You'll Be With Me Forever
Twilight stared down at her friends. They meant so much to her, so much to the world, and that's why she couldn't let them go. The stories they shared, the ponies they grew into, the things they'd done; it was all so much, and yet, it could all fit into a book.
How wondrous writing was. You could condense somepony's life into a neat little package, a thing to hold and cherish forever, to pull off the shelf for a lonely evening's read. A book could never leave you, could never walk away or say goodbye. A book was a forever friend. Her friend.
Words pooled around her hooves like water from a spilled glass, dancing into neat little rows of text. They formed coherent stories, tales, memories. They filled the pages from top to bottom, so orderly and neat. Twilight smiled down at them, the ink glowing purple in her horn's light. It was nearly done, this little project, her last big endeavor before moving on. It had to be just right. It had to be perfect. For them, her herself, and the good of all ponykind.
It had to be perfect.
But, crafting stories wasn't easy. It was a messy thing, especially when you had such vivid, lifelike characters carrying the narrative. The strings of each plotline needed to be laid out just right., just so, or it'd all fall apart like a frail spider's web under the weight of its weaver. The story had to be just so. No errors, no plot holes.
It had to be perfect.
It wouldn't work if the words didn't come together the way they were meant to. If the story wasn't true to itself, it'd be merely a fairy tale. No, this was no foal's bedtime story. This was her story, the story of her friends, the story of her world, of triumphs and hardships, of happiness and sorrow.
Of everything.
Twilight strained, sweat beading at her brow. She flicked the wetness away with a hoof, taking in a ragged breath. She was growing weaker, and the spell she was so diligently casting wasn't helping matters. It was taking up all the strength she had left, all the magical power that still coursed through her, all into the book before her. She couldn't stop now, though. It was so close to being done. Almost perfect, almost concluded. Just a little more editing, a little more refining. It'd be done before the dawn crept over the horizon. Tomorrow was going to be a very lonely day, but that was alright; she had her friends. She had her book.
Thousands of pages, millions of words, countless years' worth of memories and thoughts, of lessons learned and friends made, all spread from one pristine cover to the other, a tale unlike any other.
It was almost done.
It was a gorgeous tome. Twilight had taken care to pick out just the right one, with an appropriate aesthetic that embodied her and her best friends. It had to match them on a soul-deep level. They deserved nothing less. The world deserved nothing less. Fresh, crisp pages turned with smooth, hushed whispers, bold writing weighing each down, giving them meaning and life. It was a living book, a thing alive between its front and back, a life made into print. Six lives, to be precise. All of them bound together on each piece of delicately etched parchment, every detail written down with not the slightest or tiniest detail forgotten. The memories she put down would last forever, and they would never leave her.
They would stay with her until the end.
Twilight blinked, losing focus for a moment, then shook her weary head. She felt an all too familiar tug within her aging mind, a drag upon her thoughts, but she ignored it, along with the uncooperative sparking of her horn. A spell this complex required her to put everything she had into its construction, which was by no means easy. She'd come too far to stumble now. It was almost done. Then, she could rest. Rest and read, read until the end. Oh, how beautiful it will be. Her friends forever with her, always upon her shelf, at her bedside, in her hooves.
She'd never forget them. Not when they were so close to her, always within reach.
Her horn sputtered out, the darkness on the pages ran for a split second, before her concentration fizzled back to full force. Not yet. It wasn't done. She needed to hang on.
Quills and ink hadn't done the trick, and the recollection of mere memories hadn't been enough. That's why, for her sake and the sake of her friends, Twilight needed to pull from the source material.
They needed to be preserved.
Twilight smiled down at her friends, tears filling her cloudy, ancient eyes. They looked so peaceful on the library's floor, sleeping soundly, dreaming their dreams, reliving everything. So delicate life was, and so precious was it that Twilight couldn't stand the thought of losing the stories those lives held. She couldn't let them go. Not now, not ever.
Not when her mind's walls were crumbling.
The night slowly passed, the fire in her study crackled, and her friends grew colder. They'd gone peacefully, Twilight had made sure of that, but it still stung to think about. She'd leave that bit out of the final edit. They deserved a better ending. A soft ending, with family and friends.
But, she needed them more than they needed their happy endings.
She watched the wispy trails of magic flow from each of their bodies, life made into energy, energy into ink upon the page. They were nearly empty by now, and so was she. These last few decades had been rough, and these past few nights rougher still.
The spell flared, her horn's aura faded, and the wispy trails died away. The room grew cold.
It was done.
Book closed, she looked up to an utterly unfamiliar world.
Author's Note
I know the idea presented in this short story is somewhat cliche at this point, but the theme and impact of this sort of tale has always struck a particularly deep and sorrowful chord with me. I thought it'd make a neat little entry to the contest.
I hope you all enjoy.
