#anyway i am well aware that the weakest parts are pratchett's dialogue

[captorations]

GNU Terry Pratchett

Today, March 12, 2017, marks two years since the world lost Sir Terry Pratchett. I remember it well. I had only recently discovered his works, and I blazed through them laughing all the way. I wanted to meet him, even if I wasn’t sure what I would say. The news that I would never get a chance, the news that the worlds he had created were forever stilled, was painful in the extreme. I was already struggling to deal with what I can only hope to be the worst period of my life, and I was not in a place to deal with the loss for well over a year. Last summer, I had the chance to sit down and re-read all his Discworld novels (as well as a few other novels of his I’m particularly fond of). After putting down the last one at five in the morning, I spent the next hour writing this. It’s hardly an original idea, but I felt compelled to do so. Enjoy.

Death paused at the threshold of his house. He, for lack of a more appropriate pronoun, glanced down to the umbrella stand next to the door. An almost invisible blade protruded from a silver hilt, the edges glowing blue. It hummed quietly as unlucky air molecules passed over it and were cut neatly apart. Such a weapon was not for combat, if only because the gods prefer all conflicts to be not entirely one-sided. No, this work of art was meant to sever the soul from the body, and reserved for individuals of noble status. Let it not be said that Death comes the same for the peasant and the king.

The tall figure hesitated. He had his traditional scythe in hand already, but perhaps the sword was more appropriate for the task. He made a motion to grasp the hilt, before reconsidering and withdrawing the skeletal hand. Stepping out through the door, he headed for the stables.

AFTER ALL, said Death, in the tones of the void at the edge of the universe, HE WOULDN'T STAND FOR IT.

***

The horse of Death can go anywhere, even some places where Death himself cannot. This is because, despite his habit of galloping through the air and across dimensions, he is in fact a flesh and blood horse.

His name is Binky. Perhaps Death does have a sense of humor.

This Death presides over the Discworld, a position which indicates that he must have angered someone higher up in the soul reaping business. What a mess this world is! A flat circle of land and sea, supported by four elephants, all carried on the back of an enormous turtle. It has its own personal sun and moon, tiny things whose orbits bring them under the elephants when they are not illuminating the Disc. Such a place could only exist on the edge of reality, piggybacking on a larger and much more sensible universe. The Rules, things like gravity and logic and the speed of light, are a little more relaxed here. Gods fiddle as cities burn, assuming that said city was not home to a great number of their believers. Dwarves, trolls, humans, werewolves, vampires, and countless other species bicker and brutally murder each other and generally don't get along.

Not to be said that there isn't civilization. Many empires have been forged on the Discworld, and most of them have fallen. The current contenders are only just realizing that slaughtering each other every few years on general principles may not be the best way to sustain themselves. Death's job has started to get a little easier.

A shame then, he reflected, that it was coming to an end.

***

Death steered his horse in a new direction. What direction is difficult to say; the complexities of transdimensional travel don't lend themselves to straight lines. At some point, Binky began to realize that something was different. He was bright for a horse. He sometimes remembered what his master looked like, even when he wasn't around.

For the first time in millennia, Binky was being steered away from the familiar paths that led to the Disc and to somewhere new. A different world, one of cold logic and spinning spheres. A round world, sparkling in the light of a far-away sun, came into view. If Binky had the sense of an average Discworld child, he would have remarked on what a silly idea for a world it was. Everything would just roll off. And how could it possibly move without a turtle under it? Since Binky had significantly less sense than a child, he accepted it without a fuss and briefly wondered if this place would have something nice to eat.

This was new territory for Death, too. Of course, people died on this world, but it had laws that prevented such silly things like a tall skeleton in a robe wandering around hacking at the freshly dead with a scythe. He was only here because he had been called by a force more powerful than the Rules of this world. A force that could create worlds and destroy them as quick as a thought.

From the depths of his robe Death withdrew an hourglass. Every being on the Discworld had one, mortals and gods alike. This one was different in that it had no label, no embellishment, no hint as to whose life was trickling away within its glass. Death alone knew.

It was everyone's.

***

Death waited. He was good at that.

Binky was outside, eating otherworldly grass. It tasted about the same.

Death checked the hourglass. Not that he could possibly get the timing wrong, but he wanted to stay focused on his task. He ignored his surroundings. This was not his world, and he had no business here other than the duty he had been summoned to fulfill.

The last particle of sand fell. The scythe swung.

The world ended.

The figure sat up, blinking. He hadn't really expected much of an after. He looked at the specter looming over him. He smiled.

"Hello, old friend."

GREETINGS.

As the room faded to grey, the man stood up, looking around. He was pleased to find that his body, or rather the shape his soul was taking out of sheer habit, felt better than it had in a long time. He again took in the sight of the seven foot skeleton at his side. His gaze flicked up to the scythe.

"I see you went with the classic choice. No sword for the likes of me, eh?"

THAT'S ONLY FOR KINGS... SIR, Death said.

The ghost of the man nodded.

"Rightly so. Well done."

Out of the grey fog of formlessness a simple landscape began to emerge. An endless expanse of black sand extended in all directions, yet where the two figures stood was somehow clearly the starting point. Overhead, countless stars of all colors twinkled. There were no familiar constellations, and indeed if you looked closely the points of light seemed to be constantly shifting about. There was light enough to see to the end of the world, but not what lay ten feet ahead.

"Well," said the man. "I'd better make a start. No sense in wasting time."

He paused, and grinned. He snapped his fingers, and a hat appeared on his head. It made him look like a sort of urban cowboy, but he took delight in wearing it. He moved to go on his way when Death spoke.

SIR TERRY, YOU SHALL NOT WALK ALONE.

From every side shapes emerged. The man whirled, trying to look at all of them at once. As they solidified, his mouth began to open in awe, before returning to a grin which fit perfectly on his features.

There was the policeman in the battered armor, behind him a small army of somewhat-shiny breastplates and dull helmets on figures of all shapes and sizes. He stood smoking a cigar, with a look of peace that his face was clearly unused to.

There was the ragged, skinny wizard, nervously eyeing Death. Fear was there, yes, but perhaps a hint of hope, too. Behind him were countless other wizards and other figures besides, too many to list. There was a brief commotion as the crowd parted and a large chest waddled forth and sat down next to the wizard. It had a look of defiance, even without a face.

There was the nondescript man in the golden suit. He had the air of a friendly snake. Behind him was a motley crew of postmen, accountants, and engineers. He seemed ready to strike up a friendly chat with every new face, and perhaps learn more about them than they wanted him to.

There were the three (or was it four?) witches, standing proud with a kingdom at their backs. Nearby stood a young witch, standing among a large number of rather small individuals. Strangely enough, they seemed solemn.

A little bald wrinkly smiling man ambled in as if he had been there all along, quietly sweeping the sand into patterns he liked.

More and more figures strode in out of the dark, until there was no room left in the wide circle around Death and Sir Terry. In the distance, stranger things still flickered in and out. An angel and a demon, side by side. A weary man with a prosthetic hand, and an even wearier one with a prosthetic everything. Above them, an infinite chain of round worlds flared in the sky before vanishing again.

Everyone's attention was on the ghost in the center, who appeared to be shaking.

Suddenly, he looked up, laughing.

"Go home!"

No one moved. Looks of confusion adorned nearly every face. The man turned, and through great effort, looked everyone in the eyes at the same time.

"Go home! You don't belong here. Well," he paused, his gaze flickering to quite a few figures scattered among the crowd, and a slight hint of guilt appeared upon his face, "most of you don't. You all have lives to live, and stories to tell to others. I no longer command you."

One by one, the figures began to vanish. The policeman took his cigar out of his mouth with a sigh, saluted smartly, and vanished. His entourage soon followed. The wizard had already gone. One of the witches glanced knowingly at Death, nodded, and allowed herself to fade back to her world. The angel and the demon slipped away, arguing. Eventually, the only ones left in the desert were the ghost and the skeleton.

THAT WAS A KIND LIE.

The man looked sideways at his companion. "It wasn't entirely a lie."

IT WAS NOT ENTIRELY THE TRUTH, EITHER.

"Perhaps." Sir Terry said. "Their fate is not sealed. Perhaps one day someone else will take command of their fates, and breathe new life into their stories. Until then... all they have is their histories to act out." He grinned. "And damn good histories they are, too. Now, off with you."

NO. I TOLD YOU, YOU WOULD NOT WALK ALONE. THEY CANNOT DIE NOW, NOR CAN THEY TRULY LIVE. MY PURPOSE HAS ENDED. I SHALL WALK WITH YOU.

The man nodded, and together they set off into the desert at the end of the universe.