Regular

Behind him, Daft Wullie shouted, in his cheerful way, “Make yer aunties proud of ye!”
Roland half turned, suddenly angry. “My aunts? Let me tell you about my aunts–”
“No time, laddie!” shouted Rob Anybody. “Get on wi’ it!”
Roland looked around, his mind on fire.
Our memories are real, he thought. And I will not stand for this!
He turned to the not-Tiffany and said: “Don’t be afraid.” Then he held out his left hand and whispered, under his breath: “I remember… a sword…”
When he shut his eyes, there it was – so light he could barely feel it, so thin he could hardly see it, a line in the air that was made up mostly of sharpness. He’d killed a thousand enemies with it, in the mirror. It was never too heavy, it moved like a part of him, and here it was. A weapon that chopped away everything that clung and lied and stole.
“Mebbe ye can make a Hero all in one go,” said Rob Anybody thoughtfully, as bogles scribbled themselves into existence and died. He turned to Daft Wullie. “Daft Wullie?” he said. “Can ye bring to mind when I told ye that sometimes ye say exactly the right thing?”
Daft Wullie looked baffled. “Noo that ye mention it, Rob, I dinna recall ye ever sayin’ that, ever.”
“Aye?” said Rob. “Weel, if I had done, just now would ha’ been one o’ those times.”
Daft Wullie looked worried. “That’s all right, though, aye? I said somethin’ right?”
“Aye. Ye did, Daft Wullie. A First. I’m proud o’ ye,” said Rob.
Daft Wullie’s face split in an enormous grin. “Crivens! Hey, lads, I said–”
“But dinna get carried awa’,” Rob added.

– a proud moment |
Terry Pratchett, Wintersmith