From the Memoir of a World Gone Still

by Scootareader

I - The Beginning

My hooves carry me quickly across the field, my target in sight. She is fast—the fastest in the tribe—but she wants to be caught by me, so she is subconsciously slowing herself. I am closing the gap, inching ever closer to her while she laughs at my attempts.

Eventually, she comes within reach of me. I stretch out my arms and grab her flank, turning her to the side so that her momentum carries her downward, onto her side. I fall down and slide along the ground with her, my arms preventing her from struggling back to her hooves and continuing the chase. I can feel her flank writhing in my hooves, her powerful muscles bunching and unbunching as they attempt to work themselves out of my iron grip. My mind is made up; she will not escape me this time.

She realizes the futility of her struggle and ceases trying to break free. My arms pull her closer, beside me, where our eyes meet. I can see a timeless beauty, infinite knowledge. She gazes back just as intently and passionately. I can no longer hold my feelings in check. I lean in close to her and pull her to me, our kiss deep and loving.

---

All too suddenly, I am aware of my own body again. My eyes, unready for the day, remain groggy half-slits, the tiny amount of light they permit harsh and biting. The dreams, as realistic as they are, do not provide much rest.

I have already lost track of the number of times I have woken in the morning like this, my sleeping mind having been fixated on these ceaseless memories of running and hunting and—more savory experiences. Had I not woken at the time I did, my dream would have ended on a far more intimate note.

I groan as I turn over in my bed. My ears register a rustle from the bed near mine. “More dreams?”

“Yes, brother,” comes my tired reply. “Chasing another female. Not the same. Never the same.” I sigh. “I am still not seeing a connection. These experiences all seem random, disconnected; perhaps they are me, but I cannot imagine myself in a village of a creature which I am the only surviving remnant of.”

“You belittle your dreams,” Scorpan admonishes me. “Just yesterday you spoke so optimistically of the possibility that you are seeing the future.”

“Reality corrected me.” Yesterday, I was in an entertaining mood; today, Scorpan’s talking maddens me. “I will tend to the fields. You will handle the feeding.”

“As you wish, brother.”

I rise to my hooves, balancing on the four of them as the muscles on my torso flex, bearing the weight of my upper body briefly as my arms vault the other half of my body off of my bed. I stretch, hearing several joints crack, then nod briefly in the direction of the dark blob that is Scorpan. I cannot see his response, as his vision in low light is much keener than my own, but I know he has returned my nod nonetheless.

After a swift breakfast, I emerge into the shimmering first rays of morning. A light fog presides, blanketing the ground where our crops have only just begun their journey in the transition to food for my family. My first stop is the barn, where I grab an irrigation cart and a rectangular watering tank. I then move to the well and fill the tank, then set it on the bracket. I walk to the edge of the field, then tip the bracket, allowing the water to escape through the now diagonally slanted water tank, the water escaping through the perforated side. I begin my slow trek along each furrow, the plants welcoming the nourishment as I plod along. I pause briefly as the water runs out, picking up the water tank to refill it.

My eye catches movement in the slowly thinning mist, just past the barn. I know I am being watched. “Come out. I know it’s you,” I answer as neutrally as possible. I don’t pause in my journey to the well.

Behind me, I hear, “Good morning, Tirek!” If there were a singular trait of personality which could be singled out to remind me of just how irritating some ponies are, early-morning joviality would certainly be high on that list.

I am not interested in entertaining Tart this morning, so I give a noncommittal grunt and begin filling up the watering tank.

There is a brief silence. Tea Tart mistakes this for interest in conversation—somehow. “How did you sleep?”

“Well enough.”

“Oh.” Tart seems to be trying to think of something else. I am uncertain why she is so interested in this. “Are you... feeling okay? You seem... unhappy. More than usual.” She pauses. “Er, not that you’re usually unhappy.”

“I feel fine.”

“Hmm.” Tart taps her chin with her hoof, thinking of what to say. “Well, did you dream about anything?”

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon, everypony dreams!”

“I am not every pony.”

“Well, everycentaur dreams too!” She giggles a little. “Tell me what you dreamed about!”

I sigh, hefting the full watering tank and beginning my journey back to the cart. “I dreamed of... others of my kind. I dreamed of a memory made long ago. I dreamed of a vivid life, a bright one, one that did not involve agriculture, or ponies, or Equestria. A time of green fields, rewarding hunts, and creatures like me as far as the eye can see.”

“A world without ponies?” She seemed a little off-put by the idea. “So I wasn’t in it?”

“No.”

“Well, why not?”

“It was a memory, not a dream.”

She sounded incredulous. “Dreams don’t work like that. My doctor says dreams are our innermost desires, the things we want more than anything.” She visibly swallowed, overcoming some misgiving she apparently had. “I dreamed about you last night.”

I look at the field that I have only barely begun watering, then back at Tart. “Miss Tart, I apologize, but I am a little busy handling the farm this morning. If it would make you feel better, we may have a discussion later, but I will likely be handling my chores until noon.”

“You don’t care... do you?” Her words hang in the air as I deposit the water tank back into the cart, then re-attach the harness. “You know this matters to me, Tirek. I’ve been... dreaming about you a long time.”

“I have never dreamt of you.” At the sight of tears welling in her eyes, I try again with a bit more tact. “I do not dream, Miss Tart. I remember. I cannot dream of that which I desire; I can only remember a life that I never lived.” It feels slightly dishonest to say it, like a lie; I am uncertain if they are dreams or memories, but I suspect they are a bit of both.

She perks up slightly. “Would you dream about me if you could?”

I lift my hand and wipe it down my face, cleaning off imaginary sweat. “I don’t know.”

“Why not? They’re your dreams.”

“Miss Tart, please. I have chores to do, and nothing that I say will appease you short of a marriage proposal.”

“So... you’re proposing? Because the answer is yes.”

I flip the watering tank down. “Goodbye, Miss Tart. Perhaps a conversation while I break for lunch would be nice.”

There is an awkward silence, followed by her hooves carrying her out of the field.

“You are too kind to her,” comes Scorpan’s disembodied voice.

I look next to me, where I know my brother is camouflaged. I heard him approach, his silent footfalls completely unbeknownst to my would-be courtier. “I entertain nothing. She is an acquaintance, and one which I am interested in keeping an acquaintance.”

“There is little choice, brother. There are not many ponies around here, and certainly none so keen on interspecies relationships as this Tea Tart.”

“Leave me be. And get to your own chores.”

“As you wish.” Scorpan’s footfalls disappear toward the barn.