“No.”
“I could do it easily. There are other times than this. I could show you grandmother Weatherwax.”
“No.”
“It must be terrible, knowing that you have no friends. That no one will care when you die. That you never touched a heart.”
“Yes.”
“And I'm sure you think about it. . . in those long evenings when there's no company but the ticking of the clock and the coldness of the room and you open the box and look at-”
The Queen waved a hand vaguely as Granny tried to break free.
“Don't kill her,” she said. “She is much more fun alive.”
Magrat stuck the sword in the mud and hefted the battleaxe.
Woods pressed in on either side. The elves would have to come this way There looked like hundreds of them and there was only one Magrat Garlick.
She knew there was such a thing as heroic odds. Songs and ballads and stories and poems were full of stories about one person single-handedly taking on and defeating a vast number of enemies.
Only now was it dawning on her that the trouble was that they were songs and ballads and stories and poems because they dealt with things that were, not to put too fine a point on it, untrue.
She couldn't, now she had time to think about it, ever remember an example from history.
In the woods to one side of her an elf raised its bow and took careful aim.
A twig snapped behind it. It turned.
The Bursar beamed. “Whoopsy daisy, old trouser, my bean's all runny.”
The elf swung the bow.
A pair of prehensile feet dropped out of the greenery, gripped it by the shoulders, and pulled it upward sharply. There was a crack as its head hit the underside of a branch.
“Oook.”
“Move right along!”
On the other side of the path another elf took aim. And then its world flowed away from it. . .
This is the inside of the mind of an elf:
Here are the normal five senses but they are all subordinate to the sixth sense. There is no formal word for it on the Discworld, because the force is so weak that it is only ever encountered by observant blacksmiths, who call it the Love of Iron. Navigators might have discovered it were it not that the Disc's standing magical field is much more reliable. But bees sense it, because bees sense everything. Pigeons navigate by it. And everywhere in the multiverse elves use it to know exactly where they are.
It must be hard for humans, forever floundering through inconvenient geography. Humans are always slightly lost. It's a basic characteristic. It explains a lot about them.
Elves are never lost at all. It's a basic characteristic. It explains a lot about them.
Elves have absolute position. The flow of the silvery force dimly outlines the landscape. Creatures generate small amounts of it themselves, and become perceptible in the flux. Their muscles crackle with it, their minds buzz with it. For those who learn how, even thoughts can be read by the tiny local changes in the flow.
For an elf, the world is something to reach out and take. Except for the terrible metal that drinks the force and deforms the flux universe like a heavy weight on a rubber sheet and blinds them and deafens them and leaves them rudderless and more alone than most humans could ever be. . .
The elf toppled forward.
Ponder Stibbons lowered the sword.
Almost everyone else would not have thought much about it. But Ponder's wretched fate was to look for patterns in an uncaring world.