Thanks to all who have read and reviewed (shadow).

Chapter 6.

Imoen felt nothing. Neither heat, nor cold; pain nor pleasure. Nothing. But she was aware, somehow… she maintained the realization that she still existed on some level, but she could not say where, or when. Slowly, second by second, what she could feel was that that awareness was slipping away from her… she was fading.

Then the pain came. She had no tangible body to speak of, no nerves to conduct the electrical impulses signalling pain to her brain, and therefore it was not a physical discomfort. It was much, much worse. It felt as if her soul were being poisoned, as if an evil taint had invaded her, infusing and infecting its way into her very being. This taint slowly diffused itself throughout her existence until it merged with her, becoming one with her being.

And then the inevitable happened. It took over. Against her will, she felt the malevolent consciousness pulling her, directing her through planes of existence that she had never even imagined, and beyond. Her soul was being hijacked, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Faster and faster she travelled, pulled along by her malevolent guide, until they broke through planes of existence more wonderful and terrifying than she could ever have imagined. Finally, they broke free to the material plane.

It was then that she understood everything.

She saw him, standing over her injured body. She watched Jon's hands motioning, and could see the physical manifestation of energy at his spell. With a violent shudder, she felt the evil force that directed her withdraw, then slam her existence back into her body, just as the electrical energy from Jon's body was directed towards her. She saw the energy from the spell guide his bioelectricity, and infuse her dead tissues, shocking her now-healed heart back into a rhythm. As her body spasmodically regained life, her soul was once more trapped, anchored into the material plane.

Imoen gasped as life-giving air rushing quickly back into her lungs. She coughed and tried to turn over onto her stomach, but her limbs were numb, and refused to obey her directions. Involuntarily, she retched as the feeling of physical pain flooded her body. It was the painful feeling of her cells once more received life-giving oxygen. It was over a minute before she gained control of her heaving stomach. She felt like she was one step away from death again. She was tired and scared, and just wanted to close her eyes and rest.

Jon looked down at her with pity, recognizing the signs of resurrection.

"So you survived the process of being Raised. Tell me, Imoen, did you enjoy the experience?" Jon asked casually, watching her carefully for any reaction to his words.

Forcing her head up, she looked up at him from the table. He could tell by her reaction that she had never been through that process before. She slowly rolled over and looked down at her body, as if reassuring herself that she was indeed alive again. She noticed that her dress was ripped, and she closed it as best she could with her numb hands. If she were rested and her usual self, she would have protested her lack of modesty. Under the circumstances, being brought back from the dead made this fact almost irrelevant.

Once more she looked up at him, questioningly.

"Why? Why did you bring me back? I was dead – you should have left me rest," she protested.

"Have you remembered nothing from what I mentioned before, Imoen? You have something that very few others do. You have a God as a father. And that makes you worthy of bringing back."

Inside, Imoen started to laugh. She did remember her last few seconds of life before she died. She had called out to her father – and her call had not been answered. She could no longer control the laughter inside of her.

"You are wrong, Jon. All of this is wrong," she said, looking around to encompass the room and everywhere else in the dungeons. "I called out to him just before I died. He never answered me." She looked him directly in the face, her fear of him quickly fading. What was the worst thing he could do to her, she thought. Kill her? She had already died, and was no longer afraid of that.

Jon watched her through the eyes of experience. "All the more reason to believe in you," he said, loftily.

Imoen was confused. She tried to lift herself up but her arms and legs were numb, as if she had fallen asleep and cut off the flow of blood to her body. They would not respond to her commands. She tried to roll over, but her treacherous limbs refused to move, resulting in her falling from the table, and onto the floor.

She felt so humiliated, and so confused. She had died, and Jon had chosen to resurrect her. Knowing how powerful he was, and that he could have easily made her into an undead, she was unsure why did what he did. She tried to get up from her undignified positing, but once more, her body was filled with thousands of pinpricks, making her efforts fruitless.

Jon watched her attempts in amusement. He wanted her to learn what it was like, being resurrected by a necromancer. It was much different compared to a cleric. Your body needed time to heal on its own, as Imoen's was trying to do. He waited patiently for her to understand this.

Imoen struggled to sit up, but once more, her arms felt cold and lifeless, and refused to obey her commands. She had no choice but to ask Jon for assistance. She looked up to see him peering down at her in amusement. She swallowed her pride, as she knew it was to her best advantage.

"I… I think I need some help here," she said, feeling very awkward.

Jon stood there a minute looking down at her. Very slowly he advanced forward, keeping his eyes directly on hers. He bent down, once more taking her very gently into his arms, then straightened, lifting her up and settling her comfortably. She looked up at him, grateful for his help, but resentful that she had to ask in the first place.

He started forward, intending to deliver her back to her cell. He did not want to admit to her that he had spent most of his healing spells earlier on in the day during their lessons, and that he could do no more for her at the moment. Besides, he rationalized, it would be good for her to experience what involved being brought back from the dead.

He walked on in silence, feeling the slight weight of her in his arms. He tried to ignore the feelings she was awakening in him. It had been over a decade since he had held a human so close to him, and he almost had forgotten what it was like. It felt good, but in attempting to keep his emotional distance from Imoen, he tried to push those warm feelings away.

Imoen had trouble keeping her head erect, and finally let it rest against Jon's shoulder. She felt the cool metal and leather of his shoulder armour against her cheek, but felt the warmth of his body warming her, radiating up through his chest. If she were not so tired, she would have tried to keep her head upright, so she was not touching him. Under the circumstances, she had no choice. She resigned herself to the situation, and kept her eyes forward. As always, they were drawn to the macabre stitches that were such an integral part of Jon's face. She wondered what that skin felt like. Was it warm, like his body, or cold, like the skin of a corpse?

"Do they hurt?" she asked him, surprising herself at the question.

He turned his head to look at her, his blue eyes unsure.

"Does what hurt?" he asked, continuing to walk on.

She felt a shiver of fear at his potential answer, but once more realized that the worst possible had already happened – she had died, and nothing could top that.

"The stitches. Do they hurt you?" she asked in a small voice.

Jon stopped in his tracks. He had not expected her to ask that of him. Nobody had ever dared ask him about them before, and it threw him off a bit. He continued to stare at her, composing himself, and realized she was just curious. She meant nothing derogatory by the remark, and was just asking out of curiosity. It was one of the traits he wanted her to develop, even if it hurt him to speak of it.

"At the moment, no," he said simply.

"At the moment," she repeated. "Then when do they hurt?" she pushed.

She could feel the unconscience squeeze he gave her at her persistence. She realized this was an incredibly personal subject for him, and wondered if she should have brought it up in the first place.

"When I have to remove it," he said slowly. "Occasionally, the skin becomes damaged, or the spell that animates it dissipates, and I have to replace it. That process is very painful, since I trust nobody but myself to do the procedure. It is extremely painful, but… necessary."

He watched her carefully for any negative reaction to this information. He was surprised and somehow grateful when she did not turn away from him in disgust.

"What… happened, to cause this…" she asked in wonder.

She felt his immediate emotional withdrawal from her, and knew she had gone too far. She felt a very real shiver of fear at the look on his face at her question. She did not expect an answer, and was surprised when he did.

"An… experiment went wrong. Suffice to say I paid for it more dearly than you can ever imagine. I lost more than my physical appearance that day. I lost my wife. Her death was such that I could not resurrect her, either back to life, or as one of the undead. She is forever gone from this plane of existence, as a result of my ineptitude."

Imoen was shocked at his words. She could never imagine him being inept at anything, as he always seemed to be so in control. She wondered what exactly had happened that day. Jon broke away from her gaze and continued on down the hall to her cell in silence. That explained quite a bit, she thought. About the dresses – she realized now that they must have belonged to his late wife. She felt a bit morbid wearing her clothes, but necessity sometimes makes people do things they would not normally do.

Jon carried her past her cell, and into the small washroom adjacent. She gently set her down on the edge of the toilet seat, and rested her back against the wall for support. Turning, he reached towards the tub and began to run the water, adjusting the temperature.

"What are you doing," Imoen asked, still clutching the bodice of her shift, trying to keep it together.

"Your body has been dead for a few hours, Imoen. You cannot expect to have full use of your limbs for some time. A hot bath will encourage the blood to flow, and restore feeling back into your limbs sooner." He paused in what he was doing to look at her over his shoulder. "Unless of course you would like me to leave, and you can do this yourself," he said mockingly, knowing full well that she was next to helpless.

She thought quickly. She was in no shape to do this herself, as much as she hated admitting it.

"No, that is OK. I… I appreciate your help," she said quietly. Jon smiled, but it never reached his eyes. Her admission was one more reminder that he held the control over their relationship, and he never passed up the opportunity to prove that.

Jon waited until the tub was filled, then turned off the taps. He looked over at her pointedly.

"Do you need further assistance, or can you disrobe yourself?"

Imoen was quick to answer. "No... thanks, but I think I can manage from here."

Jon reserved his judgement, and silently stood to leave, giving Imoen some privacy.

He paused outside the doorway, anticipating what would happen next. He had been involved in necromancy for far too long not to know that she would still not have full function of her limbs for another few hours at least. He was patient. He heard her grunts of frustration as she tried to remove the shift, but her arms were still numb, and would not respond. He waited there for at least 10 minutes, and still did not hear the sounds of her entering the tub. The next sounds from the washroom made him smile.

"Aaaarrgggghhhh!" Rustle, rustle, rustle. "Shit." He could hear the anger and frustration in her voice, followed by a sigh.

"Jon? Are you still out there? I think I need some help," she called, defeated.

Jon wiped the smile from his dead face and entered the washroom. He could not help but laugh at the sight before him. She was on the ground, and had made the mistake of trying to pull the torn dress up over her head instead of pushing it down and stepping out of it. The dress was half inside out, and most of the material was bunched up over her head. Her arms were obviously stuck somewhere deep inside the shift, and she could not move to either pull the dress up, or push it down.

With little effort he reached up and grabbing the material, pulled it up and off the woman. Imoen spilled out onto the floor, relieved at finally being free, but embarrassed at the circumstances.

He discarded the shift onto her lap. "Next time I suggest you listen to the voice of experience and let me help you the first time, Imoen," he admonished. Ignoring her nakedness, Jon reached for her, picking her up under the arms and depositing her easily into the warm water. He set her down gently, her legs straightening out before her. He removed his hands and stood, looking down at her.

He could not help but once more pass his gaze slowly over her body. She was thin, but with the definite curves of a woman, and not a child. Never again would he make that mistake. His eyes passed over the clotted blood on her chest to see her perfect breasts, their tips an inviting rosy auburn shade that taunted him with their erect perkiness. His gaze travelled down to see the smudge of dark curls nestled between her thighs below the water's surface. Once more desire flooded him with a longing that he thought was long dead. He wanted to touch her, feel her in a way that he never did with the Dryads. With his concubines, he desired perfection, physical beauty. With Imoen it was something else. She was the key to something he desired, and because of that, she held a certain power over him. It was that power he was attracted to. Or so he thought.

Giving into temptation, Jon sat himself on the edge of the tub and reaching for the soap, he dipped it into the water and began to lather it along her back. At first she jumped at the touch, but soon relaxed. She had crossed her arms over her chest, and looked over her shoulder at him.

She wanted to tell him to go, and leave her alone, but she did not. His actions and touch were again confusing her. He could have easily left her there to struggle for hours, but he did not. Without having to beg him, he helped her into the bath, and even now she assumed he took pity on her state, and was washing the dried blood off her back. She was surprised at how gentle his touch was. She was even more surprised that she was not flinching away from it. Again, she was confused at all of the conflicting emotions warring within her.

Her mind logically told her she was being held there against her will, however she was realizing that so far, Jon had not really hurt her directly. It was the Duergar that had attacked and killed her. Jon had even gone so far as to resurrected her, when he could have made her his eternal slave by bring her back as an undead. She shook her head at these conflicting points.

Jon continued his slow cleansing of her back and neck. Her skin was so soft and smooth, he could feel his arousal increase with every pass of his hand. He wanted nothing more than to bury his face in her neck and lick the clean, wet skin along there. Instead, he moved on to her arm, bring the bar of soap up and slowly rubbing small circles with his thumbs along the skin there. He noted the small shake of her head, and was curious.

"What are you thinking about, Imoen?" he asked, genuinely curious.

She paused, thinking of how to answer him. What was she thinking about? Him, her, why she was there, what she had just experienced, where her friends are, when would she ever leave this place, and did she really want to leave

"I was thinking about being dead," she said, choosing one of the many thoughts going through her mind. "What it was like. In some ways, it was my worst fear realized. I now know, and in some ways, I am no longer afraid of dying again." She moved her hands briefly and placing them under her knees, drew the up to her chest. She leaned forward, resting her body against them, allowing him greater access to her back.

"Jon, why did you bring me back? I mean, why not just turn me into an undead?" she asked, staring straight ahead at the wall in front of her.

He paused for a moment, before reaching to soap the far side of her back.

"I have told you on numerous occasions, Imoen. There is a latent power inside of you that must be awakened. That is not something I can do, but must come from you. You cannot do that if you are an undead. You see, the divine power of the Lord of Murder is irresistible to a necromancer. With that power, I could combine the divine with the arcane in a spell that could raise a legion of undead armies faithful to me, or perhaps resurrect the Lord of Murder himself, as was his original intent for sowing his seed across the lands. It is also possible that if I were successful in doing so, the Bhaal would reward me with the ultimate gift – immortality."

She was frightened by his response. She suspected he was as insane as Xzar. However, she had to know the truth, even just to settle the confusion within her.

"So it is the power within me that you seek, and not me as a person," she asked softly, the loaded question hanging in the air. Jon stopped his hands from moving, and dropped them from her back and into the water. He had to remind himself of his quest for power. As much as she was tempting to him, what he desired more was the essence within her. He would not lie to her about this.

"Yes."

At this harsh response, Imoen's resolve firmed. No matter what she felt, or thought she had begun to feel for Jon, she had to leave here. Her highest priority should be in finding a way to escape, as soon as she was physically capable.

Sensing her change in emotion, Jon realized it would be best if he left her alone now. Standing, he peered down at her. She looked up into his steady, unblinking stare.

"I will leave you now. A tray of food will be delivered shortly. Sleep well, Imoen. We still have work to accomplish in the next few days." With that he turned and strode out of the room, leaving her alone.

And I have some planning of my own to do, she thought to herself, leaning back in the tub.