"It was sad music. But it waved its sadness like a battle flag. It said the universe had done all it could, but you were still alive."
― Terry Pratchett, Soul Music
Levy sniffed, wiping away the tears that dripped down her face, a gentle smile playing at her mouth. She carefully fingered the delicate page edges of the well-worn paperback she clutched. The spectacular portal from Earthland to the Discworld was sealed off, forever. No more would the marvelous stories pour forth, sweeping through the minds of readers of every age, leaving in their wake a rekindled love of literature and fantasy.
"Shrimp? What's wrong?"
At the sound of the gruff, worried voice, Levy lifted her face from the pages that always drew her in and absorbed her, blinking at the sight of the gruff dragon slayer. It took her several moments to find her voice, scrambling to reclaim her sense from another world.
"Just… reading."
He looked so out of place there, perched on the banister like some overgrown crow, dark as a void in the golden streams of sunlight that filtered into the stacks of the massive library. Some invisible breeze pushed and eddied the air between them, causing the floating motes of dust to dance and sparkle like tiny specks of gold.
She shook her head in an attempt to draw herself back, away from the fanciful observations and embellished descriptions. Reading like this… it made her feel complete, yet hollow. As if a whole new world was opened to her eyes, only to discover that it was too much to bear on her own. Normal readers like herself couldn't survive in such a rich world. Their senses had to be opened time and again by great authors, allowing glimpses into a reality so much more detailed than they normally could observe. They hungered for the depths of feeling that books could provide, devouring them like crazed animals.
And… Her smile grew. They loved opening others to their worlds.
Patting the seat beside her, she plucked a volume from the stack on the table before her and beckoned him down with it. "Here, come see."
Although he looked rather dubious, he leaped down, landing gracefully. As he straightened, he scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable. "I'm not much of a ready, shorty…"
Giggling, she pushed the book into his hands, her expression promising a journey the likes of which he'd never experienced, even in a world that really did have magic.
"Oh… don't worry." She grinned slyly.
"You will be."
Terry Pratchett's death… makes me hurt. Some of my absolute favorite books were written by him. His was basically responsible for bringing the fantasy genre back from the scorned recesses of fiction writing and making it bloom. He sucks us in and holds our imaginations captive.
Sorry. Tangent. Anyway.
If anyone hasn't read his Discworld books, I would highly recommend them. He really is a great writer.
Also, really short. Kinda wanted to make it longer, but I thought it worked.
(In case anyone was wondering, by the by: I've finally written the next chapter of Bumps, and am trying to edit it. So it should hopefully be out within a reasonable amount of time. Cause judging by last time I posted a one-shot, there's a decent chance someone was going to ask)