Second Dream
Stoneface didn’t know where he was, or how he had gotten there, but somehow he had ended up in a massive hallway facing a monstrous staircase, shiny tiles and still air greeting him. He craned his neck backwards to see the front doors, and then faced forwards once more, tongue tied in the extravagance and wondering how he had managed to go through the front door, all grubby shoes and filthy hands. He was more dirty than usual, wasn’t he?
He put his hand to his stomach, and when he raised it to his eyes, it was sticky with blood, but the curious thing was, it didn’t hurt. Not at all. Wiping the offensive hand off on his pant leg, he took a few steps forward before halting, memory suddenly turning over a card within his mind. He knew this place! In that city, this house, on the hill...
Oh no.
The faster he tried to run up the stairs, one at a time turning to two at a time, the more massive it seemed. He felt as if he’d been running for ages when he slowed for a moment, just to catch his breath and the staircase appeared to be at a normal size for a mansion as huge as this one. It didn’t make sense, but not much made very much sense right now, so he ignored it. Go slowly. He got it. With almost theatrically careful steps, he managed to clamber all the way up the stairs and stared at the new hallway that faced him. He knew that there, in one room, there was the crib.
He didn't know the rest of the house. He could explore, see what more about himself he could figure out; the precious little he knew about himself was driving him mad. He hesitated only for a moment before tracing his familiar footsteps into what he presumed to be his son’s room. Nobody said that he couldn’t explore the rest later, and besides, what sort of father would he be if he chose otherwise?
Stepping into the room, he hardly took a moment to take in the surroundings before going to the crib. No son. He had expected that, as it had been last time, but in it, there was something else. A gonne. The sight of it, clean barrels, cold handle and shiny, sharp bullets within was a jarring one, surrounded by softness and a much cuddled blanket embroidered with ducks. Why was this here? Stoneface leaned over it, and unable to resist, picked it up, ran his hands across the surface. Somebody put this here, and if that wasn’t a message, Stoneface didn’t know what was.
”Put it down, your grace.”
A voice. Gonne cocked and ready to go, Stoneface swung around in one fluid movement. “Who said that?”
“Not me.” And there he was. A man faced him, eyes bright and smile bright. He was chuckling, and he couldn’t take the time to study his face properly, because that would mean not looking at his hands, and in his hand was a particularly wicked looking knife. “On account’a the fact that I know you’re not going to shoot it. That wouldn’t be like you, eh, Duke? Haha.”
Ha ha. The laugh grated on Stoneface’s ears, and his finger was on his trigger, and oh, he had been so angry for so long and this was just icing on the cake. He had no idea who this maniac was, but that smile was grounds enough for shooting if the knife wasn’t. The smile was wholly innocent, and that was more evidence than anything else that he was horrifically guilty. “I wouldn’t, would I? And why not? Look around at the room you’re in, with a knife. That’s reason enough!”
“What, why not? Look around the room you’re in right now, that’s why.” The man twirled the knife from finger to finger, beaming to himself.
He took a moment and did just that. Scattered on the floor were small stuffed animals. Most of them looked as though they squeaked or rattled. Painted on the walls were other animals. This was no room for bloodshed. Stoneface grinned right back at the bastard in a decidedly less than cheerful manner, and tossed the gonne aside. “You’re right. I’m not going to shoot you.”
“Din’t think you would, not in your heart of hearts, Mister-“
“I’m going to do this.” The blow was simple. The blow was sweet. The man went down like a rock. As he fell, Stoneface’s hand shot out to snag onto his lapel, ignoring the sting of his knuckles to sweep his fist into arc for one more hit, just one more, because the man had the sheer nerve to bring a knife into a nursery, and, and, and, and...
“Don’t!”
His hand stopped in mid-swing, the man fell to the ground, and he felt himself forcibly yanked upwards. Caught off balance, his body whipped backwards, and the man fell to the floor. “Oh yeah?” He roared, unsuccessfully trying to pull his hand away. “And give me one good reason why not!”
There was no answer, except for being swung about to face him. Or, despite the massive strength that came along with it as he now discovered, to face her. She was the sort of woman a viking would have wept to see on his deathbed, the sort of build that was meant for carrying muscled soldiers and as the case may be, he noted, looking beside her, buckets of dragon shit. On top of that, her face was kind, even when creased with worry, and gnawingly familiar.
“Because you’d regret it later. I know you would,” she said, not one to keep an expression of complete incomprehension from stopping her. “We’re fine.” It took a glance downwards for him to realize that his hands were still balled in fists, and he released them as she released him. Then, as they stared at each other, she grabbed his wrists again.
Her presence was calming, and was, perhaps, the only thing that grounded him in the eccentricity of everything that had happened. They stayed like that for a while, together without saying anything or, indeed, having anything to say. Finally, he admitted, “I have no idea who you are.”
“That’s all right. You’ll find out, I’m sure.”
“I have to go back. I’ve got… things to do.”
“I know.” A frown ghosted across her face before it was replaced with a not entirely genuine smile. “I’ve got things to do as well. Finishing up mucking out the dragon pens, for one. Time to go.” She squeezed him, and just like that, she was gone before he even had the chance to question why she had brought the buckets into the baby's room in the first place. He hadn't even gotten her name.
ARE YOU READY NOW?
“Wha-“ Stoneface whipped his head around, to see a tall figure cloaked in black hiding within the shrouds of a conveniently shadowy corner. The point of a scythe pointed out at him. “Ready for what?”
TO GO. The voice intoned, with a measure of what Stoneface could have sworn was impatience.
“I, er…” Momentarily taken aback, he looked around the nursery. “Aren’t you only for when people die? Why didn’t you show up then?”
The figure waved a bony looking hand in a manner that suggested the explanation was long and complicated, and entirely too much to explain to a being such as him. It was a very telling gesture.
“I get it,” he said, a trifle sourly. “I’m not ready to go, but I don’t think I have a choice in the matter, do I?”
NO. YOU DON’T. I HAVE SIMPLY FOUND THAT MANY FIND IT REASSURING TO BE GIVEN THAT ILLUSION.
“Yeah, well-“
With a start, Stoneface woke up.
(The first voice Stoneface hears is that of Lu Tze. The second man is Carcer the Homicidal Maniac. The woman is Sybil Vimes nee Ramkin, his wife. The last figure is, of course, Death.)