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platypanthewriter · 3 years

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Hook Possum 4/4

Art by @monsdasarah for Harringrove Big Bang!

PART ONE | TWO | THREE

The last night, Robin told one of the weirder bits of Hook Possum lore, staring dead at Steve the whole time.

“Once, long, long time ago,” she began, in a sibilant stage whisper, her flashlight under her chin. “Back when all these trees were still pinecones, a stranger came to the little town you passed driving in, on the highway.” The littlest kids shivered and nodded, scooting closer to the fire. “There wasn’t much going on there then,” Robin went on, grinning evilly, “—and a stranger was exciting. He went to all the dances, and he was handsome, and what do you think happened?” she offered the flashlight to an older girl, who was biting her lips together in glee.

“One of the girls fell in love with him,” she suggested, and Robin smiled.

“Have you never wondered who Hook Possum searches for, with a lantern, in the dead of night,” Robin said, and Steve rubbed his face, feeling it heat.

“...what,” Hook Possum asked, edging closer, and Steve sighed, shaking his head. It’d become habit now to slide his fingers in Hook Possum’s costume at the wrist, between his wrist, the cuff, and the friendship bracelet, and Steve leaned closer. Hook Possum’s hand twitched, but then he relaxed, ducking his head. Steve hoped he was smiling.

“Hook Possum searches for a murderer,” Robin said. “The dancing stranger. Because the night they were to be married, he left Hook Possum buried in a shallow grave.”

“Wait, Hook Possum’s a girl?!” yelled a kid, huge-eyed, and Hook Possum looked around. Steve thought Hook Possum being a possum was more to the point, but nobody else seemed to see a problem.

“It’s just a costume,” said another one. “Hook Possum might be a girl really.”

“That’s right, mom possums carry their young around,” said another one, and a couple kids grabbed Hook Possum’s legs and arm, listening intently.

“Hook Possum came to meet her love, under the yellow poplar in the center of camp,” Robin whispered. “And he buried her there.”

Everybody gasped, and Hook Possum’s mask twitched as he glanced at Steve.

“She’d made a lovely flower crown, and she never got to wear it at her wedding,” Robin said, and Steve’s cheeks heated further. He decided to shift the planks holding her mattress up that night, so she’d fall through in the dead of night. “And that,” Robin intoned, holding the flashlight under her chin, and letting her voice waver creepily, “—is the real reason Hook Possum wanders this earth, alone, with her lantern. She wants to wear her flower crown. She’s looking for her love.”

The kids were all staring at Hook Possum, but as a creepy mass, their eyes followed his arm down to where Steve had his fingers tucked in the cuff and friendship bracelet, and then up again to Steve’s face. “Oh noooo,” he breathed.

“I can make flower crowns,” said Blair Witch Mirror Kid.

“We can have a wedding,” said Sun Safety Girl.

“Tomorrow,” Robin said, her mouth quirked evilly. “We’ll need to get ready.”

“I was at a wedding,” Pink Overalls said. “You throw flowers at people.”

“Before the buses show up,” Robin announced. “We’ll hold a wedding for Hook Possum.”

Steve had wondered before then whether the kids had noticed...whatever it was, between him and Hook Possum. Hook Possum sat next to him at the fire, his mask on Steve’s shoulder, Steve’s fingers tucked against his wrist, feeling his heartbeat. Sometimes the kids looked at them for a while, but they never said anything shitty, and Steve wondered if he’d been obvious the whole time, and Robin, Dustin, Max, and El had been running interference.

“We’ll need vows,” said Bell Witch Mirror Game Kid, who needed a shorter nickname, but Steve shrugged, because it was the second-to-last day of camp.

Hook Possum’s mask kept jerking towards Steve, then away, but he didn’t pull his arm away from Steve’s.

The next morning, Hook Possum got drug away from the cabin first thing, while Steve still had his arms wrapped around the post of the bed, snoring with his head under the pillow. When they let Steve come and look, the kids had drug all the chairs so there was an aisle under the trees, and set up an overturned trash can as the altar.

“Because he’s a possum,” said Dustin, grinning.

“Ha, ha,” Steve said dryly. His cheeks hurt from smiling, but he tried to keep a straight face as little kids showed him the flowers they’d picked, and told him they’d used all his possum facts in the vows. “...wow,” Steve said, thinking about ticks and carrion.

“We’re gonna play kazoos,” said Dustin, and Steve turned to see El earnestly putting a kazoo between her lips, accompanied by Max, Lucas, and Nancy’s kid brother, Mitchell. “...oh,” Steve said, wondering whether he was gonna be able to keep from doubling up with laughter when they were mid-possum vow and the kazoos started.

The kazoos started as they walked Hook Possum out, flower crown and all. “I made you a flower crown too,” Bell Witch Mirror Game Boy told Steve, and Steve dropped to a crouch let him put it on his head. He bit his lips as he turned to watch Hook Possum, bedecked in a flower crown and carrying a bouquet.

“There aren’t rings,” Robin whispered. “I got Sesame Street band-aids. Bert and Ernie.” It occurred to Steve suddenly, his cheeks heating at the actual care she’d put into it, that it might be on him, some day, to organize a more serious kind of wedding for her and her...someone. He bit his lip, trying not to think about how silly it all was, with Hook Possum moving away.

At least nearly everyone he knew had been at camp, he thought, watching Hook Possum bump blindly into the chairs, and listening to a bunch of off-tempo children earnestly try to produce ‘Here Comes The Bride’ on kazoo. They sounded like a lot of wet bees, mostly. At least Dustin would know what Steve was talking about, when he mentioned Hook Possum six times a sentence, or turned to grin at him, and then realized he wasn’t there.

Hook Possum drew closer—Pink Overalls had just grabbed his hand, finally, and hauled him along, and Steve wondered why he was having so much trouble seeing. It was drizzly, and gray, but it wasn’t dark. Pink Overalls threw flowers at Steve’s face, then at Hook Possum’s, and stepped back.

Steve wondered, as ever, what she thought was happening.

“Friends and campers gathered here today,” Dustin began, but Steve didn’t really listen to the vows. He’d slid his finger through Hook Possum’s handcuff, and the friendship bracelet, and his hand was shaking a little.

“Are you seriously okay with this,” he breathed, leaning close to Steve’s head. “This—this is—”

“Ssssshhhh,” Dustin groaned. “Where are the rings?”

“We’ll just wrap it around Hook Possum’s paw and he can put it on later,” Robin decided, and Steve wrapped it around Hook Possum’s furry-gloved finger. It felt really... weddingy, when Hook Possum (with Robin’s help) unwrapped the Bert-and-Ernie bandaid and wrapped it around Steve’s finger. Steve took his paw and squeezed it, wondering what he’d agreed to.

“To love and to cherish, so long as you both shall live?” Robin asked, her eyes steady, and Steve kind of wanted to run, dreading Hook Possum laughing.

“...I do,” he whispered.

“I do too,” Steve said quickly, grabbing Hook Possum’s other paw, and squeezing that one too.

“You may kiss the bride,” announced Dustin, and Steve leaned in and smacked a kiss on the mask, listening to the startled laughter of the man inside.

After that, in the first raindrops, Robin sent the kids to get their packed bags. “The buses will be here in twenty minutes!” she yelled, stomping off, and Steve pulled back from hugging Hook Possum as hard as he could.

“I have to take the costume off,” Hook Possum whispered. “It’s starting to rain.”

It hadn’t rained for the whole three weeks of camp, not during the day, and it felt like a sign camp was truly over. Steve nodded, squeezing the dirty old costume paws in his hands, and wondering about the human inside them.

“He said you could kiss the bride,” Hook Possum said in kind of a weird choked voice, standing perfectly still, and Steve froze.

“You...saying I can see you?” he whispered back, as the rain started to penetrate his hair, cold against his head.

“...I’m saying I’m taking it off,” Hook Possum hissed, dragging Steve back towards the cabin. “Don’t look. But, uh. If—if you—he said you could kiss the bride, so—”

“I want to,” Steve told him, panting as they ran. “I want to, I do.”

“Okay,” Hook Possum laughed, kind of unevenly. “Yeah.”

Steve helped him get out of the damn costume for the last time, untying the little cords slowly, and sliding the warm, wet, musty fabric down Hook Possum’s muscular shoulders. As a show of good faith, he opened Robin’s luggage and took out one of her kneesocks, and wrapped it around his eyes. That done, he ran his hands down Hook Possum’s arms to find his bracelet and cuff, and a warm, strong hand to run his fingers over. He did the same on the other side, finding that Hook Possum hadn’t put the band-aid on.

“Lemme do it right,” Steve asked, and Hook Possum stilled. Steve fiddled blindly with the little tabs, but he got it on there, and slid their fingers together. “...they fit nice,” he said softly, and Hook Possum sighed. “Lemme take your mask off,” Steve tried next, and Hook Possum let him, let him slide his hands up over the pulse pounding in Hook Possum’s neck, and lift the mask away, before running his thumb over a stubbly jaw, and sliding his fingers into soft, sweaty curls.

Hook Possum stepped away. “Just let me get my feet out,” he whispered.

Steve stood there with a sock around his head for a long second, feeling stupid, when warm, chapped lips met his. Hook Possum’s breath was shaky.

“...gonna miss you,” Steve told him, as soon as he could draw breath, licking his lips, and Hook Possum made a little grunty whining noise in the back of his throat, and kissed him again. “We’re married now,” Steve told him. “You aren’t gonna run out on me, are you?”

“...this was never real,” Hook Possum said, his voice cracking, and Steve nodded once, his eyes stinging, and walked out. He yanked the sock off his head and blinked up at the rain, then yelped as Hook Possum dragged him back against the side of the cabin, the rain slicking up their hands and faces as they kissed again. “I wish it was real,” Hook Possum whispered.

“Give me your phone number, at least,” Steve whispered, kissing the warm, soft mouth against his. “Your name?!”

“...sorry,” Hook Possum muttered, pulling away. “Don’t look.”

Steve didn’t. He stood there in the rain for five entire minutes. His shoulders shook because of the warm Indiana summer rain, and for no other reason.

“He’ll meet you at the diner,” Max’s voice said, as Steve was paying for a stack of frozen TV dinners at Bradley’s Big Buy, and skateboarded off, without telling Steve when, so he yelled incoherently after her and drove to the diner. He ordered coffee as his TV dinners slowly defrosted in his car, and watched the door, then, finally, when the waitress wouldn’t go away, he ordered pie. It was really good, he thought distractedly, chomping bites of lemon meringue as he stared through the door at the parking lot.

Three hours—and a lot of pie—later, Billy Hargrove pulled up in front, and Steve made a face, wondering if he dared risk running to the bathroom. Billy lingered outside, cleaning his windshield wipers, and checking under the hood, blocking Steve’s view of everyone else who might drive up, and in his annoyance, Steve failed to notice he’d received and finished another refill on his coffee, and the bathroom question was becoming desperate.

He pressed his knees together, glancing at the clock, and gritting his teeth.

Billy glanced in, saw Steve, and stopped, watching him like he still kinda wanted to beat his teeth in, or something. Steve knocked back half a mug of coffee in sheer annoyance, and then glowered down at it, mentally apologizing to his bladder.

The door creaked open, and Steve jerked to attention, nearly knocking his latest empty pie plate off the counter with his elbow, but it was just Billy, slouching, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He was tugging at his cuff, one hand stuffed in his pocket.

“Harrington,” he said, and Steve nodded, trying to see past him through the door. Billy huffed a laugh. “...you got a hot date?” he asked, and Steve nearly said yes, but then thought what it would look like, when a man showed up.

“None of your beeswax,” he said tiredly, wishing Max had said when. “Hey,” he called to the waitress. “How early d’you open in the morning?”

“We’re open five o’clock in the morning to eleven o’clock at night,” she said, and Steve winced, hoping Hook Possum showed up before, like, tomorrow afternoon. He had visions of himself keeping vigil for days, glutting himself on pie, and sleeping in the parking lot.

Billy turned and stalked back out, shaking his head, and Steve decided to risk the bathroom. He sprinted back out to see the parking spot in front empty, and sat back down, opening the pie menu.

“Your friend left,” said the waitress.

“What?!” Steve said, jerking his head around to the door. “Just now?!”

“The boy with the shirt and jacket made of blue jeans,” she said, cocking her head like Billy’s fashion sense was annoying, which to be fair, it was.

“Oh,” Steve said, deflating.

“He came back and asked how long you’d waited. If you’d said anything about who you were waiting for,” she said, eyeing him narrowly, and Steve blinked back at her.

Max’s voice suddenly sounded in his head again. Uh, he lives on my street. She’d sounded hesitant, which was very unlike Max.

He’s the big brother I never had, she’d said, and Steve had assumed that couldn’t be Billy.

You’re the son of the boss’s boss?! He heard again, in Hook Possum’s raspy, high-pitched tones. You could get me fired.

“...Billy,” Steve said aloud.

“Is this some kind of Shop Around The Corner thing? I love that movie.” the waitress asked, as Steve scrambled for his wallet, thinking about Billy’s curls, and how he’d been afraid of Steve seeing him with the mask off, even once they were friends. “Was he supposed to carry a certain book or something? Were you penpals?” she asked idly, leaning on the counter. “You should probably go talk to him, if you can walk, after all that pie.”

“He’s moving to California,” Steve said, shoving a wad of cash at her without bothering to count it, and running out to his car.

“Good luck!” she called after him. “Idiot,” he thought he heard, and his cheeks burned.

When he pulled up to the Hargrove house, it wasn’t lit up. He ran around to Max’s window—he knew where that was, from driving Dustin and Lucas around—and tossed a pinecone at it. After a few thudded into the glass, the blinds shot up, and she glowered out, then glared down at him, yanking the window up. “The hell are you doing here?!” she hissed.

“Billy’s Hook Possum,” Steve stage-whispered back at her, cupping his face. “Isn’t he?”

She frowned harder, glancing over her shoulder. “What are you doing here?!”

“Come let me in,” Steve told her, and she shook her head.

“He’s not home! Did you miss him?! God, you’re such morons—”

“Where’s his room?” Steve hissed back, and she pointed, leaning out.

“He left like an hour ago,” she shot back, waving at the road. “We’d hear his car.”

“Let me in, I’ll wait for him,” Steve whispered up, and she groaned, leaning her head against the wood of the window.

“Fine,” she said, slamming it shut. A few minutes later, the window next to it opened, and Max’s head poked out. “Get up here,” she said. “And be quiet, you’ll get him in trouble, his dad’s watching the ballgame.”

“Okay,” Steve said, gauging the jump to the windowsill.

He wasn’t graceful, but he made it in, kicking off the siding and getting an arm inside. He clambered in with Max’s help, and looked around in the refracted light from the streetlamps. Everything was in boxes. “...when’s he leaving,” Steve asked, his throat tight.

“He was gonna leave today, but I got him to meet you at the diner,” Max growled. “What happened?!”

“He didn’t say anything, he just left,” Steve groaned, his eye catching on something over on the mirrored dresser thingy. He squinted in the dim light, leaning in—and he was right, it was the flower crown Hook Possum had worn for their ‘marriage’. The flowers were wilted, their petals crumbly in his hands, and Steve leaned to smell them, remembering.

He shivered, trying not to laugh, because he was right, Billy Hargrove was Hook Possum, and now everything was even more complicated. Billy Hargrove hates me, Steve thought, bewildered. He HATES me, he nearly beat my face in.

“That’s his car,” Max said, staring at nothing, and then Steve could hear it, through the open window.

“I just need to talk to him,” he said, and she rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, you fucking do,” she muttered, slamming the door on her way out.

Alone in Billy’s room, Steve wandered around, squinting at the couple of posters still on the wall. He found the light switch, and leaned against the wall near it as footsteps came down the hall, and the doorknob turned.

Steve waited until Billy shut the door and wandered over to the window before flipping on the light, and Billy yelled.

“Holy cross eyed jesus, Harrington,” he panted, staring. “What—why—”

“You’re Hook Possum,” Steve said. “Right?”

“What,” Billy said, backing away. He had his arms up like he wanted to fight, but as Steve stepped closer he just flinched back, his head and shoulders thudding against the wall. Steve could see a glint against his denim cuff, and grabbed his wrist, sliding a finger down inside.

“My friendship bracelet,” he said, feeling too relieved for a true smirk. “...and you still haven’t gotten this handcuff off?!” he asked, sliding the clinking metal up Billy’s wrist.

“Looks kinda rad, don’t you think,” Billy whispered, swallowing. “Why’re you here, Harrington?”

“You’re Hook Possum,” Steve said again, running his fingers along the soft skin on the underside of Billy’s wrist, under the cuff and the friendship bracelet.

Billy watched his face, licking his lips, and Steve remembered how it’d felt kissing him. He’d kissed Billy Hargrove, he thought, his brain stumbling to a halt as it reorganized Steve’s memories to fit the new facts.

“What happens now,” Billy asked, and Steve let him go, stepping back as he remembered nothing had actually changed.

“...you’re moving to California,” Steve said, looking around at the boxes. “I—I guess I can send postcards now. Now I know the big secret.” It was almost worse, knowing more about Hook Possum, and having to watch him leave.

“...you’re not pissed,” Billy asked, raising his eyebrows, and Steve considered, and then shook his head.

It was hard to imagine being angry at Hook Possum, even if Hook Possum was Billy Hargrove. “Nah,” Steve said, stalking over to sit on the bed. “Thanks, uh, thanks for meeting me. I guess. I know you didn’t want to see me again.” He’d thought Hook Possum liked him, which was stupid, he realized. “I should go, huh.”

“I didn’t know you’d be there, at the camp,” Billy said, laughing. He sounded tense. “I thought I was getting away from Hawkins.”

Max knew, Steve thought, remembering planning with Dustin and everyone. “Yeah. I figured.”

“You wishing you didn’t know, now?” Billy asked, with another laugh, sitting in the window, and gripping the sill with white knuckles.

“...no,” Steve said, honestly. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been this...wary distance.

“You want your friendship bracelet back?” Billy sneered, and Steve just shook his head, and got up to leave out the door, if Billy was gonna block the window. The eight slices of pie were roiling in his stomach with probably two whole pots of coffee, and he felt like he might throw up. “Harrington, fuck, wait,” Billy growled, pushing himself up to stalk over and hold the door shut. “Why’d you come over here,” he hissed, his low register all Billy Hargrove, who’d beaten Steve unconscious.

“I don’t know,” Steve said, laughing, a little, because Hook Possum had been right. Summer camp wasn’t the real world, and he wasn’t married to a magic possum. He yanked on the doorknob, but Billy leaned his weight against the door, watching his face.

“Do you still want me,” Billy asked, grabbing Steve’s arm.

Steve wanted to get out of the conversation, and he almost dodged the question with a what do you mean, or a I have to go, but Billy’s hand was warm on his skin, and nervously sweaty.

Steve nodded.

Billy made a noise in his throat, kind of a strangled choke, and grabbed him, yanking him into a clumsy kiss, all teeth, because he was laughing. “You’ll make me another friendship bracelet, right,” he said breathlessly, like it was important, and Steve nodded, losing track of what was going on. He ran his finger along Billy’s wrist, and hooked it around the friendship bracelet/cuff accessory, and Billy kissed him again, leaning in. “If—if I’m here, you’ll make me another one.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, dizzy with kisses.

“Make us rings,” Billy whispered, smiling so wide his kisses were a little wet against Steve’s cheek, and ear. Steve’s bones creaked from how hard Billy was squeezing him.

“...can’t believe you haven’t taken the handcuff off,” Steve whispered, against Billy’s jaw. “...god, I hope nobody ever asks how we met. Stay out of the trash.”

Billy snorted a laugh, leaning his face into Steve’s neck with a sigh, and then pressing soft kisses up it, so Steve started having wild thoughts about Billy’s mattress, five feet away. “Y’know,” Billy said softly, “I kinda hope they do ask, actually. You ashamed of your magical...haunted possum...girlfriend?”

“God I missed you,” Steve said, snorting a laugh. His vision blurred with tears.

#harringrove big bang #Harringrove #Ridiculous possum mascot story #Art by Monsdasarah!!#Amazing

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adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy · 7 years

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Andrea... Did demon!Harry and angelReader said i love you to each other?

It’d take a bit for them to admit it to each other.

It’s hard for Harry to say it because he hasn’t loved anyone in so long he almost forgot what it felt like. Love reminds him of his old life when he had people that genuinely cared about him rather than only needing him to grant them things. It’s difficult to come to terms with caring about someone on a deeper level, especially when it’s someone the universe has destined him to hate— when it’s someone who’s supposed to be his immortal enemy.

And for Y/N, it’s hard as well because even though she loves all of her friends and her sibilings and her father, she’s never faced loving someone on a more intimate and exclusive level. It’s always been platonic love for other people, never romantic love, so it takes her a while to be able to utter it, too. Plus, Harry’s a demon, and she’s scared that he won’t feel the same way she does. She’s aware that demons can feel emotions when they choose to, but what if what he feels for her isn’t as far along as what she feels for him?

He’d probably be the first to say it, but not really say it. It’d be in the middle of the night while she’s fast asleep beside him, dreaming of pearly gates and spending time with her celestial friends and he’s thumbing over her warm cheeks softly, a small smile toying at the corners of his mouth. She’s so peaceful and beautiful when she’s so far gone. Ethereal, actually. And he can feel a certain warmth bubbling at the pit of his tummy, rising up through his veins and filling his lungs with air and before he knows it, the words are coming out of his mouth. They’re low, raspy, and shaky, his lips quivering as he utters them into the still, silent atmosphere of the room, where they dissolve into nothing because she’s there but she’s not truly present. “I love you.”

The sentence fits weirdly in his mouth and it leaves an odd metallic taste on his tongue, probably from the nerves. But he said it and he’s proud of himself for getting it out into the open. Sure, she isn’t aware of his feelings because she’s unconscious, but baby steps.

As for Y/N, she would practice saying it when she’s alone while Harry’s gone off to do some business— something about meeting someone at a certain crossroads. She murmurs the phrase over and over to herself, pacing back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, clutching her shaky hands to her chest and wringing them nervously. “You can do it. It’s bound to come out sometime. You just have to be ready.”

And then when it does happen, it’s in the heat of the moment when Y/N is about to leave for heaven and Harry won’t be seeing her for a while but he wants her to know that she has his heart in the palm of her pretty hands. He’d grab her as she stands outside the entrance to their home, taking her in his arms and hugging her so tight her ribs would probably crack if she wasn’t a celestial being. He mumbles it into her hair, his breath warm across the shell of her ear as the words imprint themselves into her clammy skin.

“I…” His brows furrow as he swallows thickly, the thought lodging in his throat and preventing him from breathing right. He tries again, but no success. “Y/N, I…”

But she’s there. She’s there with her understanding personality and her kindness and her care. Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s packed with as much emotion as he thinks is possible. “I do, too.”

The wave of relief that washes down his body feels like the first rain after a drought, a huge, watery smile dimpling his cheeks as he buries his face deeper into her hair, closing his damp eyes and taking a deep breath. He wants to hold her scent in his lungs forever— the smell of lavender and roses and baby oil and everything good in the world. The knot of pent up worry and dread that tightens his chest suddenly dissolves away and the words are tumbling out of his mouth before he can even think to try again.

“I love you.”

Y/N’s sniffling now molds into quiet sobs, her body shuddering in his hold and he thinks he’s gone too far— put too much on her plate too soon— but when she pulls back, she’s smiling through the tears. Smiling brighter than he’s ever seen her smile.

“I love you, too.”

Harry let’s out a choking sound between a yelp of happiness and a squeak of heartfelt emotion, the odd noise changing into an airy, loved-up giggle.

“Thank Lucifer. I literally almost shit myself and that wouldn’t have been a very nice going-away present, huh?”

#demon!harry

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readbookywooks · 8 years

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It's not the same,' said Twoflower calmly. 'It's better! It's more real!' 'It isn't really. In years to come, when I'm sitting by the fire —' 'You'll be sitting by the fire forever if we don't get out of here!' 'Oh, I do hope you're not going.' They both turned. Ysabell was standing in the archway, smiling faintly. She held a scythe in one hand, a scythe with a blade of proverbial sharpness. Rincewind tried not to look down at his blue lifeline; a girl holding a scythe shouldn't smile in that unpleasant, knowing and slightly deranged way. 'Daddy seems a little preoccupied at the moment but I'm sure he wouldn't dream of letting you go off just like that,' she added. 'Besides, I'd have no-one to talk to.' 'Who's this?' said Twoflower. 'She sort of lives here,' mumbled Rincewind. 'She's a sort of girl,' he added. He grabbed Twoflower's shoulder and tried to shuffle imperceptibly towards the door into the dark, cold garden. It didn't work, largely because Twoflower wasn't the sort of person who went in for nuances of expression and somehow never assumed that anything bad might apply to him. 'Charmed, I'm sure,' he said. Very nice place, you have here. Interesting baroque effect with the bones and skulls.' Ysabell smiled. Rincewind thought: if Death ever does hand over the family business, she'll be better at it than he is – she's bonkers. 'Yes, but we must be going,' he said. 'I really won't hear of it,' she said. You must stay and tell me all about yourselves. There's plenty of time and it's so boring here.' She darted sideways and swung the scythe at the shining threads. It screamed through the air like a neutered tomcat – and stopped sharply. There was the creak of wood. The Luggage had snapped its lid shut on the blade. Twoflower looked up at Rincewind in astonishment. And the wizard, with great deliberation and a certain amount of satisfaction, hit him smartly on the chin. As the little man fell backwards Rincewind caught him, threw him over a shoulder and ran. Branches whipped at him in the starlit garden, and small, furry and probably horrible things scampered away as he pounded desperately along the faint lifeline that shone eerily on the freezing grass. From the building behind him came a shrill scream of disappointment and rage. He cannoned off a tree and sped on. Somewhere there was a path, he remembered. But in this maze of silver light and shadows, tinted now with red as the terrible new star made its presence felt even in the netherworld, nothing looked right. Anyway, the lifeline appeared to be going in quite the wrong direction. There was the sound of feet behind him. Rincewind wheezed with effort; it sounded like the Luggage, and at the moment he didn't want to meet the Luggage, because it might have got the wrong idea about him hitting its master, and generally the Luggage bit people it didn't like. Rincewind had never had the nerve to ask where it was they actually went when the heavy lid slammed shut on them, but they certainly weren't there when it opened again. In fact he needn't have worried. The Luggage overtook him easily, its little legs a blur of movement. It seemed to Rincewind to be concentrating very heavily on running, as if it had some inkling of what was coming up behind it and didn't like the idea at all. Don't look back, he remembered. The view probably isn't very nice. The Luggage crashed through a bush and vanished. A moment later Rincewind saw why. It had careened over the edge of the outcrop and was dropping towards the great hole underneath, which he could now see was faintly red lit at the bottom. Stretching from Rincewind, out over the edge of the rocks and down into the hole, were two shimmering blue lines. He paused uncertainly, although that isn't precisely true because he was totally certain of several things, for example that he didn't want to jump, and that he certainly didn't want to face whatever it was coming up behind him, and that in the spirit world Twoflower was quite heavy, and that there were worse things than being dead. 'Name two,' he muttered, and jumped. A few seconds later the horsemen arrived and didn't stop when they reached the edge of the rock but simply rode into the air and reined their horses over nothingness. Death looked down. THAT ALWAYS ANNOYS ME, he said. I MIGHT AS WELL INSTALL A REVOLVING DOOR. 'I wonder what they wanted!' said Pestilence. 'Search me,' said War. 'Nice game, though.' 'Right,' agreed Famine. 'Compelling, I thought.' WE'VE GOT TIME FOR ANOTHER FONDLE, said Death. 'Rubber,' corrected War. RUBBER WHAT? 'You call them rubbers,' said War. RIGHT, RUBBERS, said Death. He looked up at the new star, puzzled as to what it might mean. I THINK WE'VE GOT TIME, he repeated, a trifle uncertainly. Mention has already been made of an attempt to inject a little honesty into reporting on the Disc, and how poets and bards were banned on pain of – well, pain – from going on about babbling brooks and rosy-fingered dawn and could only say, for example, that a face had launched a thousand ships if they were able to produce certified dockyard accounts. And therefore, out of a passing respect for this tradition, it will not be said of Rincewind and Twoflower that they became an ice-blue sinewave arcing through the dark imensions, or that there was a sound like the twanging of a monstrous tusk, or that their lives passed in front of their eyes (Rincewind had in any case seen his past life flash in front of his eyes so many times that he could sleep through the boring bits) or that the universe dropped on them like a large jelly. It will be said, because experiment has proven it to be true, that there was a noise like a wooden ruler being struck heavily with a C sharp tuning fork, possibly B flat, and a sudden sensation of absolute stillness. This was because they were absolutely still, and it was absolutely dark. It occurred to Rincewind that something had gone wrong. Then he saw the faint blue tracery in front of him. He was inside the Octavo again. He wondered what would happen if anyone opened the book; would he and Twoflower appear like a colour plate? Probably not, he decided. The Octavo they were in was something a bit different from the mere book chained to its lectern deep in Unseen University, which was merely a three-dimensional representation of a multidimensional reality, and— Hold on, he thought. I don't think like this. Who's thinking for me? 'Rincewind,' said a voice like the rustle of old pages. 'Who? Me?' 'Of course you, you daft sod.' A flicker of defiance flared very briefly in Rincewind's battered heart. 'Have you managed to recall how the Universe started yet?' he said nastily. 'The Clearing of the Throat, wasn't it, or the Drawing of the Breath, or the Scratching of the Head and Trying to Remember It, It was On the Tip of the Tongue?' Another voice, dry as tinder, hissed, 'You would do well to remember where you are.' It should be impossible to hiss a sentence with no sibilants in it, but the voice made a very good attempt. 'Remember where I am? Remember where I am?' shouted Rincewind. 'Of course I remember where I am, I'm inside a bloody book talking to a load of voices I can't see, why do you think I'm screaming?' 'I expect you're wondering why we brought you here again,' said a voice by his ear. 'No.' 'No?' 'What did he say?' said another disembodied voice. 'He said no.' 'He really said no?' 'Yes.' 'Oh.' 'Why?' 'This sort of thing happens to me all the time,' said Rincewind. 'One minute I'm falling off the world, then I'm inside a book, then I'm on a flying rock, then I'm watching Death learn how to play Weir or Dam or whatever it was, why should I wonder about anything?' 'Well, we imagine you will be wondering why we don't want anyone to say us,' said the first voice, aware that it was losing the initiative. Rincewind hesitated. The thought had crossed his mind, only very fast and looking nervously from side to side in case it got knocked over. 'Why should anyone want to say you?' 'It's the star,' said the spell. 'The red star. Wizards are already looking for you; when they find you they want to say all eight Spells together to change the future. They think the Disc is going to collide with the star.' Rincewind thought about this. 'Is it?' 'Not exactly, but in a— what's that?' Rincewind looked down. The Luggage padded out of the darkness. There was a long sliver of scytheblade in its lid. 'It's just the Luggage,' he said. 'But we didn't summon it here!' 'No-one summons it anywhere,' said Rincewind. 'It just turns up. Don't worry about it.' 'Oh. What were we talking about?' 'This red star thing.' 'Right. It's very important that you —' 'Hallo? Hallo? Anyone out there?' It was a small and squeaky voice and came from the picture box still slung around Twoflower's inert neck. The picture imp opened his hatch and squinted up at Rincewind. 'Where's this, squire?' it said. 'I'm not sure.' 'We still dead?' 'Maybe.' 'Well, let's hope we go somewhere where we don't need too much black, because I've run out.' The hatch slammed shut. Rincewind had a fleeting vision of Twoflower handing around his pictures and saying things like 'This is me being tormented by a million demons' and 'This is me with that funny couple we met on the freezing slopes of the Underworld.' Rincewind wasn't certain about what happened to you after you really died, the authorities were a little unclear on the subject; a swarthy sailor from the Rimward lands had said that he was confident of going to a paradise where there was sherbet and houris. Rincewind wasn't certain what a houri was, but after some thought he came to the conclusion that it was a little liquorice tube for sucking up the sherbet. Anyway, sherbet made him sneeze. 'Now that interruption is over,' said a dry voice firmly, 'perhaps we can get on. It is most important that you don't let the wizards take the spell from you. Terrible things will happen if all eight spells are said too soon.' 'I just want to be left in peace,' said Rincewind. 'Good, good. We knew we could trust you from the day you first opened the Octavo.' Rincewind hesitated. 'Hang on a minute,' he said. 'You want me to run around keeping the wizards from getting all the spells together?' 'Exactly.' 'That's why one of you got into my head?' 'Precisely.' 'You totally ruined my life, you know that?' said Rincewind hotly. 'I could have really made it as a wizard if you hadn't decided to use me as a sort of portable spellbook. I can't remember any other spells, they're too frightened to stay in the same head as you!' 'We're sorry.' 'I just want to go home! I want to go back to where—' a trace of moisture appeared in Rincewind's eye – 'to where there's cobbles under your feet and some of the beer isn't too bad and you can get quite a good piece of fried fish of an evening, with maybe a couple of big green gherkins, and even an eel pie and a dish of whelks, and there's always a warm stable somewhere to sleep in and in the morning you are always in the same place as you were the night before and there wasn't all this weather all over the place. I mean, I don't mind about the magic, I'm probably not, you know, the right sort of material for a wizard, I just want to go home!—' 'But you must—' one of the spells began. It was too late. Homesickness, the little elastic band in the subconscious that can wind up a salmon and propel it three thousand miles through strange seas, or send a million lemmings running joyfully back to an ancestral homeland which, owing to a slight kink in the continental drift, isn't there any more – homesickness rose up inside Rincewind like a late-night prawn biriani, flowed along the tenuous thread linking his tortured soul to his body, dug its heels in and tugged . . .

#LightFantastic

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