Susan took a deep breath. Madam Frout had, in her own way[3], been very kind
to her, and she felt she should feel a vague discomfort at letting others'
uncharitable words pass without comment.
"Can we go to Biers for lunch? That was fun last time."
Susan breathed out. Yes, well. The slightly self-conscious indignation would
just make the girl smile at her again, and possibly reiterate that Susan
reminded her of her younger brother.
Biers had indeed been . . . fun, loath as Susan was to admit it. The girl
had been polite to the bogy men, and applauded Fred's juggling act as if
she'd never seen that many skulls fly through the air before. She'd smiled
at the ghouls and complimented a nervous-looking vampire on her lace
hairpiece.
Grandfather was right: Susan did like the girl. She saw people as clearly as
Susan did - more clearly - but she liked them. She laughed at them, she
laughed with them, but she liked them. It was a talent, Susan
grudgingly supposed, she might benefit from herself.
"I think," said the girl, linking her arm into Susan's before the latter had
a chance to object, "I'll have the drink with the olives. That looked nifty
keen. What will you have?"
[1]She couldn't think of her as Death, and Didi, the name the girl
suggested, was suitable only for small dogs with improbable hair.[2]
[2]Not the kind a dog gets from chasing a mongoose backwards through a
slurry pit, but the other kind. The expensive kind.
[3]The Frout Method of Learning Through Fun. Details available on request.
====
Elsewhere, the planets dance around each other like angels on the head of a
pin, with suns for gods and moons for lovers. Elsewhere, the demands of duty
and family are key.
But here and now, perhaps, they who were there before the dance began and
will be there to hear the final note may be allowed a moment of friendship.
===
End
===
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