No.  Tilt isn't the right word.  Convulse maybe, or writhe, but not tilt.

It's not just the world, either.  The space between the universes is ringing like a wet glass, vibrating at a pitch too high for any mortal ears to detect.  For a brief, disorienting moment, I can't feel the myriad fragments of myself in far-flung universes; it's as though they've been severed from me with a razor-sharp knife.

The pain is immediate and overpowering.

A hundred thousand qualia streak through my mind, ricocheting off the ends of the broken neural pathways and careening back on themselves to create an insane amalgamation of sensation.  I call it pain, but really it's chaos too complex for me to make any sense of.  I'm bombarded with a million distorted impressions of everything from searing heat to crushing despair, none of which belong in my neural net.  The waves clash and combine and separate as each shattered connection searches desperately for what it just lost.

Is this what mortals feel like when they lose a limb?  Phantom pain, illusory sensations blended with the real ones until there's no way to tell what's true and what's false?  If so, I am devoutly glad that I'm not mortal.

The multiverse ripples again, then flips inside out – or at least it feels that way.  Gravity inverts, sending the multiverse sea into a froth, and I'm trapped in the middle like a bug between two panes of glass.  Pressure surges and soars, and I lose yet more parts of myself.

I scream.

* * *

Imagine a world without any stories.

No, really.  Take a moment and try it.

It's hard, isn't it?  Mortals are shaped by stories, and use those stories in turn to shape their world.  Life without stories is like air without oxygen – practically inconceivable except in the most technical terms.  It's easier to explain what the color red looks like than to fully comprehend a world where the most basic tales do not exist – no origin stories, no creation stories, no fairy tales or nursery tales or folktales.  In a very real sense, there would be no culture at all in such a world.

Even the most basic warnings are conveyed in stories, for children listen to stories when they won't listen to anything else.  Every sapient race throughout the multiverse has its own version of the boogeyman, whether it's a giant wolf in the forest, an invisible being that lives underground, or a fiery creature in the sky.  Some are very real.  Others are only real in the imagination, but that's plenty real enough.  Does it matter whether the great sky-creature will actually eat you if you misbehave, so long as you believe that it will?   Either way, you're likely to change your behavior.

Of course, children are far more observant than most adults give them credit for.  The first time they misbehave and are not stolen away by the gremlins, adults had better be ready to explain why.  This doesn't mean the stories are ineffective, but it does mean that adults need a constant flow of them.

But what if you think it's cruel to terrify children into behaving properly?  Maybe you think there should be a better way to teach younglings the mores of their society, whether that's 'respect the elders' or 'don't poke the power crystal that controls the ship.'  As anyone who has tried to reason with a five-year-old knows, logic is not the answer; if you subscribe to this belief, there are parents around the world who would love to know your secret.  But that's beside the point.  Maybe you don't have a better option right now, but you still think deliberately scaring children is immoral.

You're almost certainly right.  But that's not what's going on.

See, stories don't teach people that there are monsters out there.  Children already know that, and they don't need a tale to reinforce that knowledge.  But that's not the point of stories.  Stories teach people that the monsters can be killed.

So, try to imagine a world without that.

* * *

My silent scream cuts off abruptly as the multiverse snaps back into its proper configuration.  The huntsman and the princess are still standing in the exact same positions that they had held before the disruption; even their expressions are identical.  The cataclysm, whatever it was, must not have taken more than a nanosecond.

Did some foolish tempus mage attempt a ritual that went horribly awry?  It's the only semi-plausible explanation I can think of, though no mortal mage should be able to affect anything beyond their own world.  An immortal one, though...  It's possible, albeit unlikely.  Time magic is chancy at the best of times, and when it goes wrong, the results are catastrophic.

However, everything appears to be fine now.  I tentatively reach out to the furthest reaches of the multiverse, to the aqua-skinned empress and the silver-scaled queen, and feel the urge to sigh.  All of my connections are intact; I can feel every part of myself again.  The relief is incredible.

I only have moments to enjoy it, though.  Before the princess can answer my question about her birthday, the energy fields of the world ripple.  Unlike the prior magical earthquake, this is localized and harmless; it bears the unique signature of a portal opening.  Neither human can sense such magic, but they both hear the rustling in the underbrush that follows immediately afterwards.

The huntsman stiffens, taking a step forward and motioning for the princess to stay back.  Rather than obey like a sensible mortal, she leaps into the air with a squeal and clutches at the huntsman with white-knuckled fingers.  "Something's coming to eat me!"  Her tone spirals up as she completes the sentence, hitting glass-shattering range on the last word.  The huntsman winces, though he's too polite to cover his ears.

The elf who steps out of the bushes has no such compunctions.  "Stop thy squealing," he orders, brow furrowed in pain or annoyance – I can't tell which.  "Else thee will not escape the attention of the denizens of this forest."

The princess immediately claps her mouth shut, staring with wide eyes at the apparition before her.  He wears a forest-green tunic and leggings, dyed in a dappled pattern to provide camouflage amidst the blooming greenery.  Long, pointed ears protrude from a fall of immaculate white hair; a golden hoop dangles from the tip of the left one.  His slanted feline eyes are a liquid cobalt deep enough to drown in.  To my eyes, a gentle silver halo surrounds his head, though I suspect that the mortals can't see it – it's a mark of his status as an envoy of the King.

"Cousin," he intones, bowing slightly in the direction of my mirror.  "Thy presence in the forest was noted.  What art thou doing here?"

"Merely assisting my current bearer with a task of some importance," I reply.  I find my speech falling naturally into the formal patterns of the fae, mimicking the liquid tones of our visitor.  Fae and their kin are not precisely immortal, for some can be killed, but they're to mortals what dragons are to lizards.  At least one of my mirrors resides in a elven lord's hall of treasures at the moment; one of my mortals traded it to him in exchange for the return of her beloved.  Though the fae never hold on to my mirrors for long, I always enjoy the brief sojourns in their lands.  They tend to talk to me as an equal, and rarely – if ever – ask me irritating questions.  But something about my power seems inimical to them; it's as if my mirrors want to be in the hands of mortals.  It's another frustrating quirk of my existence.

He frowns.  "The webs are tangled, and the farsighted ones see only fog.  Is this thy doing?"

I find my mask falling into an expression similar to his.  "I have no knowledge of this," I tell him.  Elven farseers are gifted with the ability to map the possible near futures, though their results are often blurred and full of symbols that only become clear after the fact.  Their vision is rarely fully clouded, and such an event usually portends a great deal of upcoming chaos.

I have a theory that their power operates on the universal wavefunctions that describe the most probable series of events given certain initial conditions.  Though mortals are not quantum particles, similar rules often apply to their actions, which means that the most probable path for them to take can often be calculated.  It's why so many of my bearers ask the exact same question, falling into the same traps that so many before them have stumbled into.  They have neither the magic nor the knowledge to understand the forces that shape their world, but elves are different.  They are masters of such forces, and thus can predict the flow of events with startling accuracy.

The elf, oblivious to my musings, narrows his eyes.  "I accept thy word, cousin, but the only clear vision the farsighted ones have had is of a mirror resembling thy current form.  Is it possible that thy actions here disrupt the webs?"

He's been ignoring the two humans completely, and I can see the huntsman growing visibly more tense over this.  As I ponder the elf's question, the huntsman takes a step forward.  "Excuse me, sir, but who are ya?"  His tone is respectful, but there's a definite edge of iron underneath it.

The elf lifts a supercilious eyebrow.  "Be quiet, mortal."  He turns to me.  "Are these in thy charge?"

"Perhaps it is better to say that our paths have converged for now," I reply.  Claiming them as my charges would lead to no end of hassle; I'm in no mood to deal with it.  For one thing, the elves would consider me responsible for any trouble caused by the princess...  I sigh.  "As for your prior question, I see no way in which my presence here could seriously disrupt the webs, though I don't have the gifts your farseers do."  To be honest, I'm not even exactly sure what he means when he says 'the webs,' though I've got a fairly good guess.

The elf nods.  "Noted."

The princess has been shifting her weight from foot to foot this whole time, staring in frank amazement at the elf.  Apparently she can't keep quiet any more – I'm actually surprised she managed this long – for she bursts out, "Are you here from my fairy godmother?"  She gives him a beseeching look.  "Please, tell me you're here to help!"

An amused smirk plays about his lips, and he sweeps into a courtly bow with a flourish.  "If thou desire help, my lady, I am sure that it can be provided."

Of course it can – for a price.  There's always a price.  This fact is sadly lost on the princess, who beams at the elf as though he just promised to give her a unicorn.  "Oh, thank you, thank you, good sir!" she exclaims.  Her tears have vanished as thoroughly as though they never existed.  The huntsman lifts an impotent hand, but she doesn't notice his unease.  "Will you get rid of the evil queen so I can return to my castle?  I'll do anything you want!"  As the last words fall from her lips, the huntsman groans and buries his head in his hands.

The elf smiles, all razor edges and sharp corners.  "Of course, my lady."

She obviously doesn't realize what a grave mistake she's made, for she claps her hands in joy, but the huntsman is not that unworldly.  "My lady..."  She glances up at him, tears forgotten.  "Ya might want to be careful with what ya say."  It's too late to undo her rash promise now, and his words are laced with misery in acknowledgement of that fact, but I suspect that he hopes to minimize any further damage.

"Nay, do not fear for thy lady's life," the elf chides him, casting an unreadable glance at the foolish girl.  "I will not harm a hair on her lovely head."  This seems to reassure the huntsman, though there are a hundred ways the elf could get around such a declaration.  Death by a thousand cuts doesn't harm the hair on her head, after all.  Or he could wrap her in a gown of mirrors and put her in a deathlike sleep, like one king did to another princess... let's just say that that particular incident didn't end well for anyone.

The princess, unaware of the trouble she just invited, beams.  "So will you help me take my rightful place now?"  The thought of killing her own mother doesn't seem to bother her in the slightest.  Most princesses in her situation balk at the actions necessary to secure their safety, but not this one.  I revise my estimation of her intelligence upwards by a hair.

The elf allows a faint smile to cross his face.  "Not yet, lady.  Thou promised to do anything that I desire, correct?"

A hint of worry clouds the princess's expression.  "Yes..." she says slowly, taking a step away from him.  Her hands form into fists in her skirts.  Maybe she's finally waking up to the fact that he can demand literally anything from her at this point, and she's bound to give it to him.  Peasant stories say that the fae always demand a firstborn, but that's not usually true.  They only need so many human changelings; most bargains are for other things.

Seeing as this elf is marked as an envoy of the King, I don't think he wants an ordinary bargain.  My suspicions are confirmed by his next words, as he murmurs, "Fear not, lady, my word binds me still.  However, thy situation is rather unusual."  Judging by the glance he casts as me, 'unusual' means 'unable to be foreseen.'  His eyes flick back up to the princess's face.  "Thou art asked to accompany me to my liege's court, so he may have words with thee."  She blinks at him in shock, and he waves a hand, opening a rift in the veil that separates Underhill from the mortal realm in this world.  Her mouth works as he bows.  "If thou would?"

I can't tell where the portal leads, but I can sense the distinctive magic of this world's Underhill emanating from it.  It's flavored with the honey taste of Seleighe Sidhe, so the messenger isn't leading us through the wild lands.  In all likelihood, the gate goes straight to the king's domain.  I don't know why he wants to see the princess, but I can guess – farseers hold an inordinate amount of power in most courts, and they despise mysteries.  If they wanted to get a look at the mortal whose fate they cannot see, their king would be happy to oblige them.

The huntsman shrugs in resignation.  "Come, my lady, ya don't want to disobey the elf king."  He offers her a hand, which she gingerly accepts, and we enter the gate.

* * *

Author's Note: Part of this story was inspired by Terry Pratchett's book The Science of Discworld, as well as the sequel The Science of Discworld II: The Globe. They're both excellent books; I highly recommend reading them!