Author's Notes: Well, this is it; only one more chapter after this, and Literally is complete. This chapter and the next have a couple references to the 'prequel' of this story (Marly Had a Brother; if you put this link after the url you should reach the story easily enough: /s/5712548/1/Marly_Had_a_Brother), and I'd recommend reading it before you read chapter twelve and thirteen, though you should still enjoy them well enough even if you don't.

This chapter was particularly hard to write, and at one point I was actually writing 'blah, blah, blah' (literally!) because I had such a severe case of writer's block. Don't worry, though—the next chapter is pretty much done, I just have to edit it. I'll post it up when I get some reviews, okay?

Pokers are throne, feelings are felt, and is paper written on... enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Discworld. I often wish I could create such a wonderful universe, but I doubt that's true... aw well, I'll just read 'em and write fanfiction off 'em until my own original works are done.

Chapter Twelve

A Gaping Hole

Teatime had the lock picked faster than she could blink. The gate slid open smoothly, without the slightest creek. She'd have to ask him how he did that some day. But for now...

"There's no one in here," she observed, glancing into each individual pit.

The assassin's eyes scanned the room carefully, seeing into the shadows and searching for any sign of life. But there was none.

"I must assume then," he said slowly in his high, off voice, "that they are currently in the throne room. Would you agree, Susan?"

She nodded.

"That's a reasonable enough guess. But all fifty of them?"

"It was a very big room."

Susan shrugged.

"Let's be off, then," she said, starting her brisk, long strides. The assassin watched her for a few seconds before taking a small, smooth step himself and popping up beside her.

*

THIS IS THE DANCE FLOOR, Death observed, recognizing the ballroom from where he had disappeared.

Lobsang snapped in fingers furiously, rather agitated that he couldn't make time stop. For goodness sake, he was time. Why didn't it just WORK?

MY POWERS ARE CURRENTLY UNWORKING AS WELL, LOBSANG.

"He has powers?" the peacock asked curiously.

LOBSANG IS THE LORD OF TIME.

"Oh!" she called brightly, "Maybe you could answer a few—"

"Now really isn't the time," Lobsang said, then turned to Death. "Any idea why that is?"

"By order of rule four-hundred-seventy-three point seven-dash-one-one once certain anthropomorphic personifications regain a physical state their powers are temporarily suspended to give time for their cells to find their correct positions and functioning," Ruth said, not even bothering to turn to them.

"What'd I say about being quiet!?" a guard called again.

Lobsang rolled his eyes, but none of them spoke any longer. The journalist, however, had the bright idea of pulling out her notepad and tapping her quill on it.

We could write, couldn't we? she wrote on the pad, then offered the feather to any of them.

Clever, Miss...? Lobsang responded.

Pearle. Persephone Pearle, at your service.

WE WERE DISCUSSING POWERS, Death wrote. MISS RUTH, WHEN CAN WE EXPECT THEM TO RETURN?

It was rather pathetic for Death and the Lord of Time (not to mention several other anthropomorphic personifications who were thoroughly peeved) to actually be held captive and be unable to use their gifts.

What's with the capital letters? Persphone wrote before Death had a chance to get Ruth's attention.

UM... INSTINCT. I'M NOT EXACTLY SURE WHY.

Hmm.

What possible use could come out of writing 'hmm' I don't know.

Death rewrote his question, then (with considerable effort) managed to get Ruth's attention.

"Hmm?" she asked, wrinkling her nose slightly.

The anthropomorphic personification of death held out the pad. Her nose wrinkled even more, and she took the quill and notepad as if their were muddy boots. When she wrote, her handwriting was smooth, fancy, swirly, and very official.

According to Rule #473.7-12, your and Miss. Sto-Helit's powers will be completely restored by seven o'clock, her sharp, tidy writing stated.

SUSAN DOESN'T HAVE HER POWERS? BUT SHE DIDN'T DISAPPEAR.

Ruth rolled her eyes.

No, she did not. But her powers are the same as—albeit somewhat weaker than—yours. She is also partly Death. Because of this, the magic suspending your capabilities is, her writing paused for a moment as she thought, shall we say 'leaking' and affecting most of hers as well.

AT WHAT POINT WILL OUR POWERS RETURN, ONCE MORE?

Seven o'clock, Ruth wrote, returning the pad as she raised her parasol and nose once more.

Death nodded and turned to the lord of time.

WHAT TIME IS IT, LOBSANG?

6:37.

TWENTY-THREE MINUTES, THEN. JUST TWENTY-THREE MINUTES AND WE CAN GET OUT OF THIS MESS.

I wonder where Susan is... the journalist wrote idly.

SHE'LL BE FINE. SUSAN IS A STRONG, SMART YOUNG LADY AND I AM EXCEEDINGLY PROUD OF HER. SHE'S PROBABLY COMING TO HELP US AT THIS VERY MOMENT.

If she is, Lobsang wrote, we have absolutely nothing to worry about.

OH, I COULD THINK OF ONE THING...

Death had one crazed assassin on his mind at the moment.

*

Winding their way through the stone halls, the chill still fell like a light weight blanket (a very, very cold blanket) over them. Still, they'd been in this castle for so many hours that the damp cold no longer brought them discomfort, especially since the two had enjoyed the feeling in the first place. No, they did not fear the lack of warmth—they welcomed it, taking in deep breaths of the sharp air.

The chill was not what was unnerving Susan. It was the fact that her hair wasn't moving. Just to see, she snapped her right hand sharply—the sound echoed throughout the stone keep (causing Teatime to glare at her), but nothing happened. Time remained in place, it did not stop. Immediately, she remembered Lobsang snapping his fingers on the roof earlier. She hadn't noticed anything then, either.

"My powers aren't working," she said, pausing in her stride.

The assassin cocked his head thoughtfully.

"Shame..." he sighed. "They most certainly could have been useful. Still, I wouldn't worry," Teatime said, starting his smooth steps once more, "...we won't be needing them."

"Are you so sure about that?"

"Why not be?"

Susan cocked her head; he certainly had a point.

At last, they reached the huge ballroom. Teatime offered his arm, and Susan took it. Two small steps later they were across the long dance floor and before the door to the throne room. Teatime frowned slightly, brow furrowing.

"Now would have been a time your powers would have been... useful," he said thoughtfully. "No matter. Susan, I'm going to open the door, then you are going to go through and stick to the wall. Make it to a corner somewhere—quietly, if you can? I'll go another way. We'll watch for a while."

"Then what will we do?"

He grinned.

"I'll think of something."

"In a split second?"

"I can do a lot of thinking in a split second."

"Of course you can," she said sarcastically.

You and I know better.

Teatime just shook his head with a small smile as he slid the door open a crack, voices flowing out like water from a no-longer-dammed river. He gestured urgently with his head, and Susan passed through the door and hugged the wall until she reached a corner. She didn't even notice the barely ajar door close, or see Teatime move, but when she looked back he was gone and the door was shut tight. There hadn't even been a sound.

The schoolteacher shook her head, a small smile forming on her lips. He was good.

"...exactly how did they get on the roof of my keep again?" the lazy, slightly agitated voice of Mordred echoed throughout the hall. Death, Lobsang, Persphone, Ruth, and many, many others filled the throne room directly before the actual throne, most of which looking utterly confused.

Susan glanced around, but didn't see Teatime anywhere. She did, however, notice a new fireplace that hadn't been there last time she'd been, and a considerable amount less of guards than there had been a minute ago.

They'd better be alive, Teatime, were the words rolling through Susan's mind, or you'll wish you had died. She rethought that. Or at least hadn't come back to life.

Timothy Ortan, the wizard, spoke nervously.

"I told you about the spell—"

"Yes, yes, but why my roof?"

"They fell out of the sky towards where the spell was cast—the roof was just in the way," he explained quickly.

"Now what do we do with them?" the lord wondered thoughtfully.
"Um—"

"I wasn't talking to you, Wizard."

"Oh. ...I'll just be going then?"

Mordred rolled his eyes.

During this dialogue, something very strange was happening. The crowd was getting smaller. Most people wouldn't notice this, but Susan had taken it upon herself to count the individuals there, if only out of boredom. But, as she continued to examine the group, she realized that people were disappearing—shortly after a curly, blond head appeared unscrupulously in the middle of the crowd.

He's shifting them, she realized, one at a time.

Throughout her adventures here, Susan was feeling rather wimpy. She didn't like being powerless, over powered, not in control, or anything along those lines. But it seemed so far that either she was sitting around doing nothing, Teatime was overpowering her, or Teatime was rescuing her. It was really getting on her nerves, and all she wanted was to do something. She wanted to be tough skewer-you-with-a-poker-Susan again. Not this meek, 'I'm in love'-nonsense-Susan.

Now that was a weird thought. She most certainly was not in love. No, not at all. Not in the slightest. She was... um... she found him intriguing. Yes, that was it. He was interesting, and at the moment his help would be valuable, so—

"Hi, Susan," a voice whispered in her ear. Her eyes widened, but she managed not to jump. She swerved her head towards and glared at him.

"You could have announced yourself!" she hissed.

He blinked.

"I just did."

Susan thought a few seconds. He could be so practical, but insane at the same time. It made her wonder... if she was able to get into his mind, would it actually make sense?

Nah, she decided.

"What were you doing earlier?" she asked.

"I was trying to shift some people away. I got quite a few—including a very talkative tourist. At least he was better than that... toothfairy."

"Now what are we going to do?"

"I think there's a problem, Susan."

"What's that?"

"The voices have stopped."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, never taking his eyes from hers, "that the whole throne room is watching us."

Susan turned slowly, seeing a very amused audience watching them.

"Oh."

"I must admit," Mordred said, "though I can see you both, I can't hear a word you're saying. You most definitely have that part down."

"Mordred," she said, stepping forwards. She wasn't quite sure why she said it, but it definitely makes for a good affect—don't you think?

"Journalist."

"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not a journalist!"
"Then what are you, pray tell?"

"Honestly," she said, glaring, I DON'T EVEN KNOW.

Funny, that she could use her voice but none of her other powers seemed to be working.

There was a silence while Mordred tried to gain his composure. His face had completely contorted and he had leapt back in his seat—not like how Teatime handled her Voice. No, the assassin hardly blinked when Susan Voiced him. He was one of the few people that weren't particularly phased by it. If that had been the main thought in her head (rather than 'What on the Disc were we thinking just waltzing in here with no plan? Teatime, I'm going to KILL YOU!'), she would have smiled. She rather liked that he didn't mind that bit about her.

"Um-I-er," Mordred started sputtering, "um—arrest her!"

It was like a default setting, the way those final words came out of his mouth. In fact, Mordred had been saying 'Arrest (insert pronoun here)!' almost three times a week. It was becoming a very comforting, normal experience that always helped to sooth his nerves.

If this were a movie (rather than a lowly fanfiction), we would just have had a close up on Mordred's face as those confused/terrified words had left his fumbling mouth. Slowly, we would have swerved and zoomed back approximately two feet. That second camera motion would have revealed one crazed assassin, holding a knife up to the lord's side. How he'd gotten there, we'd never learn.

"I'd advise you to take back that order," came the soft, cheerful voice of Jonathon Teatime.

Mordred's fists were turning white from clutching his armrests, but he slowly released them and relaxed as he attempted to calm himself.

"I keep that order."

Teatime cocked his head in confusion.

"You do understand that I'm going to kill you."

"No, you're not."

The assassin had a slight urge to kill him then and there (if only for the irony and poetic aestheticism of it), but he was a terribly curious soul. Not quite literally, as he had a solid body once more, but still, he was very, very curious. Why didn't he think he was going to kill him?

"Why not?" he wondered thoughtfully.

"I had that wizard conjure me a vision of my death," he glanced down at the knife, "this wasn't it."

"Oh. Well, you should get a new wizard."

Teatime slid the knife forwards, breaking each layer of the lord's clothing.

And then he remembered, stopping just before he penetrated flesh.

"If we're going to be a team," Susan continued, "I have to set a few rules. First of all, I don't want you to hold me at knife point. Ever. .......

"....................Second, I don't want you to kill anyone without my express permission."

Did this count? Certainly, they were moving towards their goal (that being freeing the prisoners), but Susan had a complex disorder known to the Discworld as 'morals'. He had never fully understood these strange 'morals', so he could never quite predict how people would feel about the things he did.

Someone was trying to sneak up behind him, but he really didn't want to think about them at the moment. Couldn't they see he was busy?

As he could see it, there were only two options:

A. Kill him.

Possible Outcomes:

1. Susan doesn't mind and everything works out.

2. Susan doesn't mind and everything goes to ruin (unlikely, putting his and her expertise into the equation).

3: Susan minds and kills him. AGAIN (unlikely, as they'd been getting along rather well recently. Compared to previous standards. E.g. her killing him).

4: Susan minds and—

"Oh no..." he said softly, but somehow it echoed throughout the room as the sword slid through him. It felt like fire, and tiny tears of pain were gathering by his eyes. But that wasn't what upset him.

First off, he was terribly disappointed in himself. Most people made it throughout life without being killed at all—he'd now been killed twice. How pathetic was that?

Second of all, how could he have let that guard get so close behind him? That was just lame. LAME. So out of character, too. He blamed Susan. She distracted him with all her contradictions, layers, and mysteries.

Then again, if she wasn't so intriguing I probably wouldn't be in love with her.

There he smiled. Yes, he was most definitely in love. He'd never really loved someone before—oh yes, he'd loved Marly, but Marly was the other half of his soul, she wasn't someone else. Susan... Susan was brilliant and beautiful and smart and silly and brave and a big pain. How wonderful.

Thirdly, he was going to miss out on that kiss Susan had promised him. That was almost worth crying for in itself.

After he had completed all this thought, Susan's brain had just finished registering that he had just been stabbed as the clock struck seven times. It wasn't that she was slow (though he was fast), but her brain really, really didn't want to see that at this point, so it kept trying to block it out, while her eyes kept saying "nope, that definitely happened. Listen to me, STUPID BRAIN" (yes, the last part was in the Voice).

It almost felt like the sword had gone through her, it hurt so badly.

"No," she said softly, completely and totally denying what her brain had finally resigned to telling her.

Nope, that definitely happened—listen to me, STUPID SUSAN! her brain called in agitation.

"...not again," Teatime finished, shaking his head sadly as he stared at the point coming out of his chest.

NOT RIGHT! Susan screamed. She was having a hard time forming coherent thoughts, let alone coherent sentences. NO!

Teatime glanced at her, the smallest of smiles flickered across his face for half a second.

"You always did deny what you didn't like and couldn't control..."

He shook his head before falling backwards. The hilt jabbed further up into his back, pressing so hard against him. The blade slid through his middle, wrenching and ripping up his insides. At least it wasn't as bad as the poker, which had been all rusty.

Mordred glanced around.

"How come no one is arresting her?"

About then the guards started towards Susan, but she wasn't paying attention, acknowledging, or even thinking about them at the moment. She was trying to deny her heart, which had just shattered into seven thousand tiny pieces. She was trying to deny the fact that her chest felt like it was collapsing on itself. The fact that the world was growing blurry with her tears.

He was a bloody assassin. She didn't care if he died.

DON'T YOU DARE DIE, TEATIME! she screeched.

Fireplace. She saw a fireplace.

More importantly: poker.

She saw a poker.

She lunged at it as the scarlet clad men came towards her (surprisingly slowly), and, in one smooth motion so reminiscent of a Hogswatch three years ago, lifted it from its stand and flung it outwards to that evil lord who'd indirectly killed a psychokiller (how dare he?!) like one would throw a frisbee. But it didn't spin, it flew straight and true, spearing Mordred in the heart.

"Well," he said, "that's what it looked like. A poker, poking out of my chest. The wizard could have told me who threw the darn thing."

Everyone left in the room was feeling a little awkward. The guards, not quite sure if their lord was dying, dead, or just injured weren't sure whether they should arrest that girl again or not. Especially a girl who had a voice ('Voice', actually, but they didn't know) like that.

Susan, with long, brisk, angry steps marched after her poker up to Mordred. In all your years of life, you never want to see a look like that on Death's Granddaughter's face. It was so cold, so wet with the tears she denied she was shedding, so dark and so very empty... like a preying mantis.

"Damn you," she said softly, and pulled the poker out of the lord's chest, letting the blood rush and fall, ignoring how his face contorted with pain. No, she didn't ignore it—she relished it.

WAIT, Death asked anyone who was listening, DID THE CLOCK STRIKE SEVEN O'CLOCK SOMEWHERE IN THERE? OUR POWERS SHOULD BE BACK.

"Let's find out," Susan growled, and snapped her fingers.

Time slowed, then stopped. With considerable effort, she stopped Lobsang and Death as well. She didn't want anyone but her to have time. Well, almost no one but her.

Susan swerved and walked towards the body on the ground that she denied was dead. For once, she was actually right. Touching his wrist gently, she brought time back to his flesh. Just to him.

"Teatime?" she asked quietly, surprised by how soft her voice was.

He grinned, raising his knife up to her neck. It was cold against her. Susan liked the cold.

"We do have rules, Susan. I've been good enough to follow them—"

"Jonathon, you're going to be alright. I'll find a wizard, then unfreeze time and—"

"It's much nicer here," he said softly, lowering his blade.

"What do you mean?" she asked, totally bemused by the randomness of his words.

"When Marly died I was the one standing over her. I like this better. It makes me feel... special."

YOU. ARE. NOT. DYING.

His smile widened slightly.

"Oh, the Voice."

"Teatime..." she growled.

His smile twitched, then he reached up and touched the edge of her face. He seemed fascinated as he watched her white hair with a mind of its own slide around his fingers.

"You're very beautiful."

She closed her eyes.

"Don't you dare leave me, Jonathon."

"Don't you remember, Susan? I want to be with you every day of every year for the rest of eternity. I'll find a way back—you look for me."

"Don't you dare leave me."

"Susan, Susan, Susan..." he whispered softly, shaking his head, "try believing for a change."

He grinned, then closed his eyes.

Susan smiled nervously.

"Teatime, open your eyes please."

He was so still.

"Jonathon, say something."

He was so quiet.

"Jonathon, move. Please, please, just move."

Though her voice was commanding and unshaking, her eyes weren't obeying her. Neither were the tears snaking down her cheeks.

"Teatime?"

He was so cold.

"Teatime."

He was so... so dead.

It was like a plaster face cracked and broke as her pale, solemn expression wrinkled and contorted. Her head fell to his chest, and no words formed in her mind. There was only a gaping, empty hole. A black-hole, sucking everything up and pulling it in, taking and taking every happy thought, every ounce of defiance... sucking her up and eating her away. A black, ugly, empty hole.

"By god, you've broken me. You said you'd make me whole but you broke me. I was happy before. I was okay and happy. You've broken me!"

But she wasn't angry at him. No matter how hard she tried to be, she couldn't be angry at him.

No, she thought coldly. No, I don't love him.

No.

Susan stood and dusted off her skirt, dried off her eyes and tried to compose herself. The tears came again, and she repeated the process when her face stopped being a river. She went back to her previous position by Mordred's throne and brought Death and Lobsang to the frozen time.

SUSAN? Death asked, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?

"Of course I am," she said strongly. "Why wouldn't I be?"