//------------------------------//
// Sanke 
// Story: Book 1 - The Behemoth came to Canterlot 
// by Equimorto 
//------------------------------//

Piles and towers of books stretched up past the point where they could be seen, hidden by the higher shelves where yet more books were being piled on, thrown on, placed on or pulled from. Some piles swayed slightly from side to side, precariously threatening to spill their contents and being all over the shelves that were their foundation. Some piles rose from others, piles splitting, some books were arranged in arches across shelves or different stacks or entire walls made out of books, entire buildings and cities and empires of paper and bindings and ink. Some books just lay here and there. Some books were falling. They had been for a good while. Some books were just kind of existing.
Yet more books, more shelves, many more lay undisturbed, unread, untouched, in far off places past where the eye could see. Stories, instructions, research and history. Knowledge and fantasy, science and fiction. Words of fear and joy and pain and pleasure and trial and triumph. Books long and short, new and old, bound in all sorts of manners and styles. Books written in all languages, in all times, by all manners of authors. More books than anyone could count, more books than anyone could read.
Another book sailed through the air, discarded, to land in a pile or a mound or to fall. Another book was plucked from its shelf, pulled open, its pages flipped through. On it eyes lingered more carefully. The pages turned back, slower, a portion remained open for a while. The book returned to being closed, but it was not tossed aside. It was brought to rest along a small, curated pile of its siblings, one set deliberately and clearly apart from the rest. It was left there, together with them, saved for a later moment in time.
Another book was pulled from another shelf, at another height in another place, with another cover, another title, in a different language, different words inside. There was silence in the library, quiet and mostly stillness. Mostly just books, and most books did not move, did not talk, did not really do anything but sit there and gather dust, of which there was not much to gather as there were not many things there but books. In most of the library, at least, and for most of the books. Some books could be quite chatty, or quite animated. Those books had their places. But the overwhelming majority of the library was undisturbed, with nothing but books doing nothing but sitting there being books.
Not everywhere. Another book was put in a pile, another one was taken and tossed, a few more were grabbed here and there. A small construct of different books placed in the shape of a horse slowly gained shape over time, as new books that fit its construction were found not to fit with the others. At a slight distance, a complete equal to it stared at its growing sibling. The books did not move, and made no sound, just sitting there.