Arboreal Grieving

Spike blearily clawed at his blankets, turning over with a creak. The cold, wet sensation would not leave, to his great frustration. He tried to return to the warm dream, only to have it dissipate completely.

Pulling himself upright with a great deal of effort, he rubbed at his eyes. His entire body felt wet, and his nose could only pick up the faint smell of… ash?

Spike’s eyes flung open in a panic. Assessing the room, he realized with shock that the entire room was blackened, soot and ash piled everywhere. In the ceiling, a few more holes than he remembered had appeared. Even more concerning, water was leaking into the room from said holes. Oh Celestia, he thought, I didn’t torch my room in my sleep, did I? Did they have to have the pegasi clean it up?

Tearing off his drenched comforter, Spike leaped to his feet. Eyeing his ruined slippers, he chose to go bare, quickly making his way to the exit.

Thankfully, the stairs were still intact, leading to a hope for minimized damage. Twilight’ll flog me from beyond the grave if the main room went up! he thought nervously.

Creeping down the stairs, Spike found himself more and more anxious, hesitating to look at the potential damage. Stopping himself just before the corner, he steeled himself.

With a burst of determination, he peered through. Spike’s eyes widened—his worst fears had been realized.

The main receiving area was wrecked. The right part of the ceiling had completely collapsed, letting in what Spike realized was a veritable downpour of rain. The entire area was blackened and smoky, and with a wince, Spike realized there was absolutely no way the books had survived.

Taking another shocked look, Spike heard a loud crunching noise. Stepping backwards, he watched as yet another part of the ceiling caved in, collapsing on the central horsehead sculpture. He immediately rushed in to try and preserve the room, to no avail—the rain had already started pouring in the hole, only rendering him even more drenched.

Hearing a groan, Spike looked down at the rubble. Within it, a white form lay prone, moving the debris around it with grunts of pain.

Spike carefully picked up a particularly large log, releasing even more sawdust into the air. Glancing downward again, he realized with shock that the form was somepony more familiar.

Princess Celestia lay on his floor, covered in soot. While he thankfully couldn’t find any clear injuries, she was clearly not well: her mane was limp and the color of an old washcloth, and her coat was drenched, only absorbing more from the layer of water on the floor.

To his surprise, she opened her eyes as soon as he lifted up another log.

“...Spike?”