//------------------------------// // Chapter 3 - Ferns // Story: We Deserve A Soft Epilogue, My Love // by Apple Bottoms //------------------------------// “I don’t like ferns.” Alphabittle chuckled, the rumbly-thunder sound in his chest again. “Yesterday you didn’t know your name, and now you remember that you don’t like ferns?”  “I may not know much, but I know a few things, and I distinctly remember,” Argyle said as he waved his fork full of ferns at Alphabittle, “that I do not like these.”  “You only took one bite,” Alphabittle countered with a laugh, but obligingly took his plate away. “Here. Let me try something.”  While Alphabittle busied himself at the stovetop in the kitchen (as rustic as it was, cooking over a covered wood fire instead of - wait, what was it supposed to have?), Argyle allowed his eyes to rove over the space more intently. Yesterday had been a foggy mess with lost memories, the discovery of his missing horn, of Bridlewood, of unicorns, of a deadly trap in a friendly meadow. He’d barely had the time or capacity to consider his surroundings.  It was almost familiar, but he hadn’t expected it to be. Perhaps sleeping there, feeling safe, had given it a measure of familiarity that his empty memories clung to. He was sitting in the small kitchen, filled with good smells and hanging herbs and pots, and in the room beyond was the sofa where he slept.  It was a bachelor pad, since it seemed that Alphabittle lived alone, and he saw no photos of family or even friends. There were a few framed photos mostly in the kitchen, and when he looked closely, he could recognize a tiny Alphabittle sitting with two large storm-colored unicorns. Parents, a family; but no children, no wife. That realization made Argyle feel funny, and his memory returned to the fleeting orange figure in his dream. Did he have a wife? The thought didn’t fill him with any comfort.  He turned from that disquieting thought and pushed himself away from the sturdily-built table. (It had to be; Alphabittle had to outweigh him at least twice over.) Argyle wandered through the doorway into the other room, exploring. There were shelves on almost every wall covered with various trinkets, knickknacks and even a few books and boxes. Some bore names he couldn’t recognize, some were so old they were illegible, but a few looked familiar. Checkers! Oh, why couldn’t he retain memory of important things, like the way home, but he could remember checkers?  “Come try this.”  Argyle turned to refute him, but had to stop halfway through. “I said I don’t - what’s that smell?”  Alphabittle grinned slyly. “Well, you won’t like it, since it’s ferns.”  “I’ll give it a try, everything bears trying once,” Argyle huffed, and trotted back into the kitchen before Alphabittle could change his mind. The ferns that were deposited back onto his plate were limp now, cooked in a pan, and glossy with some kind of oil. The scent that hit his nostrils was heavenly, warm and fragrant, and somehow familiar. There were little pale bits of something chopped and mixed in with the ferns. “What is this?”  “My mother taught me how to make sautéed ferns when I was a picky little colt.” Alphabittle handed his fork back to him. “Give it a try.”  The first mouthful was transcendent, in more ways than one. The flavor was delightful, an olfactory delight that melted on the tongue, but it was familiar somehow. It brought back a memory, but it wasn’t strong enough; there was a kitchen, laughter, two hooves playfully battling for control over a spatula. But the memory was brief, and even as he chewed, it faded away, a blotch of color behind his eyelids and then nothing. When he opened his eyes, he was startled to realize they were wet.  “What do you - what’s wrong?” Alphabittle’s smug boasting faded instantly.  “It’s really good, you were right. You, uh, you got me.” Argyle chuckled, and hastily stuffed the rest of the ferns into his mouth, chewing thickly. He hummed out a grateful noise, and nodded enthusiastically until Alphabittle frowned and turned away to begin washing the dishes. It gave him enough time to get himself under control and figure out what to say next.  Argyle didn’t want to tell him about the laughter and the spatula; it felt too private, but he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t even know what it meant, but it felt like something he shouldn’t share.  “I like your house,” Argyle offered after a silence that felt far too long and heavy. “It’s … unique.”  “Maybe all houses look like this,” Alphabittle countered, not turning around, “and you just don’t remember.”  Argyle considered that for a beat. “Well, that’s definitely possible. You don’t, uh, have anypony you live with? No family?”  Alphabittle had stopped scrubbing. Argyle thought he might be ignoring him until he finally broke the silence. “No. But you probably noticed that. No pictures of them, right? Just the ones of my parents.”  Argyle colored a rosy shade of lavender as he realized that Alphabittle must have seen his transparent attempt at snooping. “Okay, yes. I’m sorry for snooping, it wasn’t intentional. I thought something might jiggle loose. Maybe something that would remind me.”  Alphabittle paused, and an invisible line of tension loosened between his shoulder blades as his frame sagged in front of the sink. Without turning around, Alphabittle resumed his washing. “Why would something in my house remind you of who you are?” “Well, when you put it that way…” Argyle allowed quietly, and pushed his fork around his empty plate. “I remembered the checkers. Why I’d remember a game, and not who I am, escapes me.”  “It doesn’t escape you,” Alphabittle corrected him, “it frustrates you.” Argyle wasn’t sure he liked Alphabittle as much as he had at first. He had been very comforting the first day. Right now, he was being annoying with how right he seemed to be at every turn. And smug, too!  “Don’t push it so hard. The harder you try, the more deeply the memories will hide.” Alphabittle began drying the dishes, still facing away. He sounded a modicum less smug, which Argyle appreciated. “Memory is very delicate; it cannot be forced or rushed.”  “And how do you know so much about the Forgetting Rock?” Argyle frowned, but he directed the frown at his fork, which he was slowly turning on its point.  “Because I used to be its keeper.”  The fork clattered where Argyle dropped it, prompting Alphabittle to turn.  “You were the keeper of the Forgetting Rock?”  “Why?”  “Well, I -” Something had felt very important, very shocking, but it was slipping out of his grip again. It meant something! It had to! But what? Was he just shocked that this stallion was the one to blame for his current plight? “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think it would have an owner. A keeper.”  Alphabittle chuckled and leaned back against the sink, drying the last few dishes a little slower. His eyes were on the plates and cups, but his gaze had gone far away, lost in memory. (Argyle wished he could share in that enjoyment.) “Not an owner, exactly, although I won’t deny the thought has crossed my mind. I like to collect rare things, as you probably noticed. But the Forgetting Rock is not really … owned, in that way. It’s a protector of the forest, and for many, many years, it was viewed with a lot of fear. Mistrust, even hate. Until my ancestors (while trying to collect it) figured out how to turn its power away from the unicorns, to use it as a shield instead of a weapon. There are many myths of unicorns who wandered too deeply into the forest and came back changed, or never came back at all - that’s probably where the Forgetting Rock came from. But now we know where it is, and how to avoid it.”  “What made you stop keeping it?”  Alphabittle paused, but Argyle could tell that the way he pretended to examine a hard-water spot was buying time. “Conflict of interest.”  “How can you have a conflict of interest with a mythical boulder?”  Alphabittle’s eyes sharpened and locked onto Argyle’s. “You’re awfully judgy for somepony who doesn’t remember his last name.”  “I don’t need a last name to know that sounds fishy,” Argyle countered.  Alphabittle chuffed out an annoyed sound through his nostrils. “Fine. My family line has always been about collecting, alright? Once I started collecting items of some quality, shall we say, there was a concern that I might want to collect the Rock.”  “Unicorns were afraid you might take a million-pound boulder and put it on your shelf?” Argyle asked dubiously.  “Unicorns are extremely superstitious,” Alphabittle agreed, and gave his pot one last polish before he hung it on the rack over his sink. “Which is what I need to teach you before tomorrow: the forbidden words.”  “Forbidden words? Wait - what’s tomorrow?”  “Market day.”