A/N: Nothing much to say. Whee. It's spring break. I'm happy. Aargh... I should start wrapping this fic up and work on my novel... Right, so, I'm quite literally making this up as I go along, so... yeah. Anthropomorphic Personifications are springing up like weeds. Have fun with the lawn mower.
Chapter 7
Susan woke.
No, that's the wrong thing to say.
Susan opened her eyes, violet from rim to rim. She sat up, and her hair swung with her movements, deep red-gold in the morning light. Susan gave her surroundings a cold, hard stare and began climbing down from her nest.
Dunce awoke with a snort, and looked up at the girl. She jumped down lightly, landing on her feet, and turned on her heel to stare at him.
Dunce stared at her. Her eyes were violet and glowing from within, her hair was reddish gold, and her skin was a pale, translucent shade, nearly blue. She smiled, arched her eyebrows, and vanished with a sound like an indrawn breath.
The Klatchian jungle god grinned to himself and rumbled a deep purr of satisfaction.
It had begun.
The Lady's eyes faded, and she drooped in the middle of the circle. She began to feel the weight of reality setting upon her, shackles she had never felt before clicking into place. The people around her began to yell and run about, but it was as if she was seeing it through a thick pink cloud, all shadows and muffled murmurs.
Her eyes snapped open, green once more, but not rim to rim. She had irises, pupils... the Archchancellor shushed the wizards around him. The Lady could feel condensed humanity flowing through her veins, pressed, strained, caught in her like a fly in hardening tree sap. It was a cold, hard humanity, a granite tombstone among light river rocks.
So this was what it was like to be Susan Sto-Helit, heir apparent to Death.
The Lady steadied herself on whatever wizard or witch was in reach, grinning the toothy, cold grin of death. A strand of mixed black and white hair fell across her left eye. She took off her sunglasses and fixed the Archchancellor with a cold green stare.
"WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?" she asked.
The great A'Tuin hummed a nasal, tuneless melody that rumbled across space. He sniffed a few times, sneezed noisily, and continued his song.
There hadn't always been believers. Sometimes a God just had to make do with what was around. Whispers in the leaves, the skittering of primordial bugs under a rock, the hidden streams singing their maddening songs of hope. These things are old. Their belief is old. It has stood the test of time, and it will go on when all other belief has disappeared from the face of the Disc. It will go on when the source has been quieted.
The key words here are "go on."
Duhaalomungamungacenchoknbenkomunce* could go on for almost an eternity on this belief. The chance idle visitor would believe in the god for a short a while, if only as some strange jungle native, but the belief would be strong and hot and NEW. It would remind Duhaalomungamungacenchoknbenkomunce of the tribes... the tribes of primitive, jaded worshippers who sacrificed to him whether he wanted it or not, who would die for him in battle, who would someday drink the bittersweet tea of victory (made with REAL LEAVES) in his jungle hall.
Until, of course, after a few short scores of years, like minutes in the life of a god, when the visitor died. Most often alone, jibbering nonsense, or struck by lightning when claiming that gods need belief in order to survive.
Some gods needed human belief, that is. Most do. But there are a small handful...
The Librarian moved down the corridor with the surprising speed of someone who has had to move 300 pounds of pure orangutan around for roughly ten years. His footsteps were far apart, in a loping gait particular to apes, and he moved silently.
He had had quite a few experiences with the Trousers of Time, all of which ended up fine and dandy, but the Trousers of Space were different. It could take something real and make it half imaginary, something pink and make it half blue. It was not a case of different events, it was a case of different... non-events, it could be called.
And now he had to warn someone while he could still talk.
SHIT, said the Lady.
The Dean winced. "Yes?" he asked cautiously, shuffling away from her. "What's, um, wrong?"
IT'S COMING BACK, the Lady replied, reaching out to grab the Archchancellor's collar.
"That's good... isn't it?" the Lecturer in Recent Runes stuttered, twisting his robe in his hands. "The magic's coming back?"
WE'VE MESSED EVERYTHING UP! she groaned, shaking Ridcully and making his hat fall off. IT'S ALL WRONG! THE SCALES... IT'S COMING BACK TO THE WRONG PEOPLE!
"Hmm," Granny said, and silence fell. She tapped the toe of her boot a few times. A shadow seemed to grow out from the three witches. Ponder took a step back, in company with the rest of the staff. "So now you're the heir to Death."
The Lady dropped Mustrum with a thud, her fingers long, blue, and skeletal.
She flashed Granny a hard, cold smile. IN A WORD, she said, YES.
Susan whirled through space and time like a top through water, a flash of colour and fire and emotion. She couldn't remember where she had been, she couldn't remember where she was, she couldn't remember where she was going. And best of all, she didn't care.
Isn't life grand?
_________
*Hey, give the guy a break. He'd lived for thousands of years and had hundreds of thousands of believers. He had to do SOMETHING with all the names...**
**Oh, by the way, it's Dunce.
Chapter 7
Susan woke.
No, that's the wrong thing to say.
Susan opened her eyes, violet from rim to rim. She sat up, and her hair swung with her movements, deep red-gold in the morning light. Susan gave her surroundings a cold, hard stare and began climbing down from her nest.
Dunce awoke with a snort, and looked up at the girl. She jumped down lightly, landing on her feet, and turned on her heel to stare at him.
Dunce stared at her. Her eyes were violet and glowing from within, her hair was reddish gold, and her skin was a pale, translucent shade, nearly blue. She smiled, arched her eyebrows, and vanished with a sound like an indrawn breath.
The Klatchian jungle god grinned to himself and rumbled a deep purr of satisfaction.
It had begun.
The Lady's eyes faded, and she drooped in the middle of the circle. She began to feel the weight of reality setting upon her, shackles she had never felt before clicking into place. The people around her began to yell and run about, but it was as if she was seeing it through a thick pink cloud, all shadows and muffled murmurs.
Her eyes snapped open, green once more, but not rim to rim. She had irises, pupils... the Archchancellor shushed the wizards around him. The Lady could feel condensed humanity flowing through her veins, pressed, strained, caught in her like a fly in hardening tree sap. It was a cold, hard humanity, a granite tombstone among light river rocks.
So this was what it was like to be Susan Sto-Helit, heir apparent to Death.
The Lady steadied herself on whatever wizard or witch was in reach, grinning the toothy, cold grin of death. A strand of mixed black and white hair fell across her left eye. She took off her sunglasses and fixed the Archchancellor with a cold green stare.
"WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?" she asked.
The great A'Tuin hummed a nasal, tuneless melody that rumbled across space. He sniffed a few times, sneezed noisily, and continued his song.
There hadn't always been believers. Sometimes a God just had to make do with what was around. Whispers in the leaves, the skittering of primordial bugs under a rock, the hidden streams singing their maddening songs of hope. These things are old. Their belief is old. It has stood the test of time, and it will go on when all other belief has disappeared from the face of the Disc. It will go on when the source has been quieted.
The key words here are "go on."
Duhaalomungamungacenchoknbenkomunce* could go on for almost an eternity on this belief. The chance idle visitor would believe in the god for a short a while, if only as some strange jungle native, but the belief would be strong and hot and NEW. It would remind Duhaalomungamungacenchoknbenkomunce of the tribes... the tribes of primitive, jaded worshippers who sacrificed to him whether he wanted it or not, who would die for him in battle, who would someday drink the bittersweet tea of victory (made with REAL LEAVES) in his jungle hall.
Until, of course, after a few short scores of years, like minutes in the life of a god, when the visitor died. Most often alone, jibbering nonsense, or struck by lightning when claiming that gods need belief in order to survive.
Some gods needed human belief, that is. Most do. But there are a small handful...
The Librarian moved down the corridor with the surprising speed of someone who has had to move 300 pounds of pure orangutan around for roughly ten years. His footsteps were far apart, in a loping gait particular to apes, and he moved silently.
He had had quite a few experiences with the Trousers of Time, all of which ended up fine and dandy, but the Trousers of Space were different. It could take something real and make it half imaginary, something pink and make it half blue. It was not a case of different events, it was a case of different... non-events, it could be called.
And now he had to warn someone while he could still talk.
SHIT, said the Lady.
The Dean winced. "Yes?" he asked cautiously, shuffling away from her. "What's, um, wrong?"
IT'S COMING BACK, the Lady replied, reaching out to grab the Archchancellor's collar.
"That's good... isn't it?" the Lecturer in Recent Runes stuttered, twisting his robe in his hands. "The magic's coming back?"
WE'VE MESSED EVERYTHING UP! she groaned, shaking Ridcully and making his hat fall off. IT'S ALL WRONG! THE SCALES... IT'S COMING BACK TO THE WRONG PEOPLE!
"Hmm," Granny said, and silence fell. She tapped the toe of her boot a few times. A shadow seemed to grow out from the three witches. Ponder took a step back, in company with the rest of the staff. "So now you're the heir to Death."
The Lady dropped Mustrum with a thud, her fingers long, blue, and skeletal.
She flashed Granny a hard, cold smile. IN A WORD, she said, YES.
Susan whirled through space and time like a top through water, a flash of colour and fire and emotion. She couldn't remember where she had been, she couldn't remember where she was, she couldn't remember where she was going. And best of all, she didn't care.
Isn't life grand?
_________
*Hey, give the guy a break. He'd lived for thousands of years and had hundreds of thousands of believers. He had to do SOMETHING with all the names...**
**Oh, by the way, it's Dunce.