Disclaimer: I don't own Discworld. Do you honestly think that if I was Pratchett I'd be publishing this on fanfiction? Stress on the fan

Human traits

Death held an hourglass up to the light from a nearby candle. It was almost empty, but he had a few minutes before his particular service was needed. He looked around at the bookshelves for a moment, before walking over to one and pulling a book off. He flicked through it. It was a children's storybook. The subject appeared to be looking for their cow, having lost it. He turned to the back page, and sighed. He still didn't understand books. The concept of writing he understood, and he could grasp that people wrote down things to remember them-after all, he had his library, back home. But why bother writing down false words? And, more importantly, why read them knowing they were false, and that if you turned to the last page, you would find out who killed who, or, in this case, where you had left your pet cow?

It was, he decided, just one more of those silly, human things. One of those silly human things he had to stop worrying about. But, it was tempting to try once more. Perhaps reading one last book would help understand better… He turned to the first page, and began his deliberate, self-imposed ignorance of the plot.

The library door opened, and two servants came in, muttering. They were searching for something. Death idly wondered if it was their pet cow…or sheep…

"Where is it, where is it, where is it?" hissed one servant. "If we don't find it….."

"I know, I know." Replied the other, coughing in the storm of dust he had disturbed rummaging through desk drawers. "If we haven't found it by six o'clock…." They paused, then renewed their search for the elusive whatever-it-was they were searching for.

Death turned the page.

"It's quarter to six!"

"I know! Be quiet and keep searching!"

Death read on.

"Five minutes!"

He reached the last page, and paused hopefully for a moment. When the moment passed, he sighed and put the book back on the shelf. He still didn't understand the human trait of the storybook. Well, he decided, that was it. He was a skeleton-admittedly, a walking, talking skeleton with a very important public service to provide-but a skeleton all the same. From now on, humans could do what they liked. He would deal with them once they were dead.

"Hang on…"

"Yes? Hurry up! It's almost time!"

"Did we check the bookshelf…..?"

Both turned to the bookshelf. The younger one stepped forwards and examined the books. The older man was breathing heavily from the frantic search, and leaned heavily on the desk chair, forgetting it had wheels. It slid away, and as the servant struggled to regain his balance he grabbed the edge of a bookshelf. Which wasn't attached to the wall. And was full of all 500 volumes of 'Professor Deric Carmatt's complete works on the structure of earthworm communities.' The younger servant turned, 'Where's my cow?' in his hand, at the noise, the triumphant smile of relief frozen in place.

The ghostly servant peered at the book.

"Ah, well done, lad. Found it. Always in the last place you look. Run and take it to Willikins, ready for Mr Vimes." The younger servant didn't move.

"Get a move on, lad! It's six! I Can hear the clocks ringing!" The younger boy was still staring at the pile of books and shelving on the floor. He started to back out of the room, then turned and ran, shouting,

"Willikins, sir! Your grace! It's Barry, sir! He's dead!"

"Dead? What's the boy on about-" The ghostly Barry looked down. "Oh. I'm dead."

Death nodded, having watched the scene impartialy. "This is the case, yes."

"But we found the book! Six o'clock will happen!"

Death stared at him. Six o'clock always happened. Why would it not for a book? Humans. Always made life complicated. As the already transparent Barry faded away, something he'd said registered.

"It's always in the last place you look…? But, you stop looking once you've found it! Why wouldn't it be in the last place you look?" There was no reply, and Death was left to consider the general stupidity of humankind. Again.