#oldo

Harvest time settles on the colony once again. [or does it…hm…] Gold-limned grasses stretch languidly in the breeze, elegant sentinels guarding a wealth of tubers ripe for the unearthing. In his various preoccupations, he has forgotten how richly the late afternoon sun bathes the landscape this time of year, steeping it in warm ocher tones like a form in amber. [First tiny clue that something’s off about this scenario, à la Groundhog Day. Forms in amber are preserved for ages on end and by definition DON’T CHANGE.]  If not for the pungent aroma of the soil and the scorching heat bearing down on his back, [wait, this is harvest time? Then why is it so hot out? Why does the soil smell so strongly? Why are there no villagers helping him out?!] he might dismiss the vision as a fanciful scene out of one of his novels. [Stay tuned. It’s not that far off.]

How many generations has it been, wonders Odo. One, eleven, neither, both? [Answer: Yes.]

He stopped trying to remember their names an age ago, maybe longer. [Again, the answer is both an age ago and longer.] To him they are only the O’Briens, the Dax hosts, the Tannenbaums, the Sons of Mogh…nothing more and certainly nothing less. Trill spots and wry wisdom; forehead ridges and curt gallantry - each distinguishing feature fades a little more with each genetic iteration. [Is this the only thing to blame for Odo’s inability to distinguish them? He remembers archetypes and not much else, and is perfectly happy to shift the onus for that onto something, anything, external.]  He speculates on what will happen when both sets vanish completely, drowned in the cacophony of recombination, useful only for him to tell them apart.

This honeyed suffusion of light is quite entrancing, he reflects. Perhaps he will visit her today, after work in the fields is completed. Massaging his sweltering neck [could possibly be explained away from his hard work, although he is still a changeling…how hot is it?!], he continues his task with renewed vim.

Clear crepuscular air greets him as he wends his way to that particular spot, wildflowers in hand as per usual. A yelg melon tree drops inkblots of shade onto him. [I imagined this entire scene almost like a sumi-e painting: very serene, minimalist, rather indistinct. An island of calm]  Further shadows mottle the makeshift grave, a laconic send-off chiseled in his own script. Dust storms, hailstorms, blizzards, wildlife have left their mark on the monument, yet one can still glean meaning from it for the time being. Only he and the Dax symbiont remember her as anything other than an unwitting martyr…and here he was, beginning even to forget the way she wore her hair. [The Way You Look Tonight]

He finds himself speaking to her, to a weathered headstone, perhaps both, [they’ve lost their distinctness to him in the absent-mindedness of routine; one is becoming the other] wishing beyond hope, craving discourse with anyone from that time, anyone who would remember what he cannot…anyone who ever treated him as if he belonged somewhere or somewhen. [Deep down he knows this isn’t the right timeline]