SIMONE ALLARD || AFTER

A week passes in the blink of an eye and still there’s no word from Etienne.

Not from Simone’s lack of trying, of course. Every day, they return to the medical ward, hoping beyond hope the news will be different. Each time, Doctor Aiza’s response is the same.

“We have to continue monitoring Etienne now that he’s awake. I’m sure you understand.”

The first time, and perhaps even the second, Simone allows themself to believe it’s the truth. On the third day, they take careful note of the way the doctor guards herself in their presence, the way she stays out of arm’s reach and pins her clipboard to her chest like a trapped animal.

They tell themself they’re being overly paranoid. Voterique wants what is best for its students. And, if nothing else, Etienne is more a danger to himself than the doctors are. Still, they can’t ignore the kernel of doubt buried deep in their stomach.

The week ends the way most do, without fanfare or hurry. Though spring is giving way to a gentle, balmy summer, it’s still chilly enough they hesitate to stay outside for too long. Still they don’t see Etienne.

Then, at the end of the week, something different.

By now, they’ve learned not to expect much from the nurses roaming the off-white halls of the medical ward. While they hope for good news—an update, even—they know they’re likely to be sent away. So when they see Doctor Aiza behind the front desk, they take a deep breath and brace themself for disappointment.

“Oh, Simone,” she says at their approach, smile warm but her gaze distant. She’s preoccupied with shuffling through loose pages and envelopes. “How nice to see you again.”

Simone doesn’t miss a beat. “Am I able to see Etienne today?”

“Actually, he was discharged this morning, I believe.” Doctor Aiza pauses her half-hearted digging to flick through the clipboard at her side. Then, after a pause, “Yes. Yes he was.”

A frown twists their lip. The news would be good, if Etienne didn’t hate them so explicitly. Having him back on campus proper makes it all the easier for him to avoid them.

“Are you sure?” they press.

Her brow quirks. “Etienne LaChance, right?”

“Yes.”

She examines her clipboard again with a frown. “He was discharged to his apartment as of dawn. Perhaps check for him there?”

As if he would open the door to them. Still…

“I suppose I’ll have to,” Simone replies with a stiff nod. “Thank you for your time.”

They should be elated, they think, no matter how unlikely they are to pin Etienne down now. Finally, after weeks of worry and sleepless nights, they can try to really their answers. But something about it all feels… strange. It nags at them as they march back across campus, eager to think it over in the comfort of their own home. A soft pain lingers in the crux of their elbows.

If they were a lesser person, they would let Etienne have the full force of their fury now. Best to strike while you have the upper hand, as their enbei is wont to say. But it’s early. They’re certain he’s tired, and they’ve already waited this long. Surely, a little longer won’t hurt them.

In the early hours Aridon morning, they grasp the phone mouthpiece in shaking hands. “Etienne LaChance, please,” they say to the crackling static beyond. The phone rings and rings and rings.

Finally, in a gentle tone, the operator says, “I don’t think he’s quite awake yet, dear.”

With a grunt, they replace the receiver and go back to bed.

An hour before first bell, they come back to the phone to try again. The yogurt curdles in their stomach as they wait for the lines to connect. To their disappointment, he doesn’t answer.

On the verge of tears, they do the one thing they’ve been dreading doing since Nadia disappeared. They call their enbei.

The line rings for a long while before they pick up. “Candide speaking.”

Their gut sinks like a stone. Eyes watering, Simone holds the phone away to softly sniffle before saying, “Good morning, bei-bei.”

“Simone?” At once, their voice is a touch softer, but still retains the hardness of a profoundly busy researcher. “Won’t your classes begin soon?”

“T-they will.” Now their stomach is a sea in the throes of a violent storm. “I just…”

Silence. Then, “Has something upset you?”

Plenty, they want to scream. Their paramour has disappeared and no one can tell them why. Her best friend loathes them with a passion they cannot understand. Everywhere they turn, doors are closing in their face, one after another.

To confirm anything would be admitting defeat. They want to stiffen their lip, to spit in the face of the turmoil they struggle to hold back. Still, the realization they’re being read so thoroughly crumbles the last of their resolve.

“Bei-bei, what am I doing here?”

Their enbei sighs, the sound soft and distorted by miles of telephone wire. “Studying,” they reply, terse but not unsympathetic. “You’ve spent your life following in my footsteps. Don’t claim to have doubts now, so close to the end.”

Simone’s gaze wanders around their living room. Placards from primary school gleam on the walls, catching their attention. The years of academic achievements are splayed out like an autopsied animal. On good days, Simone finds solace in those placards, those reminders of how far they’ve come. Now, they feel like a threat when coupled with their enbei’s words. All of this will be for nothing if you turn away now.

“I don’t have doubts,” they say at last, and they almost believe themself. “I am fine with what I’m doing and how I’m performing.”

“And yet you sound displeased.”

There’s an edge to the words, a hard warning beneath the surface. Do you want to waste your life on something else? Would you rather suffer starting all over? Has all of my teaching of you been for nothing?

There is no good answer. A tear rolls down their cheek. “I’m sorry, bei-bei.”

A soft exhale, punctuated by the static. “Simone, what spurned on these doubts?”

“I just…” Simone pauses again to drag one sleeve across their face. “It’s been a difficult month is all.”

So quiet they almost miss it, they hear their enbei mutter, “Aurelia has always been better at this than I.” Then, before Simone can comment, “Press forward, Simone. Whatever plagues you will wash away soon enough.”

While their enbei’s words are meant to be encouraging, they know, Simone finds the platitude hollow. How easy it is to tell someone from across the world that they have nothing to worry about. How can one understand a crisis of thought when they themself are already secure?

Of all the people to lend Simone an understanding ear, their enbei is not one of them. They could scream themself hoarse and it wouldn’t make much of a difference. So, forehead pressed to the wall, Simone relents at last. “Of course,” they say, praying the disappointed undercurrent of their voice is lost to the miles of static. “Thank you.”

“My greatest hope is you continue to do well. For now, however, I must get going.”

“Thank you, bei-bei.”

Before they can say more, the line disconnects. They re-cradle the phone with a soft sigh.

This illuminates nothing.

And yet, it shines a paralyzing light on everything.

#

As the final bell of the day tolls, Simone settles on a conclusion. Etienne must be avoiding them. Still, between classes, they scour the courtyard, desperate for a glimpse of his green capelet and his curdling sneer. To their disappointment, there is nothing.

He is surely being bombarded, some rational sliver of them argues, and they shove the thought away. He should know better than anyone they’re looking for him—especially now. Anyone else seeking answers regarding him can wait.

Still, hunting him down will solve nothing. The more they persist, the more he’s sure to slink away. It’s a waste of time. Instead, their enbei’s words echo in their mind: Press forward, Simone. Whatever plagues you will wash away.

So instead, Simone dives back into their studies.

“Struggling with a problem?” asks Chantal from across the table. When they look up, she has her head cocked, black hair tied back with a silk scarf. She’s bent the corner of the page she’s reading, book half-closed in preparation. Despite her curiosity, there’s a sullenness in her cheeks that everyone at Voterique seems to wear nowadays.

“Pardon?”

She gestures to their clenched fist. The stylus in their grip groans at the force they’re exerting on it.

“A lot on my mind, I guess,” they say as they drop the stylus with a clatter. A spiderweb of cracks run up the wooden surface.

“I think it’s that way for all of us.”

Nodding, Simone stares back at their notes. Over and over and over again, they’ve scrawled out, What is Etienne hiding? Some of the iterations have carved deep grooves into the paper, on the verge of tearing. They frown. Gone are the notes they were supposed to be taking regarding their course, Ethical Miasmic Disposal and Consumption. How could they have blundered this badly?

Chantal’s jaws part in a sudden, loud yawn, snapping them back to. They regard her out the corner of their eye. “I see your sleep is as disturbed as mine,” they say.

She leans closer, her orchid perfume drifting from her in waves. “I’ve been to see Etienne today.”

They still. So, he isn’t avoiding everyone after all. Just them. It confirms their hypothesis, at least.

“Oh?” they ask after a moment to recollect themself. They slide an arm over the page to hide their scribblings.

“He looks… better. I’ve been worried about him, of course, but after the first couple of nights…”

“I understand.” Then, flipping the page, “The good news is he was sent home this morning.”

Chantal’s smile is watery, but it’s present all the same. “So you’ve been to see him as well?”

They shake their head. “I tried to see him in the clinic, but he had already left.”

“Perhaps for the better.” With a frown, Chantal continues, “He seemed… strange.”

They snort. “Of course he did. He’s been asleep for days.”

“No, not just that.”

They arch a brow in silent encouragement.

“He… I hate saying this about a friend.”

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“What do you mean?” they ask, irritation gnawing at their nerves.

“Well, do you remember Celio?”

Simone swallow hard. A former member of the study group, Celio had disappeared after classes one day. Simone’s knees ache at the memory of the vigils they’d attended, the candles they’d lit and bowed over despite not having faith in the gods they were supposed to pray to.

And then, a miracle. Perhaps the gods had been listening, after all.

Except, he had returned changed. It wasn’t a simple matter of whatever horrors he had experienced in his time away. No, when Celio had returned, it was with no memories of his time away. No one could get him to speak of where he’d gone, let alone why. Any time he did try to speak on events, his eyes glazed over and he would stutter endlessly until the topic was changed.

Simone gulps. “Yes,” they say as the last of the memories fade. “I do.”

“Etienne behaved in a similar way when I tried to talk to him.”

Under the table, Simone’s fist clenches. So close to answers and they’re being stripped from me. They chew on the inside of their cheek. I should just go visit him.

They don’t know why the thought hadn’t crossed their mind before, but the moment it crops up, they grip it tight and don’t let go.

Their skin prickles. Chantal is watching them, head tilted as she regards them and a question in her eyes.

“How strange,” they say, if only to get Chantal’s attention back off of them.

She nods, apparently satisfied they acknowledged the information she’s shared. “Trauma is one thing.” She shivers. “Shards, if I had been in his place… I don’t think I would have ever woken up. Still, it doesn’t feel right.”

“Perhaps I should go see them for myself, then.” With this, they rise from their seat. “Could I come by your apartment for tonight’s notes sometime later?”

“Of course.”

The moment they take a step, Chantal grips their hand. They pause mid-stride. Another flare of irritation surges beneath their skin.

“Perhaps I am wrong,” she says softly. “And perhaps I am not. Either way, you will find the truth of things, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Then, shrugging her off, Simone continues their march towards the exit. Their heart beats strong in their chest, the thumping as loud and all-consuming as war drums.

#

It occurs to them as they reach the third-floor landing they’ve never stepped foot inside the Enchanter’s tower before. They’ve passed by it every day for the last two years, and had seen it in the distance for years before then, but never once had they had a reason to enter it.

It’s the same as the Diviner and Abjuration towers, at least. Or, it would be if not for the portraits of famous Enchanters lining the walls. All of them brandish the back of one hand and the casting circle tattooed upon it.

Simone stops to catch their breath before examining the hallway. This late in the day, there aren’t any Casters outside of their apartments. All the better, they think as they examine the tags on the doors closest to them. Neither of them bear Etienne’s name.

Before long, they find the door they’re looking for. Etienne’s door is decorated with soft gold filigree, his name embossed in the center. It’s as flashy and unnecessary as he is.

A storm of possibilities come to mind. He could not answer. He could slam the door in their face. He could call the faculty on them—the worst outcome of all. All of these and more form a dizzying hurricane in their mind.

With a deep breath, they knock. Their pulse beats strong in their throat, hard enough to make them dizzy. After several seconds and no response, they try again. Nothing.

Well, that answers that. They shove a hand into their pocket. I was hoping to not have to use this…

Getting into his apartment is easy enough. Slapping a square of paper against the doorknob, they focus on the current of magic running within them and channel it through their glove. The Caster’s mark and the sigil on the page glow in unison, an unearthly yellow, before dimming.

With a click of the lock, the door swings inward.

A while ago, they had commissioned the spell from a Transmuter in their study group. They hadn’t meant it for nefarious purposes—mostly, it was to get into the library late at night, or into the restricted section within. Now, pocketing the slip of paper, they feel a twinge of guilt.

This is for Nadia. It’s all the incentive they need to quash their doubt.

They’ve never been inside Etienne’s apartment before. They’ve never had a reason to, they suppose, given the terse relationship between the two of them. Still, they aren’t prepared for what lies beyond the plain wooden door. Three of the walls are a snowy white, streaked with a rainbow of paint. Thin wire criss-crosses the room. From it, pictures of all sizes hang from metal clips. A mural of a river spans the wall opposite them, so detailed that from this distance, it looks real.

Did he paint this himself? From the scant information they’ve gleaned from him, Simone knows Etienne has a proclivity for art. Nadia often fell back to talking about it and how excited it made her. On bad days, Simone allowed themself to feel bitter about it; there wasn’t much the two of them talked about that made her as animated as Etienne did.

Still, if this is his handiwork, it’s no wonder why Nadia enjoys it so much.

“Welcome back, Etienne,” says a voice behind them. Simone jumps with a squeak. When they turn, they expect a fellow Caster to have followed them in. Instead, they stare at a life-like portrait of a taller woman, her black hair streaked with gray and fashioned into waves. To their shock, her eyes flutter closed as they regard her. A soft, golden beam of light shines through the trees overhead.

Did he paint this, too? How could he even get it to move?

They have a vague awareness of art movements thanks to Nadia, but none they can think of explain what they’re witnessing. With a final impressed gasp, they turn back for the room beyond.

A section of the floor has been lowered, forming a sort of platform. Orange couch cushions form a ring around the edges. In the center, an oak table stretches out. Save the small stack of books on top, it is devoid of decoration.

With another glance around the room, Simone realizes they won’t find their answers here. The space is too sparse. They head for the hallway stretching towards his bedroom. Then, at the threshold, they hesitate.

Am I willing to cross so personal a line?

Their lip curls at the thought. Still, if they can find any lead while he’s away, they’ll take it.

What was once Etienne’s bedroom has been torn to pieces. Though it’s evident some sort of cleaning has been done in the aftermath, the space is otherwise decimated. Shredded pillows bleed their feathered stuffing. Liquid, black as pitch, has formed permanent stains in the carpet. It’s difficult to pinpoint on area in the room to focus on, until they catch sight of his desk. A long, smeared handprint runs across the surface, rusted red in color. Blood.

The pieces connect in their mind. This was the sight of the monster attack.

With shallow breaths, Simone steps deeper into the room. The floor moans under their weight. Perhaps the second-year unlucky enough to have an apartment below Etienne’s won’t notice.

They examine the desk. Aside from the garish handprint—too smeared to determine who it belongs to—the surface is almost bare of decoration.

And then they see it. A single page with a small collection of scrawled lines. The first couple of sentences recap Nadia’s litany of symptoms. Strange, they think. We’ve recapped her health several times.

The next words steal the breath from their lungs.

“Does Sanguina Malefica cause transformation? Where do monsters come from? Could the two be related?”

A vital clue, perhaps. Would Etienne notice if they took this to study?

“Welcome back, Etienne.”

Their blood runs cold. Stuffing the paper in their pocket, Simone takes a cursory glance around the room. Two methods of escape await them: the window over the desk will alert him to their presence right away and looks too small for them to slip through. The doorway into the living room is their only other option.

Simone grabs the first writing utensil they see and a loose scrap of paper. Fighting the panicked jitter of their fingers, they try to recall the sigils Shae had used in casting the invisibility spell on them. When they think they have it, they crumple the page up and will the magic through their gloves.

Nothing happens.

With a desperate hiss, they try again and find they’re still as corporeal as before.

Shit, shit, shit.

A soft sucking sound comes from just behind them. Simone spins on their heel, expecting Etienne to have ambushed them. Instead, there’s nothing. Their gaze sweeps over the room—the tattered pillows, the strange stains in the carpet, the scraps of cloth and paper all around the room—and struggle to find what has changed.

Then, with a soft exhale, it comes to them. The stains in the carpet have shifted.

The click of Etienne’s heels come from the next room, drawing closer. They don’t have time to ponder the state of his bedroom anymore. Paralyzed, they can only watch as Etienne’s shadow falls across the floor. He taps a lantern at his side. Blue light from the magicite within fills the room.

Their eyes lock.

Etienne limps deeper into the room with a frown, easing the door shut behind him. He looks at them with the same feral hatred they remember, but it is clouded by a strange vacantness all the same. Disbelief flickers across his face. Then, “What are you doing in my apartment?”

They clench their concealed fist. “You should know the answer to that.”

Without breaking eye contact, he shrugs his coat off and lets it drop. The multitude of buttons clack against the door. After a beat, he sucks in his cheeks and says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Despite his words, his brows are crunched together. He gives them a vague, pleading look, as if he’s suggesting something but can’t outright say it. Chantal’s words float to the forefront of their mind. He seemed… strange.

They break eye contact, shaking their head. “Etienne, what happened to you?”

“I was almost killed.” Despite his recent brush with death, his words drip sarcasm all the same.

“By what?”

A soft sigh. “I don’t remember.”

“And what happened to Nadia?”

“She was…” The hesitation is multi-layered. Simone closes their eyes, waiting with growing impatience for the answer.

Then, finally, “I don’t remember that, either.”

They don’t remember crossing the room, don’t remember picking Etienne up by the scruff of his shirt and slamming him against the door so hard it groans, but then they’re there, panting with exertion and the suddenness of their movement. Teeth grit against the pain lapping at their bones, they keep him pinned.

“Bull. Fucking. Shit.”

Simone has never been an imposing figure. Bookish, perhaps or a wealth of knowledge, depending on the person they speak to. But intimidating? Never. Never has someone’s voice quaked when speaking to them. Never has someone’s eyes widened in fear at their presence.

Until now.

Etienne whimpers, trembling like a soaked cat. Something about the stench of fear wafting off him makes their chest swell. It’s a high they know they’ll never be able to replicate.

“I will not ask you again.”

“S-Simone, please put me down.”

Their head tilts. A strange, cold calm settles over them. “Tell me why you’re lying first.”

“I’m not!” As he speaks, he tries to wrench their hands free. “Put me down and let me explain.”

After a breath, they lower him, caging him in with their hands in case he attempts to flee.

“Can we sit down, at least?”

Simone flexes their glove and gives him a pointed look.

“Fine.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t… I don’t know how to make you believe me, but my memory of the day has been shrouded.”

They have half a mind to pluck the vial of Serenity from where they left it in their apartment and force it down his throat. Then there will be no secrets. Still, despite their rage, they won’t resort to that. Not yet.

Their muscles flex with the force of their fury. “So unshroud it.”

“It’s not that simple!” He crosses his arms, shrinking away from them and against the door. Then, quieter, “I shouldn’t even be aware of it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

The moment his mouth opens, his gaze loses some of its focus. He slumps against the door. Clasping his head in his hands, his whole body heaves and he lets out a low, pained moan.

Chantal’s warning. Celio. The erratic oscillation between clarity and confusion. All of it snaps into place. Of course. How could they have been so foolish?

“Someone altered your memory, didn’t they?”

Etienne stills. Stares at them from between his fingers. Slowly peels his hands away. Exhaling, he says, “I always knew, despite my own misgivings, there was a reason I liked you.”

And then, without further ceremony, Etienne’s eyes roll back in his skull and he drops to the floor.