I Destroyed a Universe

by TheLastBrunnenG

I Think That I Shall Never See

In sleepy Ponyville there stood a tree, just down the lane from fabled Sugarcube Corner and around the bend from legendary Carousel Boutique. Of uncommonly massive girth, this singular specimen was hollowed out years ago and turned into a local landmark called Golden Oak Library. Oddly larger on the inside than its exterior would suggest, it was kept fresh and alive by magics rare and arcane.

Row upon row of bookshelves and banks of card catalogs and inconspicuous reading nooks left no illusion as to its purpose, yet a kitchen abutted the entrance, and a laboratory peeked out from down winding stairs, and a cozy bedroom overlooked the towers of knowledge. Together these betrayed that somepony once called this place home, and more. Once, ponies happy and hopeful and ailing and immortal came to the little Library, knowledge and friendship fresh on their minds.

In the panes of a side window, too high for easy reach and too low for illumination, a single blue feather still fluttered, caught in the sash. The window itself bore the hallmarks of repeated and increasingly perfunctory repairs: careful sanding gave way to rough trim, fine glass was replaced by simple glaze, and precise nail work was abandoned for hasty glue. Once the sound of the crashing glass had been a welcome change of pace from the usual polite knock at the door. It signaled the arrival of a rare sky-blue visitor, one whose love of literature was late in blooming and of unrefined taste.

Yet a love it was, nurtured covertly and fed by the sort of secrets only librarians know and keep. Knowledge fueled and intellect sated, the clandestine reader found new courage and pursued dreams that had her crashing in far loftier places. Soon she began leaving her feathers in stadiums and arenas and Academies an hour’s flight away, a day’s, a month’s. The one feather remained, caught where it lay in the window sash, but eventually the window stopped needing repair and only letters arrived, storm-scented but never delivered in person.

The Library’s kitchen had long been disused and only an empty pie tin on the dining table hinted that it had ever been more than an afterthought. The pie tin itself was unremarkable save for the lace doily on which it lay, entirely out of place against the bare functionality of the Library. In the Library’s heyday a certain farmer dropped by for visits of the most casual sort only, convinced that without her fruits the resident librarian might have tried subsisting on parchment and data alone. So she brought pies and fritters, jellies and cobblers, the aromas of cinnamon and fresh baking lending the stuffy building the warm and wafting scent of home.

A certain seamstress and designer of fashions sought across the land also called on the Library and its librarian. The fastidious pony left perfume and lacy perfection in her wake, and insisted the librarian accept her offer of fancy garments for use in Galas and Balls and the sort of events to which most librarians only dreamt of attending. It was in these soirees that cinnamon and perfume discovered after first clashing that they were instead complementary, each just strong enough when the other grew too faint. Soon the farmer and the fashionista spent their time at the Acres and the Boutique, and other ponies came to visit them more than the reverse. After a time all the dresses were made and fresh pies could be had elsewhere, and nopony came by to deliver gowns or strudels to the Library.

The only clue that a certain pegasus ever visited the Library was a stain in the floorboards, a relic of herbal tea spilled in fright at some imagined bogey or over-loud guest. The timid little pony smelled of wildflowers and medicine, honeysuckle and bandages, and was as likely to faint at her own shadow as to risk her life to save any of the myriad forest creatures which called her friend and savior and surrogate mother. She came by the Library only rarely in its prime, always seeking quiet words with quiet friends. After adventures and quests began to mount and took their toll, she retreated to her woodland home, a place where she was sought by many in search of kindness. She left with increasing infrequency, save to see her closest friends when grave matters forced her hoof, and though she never lacked for companionship, the Library faded from her list of familiar routes.

A parti-colored and icing-scented streamer hung from the rafters in the Library, a relic of the librarian’s early days, and it resisted all efforts mundane and magical to remove it. The same was often said of the pony who delivered the streamer, or cannon-fired it, as it were. Even to the dour librarian she brought a smile, a feat she replicated with everypony she met. One day she found herself surrounded by happy ponies, her close friends included, each one a testament to her uncanny ability to lift all burdens with laughter. When nopony needed cheering and there were no depressions, no unease, no unhappy hearts left to mend, she retreated to her life as a baker extraordinaire, her fame with confections and sweets preceding her where ever she set hoof, and she left the Library behind as a fond and increasingly distant memory.

The last pony to leave the Library was its resident librarian. Her bedroom lay empty save for the scent of spilled ink, ancient tomes, and fresh quills. Somewhere beneath the whiff of musty parchment lay a subtler aroma, which to the initiated spoke of sweat and lust, of lilac and lavender overlaid with moondust and moonflowers. It was this last which spurred her to depart with a fellow seeker of knowledge, one with unrivaled perspective on the nighttime heavens, both of them intent on exploring questions far deeper and more personal than any Library’s collection could answer.

Finally on some long sunsetted day which nopony in Ponyville could remember, the callers came no more, the torches and lanterns all went dark, the shelves were emptied, and at last only the wind visited the lonely branches of the great Golden Oak.

Author's Note:

TMP Prompt # 234. The Prompt: Phantom faces at the windows. Phantom shadows on the floor. Empty chairs at empty tables …

This story is something of an epilogue to three of my other collections:
If the Flight Suit Fits
Luna's Librarian, Twilight's Moon
The Rustic and The Romantic

Title is from the Joyce Kilmer poem.

Comments

[BenRG]

Kind of sad, really - Even the happiest of places ultimately will be abandoned.

[Archlyn]

***

*For lack of better emoticons.

Really really sad.

[Cog Archival]

MY FEELS. THEY WEEP.

[Avid Reader]

Commence read.

Very deep. Like the imagery brought on by this chapter.

[GrayFox2510]

God damn that was deep, and rather sad (and happy in its own way).

[j-grizz]

But what about Spike?

[Blue_Paladin42]

This was a bad chapter to read when feeling depressed.

[avidreader07]

Amazing. Between this chapter and the last, I know which shelf this is going on, whatever else may come. Liking and faving now, though last chapter would've worked, too.