Tales of the Veiled Ones, by Beloved Craft

by I Thought I Was Toast

The Library of Lies

My family found the library on accident – so I desperately hope.

We found it in a valley of most peculiar design. It was a single jagged rent in the earth with a narrow bridge clasping to each side with the tenacity of a dying foal. My father deemed that crossing the bridge would amount to an assault on common sense, and a scrying spell was sent into the cloudless sky above to determine a safer route.

I couldn’t help but agree with father’s sentiment as our little family of four viewed the chasm from above. Cracked and crumbling the bridge was unsound at best and already collapsing at worst.

In hindsight, this was my first clue – though I lacked the insight of my current madness to see it. It was like an eye that had stared into the abyss and back. The bridge was no pupil, but a scar – a scar of self-inflicted blindness meant to hide the shadowy lies within.

The ravine was too large for unicorns as noble as we to go around, however, so we decided to teleport down and up each side. It was a point of pride among us that both father and mother could teleport. Our scrying showed no form of life – hostile or otherwise – and there were plenty of ledges to use as stepping stones.

Mother swatted father with her tail – her silver tongue claiming his silvering mane could never keep up with her. And father laughed his boisterous laugh – quipping that more silver simply meant he knew more tricks to getting ahead.

Thus we began our fall from reality with a foalish race between mother and father teleporting into the depths of insanity.

Mother with her power took Quill and rushed quickly ahead with great leaps. Father used me as his navigator, and together we plotted a complex yet efficient chain of shorter jumps. Laughter was had by all, but I suppose if any fault is to be placed in us it is here. The trip down had been more taxing than mother and father had liked. Lost in their little race, they had shown off to one another like the wild days of their youth.

And that meant spending a night in the chasm.

In the murky depths of the chasm it seemed no true day or night existed. The bridge – that a pony would swear to be naturally hewn up near the top – was somehow perfectly constructed to align with the path of the sun and the moon. With the sun at not an hour past high noon we buried in the dreary hues of an eternal twilight.

It was an impossibility of color made into reality that only now occurs to me. Twilight is more than a simple lack of light, after all. It is when the light is truly farthest from us. The sun’s sweet caress must swim through so much more of the empty void between us to grace us with its light. It is that moment of despair between the hope of the sun and sky and the hope of the moon and stars. In twilight we question the coming of another day – like I am now – and that is why it is twilight where ponies are truly lost.

It was the second sign I suppose, yet I know not if it was merely illusion or some depraved warping of reality. In this place so many lies crawl through my mind like spiders on a web. I cannot be sure I even saw the twilight, and hope with desperate fervor that I never truly did.

It was in seeing this as we finally looked up after our capricious race down that Quill soiled himself like a common mud pony, and asked if we could leave immediately.

I agreed with him most heartily in spirit – although I was obliged by the sibling code of honor to poke fun at his expense. It was a facade on my part. My parents wore them too. Good natured jokes and japes held us together like a breaking mirror as we crossed the murky depths.

The stone was slick and black and moist. Soft sighs of dark emerald mist escaped the little cavities pockmarking its chill surface. And, as day turned into night, the tiny wisps of mist thickened into an almost choking miasma. Before even the first dots of starlight could grace our presence the sky was gone in the smothering fog. The few gaps to be found showed naught but the endless void between each speck of hope in the sky and to see that sky – however briefly – only brought on more of the dry wine of despair.

And – like many a drunk who drowned their sorrows in drink – our own spirits seemed to lift more in our cheery facade.

Only Quill could face the truth, and he all but clung to mother as we continued on.

Finally, we reached the other side of the ravine and thought ourselves blessed – or so we thought. In the deepest shadows under the bridge there was a structure built into the cliff.

It was a small and unassuming thing – yet another lie to add to the list – but it was shelter. We rushed inside, and the frigid ice that coated our hearts melted in the cozy little den.

Perhaps that was the third sign. I cannot tell within all the lies. All I have is a nagging suspicion over our quick relief. Relief over our escape was so obvious an answer before, but I wonder over why we did not question the purpose for such a lovely building in such a dreary place.

Decadent decorations that even now defy my explanation filled the homey hovel. Beds, lounges, pillows, and chairs littered the room – all were arranged just so around a number of cozy hearths that burned with merry fires. They were verdant flames – clearly enchanted – filled with an excitable warmth the chill stone outside had denied.

All thoughts of safety and the dangerous chasm outside fled our heads, however, as we beheld what lay beyond the den. It was a simple trap door that Quill found under his bed. He all but ran from the shelter on seeing it, but we coaxed him to stay. We were foals not to realize what traveling farther down into this madness would lead to.

Down we went – through the last shield the earth dared provide us – and we found a sense of sugary wonder for once. Father had once seen the royal archives in ancient Unicornia before the Great Exodus. It was with awe in his voice he said he had never seen so much knowledge before.

It was with purpose – and great denial of the chasm outside – we began to study. That small spark of tangy curiosity all unicorns have had turned into a roaring and hungry blaze. We started our research humming merrily next to the cozy warmth of a fireplace. As the night burned away, little Quill drifted to sleep as my parents and I sequestered in our little den. His inquisitive mind would craft wonders in the realm of dreams: Our curious minds sought knowledge in the sea of books.

It shames me that Quill was the first to reawaken to the truth – whatever that may mean.

As days turned to weeks, his sleep became restless. I would turn from my texts to see him watching the shadows beneath the door to the miasma outside. His ears flicked about in every direction trying to catch a sound none of us could hear, and he jumped at the slightest caress of a dusty old cobweb lining the shelves of the library. In the end, he fell back on his old group of imaginary friends to give him the courage to carry on. He was a little old for such things, but it gave him peace of mind so I held my tongue.

Perhaps if I had questioned it he would be here with me now.

No matter his own icy fears, he stubbornly insisted on assisting us. Foals that we were, we had him gather the tomes we needed. Exploring the library with his supposed friends gave him an excuse to be happy – something he needed as his restless slumber finally eased.

One day we found him to be tarrying on too long. The miasma was rising outside, so mother went to find him in the depths of the library.

Her scream will be burned into my mind for the rest of my life – however short it may be. It was shrill and desperate, yet it was cut off with a violent silence. There was no echo traveling the dusty old halls. There was only the disturbing quiet that comes with the precipice of death. It was a void in the music of the universe – where one of its myriad of merry instruments had their strings cut in the prime of its performance.

A duet was lost. A tragic solo was born, and my father teleported into the darkness before I could think to follow.

I follow his hoofsteps now – traced into the dust in the deepest recesses of the library. My journal floats open at my side. I wish to live, but how can I be sure of such an outcome when I don’t even know my foe. I have decided to write my story as I tread into this abyss – hoping at least my tale will see the light of dawn beyond the wretched twilight of this chasm.

There is a strange tranquility to find as my quill scratches the paper. It settles my racing heart and grants caution to every hoofstep. I have no time to read it now or correct mistakes. I’m not even sure it’s writing my story. It could be drawing lewd sketches for all I know.

What I know is that the act of writing grants me clarity and reason as it always has. My thoughts churn faster than the speed of light as they burn through my mind – purging the lies even as they rebuild themselves.

I can see the one remaining truth to my existence.

Everything is a lie. There may be a truth, but I can’t hope to see it now. The things here – and things is all I dare call them – craft the lies in my head. They planted the spiders that spun the deceptions. Their silky webs now lie in ash, but no sign of the truth remains.

The start of the lies is lost. The length of my visit is gone. My traveling companions are unclear. I have memories, but cannot trust them for the silken comfort they provide. Thoughts of a family drift through my head, and I question if they are mine. They might simply be more lies.

I can hear the things – nevermore than just things – in the shadows now, but I cannot trust what I hear. There is the faint clop of hooves, and there is the muffled padding of paws. Wings buzz and flap. Alien chittering fills the air – their true voices echoing and fracturing through the air. Even that small truth hides them from me in the end. I do not know how many there are or where they hide among the echoes.

I catch glimpses of them in my horn’s pallid light, but I do not understand what I see. I see growling timberwolves, roaring manticores, rumbling dragons, and chitinous spiders – all truly monstrous in size. It’s as if the pits of Tartarus themselves have opened into these empty halls, and I run from the beasts whether or not they’re real or simple images conjured to scare.

The shadows twist and turn. Walls change before me – almost crashing into me as the labyrinth of the library changes. Some are illusions and lies no doubt, but I cannot risk there being a hidden truth.

I need to escape, and so I run.

The library tempts me though: I see things I dare not hope to be true.

I see my mother with my father’s broken body in her arms, and I see my father with my mother’s broken body in his arms. My heart aches to comfort them – to show the lies our lives have been mired in.

But both are lies in their own right. Their eyes were never green.

I see Quill surrounded by his imaginary friends – as if they were real all along. It is a deception as clear as day, and yet I yearn to join in their games and play. There is a small oasis of joy amid my ever shifting nightmare.

His eyes are green like the others – a sign of all the lies.

I run until my bones drag like weights on the ground. I can feel exhaustion claiming me. My eyes refuse to open, but I can hear hollow hoofsteps trotting inevitably towards me.

I can see the green light of a horn through closed eyes, and my terror just washes away as mother sings me softly to sleep.

It was all just a nightmare.

It was all just a dream.

The lies were all a lie.

Tomorrow was going to be just perfect – the kind of day of which I’ve dreamed since I was small.

Tomorrow the five of us would leave for Equestria.

And as sweet joyous slumber claims me, I use what little strength I have left to return the book in my grasp to the shelves.

Author's Note:

As usual comments and criticism is appreciated. If you do criticize, however, please try and include at least one positive criticism amid any negative ones. It doesn't need to be an even ratio. I just prefer being criticized by those who can tell me I'm doing something right in addition to whatever I'm doing wrong

Comments

[Phoenix Swift]

I like it. You have definitely captured the Lovecraftian essence, albeit in a more lyrical style. To be honest, your words flow just as well as, if not better than, certain Lovecraftian works. Not only does this help the story, but you also get the flavor of the author in addition to the inspiration.

All in all, I look forward to you delving into the secrets of insanity and throwing your soul to the winds.

[PegaSeraph]

Very Lovecraftian indeed
good read...