SIMONE ALLARD || AFTER
They drop to Etienne’s side at once, scanning him for a pulse. “Shards,” they hiss, skin clammy as they touch him. His heartbeat is weak, but by some small mercy, it’s steady. He’s alive.
They give his face a testing pat with their palm, hard enough to make a sound but not enough to cause damage. He doesn’t stir. Before they can think, they strike him again. Harder. A pink splotch blossoms across his pale cheek. Aside from a harsh inhale, Etienne still doesn’t wake up.
“Shards, Etienne…”
Digging their fingers under his arms, they drag him back towards the living room with a grunt. They make it a few steps before they have to drop him and pant. He’s heavier than he looks. Or they’re weaker than they believed.
Okay. Think, Simone. They lean into his doorframe and survey their surroundings. Etienne remains sprawled out at an awkward angle beneath them. They can’t drag him into the living room, clearly. They can’t call the medic ward. What can they do?
As the panic bubbles up within them, Etienne snorts as if waking from sleep. His eyes open, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings.
A stifled gasp escapes as they survey him. “Etienne.”
He brushes the back of his head, the movement done in sluggish slivers. After an eternity, he sits up. “That fuckin’ hurt,” he says, staring up at Simone with narrowed eyes. His hands come away tinged with blood.
“Easy,” Simone says. He flinches when they get too close, but they don’t let his fear dissuade them. “You just… collapsed.”
He frowns. “I did?”
They nod. “You were trying to tell me about Nadia when—“
“I’m sorry, who?”
Dread sinks into their stomach like a stone, heavy and cold. “You know who.”
And yet, when they search his face for any sign of recognition, there is nothing. Etienne’s brow furrows as he continues to rub the back of his head.
“You know who,” they say again, more desperate this time. Their nails press harsh crescents into their palm. “Nadia DuPont. Your best friend.”
Etienne’s nose scrunches. “I’m sorry, but I’m unsure who you’re talking about.”
Silence. Simone scans his face for any hint of recognition, any trace that he’s joking, but his face is scrunched in confusion. Real, genuine puzzlement.
Etienne cocks his head, brows drawing together as he studies them. “And… who are you?”
A soft chuckle escapes, then another. How absolutely absurd, the situation Simone finds themself in. And yet, somehow, hilariously pitiful. Before they can stop themself, they are heaving with delirious laughter, clawing at their collar to get more air into their lungs. Tears stream down their cheeks unhindered. And then, with a painful scream, they throw themself to the floor and let out a low howl, keening until the sorrow threatens to swallow them whole.
All the while, Etienne says nothing.
Etienne. How can he sit here and toil with them like this? What gives him the right to play at idiocy? He’s lying. He has to be. He’s lied this whole time, hasn’t he? They want to claw their way into the depths of his brain and hollow out the recesses of his memory. Who could forget something so painfully important?
Simone forces themself off the floor. When they look up, Etienne’s expression has shifted from confused to terrified.
“I-I don’t know who you are,” he says, lip trembling, “but you need to leave before I call the faculty.”
They should care, but they don’t. If they leave this apartment empty-handed, then all their weeks of worry and torment will have been for nothing.
They launch themself at him, fists curling tight around his capelet, and slam him against the floor.
“I know the answer is in there, Etienne.” Their voice is a deathly growl. “It’s hidden, but I know it’s there.”
Etienne’s breath catches. He stills beneath them, eyes unbelievably wide. Then, whimpering, “Please let me go.”
Their fingers curl tighter. “Your name is Etienne LaChance. You are a third year Enchanter. Your best friend is Nadia DuPont and up until a few weeks ago, the two of you were fucking inseparable. And then she vanished. A monster tried to kill you both.”
His pulse quickens against their fingers. “I don’t remember any of this.”
They bring his face in close and slam him down again. “Think very, very hard. Your name is Etienne LaChance. You are a third year Enchanter. Your best friend is Nadia DuPont and you two are inseparable. A monster tried to kill you both. Say you remember!”
He licks his lips, breaths shallow. They scan his face for any flicker of recognition, some kind of sign to tell them he’s playing a sick joke on them, but there’s nothing. No awareness, no memory. Only fear. Pure, unadulterated fear, the kind they know he couldn’t possibly fake.
All at once, they crumple. They collapse on his chest with a choked sob.
After a long pause, a hand comes to the small of their back.
“I… I am sorry for your loss, and I am sorry for whatever part you think I would have had in that. But… I don’t know anything. I’m sorry.”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Gently, he nudges them off him and settle them against the door before picking his way across the apartment. Simone tries to watch, but their tears sting too greatly, reducing Etienne to a watered outline.
Before long, he returns to their side. “Here.”
Hugging themself, Simone rises. They look from Etienne to the book in his hands. As they wipe their face, hiccuping, they say, “What is that?”
“It’s all I can really offer you.” When they don’t take it, he sets the notebook in their lap and steps back again. He doesn’t stop until he’s on the other side of the couches from them, keeping the sunken platform between them. Not that the extra space would protect him, if Simone truly desired to cause him harm. But they don’t. Not know. Now, they’re exhausted of it all.
“I won’t ask you again,” he says as he edges for the phone hooked on the wall, snapping them back to. “Please leave.”
Simone holds the book to their chest. Whatever it is, they can read it at a better time than right now.
“I… I’m sorry,” they say, standing. Their anger abandons them in waves, replaced with stark embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”
With this, they feel for the doorknob and wrench the door open. They stare Etienne down as they step into the hall, and they keep staring as the view they have gets slimmer and slimmer. A woman’s voice follows them down the hall.
“Goodbye, Etienne. Have a good day.”
#
They spend the rest of the day locked within their apartment. All they can think about is how painfully blank their walls are compared to Etienne’s. Any time they drag their gaze to something else, it inevitably flicks back.
Not that there is much to see, given they can’t stop crying. For weeks, they’ve remained strong, remained steadfast in their faith that, even if they wouldn’t find Nadia alive, they would at least know what happened to her.
Now that faith is gone, along with the rest of Etienne’s memories.
More than ever, they ache for the warmth of someone’s arms around them, for their enbei to hold them close like they did when Simone was a child. Now, all they offer are short phone calls and empty praises.
They stay curled in a ball in the corner of their apartment until shadows paint their room in shades of grey. Even then, wincing at how sore their muscles have become, it’s an effort for them to rise. They manage, though, stumbling towards their bed and falling face-first into it, desperate for the lights within their mind to darken.
They have half a mind to stay home the next morning. Bright light pierces them through their eyelids. As they come to, their mouth is a desert. And yet, as tempting as the offer is, they force themself upright, unsure what it is that makes them reconsider.
The book Etienne gave them catches their eye from their desk. A glance at the clock tells them they have some extra time this morning. Surely, a quick flip-through won’t hurt them.
The book, as it turns out, is a copy of Etienne’s notes from his Enchantment classes. The errant scan they promised themself quickly turns to determined scrutiny. They find themself making faces at the array of sigils scribbled haphazardly on every page. When were they last able to read something without comprehending it?
Before they can blink, the first bells for classes ring from the clocktower across campus.
Simone half-closes the book and regards themself. They’re half-dressed as it is. Their morning tea has long since gone cold. As underprepared—and exhausted, they realize as a sudden yawn wrenches their jaws apart—as they are, attending classes today would not be to their benefit.
Besides, they have Etienne’s book to read. It’s a clue. It has to be. They got through to him, somehow, and this was all he could offer in return.
It’s a stretch of a thought, they know, but they cling to it all the same. Etienne—the old him, the Etienne that hates them so intensely—is trying to help them. They have to believe that. It’s the only explanation with any sort of sense to it.
They spend a long while looking over his sigils, tracing their finger over the deep-set lines and smudging the charcoal. The back of their casting glove glows as they try to decode the spells he’s wrote. At times, they get a spark or two off the tips of their fingers, but nothing further.
Then they flip to a section in the book titled “Influences on the Mind” and their heart stops beating.
Etienne’s notes on this section are sparse, which makes Simone disheartened the moment they register it. Worse still, he writes in a cryptic shorthand. Each page takes Simone several minutes to parse. Would it have caused him harm to give them an Etienne-to-normal text translator?
Still, at the end, he’s left a list of citations.
Snapping the book shut, Simone dashes for the hallway.
#
Voterique’s library is a wonder of architecture and knowledge. Modeled after the old cathedrals in Hadorae, the building is topped with a spire tall and sharp enough to pierce the clouds. Stained glass images of historic events separate each of the eight floors, one for each realm of Casting.
Simone strides towards it, book tucked under their arm, and shoves the front door open before marching up to the front desk and slamming their book down. An archivist with heavy circles around their eyes looks up at Simone’s approach.
They purse their lips. “How may I assist you?” they ask in a voice suggesting they would rather impale themself than offer assistance.
Simone flips to the list of books Etienne had wrote and presents it to the archivist. As they looks through the selection, Simone studies them more. A mop of curly brown hair hangs over their face, a good brush away from detangled. Their name is pinned to the collar of their third-year Evocator’s cape: Cyril. Someone from Perov, Simone would guess, given the hawkish crook of their nose and the slight tawny hue of their skin.
After several minutes reading and cross-referencing to different books around them, Cyril hands Etienne’s notebook back. “A lot of this will be on the eighth floor with the rest of the Enchanting texts… And a couple of these are on the Diviner’s floor.” They point to the last two books in the list. “I’m afraid you won’t have access to these two, however.”
Simone frowns. “Why?”
“They’re restricted,” Cyril says, sucking on their cheek.
Not a problem for me. The sigil they’ve used one too many times flashes in the back of their mind. No problem, indeed. They tuck the book back under their arm, hoping the disappointment they flash comes across as genuine. “Thank you for the direction.”
“Sure.” A beat, then, in the same disinterested tone, “Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of, thank you.”
For once, they take the elevator up to the floor they need. The thought of walking too much sets their knee to aching. They need to reserve as much energy as possible for their search.
The gates of the elevator creak open on the fifth floor. The Diviner’s floor. With a stiff nod to the students planning to board the lift next, they scan the first shelves for the books they seek.