AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was written as part of a challenge on another site, where we had to write a one-shot on what would happen if Sam Vimes every died, as impossible as that sounds. It's my first piece of Discworld fanfiction, so I had a hard time trying to make it fit with the atmosphere and characters of Discworld. :P I'd appreciate any feedback on the subject.

It happens like this.

The universe seemed to be laboring under the impression that Samuel Vimes would always be there; therefore, it suspended his aging for a nice slice of time. Or maybe it was Sam himself, believing that he could always protect his city and his loved ones so hard that the universe merely obliged. His will is hard to stand up to, even for the laws of reality. But Sam would be the first to admit that he isn't invincible.

The fact is, Sam Vimes is old now.

Dare and say it, and you can expect the most thorough chewing-out known to man. (And quite a number of other species, as well.) He'll yell that he can "still bloody well do my bloody job, and time has done nothing to my mind." Yet there is a creeping ache in his bones, and it gets harder to do the things he once accomplished with hardly more than a grunt and a well-placed curse. His hair is even greyer; he finds himself frighteningly reluctant to get up in the morning.

A few say this is why it happens.

That he was old, after all, and the criminal was young and strong. He had several knives, they point out, and Vimes was not as quick as he used to be. It's hard, but it's true, they say; Vimes just couldn't dodge out of the way when the murderer lunged. He was old, and his job was rough.

No one listens to these people.

The townspeople murmur that he had made deals with Death, and the reaper finally came to collect. The aristocrats discuss the matter over champagne, speculating that he went only because he agreed to it. His enemies say that his pride finally got the better of him. His friends drop their gaze and insist that Vimes was the best copper there will ever be, and that's all there is to it.

The people who really know him stare at you for a moment. Then they say quietly that there has never been a person in this universe who has been able to understand Samuel Vimes, and death doesn't change that.

It seems like the whole of Ankh-Morpork is attending the funeral. There is no sound but the steady hiss and slosh of water running over stone. The rain comes down dark, oily and steady; one has to think that Vimes would have approved of weather like this. Maybe he wouldn't have approved of the fuss, but this rain was real copper weather, he would have said. The people don't mind the rain as they coalesce around the procession, their faces sad and solemn. Children turn their small faces up to their silent parents, asking what has happened. The parents only tell them that a good man is no longer here.

His widow stands under the improvised shelter in Pseudopolis Yard, her form sheathed in black, and she talks about the man Vimes was. There is iron in her eyes and lead in her heart; she does not cry, for him. Plenty of other eyes are wet enough without her breaking down as well. It doesn't change the fact that once her son has been laid to sleep she will sit on her suddenly empty bed and let her tears come deadly and silent. You only do what you can, after all. But the funeral still goes on, if you can call it that. Sam Vimes' body has already been burnt and his ashes already put in an urn, so maybe this is more of a remembrance. His watchmen proceed to center stage after Sybil sits down, their voices adding to the list of things to be missed about Samuel. Not everyone notices, but there is a black carriage in the lane with the Patrician's seal on the door, even if for only several minutes. Everyone mourns the death of this greatest of watchmen.

But eventually the speeches are over and there is really nothing left for them to do and no more ways to stretch this out.

His Grace, The Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes is gone.

It will happen like this.

Once the funeral is over, his son will go silently to his room and stand lost on the threshold, feeling his heart ring hollow and dark. Young Sam is not so young anymore, fifteen now and aged past his time by grief. There's no need to call him Young Sam anyway. There's only one Sam now. So Just Sam will walk slowly to his bed and curl up on the covers like a child again, waiting for the calloused, comforting hands that won't come. He will spot the ratty and torn and book by his bedside and reach for it with trembling hands, staring at the faded cover as the echoing memory of a primordial voice sounds in his head, the sound of a love too strong for distance to silence. He will open the cover and read the book aloud to himself in a whisper, determined to finish even as the tears choke him halfway through.

And two weeks later, a child will be born, like an apology from the universe: "We're sorry we had to take him, but you can have this one." A rotten sort of apology, but this will not restrain the joy of the event. Carrot will stand outside like a good gentleman and try very hard not to listen to his wife's agonized screams. After many hours of standing and sitting and pacing and standing and sitting and pacing again, the door will open and Angua's voice will drift out with a sarcastic, "Alright, Carrot, it's safe to come in now." And he will snap to attention as if Vimes had barked out an order, even though Carrot is the head of the Watch now. All the same, he will stride into the room to stand by the bedside. He will look down at the weary, pleased Angua and the wide-eyed, strangely silent baby in her arms with an unfathomable expression on his face.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" he will ask, very carefully.

"Girl."

The baby will stare up at him curiously with familiar grey eyes.

"Her name is Sam," he will say. No question, no possibility of dissent.

Angua will look up at him for a moment, then down at the girl. Baby Sam will look between them with her grey eyes and reach a tiny hand up towards her father. Carrot will hesitate for a moment, and then extend a forefinger towards the grasping infant. Her miniscule fingers will barely close around it. Carrot's face will soften and the New Sam will smile an oddly familiar smile.

"Yes," Angua will say. "Sam."