That evening Sable joined Spike and me for dinner, physically if not mentally. He brought with him half a dozen books on as many subjects, all levitating around him at once, I spotted one book I hadn’t given him earlier. The Unicorn didn’t speak more than a courtesy hello before burying himself in the tomes. He devoured the knowledge instead of his meal, flipping through the books at a pace so rapid I seriously doubted he was really reading it at all. No effort I made could pry him from the pages; Spike equally met failure to engage him in conversation. After a few minutes, we left him to his reading to turn towards our own discussion. When we finished our meals, I looked up to find he had gone from the table without either of us noticing, somewhere in there he found time to eat as his plate was empty.
When the plates were washed and put away, I returned to the library, fully expecting to find Sable there engrossed in more books. I discovered my library silent and empty, most of the books from earlier stacked neatly on the table. I looked over some old scrolls, Starlight Glimmer’s friendship lessons, and started adapting them to help Sable. The lessons they were supposed to teach may not have been of direct value to recovering his memory, but they might be able to help him open up to others. It was only when I yawned and looked up to see the moon through a high window that I realized how late it had gotten. I put the scrolls aside for tonight and headed out to go to bed. I walked to my bedroom and stopped when a cold draft blew down the hallway, had I left a window open? I followed the breeze to the balcony doorway and found the dark purple Unicorn looking up at the stars, his front hooves on the railing.
“Sable? What are you doing up this late?” He startled, dropping off the railing and looking over his shoulder. I spotted the astronomy book I gave him earlier on the stone.
“Good evening.” He nodded in greeting. “I was just… lost in thought.”
“Keyword: was.” I giggled softly. Sable blinked, not recognizing the joke he himself had made. I sighed. “Nevermind.” I stepped up beside him, when I approached he backed half a stride away. “You didn’t say much at dinner, did you get anything out of all those books?”
“Both yes, and no.” He did not immediately elaborate, and I remained silent. He’d say more if he wanted to. “Most of it is history, just not mine. I… know it… as if I read it in a book.”
“Uh, you did.”
“No, I mean… bah. Let me see if I can articulate this better. I remember knowing this, but it’s as if it was somepony else who knew it, and I read that on the page.” I didn’t get it, and he must have read my confusion in my blank stare. He lifted the Astronomy book. “Take this, for example. When I read this, I am almost overcome with emotion, sadness. But I don’t know why.” I did. “I remember this book meant something. But it doesn’t, it’s just text on a page.” I let my head droop; I had honestly expected him to remember something real. “It’s all very frustrating.”
“That does sound irritating. I wish I could help more.” He looked down at the pages, flipping through the book at random. I tried a new tactic, pointing to a prominent star in the constellation Orion. “Do you remember the name of that star?” He followed the line my hoof makes to the hunter’s shoulder.
“Betelgeuse. One of the brightest stars in the night sky.”
“See, you do know it. That’s good.”
“Rigel. Deneb. Canopus. Sirius. Polaris. Altair. Bellatrix. Dozens of others.” He pointed to a number of stars and rattled off names, at least a few inaccurately. “The names have no meaning to me, other than knowledge for its own sake.”
“Is there anything wrong with that?”
“I suppose not, in the end.” He returned his eyes to me. “But this is not the end, is it? So I ask you, how does it help?”
“I… I don’t know. I didn’t give you that so you could remember the names of stars, I gave it to you hoping you would remember your father.”
“My father?” He blinked and narrowed his eyes. I could see him sifting through his thoughts.
“He was an astronomer. Before the fire, I saw a copy of that book on your own bookshelf.” I gestured to the Almanac again. “After what you remembered about your mother at Rarity’s I thought it would help.” He paced, looking away from her for several long moments. I let him think.
“Why?” He paused in his pacing and looked at me again.
“Well, you made an association between the cloth and your mother’s loom…”
“No, I mean…” He interrupted. “Why are you putting so much effort into helping me?”
“You’re my friend. Do I need any other reason?”
“The others are all open about how little they knew of me. Pinkie Pie and Rainbow Dash outright said they didn’t know me at all. I can tell the others are just throwing things at me blindly, hoping something sticks. But not you.” He stepped closer. “You present me with these books, not knowing but hoping they will retrieve specific memories. You knew about my wing spell. You say now you know my family. How is it you know so much more about me than I do? You even invited me into your own home. Why are you so… familiar to me?” He stopped advancing, just outside of arm’s reach. “What did we mean to each other?”
“To be honest…” I sighed and sat down at the balcony’s edge; I was not looking forward to this. “I don’t really know you, not in any intimate way.” He remained silent, his expression an unreadable stoic mask. “I don’t think I can explain without first talking about your cutie-mark.” I pointed to the stars on my own flank. “You saw it yourself earlier today, every pony in Equestria has a mark which symbolizes their special talent in a significant way.”
“Except me.” I nodded sadly.
“That’s why you were always wearing a coat. So nopony could see your blank flank.” He snorted and backed away, but I read confusion on his face, not anger, and directed inwards. “It’s a derogatory term foals sometimes use to taunt ponies who haven’t found theirs yet. Most figure it out when they are young. That's why hearing it makes you feel miserable.” I took a deep breath. “We still don’t know why you don’t have one. It was your secret, and we found out by accident, you were furious with us. I came back the next day to apologize, and you told me pretty much everything I know. I promised you I wouldn’t tell anypony else about your story without your permission, that’s why none of the others know anything about you. That was only our third real conversation. As far as I know, you talked even less with everypony else than you did with me. It was shortly after that you had your accident.” He sat down and looked up at the stars again. “I’m sorry I didn’t say more before.”
“Tell me.” He didn’t look at me. I suspected he was crying. “Tell me what I told you.”
“Are you sure? It was a painful story, even then.”
“I am going to guess that you were hoping I would remember on my own.” I nodded, but he wasn’t watching me. “Tell me.” He sounded so determined. I hesitated, unsure how he would respond. But I couldn’t hold it back now, not when so directly confronted.
Slowly, sadly, I told him his own story. How he grew up without a mark, how the other ponies taunted him and pitied him. His failure to get into Celestia’s school for gifted Unicorns. How he never felt he was good enough. How Sereina cared for him. Eventually, with no story left to tell except the last, I showed him the same memory he had shown me. The final night with his family.
When I finished, and the spell faded, I looked back up at him. His face was an unrecognizable mess of conflicting emotions. He turned, and I looked away, giving him a measure of privacy.
“I’m sorry I kept this from you. I was waiting until you were strong enough.” Not entirely true, but close enough. I had also secretly hoped I wouldn’t have to tell him at all. He stood and turned his back on me. “Sable?” He did not speak, instead conjuring a barrier between us when I stepped closer. Although it would have been easy for me to remove the shield, I did not, understanding his request for solitude. Slowly I walked back to the doorway. I wasn’t going to make the mistake of intruding on his privacy again. “If you want to talk…” I waited for an answer, just inside the door. He didn’t give one, and I withdrew to leave him to his thoughts among the wind and the stars.
“…”
“You alright, sugarcube?”
“Yeah, it just brought back some unpleasant memories. That's all.”
“You’ve already told us the story, was it really that rough on you?”
“No, not this moment. A later one.”