And I Will Love You...

by Scootareader

When Fate Tears Us Apart

Time no longer passes. I am in a state of eternal bliss.

I know it is him touching me. He reached far, far beyond what I thought possible to touch me. Me, Tom, the abandoned rock.

To say that I am happy is an understatement. I know he feels the same way I do; I know, just by his touch, this feeling we share. Never in my wildest imaginings would I have believed such a thing could be mutual.

There is still a nagging doubt in my mind. What if it is just a nearby tree root? That wouldn’t be so farfetched a belief. I get the feeling my overly hopeful state of mind is willing to jump at any idea, any at all, that it may be this tree I have been reaching in my dreams.

I despise these rational thoughts. I wish I could just be happy with his touch, to not worry whether it truly may be a tree hundreds of miles away.

I have felt his root growing around me, inch by tiny inch. I imagine he will wrap around me in a loving embrace and never let me go, anchoring me as the one he will never forget or even imagine abandoning. When he holds me, nothing will be able to break our bond.

I also imagine that, now he knows I am here, he will send out more roots to hold me. I imagine seven or eight all securing me to him, then he will very slowly drag me toward him. After centuries, perhaps millennia, he will drag me to where I touch his trunk.

Even the pure ecstasy of touch pales in comparison to the dreams we now share. The touch has established a new connection between us. We can talk, understand, and learn from one another. He is the most fascinating conversation partner; I don’t think I could ever tire of him.

He does fall silent for long periods of time, such as now... during those periods, he is growing his root. I can feel it slowly sliding along my body, the most sensual thing I have ever experienced. To say I don’t find every moment I exist now to be anything but perfect would be a downright lie.

Much as I despise it, I have to let the touch go every so often and retreat into the realm of dreams; at the very least, I can take some reassurance in knowing that my Bloomberg will be waiting for me, to talk anew of the life we will someday share and the excitement and anticipation he feels with each new contour of me that he is able to explore. He describes, in great detail, every tiny crag and edge that his root is pressed up against, and it reminds me of his touch once more, causing me to describe the euphoria I have every moment I know he is there.

We also talk of other things, like the places we have lived. He asked how I may live so strongly, so impassively, around the worst perversions that he can imagine. I, a rock who has survived since Discord last rained chaos upon all of Equestria, know true agony, true suffering, in the eyes of the creatures he fabricated from nothingness. I was spared the touch of the draconequus, but several stones around me were not so fortunate.

He was appalled, first, at my pointed, matter-of-fact presentation of events, then morbid fascination, then awe of what I have weathered. I described my colleagues sprouting limbs, forming organs, respiratory systems, even cell movement—the trauma, the confusion, the... hopelessness. Rocks are not made to have that kind of capability, and they suffered a fate worse than eternal boredom in the end.

He has told me, as well, of his much shorter life. He told me of his young years in Sweet Apple Acres, the trees he came to know so well, then of his relocation to Appleloosa, where he served many more years as the ponies apple-bucked him for his delicious fruit. He also described the tiny fractures that occur within the wood that eventually take apple-bucking trees before their time, and how he was spared such a fate a century ago when the Appleloosans abandoned their settlement due to a fire.

He also told me of the hope he feels for me, his dare to dream of a life he may not be forced to live, when he found me wandering his dreams. He described the significance of entwining branches with another tree, and his ultimate refusal to feel the touch of his fellow tree—to feel my touch instead.

To say that he is not the greatest thing to happen in my life would be the greatest blasphemous thought I ever dared to wonder.

I am broken from my reverie, my speculation over my good fortune, by a low rumbling from below me.

I have lived a long, long time, and I know the tremors of an earthquake when it comes. There are several that I have felt while trapped within this hole, but this is to be the greatest yet. There is no mistaking it.

The earthquake hits in full force, the ground beneath me shifting and groaning. I am solid, as solid as a rock can be, so I will not fly apart, but I am hearing branches fall from trees, their trunks fracturing, as well as timberwolf howls and manticore roars and cockatrice hisses. The denizens of the forest have been disturbed, and many are feeling it.

Quicker than I have time to register, I feel the very hole which has held me for years suddenly splitting, a crag opening away from me, to form a funnel-shaped avenue along the surface. I am tumbling down, down, away from where Bloomberg is, away from my happiness, my hopes... my dreams.

As I roll away, I see a root which held me lovingly suddenly abandoned. There is a screaming in my head, I can hear it coming from someone I know.

Then, there is nothing.

---

---

I lost Tom.

Where did he go? I cannot hear him, cannot see him. I can no longer even feel his rigid shape pressed against my—

My root. I cannot feel my root. It was—fractured. It is no longer connected to me, sheared away just after I lost my lover. I am screaming in agony, the sudden loss of my limb immediately apparent as I feel precious fluids leaking into the ground where it broke.

I have lost my Tom. He has gone away from me, disappeared from where I may see him. I can no longer feel him; I have lost my root. I cannot quest for him, cannot find where he may be hiding.

Already, I can feel insects crawling in the dirt by my broken root. They have come to devour what is ejecting from my body. I must seal it. I must stop myself from losing any more strength.

I spent centuries waiting for a touch, then, when I finally had it... the very earth itself took my touch away.

Hours... have passed. My root is sealed; no longer am I slowly losing strength. I wish now only to rest, then wait for morning to come so I may put right once more what has gone wrong.

---

I search, my vision bleary and my mind feverish, for the loving grey stone I cannot find. If I just see him... if I know he is there, I will know that there is no need to panic. If I can just find him now, I know I will feel him again someday.

I am at Sweet Apple Acres, gazing at the hill he once stood proudly upon. I am finding it difficult to make out anything at all, let alone a small rock stuck halfway in a hole... but if he was there, I would know it. I’m certain I would know.

Tom has moved. I do not know where, but he is not where he once was. I cannot find where; my gaze will not move.

I am exhausted. I am only going to end up killing myself if I push any further. I must... regain my energy. Then I will find my Tom.

I know we will be together someday. I have to hold to this one truth.

It has to be true.

I give myself over to the blackness that is true rest. I must become strong once more.

Comments

[nodamnbrakes]

A win this is

[Scootareader]

4027357
Thank you for the kind compliment, Mr. Famous Person.

[nodamnbrakes]

4027375

Jew're whalecum.

[Dusty Sage]

Much as it pains me to say so, this is utterly delightful.

[PaulAsaran]

I was sitting here, enjoying this unusual but delightfully written story. Then I read about an earthquake.

The gears in my head are turning. I have a new story idea, all thanks to a rock and an earthquake.

Inspiration comes when you least expect it.