Chapters From the Memoir of a World Gone Still
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.
From the Memoir of a World Gone Still
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.
From the Memoir of a World Gone Still
I stand proudly above the fresh wave of ponies bearing down on me. I have stood my ground here for minutes, murdering enemy after enemy. They have been trying to cripple my legs, I believe; their spears are largely ineffective and give me lacerations only several inches deep at most. I hardly even notice the dozen or so cuts they have made; they are pathetic creatures.
I heft my spear, then stab downward, impaling the throat of the nearest one. I sweep side to side with his corpse, knocking his front-running comrades around like leaves in the breeze. The ponies directly behind hesitate, watching their still alive soldier’s hooves grope the haft of the spear, trying futilely to remove the thing lodged within his neck. I oblige, pulling the pony in briefly and planting a hoof on his side, then tearing the spear out from his neck. He makes a final gurgle of protest before his frail body gives out on him.
The other ponies seem broken out of their trance and begin to charge me once more. I make several more stabs at them, puncturing the eye of one and piercing her brain, then directly into the chest of another straight to his heart with no resistance from the thin metal he calls armor, then a third pony coming up to me is knocked backward by one of my upturned legs. I move forward slightly so that I can place my hoof on his head, then I lean my weight on it, crushing his skull. I laugh bitterly, the soldiers still coming; I can feel my exhaustion slowly creeping up on me, but I have lived for these glorious moments, slaughtering my countless opponents in battle.
I stab my spear straight into the ground and bring my arms to bear. A pony runs up with his spear and manages to make another daring stab at my leg, causing a tiny prick of pain. I grip his head in one arm, then bring my other arm to bear and bring it straight down in a chop to the pony’s back. His body goes rigid briefly, then his form crumples, the spine snapped. Another pony behind him runs toward me, then gets sent flying backward by a dismissive swat. Their last comrade in this tiny group pauses in uncertainty, then I lunge and catch his hindquarters just as they were realizing that retreat was his only hope for survival. Pathetic. I lift him into the air and bring him in front of my mouth, then bite down on his throat, tearing it out. I pull him away, the bones of his neck still protruding from my teeth, his eyes looking into my own in abject terror. I spit the bones out to the side, then toss him away to die alone.
I am too near the point of exhaustion; I have seen what the ponies do to my kind when battle has made them weary. They throw nets and lassos over my brothers and sisters, pulling them downward to trap them in cells. Dying a prisoner is shameful; dying an honored warrior is far nobler.
I can make out a large wave coming up on me. I cannot be imprisoned like so many others, to die in shame in a dark cell. I move backward several steps and yank my spear out of the ground.
As soon as I can see the whites in the eyes of the ponies, I spin my spear around, grip the haft near the head, and slide the blade across my throat. A white-hot pain spreads across the place I just struck, blood swiftly flowing out of the wound and into the ground. I lay on the ground, watching my tormentors come. I see their eyes of shock; they question what they have witnessed. I try to laugh, but only succeed in coughing as more blood gushes from my sliced neck.
The ponies mill around, uncertain what to do. They are unable to find glory in killing an enemy who is already dead. They murmur amongst themselves in their language, casting sidelong glances at where they had come from. After a minute or two of watching me bleed out, a tall white one clad in gold armor comes out of their numbers and looks at me.
I do not understand the words coming from the pony’s mouth, but she tries to talk to me anyway. “We want to save you. Why would you do this?”
I answer her with a blank and insolent stare. The ponies are weaklings; anything that she could be saying is not worth hearing anyway.
She turns to a pony next to her. “Find a medic. Try to save him.”
I fall to the side, my strength finally giving out on me. Having run down the front of my body or dripped off my throat, a large dark patch of my own blood is soaking into the earth. It is my time; I close my eyes and accept my honorable death.
I bolt upright, sweat coating my body. I breathe heavily, my chest heaving in and out as I clutch at my throat.
Surprisingly, my hands are not slick with my own blood. My throat is unmarred. I am not meeting my death on the battlefield, nor am I surrounded by pony corpses. I am lain on the ground under the stars. Scorpan’s dark form is visible on the other side of the fire, which by now has burned down to embers.
It takes several moments for my breathing to regulate. The dream was vivid... so vivid. My first dream of death.
I have been wandering... months, perhaps. The days have turned from warm to cold, then to warm again. Scorpan and I have seen much and experienced much more. None of it is noteworthy.
I dream of feasts and famine, lonely nights and days filled with companionship, births of infants and deaths of kin. Every one of them is an experience; every one of them belongs to a centaur that is not me.
I rise to my hooves and stare up at the fading night, the stars slowly losing their twinkle and vanishing before the first hints of the mighty Sun. Scorpan’s voice drifts from across the fire. “And what did we dream of this night, brother?”
I hesitate. What to tell him? Should I be honest? Should I lie?
Scorpan, unaccustomed to my silent response, repeats, “Brother?”
“I dreamt... of death. Of myself. And... pony warriors.
“I was in a great war, Scorpan. With the ponies. They fought me, and I slaughtered them mercilessly. I was... a barbarian. I killed them with...” I peer at my hands briefly, “my hands. These hands.”
“You know it was not your hands doing the butchering.”
“All the same,” I dismiss his attempts at reconciliation. “I will be glad when we have discovered what I have come for.”
And what have I come for? What did I expect to find in this land? It has been a full year of traipsing across Equestria. I am no closer to finding the land which I dream of, a land filled with my kind. I still know nothing of myself; were it not for Scorpan, I likely would have given up and settled down to a life of uneventful chores and the tiniest sparks of happiness that Tea Tart would afford me. I fully anticipate that my journey will end back at that farm, accepting my average life as the only known member of my species.
Still, I persevere, and he tags along. I know not what he expects out of this; we both know it is only for my sake.
“Brother.” Scorpan’s voice cuts through my transient thoughts. I shift my attention to him. “I sense we are at the cusp of a realization.”
“Either we find something soon or we go home, Scorpan. You seem to know what is troubling me before even I do.”
Scorpan’s face, shrouded in darkness, is not his only defense; he never registers emotion or reveals any of his machinations. I have come to accept this. The only way that he can reveal his hand is in his words. “We have grown closer on this journey. I have no suspicions as to what the future may hold; I know that we will have to grow apart. This may be our only opportunity to be as true brothers would.”
He stops speaking, his words hanging in the air. A response? “This has always been your choice, Scorpan. I am grateful to have you as my brother on this journey; even I am rational enough to admit that.”
“Here.” Scorpan reaches inside his tunic, where a pendant has been tucked away. I was not even aware of its existence. “A trinket, for good fortune and good health. It has no true power. It has been around my neck nearly as long as I can remember.” For a moment, his eyes grow distant, a brief flicker of emotion crossing his darkened visage. “For my brother.” He presses it into my hands.
I look down in surprise at the pendant, then up at him. I then loop it around my neck in plain sight. “Whatever may come next, the meaning of this moment is not lost on me.”
Perhaps I worded that awkwardly? Perhaps I was too taciturn? Scorpan turns back to his morning duties, packing up his supplies, and I follow suit. Not another word is spoken between us that morning.
I pause briefly, our day’s journey well into its cycle. The sun shines down through the trees, painting bright swaths of color along the ground we are walking upon. I sigh in—uncertain. Perhaps it is a sigh of contentment, simple enjoyment of the day; perhaps it is a sigh of disappointment, that so much of the day has still gone by with no difference from every day before it; perhaps it is a sigh of boredom, that walking only holds so much allure until it becomes stale to continue doing so.
Boredom seems most fitting.
Scorpan pauses as well a short ways ahead of me, noticing I have halted. I force my legs to continue moving. Reassured, Scorpan continues walking.
I am aware of... something. Something is nearby.
A place.
Home.
The farm? Are we near the farm? No, not that; a different home.
I know where it is.
“Tirek?”
Abruptly, I am aware of Scorpan ahead of me. He is looking at me as impassively as always; his voice belies concern. Belated realization notifies me that he has been asking for me for several moments.
I say simply, “We are here.”
He comes back toward me. My eyes turn toward the forest. I have dreamed of this forest. The details have been slightly altered, but this is the forest.
I walk in, weaving between the trees. They are far too close together; my brothers and sisters would have trouble moving between them. They would not...
They would not have allowed it to reach such a state.
I move faster, the narrow branches grasping at my flanks in an attempt to slow me. There is... a clearing ahead. Somewhere I dreamed of. I remember the female. If I find that meadow, I find her.
I emerge into a grassy meadow. Long grass nearly reaches my belly, far too tall for creatures that have balanced diets of grass and meat. I shake my head and continue moving. I caught the female... here. This is where I kissed her passionately. The happiest moment...
Of his life.
There is more to see here. I turn out of the meadow to the right of where I had entered and go back into the now familiar forest, albeit with far too many trees. There are trees here, but this is a hunting grounds. There should be small clearings where grass will grow, but it is all overgrown forest. Nothing will wander through here.
There, where that tree had grown and was quite large, though somewhat young, was his proudest moment. A hunter’s hundredth kill. He had been providing food for years and never failed his tribe, unlike so many other hunters who often came back empty-handed. He also remembered his first kill, and his largest kill. He kept a stick with notches to keep track of his kills, with 20 notches on a stick before it was retired to his hut and he took up a new stick.
This is wrong. It’s all wrong. What am I remembering? Is this the past? The future? The present is different. I know this is my home, but it’s all wrong.
Perhaps this is the place where I will create the centaur race. A future to call my own. A home with my race.
There is one way to be certain. At the edge of the forest is the battlefield.
The trees end, replaced with a field of dirt. Little life is growing here; what weeds did manage to make a foothold appear sickly. The sun overhead has completely baked what life there should have been from this place. It is a fitting place to have a battle.
There, countless ponies will be slaughtered. There, some of my race will die to Princess Celestia proudly rather than rot in her prisons. There, my father will—
Die.
There is no indication that he lies there. There is only his spear, point stuck into the ground, and an unmarked headstone. He was buried where he lay, having taken the noblest death available to him rather than selfishly preserve his spent life. The ponies left his corpse for the maggots and worms to devour, rather than burn it and allow what ashes of him remained to journey on the winds till the end of time.
Here lies my legacy. Here lies my fate.
I turn to Scorpan, who has been silently following me. He asks, “Who was it?”
“An enemy of Celestia... and a friend of mine.”
Nothing will ever bring my race back. I will never meet another centaur. The least I can do is honor their memory.
They want vengeance.
Author's Note
There's room for a sequel, but I'm not sure it's necessary. I think you guys can draw your own conclusions on what happened from here well enough.
