Mort by Terry Pratchett

nosebag.
    “Yes, sir. Sorry.”
    Y OU CANNOT INTERFERE WITH FATE . W HO ARE YOU TO JUDGE WHO SHOULD LIVE AND WHO SHOULD DIE ?
    Death watched Mort’s expression carefully.
    O NLY THE GODS ARE ALLOWED TO DO THAT , he added. T O TINKER WITH THE FATE OF EVEN ONE INDIVIDUAL COULD DESTROY THE WHOLE WORLD . D O YOU UNDERSTAND ?
    Mort nodded miserably.
    “Are you going to send me home?” he said.
    Death reached down and swung him up behind the saddle.
    B ECAUSE YOU SHOWED COMPASSION ? N O . I MIGHT HAVE DONE IF YOU HAD SHOWN PLEASURE . B UT YOU MUST LEARN THE COMPASSION PROPER TO YOUR TRADE .
    “What’s that?”
    A SHARP EDGE .

Days passed, although Mort wasn’t certain how many. The gloomy sun of Death’s world rolled regularly across the sky, but the visits to mortal space seemed to adhere to no particular system. Nor did Death visit only kings and important battles; most of the personal visits were to quite ordinary people.
    Meals were served up by Albert, who smiled to himself a lot and didn’t say anything much. Ysabell kept to her room most of the time, or rode her own pony on the black moors above the cottage. The sight of her with her hair streaming in the wind would have been more impressive if she was a better horse-woman, or if the pony had been rather larger, or if her hair was the sort that streams naturally. Some hair has got it, and some hasn’t. Hers hadn’t.
    When he wasn’t out on what Death referred to as THE DUTY Mort assisted Albert, or found jobs in the garden or stable, or browsed through Death’s extensive library, reading with the speed and omnivorousness common to those who discover the magic of the written word for the first time.
    Most of the books in the library were biographies, of course.
    They were unusual in one respect. They were writing themselves. People who had already died, obviously, filled their books from cover to cover, and those who hadn’t been born yet had to put up with blank pages. Those in between…Mort took note, marking the place and counting the extra lines, and estimated that some books were adding paragraphs at the rate of four or five every day. He didn’t recognize the handwriting.
    And finally he plucked up his courage.
    A WHAT ? said Death in astonishment, sitting behind his ornate desk and turning his scythe-shaped paperknife over and over in his hands.
    “An afternoon off,” repeated Mort. The room suddenly seemed to be oppressively big, with himself very exposed in the middle of a carpet about the size of a field.
    B UT WHY ? said Death. I T CAN’T BE TO ATTEND YOUR GRANDMOTHER’S FUNERAL , he added. I WOULD KNOW .
    “I just want to, you know, get out and meet people,” said Mort, trying to outstare that unflinching blue gaze.
    B UT YOU MEET PEOPLE EVERY DAY , protested Death.
    “Yes, I know, only, well, not for very long,” said Mort. “I mean, it’d be nice to meet someone with a life expectancy of more than a few minutes. Sir,” he added.
    Death drummed his fingers on the desk, making a sound not unlike a mouse tap-dancing, and gave Mort another few seconds of stare. He noticed that the boy seemed rather less elbows than he remembered, stood a little more upright and, bluntly, could use a word like “expectancy.” It was all that library.
    A LLRIGHT , he said grudgingly. B UT IT SEEMS TO ME YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU NEED RIGHT HERE . T HE DUTY IS NOT ONEROUS, IS IT ?
    “No, sir.”
    A ND YOU HAVE GOOD FOOD AND A WARM BED AND RECREATION AND PEOPLE YOUR OWN AGE .
    “Pardon, sir?” said Mort.
    M Y DAUGHTER , said Death. You H AVE MET HER , I BELIEVE .
    “Oh. Yes, sir.” S HE HAS A VERY WARM PERSONALITY WHEN YOU GET TO KNOW HER .
    “I am sure she has, sir.”
    N EVERTHELESS, YOU WISH —Death launched the words with a spin of distaste— AN AFTERNOON OFF ?
    “Yes, sir. If you please, sir.”
    V ERY WELL . S O BE IT . Y OU MAY HAVE UNTIL SUNSET .
    Death opened his great ledger, picked up a pen, and began to write. Occasionally he’d reach out