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Rincewind is seriously considering throwing himself into the nearest ocean in hopes of being picked up and put to work on a ship. It would be better than sitting here and being complicit in Twoflower's grand plan to visit a small group of villages three miles north whom Rincewind happens to know have a special reputation for unfriendliness. At least he would be far away. And he wouldn't have to put up with any more adjectives.
But on the other hand, press-ganging is so final, plans can be thwarted, and adjectives are bearable, so he sighs and pulls his thin blanket up to his chin and closes his eyes, hoping Twoflower will get the hint.
He doesn't, obviously. Rincewind knows he's not exactly a beacon of shining intellect, nor is he an expert at the mysterious complexities of human social interaction, but he's never met anyone as oblivious as Twoflower. It's a natural marvel, really.
But Twoflower stops talking about the elephant they saw today - Rincewind hadn't known they ever came near so far Hubwards from Howondaland and strongly suspects there was a circus involved - and says, abruptly, "You know, I ought to learn Morporkian."
"Sorry?” says Rincewind, startled by the topic change.
"Well, it is the lingua quirma* in these parts, isn't it? This far Turnwise, I mean. And I ought to learn it if I want to communicate with people, you know. For myself, not just through you. I'm sure you're an excellent translator but it's not the Authentic Experience."
"...yes," says Rincewind cautiously. This seems safe enough but you never can tell with Twoflower, particularly when he starts talking in capitals.
"And I can teach you Agatean."
"Why?"
"In case you ever come to the Counterweight Continent. You might need to scream for help," he adds, with unusual perspicacity. "And besides, Trob is all right, but it'd be easier if we could use our first languages more."
Rincewind, who can't bring himself to be insulted by the crack about screaming for help, considers the possibility. At the very least, being able to swear at Twoflower in his own language has its appeal, not that it's likely to deter him from continuing to do mind-bogglingly risky things without stopping to think.
"All right," he says, "But no remote little forest villages where no one can hear you scream, all right? You'll need to practice. Someplace peaceful."
Twoflower beams.
*French is, of course, unknown on the Discworld.
-
Despite his incredibly weird phrasebook, Twoflower isn't too bad at language-learning. Actually, the phrasebook may have done some good, because he already has a pretty decent basic vocabulary. Rincewind checks it over and corrects a few mistakes, and then has him study from it. So mostly he's is teaching him grammar and pronunciation. Twoflower's having a hard time with several of the consonant clusters, but since Rincewind still hasn't got the hang of tones, he's definitely not going to make fun of him for it.
"I wish I could teach you to read," says Twoflower, "But I didn't bring books from home. Our script is very beautiful, very economical with space."
"You use a character for every word, right?" Rincewind's learned logographic scripts before, at the university - learning magical languages was one of the few things he wasn't awful at - but he's never used one for practical purposes.
"Yes, that's right. We have a large body of great and noble literature. Some very good love poems." Twoflower makes a strange expressions, which Rincewind cannot for the life of him place. Eyebrow-waggling is involved.
"I'm sure you do," says Rincewind. Perhaps Twoflower is ill? Is he running a fever? He doesn't look warm, but that might explain the weird choice of topic.
"It's a pity you can't read any. You might enjoy it."
"I'm not really a love poetry person."
"Pity," says Twoflower again, and returns to his phrasebook. Rincewind considers checking the Luggage for some fever powders, but opts not to risk losing an arm. Twoflower can find his own medication if he needs it.
-
Twoflower's idea of 'peaceful' is apparently a remote outpost on the peaks of the Carrack Mountains.
With donkey tours.
Rincewind is pretty sure his hair is sweating.
"I don't think this is a good idea," he says, knowing it'll make no difference and trying anyway.
"Nonsense," says Twoflower, beaming. "They did say that the little chaps are as steady as you can find. Besides, if they allow tours, it must be safe. They wouldn't keep it running if people died."
Rincewind mutters something like they would if it kept the money coming in but, sadly, he's too terrified to make it audible, and Twoflower trots on. Rincewind considers the fact that he's supposed to be a guide, but he's spent more or less this entire trip following Twoflower. Surely a guide ought to have some say in the program. Surely the entire point of a guide is that it helps you stop doing the risky things. That's practically Rincewind's definition of a guide.
Rincewind sighs, and follows Twoflower up on to another mountain peak. And looks down.
He's too alarmed to scream, so he settles for a squeak and clutches the reins tighter. Twoflower glances back at him as he rides up."Are you quite all right, old fellow? You look a bit green."
"I hate you," says Rincewind, holding on to the donkey with both hands. It grunts at him.
"You don't mean that. Look at this magnificent view!" Twoflower exclaims, waving a hand in what Rincewind considers a needlessly reckless fashion.
"Yes," says Rincewind, "Practically once in a lifetime, a view like that."
"Exactly!" says Twoflower, and Rincewind snorts.
"I really, really hate you."
"You need a distraction. Look, why don't we work on those high-falling tones again? You do need practice on them. Or perhaps you could explain the irregular verbs to me again."
"What?! I can't concentrate on language at a time like this!"
"Too bad," says Twoflower, "I'll just have to think of something else." And he kisses him.
Rincewind promptly falls off his donkey.
-
"At least there was the ledge to catch you. They said you were quite lucky. No broken bones, they said, only a couple of sprains. Be back on your feet in no time. Would you like a cold compress for your wrist?"
"Shut up."
-
The healer is right, though. It doesn't take long for Rincewind's sprains to get better, which he sort of regrets because it means they'll have to be on the road again. The dangerous road. The dangerous, lonely, mostly-deserted road where anything could happen, including a conversation about the Incident.
The Incident is how Rincewind is thinking of the bit where Twoflower kissed him, because he's kind of shying away from the word 'kiss'. It's just...weird. He tells himself that firmly, it's weird. And also deeply disconcerting. And, okay, maybe it's been a while since Rincewind was kissed, but that's not the point. He doesn't want to think about it.
The most positive thing that comes out of the whole business is that Twoflower doesn't insist on any mountains again. He suggests it once, shortly after they leave the village. Rincewind manages to quell him with a look. It's immensely satisfying.
But Twoflower never brings the Incident up. Theoretically this should be a relief but it's just confusing. Does he perhaps feel bad about the falling-off-a-cliff thing? He should, but that's no reason not to explain yourself. He practically got him killed and he's not going to say anything about it? Rincewind practically died for a kiss and then there was no follow-up to it at all? Not even a proper apology along the lines of, "Sorry I kissed you; I should have realized you didn't feel that way." Or even "I'm sorry, perhaps I should have chosen a more appropriate location for my romantic overtures."
The latter might be closer to the truth, given how much Rincewind is thinking about the...Incident. He tries to tell himself it's indignation but it's not working very well. There's not a single reason for it - Twoflower isn't particularly attractive by Rincewind's lights and his demeanor is frankly irritating - but. But. He didn't have time to figure out what was going on before falling and it might have been nice to have a little longer to react and decide what, exactly, he thought about the whole business.
Rincewind can't remember the last time someone kissed him. Another student at UU, he thinks, and then before that a girl who lived next door to him before he moved in to the university. He feels that he is out of practice, and needs to readjust. It's frustrating that the subject got squelched entirely by two sprained ankles and a twisted wrist.
He's vaguely horrified to find himself contemplating the possibility of kissing Twoflower.
It would be a terrible idea and no good could possibly come of it. On the other hand, if he doesn't do it, he might have to actually talk to him about the whole wretched business, and that doesn't bear thinking about. Not an actual conversation. Maybe skipping straight to the kissing would forestall that?
Rincewind rubs his eyes and tries to remember when the Incident became something that he might possibly like to see repeated. Without the falling-off-a-cliff thing, obviously, although given Rincewind’s luck he’s starting to think he won’t get one without the other.
He tells himself, dimly, that he hates Twoflower, but this isn’t truly accurate. He likes Twoflower, because it’s hard not to, he’s that sort; he’s kind of fascinated by Twoflower, because he’s like an impending cart wreck that never actually collides; and he also spends most of his time in a state of annoyance or exasperation with Twoflower, because, well, mostly because of the second bit.
So Rincewind puts it out of his mind. Unfortunately, it refuses to stay out and it’s beginning to be very annoying and he figures it’s probably easier to do something about it, so he does. It sounds like a quick and easy decision, in those terms, but it’s not. It comes at the price of considerable fretting and vacillating and wondering if peace of mind will be worth it. His dilemma will be solved, but what if Twoflower solves it by riding away in a fright and leaving him in the forest alone without any supplies? Or, worse, what if he wants to have some sort of long conversation about the whole business? Rincewind is so not ready to talk about this.
In the end, it’s when Twoflower is being particularly annoying - the words ‘quaint’ and ‘picturesque’ are coming up a lot - and Rincewind decides he can at least justify it to himself as a distraction attempt. And if it doesn’t work, he can start an argument about Twoflower’s memento-buying schemes as a last resort. All in all, it’s a pretty solid plan, so he goes for it.
It’s okay. Which is a bit more than he was expecting. Nice, sort of. Probably would be more so if Twoflower wasn’t so evidently surprised. When he pulls back Twoflower raises his eyebrows and says, “As much as I appreciated that it’s not going to stop me buying the ceremonial pig-tickling pole I was talking about. Or get you out of practicing those high-falling tones, you really do need work on them.”
Rincewind sighs in resignation and kisses him again.
Twoflower seems more prepared for it this time.
-
After that it’s...different. But not by a lot. They still spend half the time bickering and the other half running away from things, with some possibility for overlap between the two. But there’s the incident with the blankets - it was too cold, that’s all - and the interlude on the boats, which were not as bad as Rincewind was expecting, and in which Twoflower’s efforts at distraction were rather more effective than his first attempt and did not result in even minor injuries, and even a couple of peaceful evenings around campfires drilling vocabulary with minimal arguing.
It’s such a rarity that Rincewind finds himself deeply suspicious. This entire wretched adventure has been one dreadful circumstance after the other, so surely that pattern can’t be breaking now.
He catches himself smiling once over a joke Twoflower has made, something ridiculous about love poetry again, and is practically horrified.
Something bad is definitely going to happen. This can’t last. He’s not sure he wants it to, because whatever is happening here, it’s not home. He misses Ankh Morpork, and even if he didn’t have much going on, he wants to get back. Everyone knew he wasn’t much of a wizard, but practically no-one tried to kill him. He’d had steady-ish employment with translating, and nice quiet places to sleep, and practically regular meals.
Not really any friends, though.
Not that Twoflower is a friend, exactly, but…
It doesn’t matter anyway. It can’t last.
-
And then there's the star.
There are a lot of adventures associated with the star that Rincewind knows he won't want to remember, but one in particular is this: Twoflower almost dies.
Rincewind snatches him from your actual jaws of Death and everything. It's very heroic, probably. The stuff of song and story, in fact. Unfortunately, Rincewind has never wanted to be the stuff of song and story, and at the time he was mostly terrified. Anyway, he didn't exactly ask to go, the old lady just sent him bang off. So it's not as poetic as all that.
For instance: when Rincewind thinks Twoflower is dead, he's not immediately resolved to go to the land of Death to find him or anything. Mostly, he's confused, and then he's feeling guilty and afraid and and relieved and strangely bereft, and you're probably not supposed to experience any of those except perhaps half of the last one when you're a storybook hero. You're not supposed to have a split-second thought of thank gods, I can get back to my life or could have been worse, could have been me, but if Rincewind knows anything it's that he's not a hero, storybook or otherwise. He's just someone who got mixed up in events that are a bit past him.
So when Cohen says "No, not exschactly. Just -- gone," Rincewind doesn't think about rescuing him, but he ends up doing it anyway, because that's practically his raison d'etre lately, rescuing Twoflower.
He thinks it's a shame, overall, that Twoflower doesn't remember. He might object to having been punched, but he'd probably make a love poetry joke again, which is rapidly becoming a running joke between them, and Rincewind would have said something sarcastic about it, and they would have been off as usual, and that would have been easier, because he wouldn't be having to think about the state of his own mind.
Like: does he want Twoflower to go? Because he's not sure which had been stronger: the sense of relief that he can finally go back to living his life, or the sense of loss that Twoflower wouldn't be in it anymore.
And, frankly, he doesn't want to think about what that means.
(It doesn't matter. It can't last.)
-
"I want to go home."
And somehow Rincewind, on the heels of his only triumph, is caught off guard. It can't last has started to fade into a background hum, subsumed by I just saved the world, we just save the world, I did something worthwhile for once! and being reminded of how reality works is sort of like being head over the head with an iron bar. Right. This is his life, this is how it works. He should have been expecting this, after something so big and good happened.
But he didn't expect it and he's a little bit sad. Maybe because Twoflower is probably the only person in existence who believes in Rincewind as a magician, who has any respect for Rincewind at all; maybe because when Twoflower goes, Rincewind will lose the only source of positivity in his life. Sure, it's mostly annoying as hell, but it's kind of fascinating to be with someone who sees the best in everything, because that's not a point of view Rincewind has been able to see, ever. Also because you never have to watch what you say. Twoflower's mental filter is most effective. It's relaxing to be able to be that sarcastic and not worry about the consequences.
But there's nothing for it, so he smiles as non-awkwardly as he can and agrees with whatever Twoflower is saying and helps him find a boat and, well, waves him goodbye.
This is a good thing. He can re-enroll, he can really make a go of it this time. He can be someone instead of a gutter wizard with a talent for translating whose life was totally disrupted by the arrival of a mysterious stranger. He can, in short, get back on track.
Definitely a good thing.
(He doesn't want the Luggage, but he can't just let it sit there. He tells himself viciously that this isn't some kind of ridiculous memento, it's just depressing to watch it sulk, before he goes back for it.
In the chest there is a little book of love poems - Morporkian ones - and what looks like a home-made primer to reading Agatean. He puts the primer in his pocket and throws the love poems in the river. And he goes home.)
-
A jail in the middle of the Forbidden City is the last place Rincewind expects to see Twoflower, but naturally that's where he is. There are, of course, other surprises, but those come slightly after.
"You never said you had children!" says Rincewind, staring at Twoflower.
"I'm sure I did. Often. Anyway, it is allowed."
"You're married!"
"I was, yes. I'm sure I must have said."
"We were probably running away from something at the time," says Rincewind distractedly, instead of 'yes, or maybe you were too busy kissing me because we were on top of a mountain and you thought I needed distracted when what I really needed was to not be on top of a mountain to mention it - ' because he has some dignity, and because Twoflower's daughters are here.
Twoflower has daughters. Oh gods. He wants to laugh but this isn't the time and also if he starts he doesn't know when he'll stop. This is ridiculous.
He doesn't know quite why it's such a big deal, because whatever it was that they had, it wasn't...it wasn't big or important. Rincewind doesn't get big important things for himself, he just gets to be part of other people's. And he knows this wasn't one, had known it at the time, had not expected anything else, had not felt anything else, but -
But, well, there's a difference between knowing you're someone's ill-defined vacation fling and will probably be barely remembered about in a year or two, and knowing you're someone's way of cheating on their spouse. He may not have a strong moral compass, but he has enough to feel very weird about that.
And because he's concentrating on not saying all this, he misses the was, and he says, "So there's a Mrs. Twoflower, is there?"
It turns out this is the wrong thing to say. He doesn't mention it again for a while. Besides, there's a lot to do, such as, for instance, convincing Pretty Butterfly not to assassinate the emperor. He has to say, he doesn't see the resemblance between the two of them, but in this respect she is Twoflower's daughter exactly. He's never known anyone quite so prone to rushing into dangerous situations without thought for consequence.
But later, when they're walking back to the palace after the battle, he brings the topic up again, because he has to know.
"You know, I swear you never told me that you were married."
"I'm sure I did."
"I'm sorry to hear that your wife, er-"
"Things happen in war. I have two dutiful daughters."
Rincewind looks at the expression on Twoflower's face and opens his mouth to speak - he doesn't know what it'll be, but Twoflower seems to have gotten better at picking up a hint and answers what he didn't ask.
"Don't be silly, old chap," he says. "I'd never do that to her or you. She knew. I mean, we discussed the possibility beforehand. We knew it'd be a long trip. I believe a neighbor stayed over while I was gone, very nice lady, very much her type. Had some wonderful times, I believe. I still keep in touch with the young woman. Well, not so young anymore, but then neither are any of us."
"Oh," says Rincewind, not sure where he should go with this. Or if he should go anywhere with it. So instead he works on the planks.
"Look on the bright side," says Twoflower, "The Emperor said you could start your own University, if you wanted."
Getting off the awkward subject of oh thank gods you didn't cheat on your wife with me is a relief, so they turn to matters of how Rincewind cannot possibly ever have anything that good happen to him. Which turns out to be pretty accurate, in the end.
That's last time Rincewind sees him - or, at least, not counting the bit where Twoflower threatens to duel Lord Hong while Lord Hong is holding a knife to Rincewind's throat. Later he will learn about Twoflower's career as Grand Vizier, including Pretty Butterfly's rather explosive entry into politics, from letters that Twoflower will send. Later still, he will receive an invitation that he won't take, for reasons that somehow have more to do with the certainty that going back to the Agatean Empire will result in dreadful adventures, although he won't quite be able to say what those reasons are.
But here and now, he doesn't know any of that. He's sort of worried that maybe the barking dog got Twoflower killed, and he spares some guilt on that, when he winds up on that desert island. There's not much to do but think, so he thinks, and he hopes to himself that Twoflower is not dead. The Luggage has a copy of What I Did in its capacious depths, for some reason, and he reads over once or twice, because it's not like he doesn't have time. It doesn't contain mention of the Incident or what followed. He's grateful for that, at least.
And whatever it was they had or were, he's a little bit surprised to find he doesn't regret it.