Letters No Longer Sent

The air outside the castle was merely cold, as opposed to hazardous. There was still time. The caslte library was perfectly heated, and for most creatures it was as formidable in size as any library could be, although for Spike this was not the case. The ceiling, which centuries ago almost seemed like clusters of distant clouds to him, packed together to form a solid block of sky-stuff, was now close to being oppressively low-hanging. Even with the renovations (the basement alone now had similar dimensions to that of the average city library), Twilight and the builders could only make it so dragon-friendly.

A quiet place, sure, but considering his bulk, Spike still made low rumbles with every step, the floor stressing as if about to crack under his foot-claws, his tail swishing and blowing gusts of wind like phantoms on a sea about to be ravaged by a storm, his wings kept tight to his sides lest they send ancient tomes (some, Spike would muse, even older than himself) off the comfort of their shelves. The dust alone would cause several sneezing fits.

Indeed, so much dust, and so many more books—

"Good thing I saved this for last," Spike said aloud, not exactly whispered but said low, himself his only audience. "Let's see, thinking about it. All the Daring Do novels, the complete Brave Voyager of Barsoom series, even that encyclopedia on dragons..." (The "encyclopedia" used to be only a single volume when Spike was a boy, he so remembered, when ponies knew next to nothing about dragons.) "That should do it for a start," his voice finished, yet his mind did not. For a start, he thought, but even if I had a dozen cases and a hundred saddlebags, there's so much I can't take. Weird, I used to not like reading that much. Taking dictation can do that.

True, at least as far his aged mind could conceive, he had all the books he could not be without. As he searched the shelves, the floors, the walls of books, by genre, by author, all the dead names before his eyes, all the pages he had flipped through merely for the sake of filling time (the enormity of which—time, that rascally thing—he did not fully realize until he was close to a century old, when so many names from his childhood had gone to history), and he could not think of any more essentials. He was old, sure, but he would not die tomorrow, or even the week after; he could always come back if he wanted. Unless he didn't. Unless he never came back.

"Maybe that is it," he said. "Maybe I'm ready."

In that moment, however, his peace was disrupted by the swishing of wings were not his own. He turned and saw Twilight taking a peak around the corner of the aisle (they were in the Equestrian history section, which Spike had not much use for but had ventured into anyway), her hooves tapping on the glassy floor, the wind out of her wings.

"O-oh, sorry..." Her cheeks took on a light-red tinge, almost pink, from her self-consciousness. The princess's lack of grace was eternal, and because of that Spike found it a soothing constant in his life. "Was just wondering, no need to rush."

"I think I'm about all pakced up for Silver Shoals."

"It's just that the weather team is scheduled to bring in the snow tomorrow and all..."

"I know," Spike said gently—rather startlingly gently, given his size. "We'll leave before it hurts. I mean, I'll leave before it hits. Funny. Mature—" (he didn't want to say "elderly") "—dragons can bathe in lava pits all day, but too much cold and they don't take any of it well. So I've read, and seen." And being stuck indoors the whole winter wouldn't do me much good either, he thought.

Twilight, Celestia, and Luna were the only ones who understood how old Spike really was. In fairness to casual observers, dragons did not age like ponies or yaks or griffons, or even the crystal ponies in their land yonder who lived unusually long lives. An eighty-year-old pony would start seeing liver spots on her scalp, her mane greying, her muscles withering, her legs becoming arthritic, but a four-hundred-year-old dragon (which Spike was just a few years short of) was just a little slower, a little bulkier, a little more sensitive to changes in weather than his fellows. He was not a flower in the midst of a breeze but a stone in the stream of time—a stone which remained where it was but which also, eventually, would be dislodged and forced to follow its leaders, those other stones which gave in, rolled, tumbled, got crushed under time's weight. Time was more patient with Spike than most, and maybe crueler for it.

"At least Celestia and Luna will be there," said Twilight. "You won't be alone. And I can visit, and even when I can't I can send a letter your way."

"I know," said Spike. "That's... not what bothers me."

"Moving isn't easy." By this point she had come down the aisle, was little room there was, and brushed against Spike's cold side, wing against wing, feathers against membrane. "Is that it?"

"No, not entirely that. Moving back to Canterlot wasn't so bad. It's more—" Then it, the thing which tugged at the back of his mind, had given itself a name. "You say you'd send me letters?"

"Of course. Mail them, if you wouldn't mind that."

But rather than respond, Spike looked like he was about get hit by a train. He had spent the past couple days gathering the books (among other things) he wanted to take with him to Silver Shoals, yet somehow he did not consider the thing which could be considered his life's work (never mind the statues erected in his name) and which would continue to exist long after he himself would cease.

The scrolls—

Not scrolls written by him (he didn't care so much for what he wrote), but sent to him. Letters that were mostly written for others but occasionally written for him specifically. Scrolls which, if not for the protection from sunlight and the extra care the library staff put into preserving and copying these papers, would surely have perished years ago. The letters in these scrolls were historical artifacts, for one (it was here that Spike thought of himself as an artifact), but Spike knew many of those who had written the letters. He could remove the ribbon, unravel the scroll, see the name of the creature who had put ink on that paper, and attach a face to the name.

The problem, he realized to himself, was that he didn't want to. It was hard enough to talk with the descendants of the descendants (and so on) of the ones he knew most, the ones he loved, but it was another to think about the dead. What could he say? What could he say to those dead names?

And yet the scrolls remained, all but perfectly intact.

"Spike? Spike...?" A whisper.

I've been zoning out, Spike thought. "Didn't really think about those," he said.

"I-I'm sorry," she said, "it's just that I thought you might. You don't have to."

"You think I'd wanna read some of her letters."

"Like I said, it's no big deal. You don't have to. I was just thinking, if you're going away, and if you'd like to take some scrolls with you, you can. I trust you on that." Twilight caught a gulp in her throat. "Not that we would normally do that, but in your case we can maybe forego the return dates..."

"I remember when you had a freakin' heart attack over forgetting to return that one book, and now you're telling me I can just take these." A corner of spike's mouth lifted into a smirk, but it was a tired one.

"Only for you, Spike. Nothing less. Nooooooooooothiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing..."

Is she repeating herself, or is that just me? he wondered. Although the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced he really ought to return to his chamber and get some rest before tomorrow. Rest was very important for somecreature his age. Yet as he thought about it, as he thought about the journey to Silver Shoals in the morning, before the snow came in, he thought about sleep, and death. And the letters he used to read.

"....nOoOooOooooOooooothiIiiiiiiIIIIiiiing..."

The library had gone dark, or rather the lights had dimmed. What struck Spike as stranger, at least immediately, was that he could no longer hear the far shuffling of pages, the pat-patting of hooves on steps. Nocreature was checking out books at the front desk, he could tell from here. He stepped out of the aisle and made his way to the center. As he was on the second floor, he looked down and around. The tables were empty. The book sections were empty. The front desk was empty. And it was night outside. Was it night before or wasn't it? At least there was no snow, as far as he could see through the windows.

It took him a moment to realize the way he was walking, that he was closer to the ground now. Was he slumping? No, he was perfectly upright; it was just that he was shorter now. Like how he used to be.

—Huh, he uttered, then cupped his mouth, shaking at the boyish sound which had escaped it. Did something happen to me? Why am I talking like this? he thought, his mind-voice oddly still belonging to his older self. But then where did everyone go? Off to play some Bingo?

Then he caught, from behind him, the very corner of his eye, a blue light floating through a nearby aisle. He had quickly formed a thought, a theory in his head, but the familiarity of the blue light gave him a certain hunch, so he went to meet it.

His hunch was quickly proved right; it was so obvious.

She had not aged a day since last they met, but then against that wasn't surprising. Firstly, she didn't age subjectively past the age of, say, thirty, as was typical of her kind, but also even if that were not the case she would surely choose to de-age herself on her own turf. Perhaps a part of his mind also made Spike young again, unbeknownst to the rest of himself. Anything could happen in a dream, after all.

—Why hello there, dearest Spike.

—Hey, Luna...

The glassy tiles of the library floor flickered with sparks of blue with of her steps, yet her great hooves did not make a sound. She glowed, passively, as if her presence by iself was enough to shine a light. The dark corners of the shelves and rails became little battlegrounds between blueness and blackness.

—Forgive me, but this is all rather unusual, said Luna in her mysterious yet chipper way. —I was hoping, but I did not expect to find you at this hour. Shouldn't you be with Twilight?

—I am. Or at least I was. I'm not dead, am I?

—Oh please, if you were dead then I wouldn't be here! But Spike, it has been so long...

—I know that too, he said. He walked on past her and picked random books off their shelves, flipping through their pages, noting rather mundanely that because this was a dream he couldn't read what was on them. Just a bunch of scribbles where there might've been writing. —I'm still heading your way tomorrow. No snow down there, huh?

—Of course not. Rarely does it ever snow at Silver Shoals, even in the deepest of winter. I have to admit, I do miss it. There will be no snow for Hearth's Warming, and for New Year's Eve the weather team will be granting us a mere light shower of that white softness. A minor tragedy, but on the whole it is for the best.

That last remark made Spike's heart ache, although it wasn't real pain. Not in the world of dreams. Yet somehow he did feel an aching. A wish to not let go of something.

—Yeah... for the best...

Luna being so tall, and Spike as he was so short, that she couldn't help but cock her head at him. —Do you have reservations about the move? About Silver Shoals? It's quite lovely here. Tia and I will help you fit in, if that's what you are anxious about.

—That's not the problem! he shouted, far louder than he had expected, his voice echoing through the darkness.

—My apologies. Shall we wake you up, or is there some way I can help you?

—Nothing to be done now. When I wake up I'll be old. And those letters...

—Are you afraid something will happen to them?

Spike felt his chest way heavier by the second, as if the weight of his real-life body were catching up with his dream self. He knew he would wake up, but at the same time he got this horrible feeling, like the reaper was watching over him, that maybe he would pass on before he awoke. All the more reason, then, to say what he was about to.

—It's more that... death was something I always thought happened to others. But not me, right? I was born, I grew up, not over ten years but a hundred. I thought I was gonna stay a kid forever. I really hated it, ya know. I was a kid and all these friends I knew...

—Time does not work the same for us, said Luna. —It does not even flow at the same speed between you and I. You are correct, Spike, in that you will live a long time. You might not think it, but you still have many days ahead of you. Dragons live an awfully long time. They're almost like alicorns in that sense.

—But I'll die. And all my memories?

—Gone, sad to say. As will happen to all of us. With you, however, you are Equestria's most famous and renowned scrivener. Your service to Princess Twilight alone has become legendary, never mind your status as a hero. Books have been written about you. You will not simply vanish.

—Those letters. They are my memories.

—Hmm?

—When I go to Silver Shoals, I won't be able to read those letters anymore. I could take a few with me, but how would I even choose? How could I choose between friends like that? And suppose something happened to me...

—You don't have to stay at Silver Shoals for the rest of your life, Spike. For the winter yes, it would be good for you, but maybe in the summer you can return to Canterlot. There will always be time for that, until there isn't. Before you may have always thought

—I see, he said in a low tone, yet there was a hint of hope to it. —I can always come back here. I won't have all the time in the world, but I should have enough. To reconnect with my friends again. Jeez, am I getting too serious here?

—Not at all. Tia and I will help you however we can. You will not be alone, I can at least promise you that. Now... shell we each return to where we belong?

—I'm ready.

I guess this is it, he thought, his heart still heavy. Time to wake up. Hope Twilight hasn't made a scene over me taking a nap like this.

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AgentKorpsman

AgentKorpsman #1 · Dec 30th, 2022 · 1 · ·

—Gone, sad to say. As will happen to all of us. With you, however, you are Equestria's most famous and renowned scrivener. Your service to Princess Twilight alone has become legendary, never mind your status as a hero. Books have been written about you. You will not simply vanish.

*turns around and whispers to author*
Um, should we tell him?

Mystic Sunrise