All eyes looked up at the hovering figure of the Pink Pony of Death as she hung above the crowd in the cathedral. Aminata recovered from the shock first, hastily dropping her book and bowing to the Pink One. Her attendees quickly followed suit, dropping to the floor at near-terminal velocity.
The Pink Pony of Death moved forward, planting her hooves on the air as if it were flagstones, descending until she was level with the balcony. Nobody spoke, and it seemed as if even the busy city noise of Ankh-Morpork was muted in the presence of Death herself.
Aminata Odham, arise.
The voice thundered without sound. To those who heard it, it was as if the very cathedral around them had split asunder with the anger and fury behind the words, but thankfully it remained intact.
There was no question of it being a polite request. It was a command, and Aminata hastened to follow it as she scrambled back to her feet. She could feel Death’s gaze boring into her, as her subconscious less-than-helpfully reminded her that she’d already cheated him/her once. Statistically, it was not likely to happen again.
Death’s head reached inside her cloak for a moment, and withdrew a book from the impossibly dark folds of the fabric. She threw it at Aminata’s feet, the depressingly thin tome making a barely audible thud against the stone balcony. On the leather cover, in golden lettering, was spelt out the name ‘Terrak Keksy’.
Open it.
The priestess didn’t hesitate, opening the book to its last page. She read the final paragraphs with shaking hands.
Why?
The question was one of mixed emotion. There was anger there, there was remorse, and there was pity.
With a chill creeping up her undead spine, Aminata realised that there was no room left for forgiveness.
“I... I was...” she stammered, searching the blinding light of Death’s star-like eyes for any scrap of sympathy or mercy. “I was... rewarding him. He will get to the party at the end of all things early.”
Rewarding him.
The pity was gone, replaced with disgust.
A life cut short by your hand, for the sake of a ‘reward’. Was his existence so miserable that you felt it your duty to relieve him of it?
Aminata’s acolytes had had the good sense to scurry away. So had some of the congregation below. Those who hadn’t were rooted in horror and suspense at the spectacle above.
Aminata Odham, Death continued, not wanting to hear her answer, It was through my hooves that you were granted new life, so his blood is as much on my head as yours. In countless aeons I have never purposely taken a life before its time, and now you make me a murderer.
She paused. As the congregation below continued to watch her, a strange feeling welled up within her, taking its place beside the raw, burning anger and barely restrained fury. It was a sense of... indescribable being. She was suddenly quite convinced of her own existence, and assured that others were... believing in her.
With that conviction came power. With that power came memory, and with memory, confusion.
She faltered. There was something else there. Something speaking to her, calling out from deep within the recesses of her mind.
What’re you doing?
She seized control of her faculties, banishing the momentary distraction from her mind.
I never truly believed it, that justice could not exist. But to see you standing here unfettered before a crowd of your peers, ignorant of what you have done, while he remains beyond the veil with no hope of a second chance...
She reached her head into her cloak a second time and withdrew a life-timer, simple in design, bearing the chipped and scratched text: ‘Aminata Odham’ . She placed it in the air before her. All the sand in the top bulb had been depleted, replaced by a cloud of glitter and confetti.
There is no justice.
There is.
There it was again. That feeling of confusion. That voice.
There is just...
Why are you doing this? the voice said, in a familiar tone.
She killed him, Death answered.
So you're going to kill her?
She's already dead. She should be dead.
But she isn’t. Our fault.
I can fix this.
You're just making it worse.
She. Killed. Him.
I know. But... We’re better than that, aren’t we? We just need to teach her a lesson.
It won't bring him back.
No, but he’s happy. She isn’t. And that’s what we’re best at. It’s our ‘Duty’.
Death had no reply.
Now stand aside, I know what I’m doing.
There's... No justice.
“... there’s just us.”
Death shook herself. Beside her was... Her. The real her. Pink and poofy, and smiling despite the tears.
“Sure, she’s the worst kind of meanie, but no one’s past all hope. Why do you think the Princess let Nightmare Moon come back? Why did she keep Discord in her garden?”
I... I... But...
“Let it go.”
They searched each other’s eyes. Death’s burning brightly in rage, sadness, and confusion, while Pinkie’s softened in love, pity, and remorse.
Death’s footing slipped as she forgot herself, stumbling down onto the balcony where Aminata stood, her own, dead eyes weeping with no tears. The Scythe of Office dropped from the air, the blade tip embedding itself in the stone. The life-timer fell too, bouncing off the stone and rolling some way before stopping, still intact.
Pinkie descended with a hop, and drew alongside herself, putting a foreleg across her own shoulders in comfort.
The watchers below heard a sound unlike any since the dawn of the universe.
Death was sobbing.
One said, Why are there two of her?
One said, This was not supposed to happen.
One had a chart; Well, while Death was in her realm, he became mortal. While she was in his, she became Death.
One said, And why is she now both Death and Life?
One with the chart said, She was so full of Life that it could not abide within her as Death. The belief of her followers has given it shape.
One concluded, She is a goddess.
There was a pause, during which a star was born, led a rich and fulfilling life, and dwindled into a dwarf*.
One said, But we do not control the gods.
One said, The gods are not physical.
One said, The gods are not material.
One said, The gods... Are.
Another pause.
Three said, Oh. Bugger.
* The dwarf, one Stjärn Glödsson, went on to lead his own rich and fulfilling life and later published his memoirs - From Heights Above to Depths Below; A Dwarf’s Story.
Rarity had gone upstairs to have a lie down. There was only so much a mare of her delicate constitution could take in one sitting. Fluttershy had been bombarding her friend with apologies and hasty explanations all the way to the bedroom, when the door had finally been slammed in her face.
It should be noted that Rarity had made three previous, if insincere, ‘It’s fine.’’s before resorting to such tactics, however.
Now the timid and frightfully embarrassed yellow pegasus was sitting by herself in a corner of the shop front (an admirable feat considering the nature of Carousel Boutique), while Bill Door attempted to assuage Mrs. Cake.
“Why, in all my days I have never seen such a blatant disregard for a mare’s hospitality!” Mrs. Cake thundered, quaking with quite unassuaged rage.
“I assure you it was-” Bill Door tried to butt in, unsuccessfully.
“It was downright despicable is what it was! A fine, upstanding mare such as Miss Rarity takes you into her home, feeds and clothes you, and you... make off with her best friend in her kitchen!”
“But it-”
“But nothing! And you, Fluttershy, I am most disappointed that you would see fit to fall for this... this unspeakable cad’s wiles and charm!” she continued, turning the full brunt of her admonishment on Fluttershy.
“... B-b-but-” she managed to stammer from behind the curtain of her hair, eyes welling up with tears.
Mrs. Cake switched her sights back to Bill Door without a moment’s hesitation. “So, ‘Bill Door’, if that IS your real name, were Fluttershy and Rarity the first? Hrm?”
“I’m quite sure I no longer know what you’re accusing me of, ma’am.” he replied, sighing.
“Where’s Pinkie Pie?”
“I don’t know!”
“I don’t believe you!”
Fluttershy looked up, confused. “Pinkie’s missing...?”
“Since earlier this morning, yes. Didn’t you realise how quiet it was?” Mrs. Cake replied, exasperated.
“She was gone when I arrived!” Bill Door added, entreatingly.
Mrs. Cake swivelled back. “Then how did you get into her bedroom on the second floor?!”
Bill Door opened his mouth to calmly explain everything, and found it dry. His stream of thought derailed itself as he was left floundering in the deep waters of social anxiety. He glanced at Fluttershy for support, only to find her staring at him with a mix of betrayal and bewilderment.
For some reason he couldn’t quite put his hoof on, that made him feel awful.
Before he had time to really gather up his wits for a suitable reply, Mrs. Cake slammed the book she had been carrying down onto the ground before him. He came back into focus as he recognized it for what it was.
Perhaps another note of explanation would be useful here. When contemplating the multiverse, besides convergent evolution (shown by the marvellous example of Mrs. Cake herself), there is also the concept of the ‘universal constant’. This is relatively simple. It is an object or idea that seems to be present in any and all universes, no matter how different they are from one another.
For example, it is a well-documented fact that every intelligent race that has ever developed alcohol, has later developed a drink they named ‘Gin & Tonic’, or at least something sounding very much like it. Similarly, every universe has frogs. Don’t bother trying to think of one that doesn’t, they all do. Some scholars theorize there’s a deep, spiritual reason for this*.
The universal constant that currently commands our attention, however, is the tome before Bill Door’s hooves. Bound in leather black as night, and overflowing with forbidden knowledge, it is known on Discworld as the Necrotelicomnicon, or ‘Book of the Yellow Pages’. On the mythical Roundworld, it is infamously known as the Necronomicon, written by a mentally unhinged magician of Arabic descent. Here, in Equestria, it is variably the Necroponicon or Neighconomicon, and how it came to be in Ponyville’s library is quite another story altogether.
With this in mind, it should not be too surprising that Bill Door instantly recognized the book, as indeed, he had seen it one too many times before. It was from the Necrotelicomnicon that the Rite of Ashk’Ente was created, and as the spell had earned Bill Door’s eternal ire, so too had that infernal book, in all its forms.
Quite aside from all this, he’d also seen it just a few hours earlier in Pinkie’s bedroom.
“Well?” Mrs. Cake interjected into his thoughts, accusingly. “This was in her room, it’s yours, isn’t it?”
Bill Door sighed. “No. But I do know about it.”
He flicked the cover open with his hoof, revealing a small pouch holding a return slip.
“But by the looks of it, someone else may know more than me.”
Mrs. Cake swivelled the book back towards her, scrutinizing the little slip of paper. It read ‘Property of Treetop Library, if Lost please Return to Twilight Sparkle, Librarian’. Where normally would be a list of dates from ponies borrowing and returning the book, however, there was only a single date; that of a few days previously when Pinkie had taken it out.
“Fine. I’ll go talk to Twilight. And don’t think of running away, mister, you’re coming with me. You too, Fluttershy.” Mrs. Cake said, glaring at the pair in turn. Fluttershy sniffled a bit and fell into line wordlessly, while Bill Door slinked into place behind. He had absolutely no intention of attempting to flee, he somehow knew from the very depths of what could possibly be considered his soul that such an attempt would be futile.
“Miss Rarity? We’re going to visit Miss Sparkle and get to the bottom of this mess. This pair thanks you most kindly for your generous hospitality!” Mrs. Cake bellowed up the stairs to Rarity as they were about to leave, accompanied by Fluttershy and Bill Door’s mumbled thanks and apologies. There was no reply from the fashionista’s boudoir, so they quickly slipped out the shop’s front door, Mrs. Cake thoughtfully flipping the sign from ‘OPEN’ to ‘CLOSED’ before drawing it shut behind her.
The baker marched determinedly back across the town square, Bill Door and Fluttershy rather less enthusiastically trailing behind, trying to avoid each other’s gaze. The ponies shopping at the market spared them a cursory glance, but then this was Ponyville, ‘Town of One Thousand Surprises’, as its infamous tourist brochure boasted**.
They continued in this fashion until they reached the library.
Mrs. Cake would have raised her hoof to knock the door, but she already knew what was about to happen.
It swung open as they stood there, revealing a slightly dishevelled-looking Twilight Sparkle.
“Mrs. Cake! Fluttershy! Mysterious stranger! Quick! I think something’s happened to Pinkie Pie!”
* Others just say they’ve been hitting the Gin & Tonic a bit harder than usual.
** One particularly irate visitor noted dryly that the non-mention of ‘Rampaging Ursa Minors’ was a surprising oversight on the part of the publisher.