A/N: Yes, my Pratchett fics tend to be weird. No, I don't know why. However, this is in much the same style as 'Ease' and 'Little People', so I suspect that if you enjoyed those you'll enjoy this.

Disclaimer: Surprise, surprise, I'm still not Terry Pratchett. I can feel your shock from here...

Forgiveness

He was a normal soldier boy, joined up to fight for his country. He supposed that by now, in most places, he was a veteran; after all, he'd been through the annual Slovinia-Borogravia war once already. But for those countries who were unfortunate enough to be next to Borogravia, one measly war hardly counted.

He'd taken crap missions in his day, sure enough, but he'd been sure that, were he ever found behind enemy lines, he'd be killed. That was the way of the world—if you didn't talk, you were tortured, then killed, and if you did talk? Well, they skipped the torture.

He didn't mind, really; there were worse ways to die than a cut throat. And he could, if necessary, live through torture.

He wasn't sure he'd need to, though. He didn't know what he'd decide to do, if the moment ever came.

And then the moment had come, and he'd decided, in the end, not to speak. He'd been expecting a bit of roughness, but they were out in a forest—no tools for torture, really, and the enemy had no time for it.

Nor, apparently, did their commanding officer—a remarkably chinless felloe, he'd noted absently—have any stomach for it. He'd half-hoped for that.

But then it turned out that the lieutenant hadn't the stomach for murder, either, or at least murder that wasn't direct. Because he'd been tied up, tied and left to the wolves—despite the argument of the sergeant, and he was at least grateful for that—until he was too tired to kick them away.

That was when they'd started in on his legs.

That was when he'd started to scream.

And that was, apparently, the one piece of luck he'd had, because the screaming had attracted a patrol. But maybe it wasn't luck after all, because by that time one leg was up to the knee, the other halfway there, and he was missing some fingers from his tied-up hands.

Nevertheless, the patrol had rescued him and bound his wounds, then brought him back to base. He'd thought that he was too wounded to bother with—no doctor could have saved him then, he was sure—but when they'd arrived there'd turned out to be an Igor, which was ten times better than any doctor, even those fancy imported ones from Ankh-Morpork.

He still wasn't sure that it had been a mercy. No, not sure at all.

And then—with his mangled legs and missing fingers, even Slovinia's army couldn't use him. He was useless, now, with no family and no skills: he had been good at soldiering, before the bastard lieutenant came, but now that was gone too.

It hadn't been at all hard to swear revenge.

He'd searched, near and far, for that lieutenant. He'd never found him, but he didn't give up.

Revenge was now his only purpose, after all.

And then one day he'd been sitting in a pub and a scarred man approached him.

"I hear," the man had said, "that you've been lucking for me."

At first he'd frowned; he didn't recognize the lieutenant. But then a nagging sense of familiarity burst into full bloom, and he saw this man several atrocities younger and with less chin, and knew him.

"Yes," he replied, voice steady as a rock. "Or maybe. Lieutenant Blouse—"

The man's eyes flashed red, and he replied, voice like red-hot iron, "I am not Lieutenant Blouse. My name is Tiger now."

He'd nodded slowly. "Tiger, then. Why are you here? You could kill me where I sit."

And Tiger had answered him by handing over a sword. He'd picked it up, holding it in his hand that still had three fingers, and decided it was a good one. Tiger had then lifted his neck back, his shaggy hair framing his head like a mane.

"They killed my squad," came the reply in a harsh whisper. "They killed my squad, and now I've killed them. Those who killed my sisters and father and lover are dead." For a moment, he flashed white teeth in a savage grin, but the moment ended quickly. "I don't have anything left to live for, now."

He'd nodded slowly, then put down the sword. "No," he'd said. "No. I think I've had my revenge—or someone else has had it for me."

Tiger's eyes had hardened then, his face tightening into a mask. "I see," he'd said, voice cold as winter in the mountains, as a night alone, fearful of the animals surrounding. "I see. I thought…" his voice had trailed off, and his hand gripped the sword's hilt, his knuckles turning white. He'd stood up and began to stride towards the door, but the former soldier's voice had called him back.

"Wait, Tiger."

The man had turned around, his eyes like burning coal. "Wait?" he'd said, his voice dripping with acid. "What for? If you won't do it, there will be someone else who will. Maybe that someone else will even be me."

He'd shaken his head. "No. Listen, please. There's a story—about the wizards. It's said…it's said that they can turn back time. I don't know. But maybe…" His voice faded away.

A light that had merely been smouldering before came to full fire in Tiger's eyes. "I see," he'd said, and his voice had become hoarse and quiet with a sudden, dreadful hope. "I see. Thank you. You may have been helpful after all."

Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a pouch full of things that jingled, and tossed it to the former soldier.

"Good luck," the former soldier had said to Tiger. "You'll need it."

The man's teeth had flashed white once more. "Thank you," he'd said. "I'd wish you the same, but with the money in that pouch, you should be fine."

The man had gotten up and left the pub, his walk now the straight, sure stride of the tiger stalking his prey.

The former soldier had nodded thoughtfully to himself, and then reached up and dropped the bag of coins into his jacket.

Some luck, after all, was useful everywhere.