Of Angels and Volcanoes
By: Twist
A/n: Just a brief short/songfic thing I wrote in my journal a while ago. Written late at night, hence some of the oddness. WARNING: Character death, though I have trouble saying that with a straight face.T because there's some foul language in it and I want to keep my butt covered. Please review; it makes me happy.
Disclaimer: Discworld and its characters are property of Terry Pratchett. 'Volcano' is property of Jimmy Buffett. Twist is not affiliated in any way with either of these men, she just enjoys their creations.
---
It rained the day of the funeral. No one minded. It was actually very appropriate.
Havelock Vetinari was dead, and this time everyone was sure. No one had quite known what to do about the funeral, since no plans had ever been mentioned (he wasn't a man for small talk and anyhow, what kind of small talk is that?), so between Lady Sybil and a few of the other nobles who hadn't totally hated him, a satisfactory service was arranged. It was in Small Gods, obviously, and most of the city had managed to turn up, though whether or not this was just to get out of the rain was up for debate.
Moist von Lipwig, freshly elected Patrician, watched with some measure of wonder. It was almost impossible to believe, really, that Vetinari was gone. Here was an individual who had left such a huge impact on the world that other countries used his image on their money. You half expected him to stroll soundlessly up behind you and start a leisurely conversation about the Post Office's most recent failure to stay under budget.
Moist saw Commander Vimes sitting across the aisle. The man looked, overall, bloody furious. Which was appropriate, Moist supposed; Vimes's first reaction to anything was to be bloody furious. Vimes caught Moist staring and glared mightily. Moist hastily leaned back and fixed his gaze straight ahead, to where the priest - one of the Ridcullys, Moist could never keep them straight - was saying something about how maybe he wasn't the most-liked person ever but hey, he wasn't bad, right? I mean, we've seen worse.
Moist avoided looking at the casket. Why there was one, he couldn't guess; it was empty. It was also black and shiny. Moist had the feeling that if Vetinari had seen it, he would have hated it. But no matter, someone along the line had felt it necessary and there it was.
The service was quite short, actually. No one had felt up to delivering any sort of eulogy, which cut about twenty minutes off the total time. So thus it came to the burial, which wasn't really, more of a placing. The casket was placed in the old family crypt by some clerks in dark clothes that no one knew, save Moist. He'd kept them all on because they were smart and knew what they were doing and were, as a group, slightly frightening. He knew their first names, and how to contact them, and nothing else. Vetinari had been quite meticulous about keeping records of some things, and quite vague about others. Moist knew there was a reason, and until he figured it out he was not going to pry.
In due time the tomb was sealed and the whole thing was announced to be over. Most of the crowd left soon after, though some stragglers stayed in the graveyard afterwards, talking about this or that. Moist didn't quite feeling like going back to the Palace and riffling through all of Vetinari's notes; it had started to make his head ache. How any one person could think that way was astounding and horrifying all at once. No wonder the man had never kept anyone very close; they probably would've been driven mad by his constant need to plot. Also, Moist had discovered Vetinari's theory of keeping friends enemies and enemies dead, which sort of explained a lot.
About an hour after the ceremony, the last group of people cleared out. Moist had slunk off to stand under an overhang where at least he could stay dry. He wasn't sure why he had decided to stay here, but he felt distantly that it was a good place to be. He was thinking and staring off into the distance when the dead spoke.
"You could've said something about the casket you know," Vetinari said. Moist almost soiled himself. He wheeled, squeaking slightly. Vetinari was leaning against the doorframe behind him, looking incredibly nonchalant.
"You're dead!" he managed, pointing accusingly. "Four doctors checked this time: they said they were sure!"
"I'm pretty sure myself," Vetinari said coolly. "Dead, however, is not synonymous with gone."
"So what?" Moist's mind was boggling. "You can't be a zombie; there's no body left. Anthropomorphic personification?"
Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Do you recall the incident in which you were 'brought back to life'?"
"But you said you were dead! You can't be dead and faking dead at the same time!" Moist was nearing hysterical. Vetinari had unnerved the former postmaster while he was alive. Coming back from the dead was just plain horrifying.
"You're thinking too directly. Do you recall what I talked to you about when you resumed consciousness? Not the bit about the brooms."
Moist thought for a moment. Then his face took on an expression of horrified realization. "You're joking. This is not happening to me."
"I'm not, and it is." Vetinari allowed himself a small grin. "Tragically, wings and halos are only for official business."
"I knew you weren't human, you bastard!" Moist wheeled once again to see Commander Vimes, huffing furiously around his cigar.
"Where the hell were you?" Moist demanded.
"How nice of you to join us," Vetinari said politely.
"My question is," Vimes snarled, "is how the hell did you get around burning? Did they stake you first?"
Vetinari rolled his eyes, which completely shocked Moist. Dead or not, emotion was not something he had expected Vetinari to show. "Commander, just because someone is immortal and happens to wear black does not mean beyond doubt that they are a vampire. Honestly."
"Well you're damn well not a werewolf! And zombie's bloody impossible . . ." he seemed to think for a moment. "What does that leave?"
"Angels," Moist said despondently. "And demons, but that traditionally involves more horns."
The commander's cigar managed to cling to his lower lip when his mouth dropped open. "Angels?" he managed after some time. "Isn't there usually more . . . niceness involved with that option?"
"A common misconception," Vetinari said gravely. "That's cherubs. Angels are the ones with the swords on fire and whatnot. Smiting."
"Smiting?" Moist's mind tried to get around the idea of Vetinari smiting anything and failed spectacularly.
Vetinari nodded. "I've been smiting for the past thirty-some years. Surely you've noticed."
"I've never noticed a rain of flaming acid, and I'm pretty damn sure I wouldn't've missed that," Vimes growled.
Vetinari actually sighed. "So traditional, Commander. Rains of flaming acid were declared out-of-date ages ago. We're much more modern now: flaming swords are optional. Close your mouth, Lipwig, you never know who's watching."
Moist snapped his mouth shut. His brain had pretty much shut down within the past five minutes. He decided that nothing was better than standing by and watching. It was all he was capable of at the moment, really.
"It's all about economics these days," Vetinari was saying. "Why lay waste to a civilization with plagues and that when now all it takes is a decade or so and some careful planning? It's so much easier."
"So . . . So you've been this way for a while then?" Moist someone asked weakly. Moist realized it was himself as soon as his brain and his ears managed to catch up with one another.
"Longer than you can possibly imagine," Vetinari said with a slight smirk. "I've just been out on assignment for the past fifty-some years. You can't just crop up out of nowhere, you see? People are much less suspicious if you experience something as mundane as being born."
"So what about me?" Moist asked, realizing that this was probably a very stupid question.
"You?" Vetinari asked. "You were a successor. Everyone needs one, no exceptions."
"But why do it that way?" Moist asked, wondering why he was asking these questions at all to begin with. Vimes was staring. "I mean, you basically brought me back from the dead and -"
"You actually were dead, by the way."
" - Er." Moist's train of thought derailed; finding out that one was dead and then supernaturally brought back to life is always a bit difficult to deal with at first.
"I did it because you were perfect and convenient, and I told you up front because the truth is always easier. Also, I knew you would never take me literally."
"So why are you here?" Vimes demanded. "Obviously not on an assignment, otherwise you'd be in a nappy."
"Very astute, Commander," Vetinari said smoothly. "No, I'm not on an assignment. Merely tying up a few loose ends before going back."
Moist's stomach flipped. Perhaps Vetinari would be doing something with the city; Moist needed all the help he could get. "Making sure the city doesn't go boing?" Moist asked hopefully. His stomach sank a bit when Vetinari snorted.
"Definitely not," the angel said. "I'm getting out of here before you have a chance to fiddle with everything, Lipwig."
"But I need help," Moist whined. His brain had stopped working and whining was now an acceptable option. Had he been himself, he would have been appalled.
Vetinari raised an eyebrow, and then nodded imperceptibly. "Advice, then. The city is a volcano, Lipwig. You can't put brakes on one of those things, but you can watch for the rumbling. Go in front of the flow, and watch it because it moves deceivingly quickly, and it's so hot it'll kill you in seconds. And always know where you're going to land, because sometimes volcanoes go off without warning."
"Did you just give him advice about Ankh-Morpork using geological terms?" Vimes asked, blowing a smoke ring. Moist was astounded by how calm the man was in this situation; it was almost as if he had expected it.
"Yes," Vetinari said simply. "And now, gentlemen, I have to be off." Moist opened his mouth to say more but Vetinari had strode out from under the overhang. In a matter of seconds he sprouted a pair of wings, flapped once, and vanished. Moist realized his mouth was open after a bit and closed it.
"He'll be back," Vimes said, glaring at the spot where to former Patrician had vanished. He spared Moist a brief glance. "Watch those volcanoes," he muttered before stepping out into the rain. Moist thought he heard him mutter something along the line of 'metaphorical bastard' as he walked off.
The Patrician stayed in the graveyard for a few hours more before returning to the Palace. His mind was racing, but somehow he felt a bit more certain. He no longer was afraid of the clerks, and of the city, and how it functioned. It was unpredictable, yes, but the clerks were a sort of Richter scale; they measured the activity and Moist never knew about any of it unless it caused an unusual blip in the thin black line. It was calming, actually, to think about it that way. All you had to worry about, Moist realized, was where you'd land if it all went boom. He could do that.
And so it was with new peace of mind that Lord von Lipwig went back to work that night, sorting through old notes and reports and seeing precedents, creating patterns and monitoring the black line.
---
Far away, on a beach with a smoking mountain in the background, Time sipped his fruity drink. It had an umbrella in it. "Wasn't that a bit cruel of you?" he asked after a bit of thoughtful staring at the ocean.
Under the dark glasses, than angel cracked an eye. "What on the Disc are you talking about?"
"You let the poor thing think the city is like a volcano," Time said reproachfully. "That's a but inaccurate, isn't it?"
"Of course," the angel said, resuming nap position. "Ankh-Morpork is far less predictable than a volcano."
"But Ankh-Morpork doesn't randomly quake violently and burst into flames!"
"Only on a metaphorical level," the angel conceded. "But only because no one's figured out how to make it do that for real yet."
Time sighed. "I don't think it's as chaotic as you say it is. Doesn't seem that way, at least."
"Then I'm very good at my job," the angel said. "Now leave me alone; I haven't slept properly in ages."
Now, I don't know, I don't know,
I don't know where I'm a gonna go
when the volcano blow.
Let me say it now,
I don't know, I don't know,
I don't know where I'm a gonna go
when the volcano blow.
Ground, she movin' under me.
Tidal waves out on the sea.
Sulphur smoke up in the sky.
Pretty soon we learn to fly
Let me hear you, now
I don't know, I don't know
I don't know where I'm a gonna go
when the volcano blow.
Now, my girl quickly say to me,
"Mon you better watch your feet."
Lava come down soft and hot.
"You better lava me now or lava me not.
Let me say it now, I don't know, I don't know
I don't know where I'm a gonna go
when the volcano blow.
Mr. Utley!
No time to count what I'm worth,
cause I just left the planet Earth.
Where I go I hope there's rum!
Not to worry, mon soon come.
Now, I don't know, I don't know
I don't know where I'm a gonna go
when the volcano blow.
One more now,
I don't know, I don't know,
I don't know where I'm a gonna go
when the volcano blow.
But I don't want to land in New York City,
I don't want to land in Mexico.
I don't want to land on no Three Mile Island;
I don't want to see my skin a-glow.
Don't want to land in Comanche Sky Park,
or in Nashville, Tennessee.
I don't want to land in no San Juan airport or
the Yukon Territory.
Don't want to land no San Diego.
Don't want to land in no Buzzards Bay.
I don't want to land on no Ayatolla.
I got nothin' more to say.
I don't know, I don't know,
I don't know where I'm a gonna go
when the volcano blow.
Justa one more,
I don't know, I don't know,
I don't know where I'm a gonna go
when the volcano blow.