From the Memoir of a World Gone Still

by Scootareader

II - The Middle

My eye trails down the length of my arm, past the arrow waiting to be let loose, to my target across the clearing: an unsuspecting deer. I watch it calmly, the calculated practice of a predator familiar with his prey affording me control. I take a deep breath, steady my arm, then let the arrow loose—directly into my target’s rear left leg.

The other hunters tell me that a shot to the chest prevents the inevitable chase. I cannot say I enjoy a hunt with no chase. The shot is far too easy a thing to master.

The deer, upon being struck, immediately bolts, its injured leg surprising it and causing it to hobble and stumble. My legs, in turn, begin carrying me at high speed toward my target. The deer notices me immediately and tries to move faster, but its leg is handicapping it. I close the distance swiftly as it struggles desperately to prolong its life for just a few more precious moments.

My hands grip the animal’s body as it struggles to escape, lifting the entire deer into the air. Its legs flail wildly, but my powerful hands remain firmly latched onto its back. I adjust to hold it around its middle in the crook of a single arm, then reach to my side and pull out a dagger with a stone tip. I thrust it into the chest of the deer and put a practiced amount of pressure onto it, feeling a slight pop as the blade slides between the animal's ribs. The deer’s body turns rigid, its muscles all seizing as it feels the sharpened stone plunge into its heart. It emits a sharp, painful whine, its final gasp in the face of a world that unfairly made it the inferior race. Then, its body goes limp, its energy spent as blood gushes from its wound.

I sling the corpse over my shoulder, sighing at the lack of a struggle. This animal certainly deserved to die. The fight it put up was utterly pathetic.

---

I awake with a gasp, my upper body bolting upright, my legs struggling to break free of the blanket they are trapped in. After a moment, I realize I am in my bed and cease my panicked movements.

I... I just killed a creature. In my mind, of course—but it was so real-feeling. Perhaps I viewed it with eyes that were not my own. Perhaps I would not have looked so methodically and coldly at the murder as my ethereal driver had. But it was me who had experienced the event all the same.

I have had dreams much like this one before. I struggle to understand what they mean. They seem almost nonsensical in context. I am assumed to be the only one of my kind in Equestria, but my dreams always focus on groups of my kind and my contributions to my kind. They never show ponies, or other intelligent races, for that matter. Even more so, they show a hunter-gatherer, primitive, tribal society; I am a farmer, I understand agriculture. Plants are what I understand, what I am good at--and civilization, for that matter, as opposed to the barbarism of my dreams. I don’t think I could even stomach chopped and cooked meat, let alone murder an animal for it. It is not what I desire out of my life.

Naturally, Scorpan has been disturbed. He has never been a very heavy sleeper. “What was it this time, brother?”

“Another hunting dream. I shot an arrow into a deer’s leg, then pierced its heart with a dagger. I was hunting meat for my tribe.”

“You don’t have a tribe.” I can sense a note of worry in his voice.

“Nor do I know of others of my kind. I know this. I still feel... called.”

“I receive callings as well. I cannot say that any of mine have included slaughtering a deer.”

“Yes, you have shared your dreams with me.” To say I envy him is perhaps adequate; he has told me his dreams of a great throne next to Princess Celestia and Princess Luna themselves, to be doted upon as a royal rather than trodden underhoof as a farmer. I would prefer a sophisticated life over my current one; perhaps even more than my own dreams, as vivid and primal as they are.

Perhaps we are fated to come at a crossroads—me in embracing the barbarism that is my perceived heritage, him in pursuing the life of luxury which he so desires. I have never put much stock into dreams, though it can be an entertaining concept.

I feel his eyes upon me in the darkness. He is awaiting the remainder of my reply. “They are not my dreams, much as I would like to have them. I dream of nothing other than the past.”

“You don’t know if that’s the past.”

I snort. “Of course not; it is only a dream. My expression was no more than a slip of the tongue.”

Neither he nor I believed those words.

---

My chores completed for the morning, I begin my stealthy journey back to the house. I have completed my chores before Scorpan; typically, I would choose the more labor-intensive work, given my larger stature and greater strength. Scorpan knows that I only volunteer to feed the animals with the expectation that I am going to need my energy for activities involving Tea Tart. He sees and knows far more than he lets on; this, I know.

Not as if I have any qualms with him believing as such this morning. It makes my marked absence easier to miss.

I quickly glance around the side of the house to verify that Scorpan’s work goes slowly; the field is not even halfway done. Were he to have a larger backbone, perhaps he would object to being given a chore that I am obviously better suited for. It is of no concern to me what inconveniences him; my stamina and the shorter time involved in animal feeding are both factors today.

Once inside the house, I pack several belongings—some food for several days in the event that I cannot forage efficiently where I’m going, warmer clothing, a personal item or two. It is all deposited in saddlebags on my haunches.

Then, I leave.

I leave the house. I don’t know if I will return. I may, if only for Tea Tart’s sake; the poor mare has no direction without me. Perhaps my leaving is the reality this mare must learn to live in. I honestly doubt she will be worth the effort to return for.

I may find others of my kind. The dream of the female flashes through my mind again, just as vivid and provocative as if I had grasped her in my own two hands. I involuntarily shudder, my body’s energy invigorated at the thought of such an experience. I have dreamed of other females before, heady experiences—but none so confoundingly arousing as the latest. Perhaps the chase is more alluring than the trophy.

---

I am lost.

It is not as if I had a direction to take; I simply wander where I feel... called. I don’t know if I wander in circles. I have seen many farms and many traveling ponies, but nothing has paid me any mind in my journey.

Night is falling, causing somewhat more frequent stumbles as I am unable to watch my footing as closely on uneven ground. I did not pack a tent, nor a sleeping bag; I desire to sleep under the stars. It feels... right, somehow.

I sit on a grassy knoll, the blades cool under my chest. Out of my saddlebag, I retrieve several pieces of firewood which I collected throughout the day and some flint. After several minutes, a fire is going; I cook a respectably sized meal to commemorate my first day pursuing my kind.

There is a rustle from a nearby bush.

I state neutrally, “Come out, Scorpan.” Sure enough, the rustling bush reveals a dark shape within it, the unmistakable stature of my brother. “Should you not be tending the farm?”

“It is not my lot in life, either.”

“That isn’t why I left.”

“Isn’t it?” His question hangs in the air, briefly causing me to question my own motives. “Neither of us is a stranger to responsibility. We are both strangers to breaking expectation, not only of one another, but also of others. I cannot imagine whether you believed I would want to join you on this journey or not, but I am here. I will be traveling with you.”

“Why? Your future is not mine.”

“On the contrary, brother, perhaps it is.”

I shrug my shoulders in indifference. It is of no consequence to me whether he is here or not.

Though I would never admit it to him, some company would be nice anyway.