Scrapbox

by Not_A_Hat

Lost Cities Inversion: Unknown Architecture

The road from Summer ends at autumn's edge, in a dead forest filled with mist.

Winter reigns behind. At night, stars laugh over the brooding mountains in the distance, and the raging cold crackles with hate. Nothing ever lived out there. The peaks are broken and desolate, shredding the wind howling through their crags. It convulses and curls, whipping the snow into raging storms and rolling them down the foothills, to scream over the snowy plain and snatch at the road. Winter flings itself against the forest, eternally angry, never successful. Dying vortices expire in the leafless trees, bleeding clots of snow onto a thick layer of rotting leaves. The forest shrugs it off, drowned in autumn ennui.

It is always autumn here.

The road was abandoned on the verge of winter. Its form is broken and frayed, cobbles cracked and strewn on treacherous ground where it fades. Travel would be difficult.

But nopony has traveled this road.

The spots of snow never last. They may hold for weeks, but eventually surrender to the eternal drone of crushing autumn days, melting half-heartedly into the ground and evaporating into the mists which curl listlessly about barren trunks, coating everything in moisture and strangling out sunlight. Condensation drips incessantly, an eerie litany of desolation amplified by the fog. Irregularity strips even the illusion of tears from the sound. If autumn could weep it might seem less empty, but even sorrow is sapped here. The hopeless trees sag and slump in the fog, slime sliding down their trunks.

The untraveled road is weak in the dog days of autumn, but creeps towards the mountains even so. Inwards, it stumbles and becomes recognizable. The construction is plain, but the paving grows smother. Stones sit level, with occasional cracks, and the mist thins as the road meanders towards Summer.

The paved way could have been useful under this stark autumn sky. Paths gingerly split from it, straggling towards unused trails and vacant cottages peeking between the trees. Their empty windows turn from the mist and mountains, doors angled away from the encroaching chill. They have never been opened. Stone-edged gardens occasionally verge the road, filled with dead greenery.

The beds were beautiful once, even unappreciated, but their life has been sacrificed to autumn. Only the trees hold out, offering their remaining leaves to keep the encroaching cold at bay. The useless huts cower and huddle, hiding behind bare hedges and gravel paths. A harsh chill hangs in the air, but it is no longer corpse-cold. The trees weather it in silence, bargaining with the wind against the mist.

The road widens and strengthens as the trees brighten. Profusions of leaves, in a riot of red, swarm alongside the road as it marches inwards. It develops a cant, and the forest falls into orderly rows alongside, forming windbreaks and shade which have never offered anypony shelter. The houses grow in size, enclosing more and more vacancy as they stretch and rise. The air grows crisp and momentarily refreshing before a biting dryness takes hold. The leaves fade towards green, but hang limp in the arid breeze.

The forest breaks, and autumn is over. The city of Summer can be seen from here.

It crowns a small hill. Grassy plains, wide and rich enough to feed it year-round, spread from the forest. A hot wind whispers incessantly, rustling the grass and making autumn's dripping despair seem a fever dream, the hatred of winter a chill regret. The fields labor under a final heatwave, an undying burn which scorches the grass yellow.

This ground has never been farmed. Plots lay in ordered sections, marshalled around the hill in readiness, but have never felt a plow or drank a raindrop. They would yield bountifully to any who cared for them, but they simmer in neglect, sullen under the battering rays of the sun. The road ignores their plight. It surges for the city, cutting across the frustrated ground.

The heat rolls in towards the city. There is no wall here, no gates. War could never visit Summer. Buildings to hold the harvest cluster around the road, greeting its entry, hungry for traffic which never materialized. Houses and suburbs roll away to either side, empty as the promise hanging over the fields, aching unused in the futile heat.

The road splits here, diverging and meandering as it works its way up towards the peak. It brushes past civilized shells. Restaurants sit, their intimate beauty never seen. theaters slumber in opulent grandeur, void of applause and joy. Welcoming plazas spread unused. Picturesque promenades unfurl through quiet streets, never strolled in the cool evening. The city sweeps round the hill in lavish device, a marvel of design. There is everything here for comfort, friendship, companionable silence and raucous laughter.

Except life.

The silence grows oppressive, even as the heat mellows. Further inwards, fountains slake the air, fed by bottomless reservoirs. Their water has never been tasted. The buildings turn stately, columned and carved, vain in their worthless emptiness. Gardens overcome the houses, lacing round libraries and museums, devoid of books or history. Public spaces, zealous for learning and the pursuits of the mind, stifle in the unchanging sun.

The road is here, too. It is shaded by lush trees, untended but perfect. Smooth lawns, never mowed, accompany it. It is broad enough for a dozen to walk abreast here, continuing up towards the summit.

The road bends in a broad circle at the very top of the hill. In the center stands a rough-hewn boulder, part of the bedrock beneath. This is the Summer Stone. Rough steps have been cut here, leading up to an ornate but empty arch, carved from the very rock.

This is the only part of the city which might be seen by any besides the architect. The Summer Stone lingers on the edge of mind at times, in the space between waking and sleep. Its voice is quiet, locked by guilt, but an aching emptiness can be felt. Its invitation stands to all. If one can turn, reach, they might find themselves here, beneath the arch.

Standing at the doorway of Summer.

Any who did, would find their hooves the first to walk this land. They could stare down at the marvelous city, blazing bright and warm, inviting and welcoming in every way.

Summer could entice anypony. At sunset it blazes in glory, all cunning artistry and welcoming shade. At dawn it energizes with wonder, vistas around every corner and marvels yet unseen. At noon it offers refreshment, cool privacy to loiter in or warm sunbeams for napping. And at night… at night it offers a thousand delights, secrets to discover and treasure, to own and hide in the heart.

But they might look farther. Perhaps their sight would follow the road from Summer, tracing the creator's last gaze. They might feel the aching emptiness, and know only empty rock stands in the city. They might see the heatwave hovering over the plains, and feel the frustration of rejection. Perhaps, if they had sharp eyes, they would see the edge of autumn, sense anger fade to depression, and depression give way to dreary, empty despair, and realize that the only thing lying beyond is helpless, all-consuming rage.

Anypony who did would surely reject this façade, this shell of civilization, and gladly wake to a real bed, real ponies, and a real sun. They would squeeze their eyes shut in a moment of consuming grief at the wasted potential, as the architect did, and vanish back to the waking land.

But perhaps, if they listened very closely, they would hear the dreams of the Summer Stone beneath their feet and turn to look behind.

The road ends at the peak. Summer's dominion only reaches so far. Beyond, behind, Winter closes in again. The mountains lean close around the small hill, snarling and mewling their rage with frigid wind. Chill breezes sweep in, cold and laden with snow, from the back. But Summer will never flinch from them.

For on those winds, carried from Winter, comes water. A promise to slake the thirst of even the driest city. Because as Summer gives way to Autumn, and Autumn surrenders to Winter, out of the death of Winter comes Spring. And Spring carries rain, the promise of growth and new life, even in the darkest of days.

And any who saw that, might carry a touch of comfort to the architect's heart. If she could feel the dreams of Summer and forgive herself, abandon the laughing-starred winter in her heart, she might unlock the doors of Summer.

So as heat-lightning crackles in the sky over the empty city, Summer dreams of ponies. A drop, a sprinkle, a trickle, a torrent, a flood of ponies.

And Summer dreams of rain.

Comments

[cowbrony93]

nicely evocative of Lost Cites. Here's a link to explain a massive number of views.

[Not_A_Hat]

6268345 Oh, I was not expecting that.

...maybe I should actually edit the thing... nah.

Still, I'm glad you enjoyed it. Thanks for pointing me to the blog. I would have likely been confused.

[Soge]

This was a really clever reversal of the typical "Lost cities-esque" fanfic. Great work!

[PresentPerfect]

Not what I expected from a Lost Cities inversion, but it's still great! :D