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When I set hoof into this abandoned library far from memory, I knew I might never leave it. The door sunken into the ground kept it out of sight for ages untold. It is my last hope. My young son lays at home, dying from a disease no one has ever recovered from. Why did it have to be him? He did nothing wrong. My poor child cannot possibly deserve it. All he ever asked from us was to let him stay up late sometimes. Very rarely. Such a good boy. That, and a little stuffed teddy bear we dismissed at the time, maybe for later. The moment we found out what he somehow contracted, something within made me run straight to the store and bring it back for him. It has not left his side since. He holds it close in fevered delirium.
What grave sin could a boy so young possibly have committed to be consumed by an illness that robs him of his strength, his vigor, clarity and sanity? He should be out playing with his friends, not drifting away from a life he hasn't even had yet. Dear child, please hang on. I am trying my best to save you. Within these walls may lie the only means of his being rekindled. Naturally, I asked everyone. Not even the castle physician, archivists, anypony at all..nor even the grand princesses themselves know of a means to stop it. The illness is an unknown, barely heard of and without cure. It resists magic and medicine with equal measure. What could this sickness represent? It seems unnatural in all ways.
Stumbling through this ancient library I am given pause. Rumors alone lead me here, to find the door buried in mud and forgotten by all except as a local legend of sorts. The story I was told spoke of lost ones and what sounded to me like the very illness that tears at my son. A jumbled mess of old sayings and the usual warning to take heed. Do not go looking they told me, just let him die. Just abandon all hope and let him go? No. I must at least try. As I wander these sunken halls of pillars and countless rooms of cold stone I feel as if the walls watch my every move. What sort of library could this have been? If there were books, the wear of time and age has ground most to naught but dust. Hurry. Hurry.
Hour after hour ticks by as I gallop from room to room, my desperation growing further. He will surely die soon if I find nothing useful. My being at his side would serve no useful purpose. He no longer knows anyone is there. Save for the teddy bear he holds close as if instinctively like some sort of shield, he is completely unaware of any as he rambles and mutters incoherently. Why must I as a Grand Canterlot Mage be so powerless to help him!? What good is it to wield all this when it affords me not even the means to save my own son? Tears streak from my eyes and burn like a fiery river down my face. Something ahead seems different. I Push my way past fallen debris, and circle through this mire of a place.
I feel, sense, some minor power ahead. The magical torch I carry burns as bright as ever but somehow ahead it looks brighter. An uneasy feeling takes me as I step into this unusual chamber. It is protected. I know some magic sits within. To my amazement I see a tome upon a pedestal. I've heard of such relics before, and must approach with caution. They are oft extremely dangerous even to come near for they are from wild ages past when uncivilized tribes either warred on one another or a multitude of factions vied for resources. A far cry from our world of today. Would those ancient ones look on us with wonder as we might looking back on them? What race created this place, and why were they mostly forgotten?
I have little time to wonder. I must press on and dare to unlatch the glass atop the tome. I sense no malice or trickery to this book or this place, only a furtive apprehension that makes my whole coat stand on end as if a ghost stalks me here within this shattered husk of a once grand and clearly opulent place. Whoever this was had magic enough to protect this chamber alone. I open the book and to my horror I find the answer I seek. No wonder this race was forgotten. They created it. Those monsters. A disease to unleash upon their enemies as they lay sheltered below, but as with all such foalish weaponry it came with a terrible and exacting price. Made to resist all magic and medicine, they killed themselves.
And now, my son along with them. It will not spread as he is a pony and it is not contagious among our kind in particular, and no others have been near to him. I cry and run for home, this find in tow. I will be considered a true adventurer and showered with empty honors by the score, yet what does it matter? Even as I become famous, my son will slip from life. I have failed him, no cure exists and there is no time to create one even if it could be done. According to the book it cannot. It tore through their population and they fell where they stood. All of them dead by their own actions. What more fitting way for them to end? A cruel twist of fate somehow exposed my son to it directly. Curse every one of them.
I wondered what that other strange scent which lingered in that broken library was. I now know it was Death. The decay of the dead falling to dust along with their pathetic library of ashes. I rush for home only to see my family standing around, to sit idly and watch as my boy fades away. I did everything I could. I will be crying for a very long time. I shall keep your beloved stuffed bear in a display case on the mantle. So I might sit and look at it from time to time, and gaze out the window under which you sat with me so many times beneath the sun and stars, looking up in wonder and reading our favorite books together. Until we meet again.
