Numb, as if my tongue is unable to properly work and serve an importance which many pride themselves on. They pride themselves on their ability to pick up the different flavors, to debate which flavor is the best, and can even act as a way for people to communicate over something so basic. As I taste the food that Fiona has put before me, it tastes of nothing, as if I was eating a dense sponge that offers no sensations to my taste buds. The food has what I would expect to be fruit within the filling of the pastry, crunching as I cut it with my fork, looking to the crimson filling stick a little to the metal of my fork. "Thank you," I add, forgetting what we were taking about before she placed the food before me and I took a bite. The witch looks to me, looking as if she has something to say to me, something she wants to blurt out yet is held back? What force could be holding her back, could it be Zion?
The moment I told Zion what he wanted to hear, he left, muttering to himself he needed a break as well as a smoke. I could only stare at the wall once he left, wondering what all these months or perhaps even years of my absence could have done to such a helpless man. He was selfish, pulling someone from their eternal slumber only to discover they are a shell of the person that they once were. He referred to me as a shell, as something so delicate and hollow within, as if he gave no concern for what his words would do to me. Fiona mentioned to me the moment he left that I must be hungry, helping me find my way into the small dining room set up with four chairs and a wooden table whose vanish must be redone sometime soon.
"Why can I not remember the life that I lived?" I ask, knowing what I ask is something I may not enjoy the answer of, for I imagine bringing someone back from the grave never goes the way you always want it to. "Those memories, I know they are there, and I feel like I can find them, but is as if a curtain keeps me from seeing them, just a simple opening of the curtains to do the trick."
Fiona takes in a steady breath, trying to help herself think of the best way to answer me. With her hair pinned back, eyes sharp, and jaw clenched, Fiona takes a seat beside me, pulling out a leather-bound journal, pages worn and brown, journal struggling to be kept shut, and a black seal upon the front. "I have never brought someone back from the dead, not because I was not powerful enough, but because of the amount of dark magic needed. I lived and breathed this book Zion searched many witch covens for, paying a high price for, and offering to me to keep up my part of our deal." Fiona pauses, as if to check if Zion is anywhere close to hearing our conversation. "Many withes have brought people back from the dead, ranging from humans to the supernatural like the two of us."
Werewolf.
I can remember that part of myself, that I am a supernatural being, one who can shift into a wolf whenever I desire.
"No matter what blood runs through anyone's veins, all those brought back from the dead always had something wrong. Many died within the first day of their revival, some became brain dead as they were stuck within a body, others could remember yet they could not feel emotions, and then many fall into your category of being unable to remember who they were." So I guess I fell into a lucky category for what could have happened. "Some remembered who they were, able to be reunited with their loved ones, but they were the happy endings that many never got."
"What did many get in the end?" I ask, almost hesitant as I fear what the answer I seek may just be.
"The dead do not belong among the living, even if it worked out in the end," Fiona states, firm in her belief as I know this should be taken as a warning, for if she believes this, I should as too. "The dead lose so much of themselves in the afterlife when they are brought back, disturbed from slumber as they are forced back into the bodies which would haunt them. Many like yourself went insane, throwing themselves into danger just to try and feel that adrenaline, to feel alive. Not many allowed for death to take them under natural causes, rather throwing themselves from buildings or allowing themselves to fall into a darkness inescapable."
So I am basically doomed here, to never defeat the odds stacked up against me. "So I have no hope to believe in?" I ask, voice soft as I think to Zion's description of my death, how he had lost me as I tried to save his own life. I put myself before the gun of someone I cannot remember and they pulled the trigger. Who was this murderer, what did he have against Zion? Was this person someone who just wanted to rob us or did he have personal issues with Zion? "Did Zion tell the truth about my death? Being shot and killed instantly."
Fiona seems tense, hands shaking as she processes what will come out of her mouth next. "He told you what happened, the fact that you died."
"Who killed me?"
"It would be best for him to answer."
Shaking my head, I push away the food before me, leaning back in my chair as I want my answers. "If I ask him, if I give him that right to decide what I can and cannot know about that day, I may never know the full story. I have every right to know who killed me, for it was my life he took."
I await her answer, anxious as I do not know how I will take the news, for I know that this answer will have a background to it. "His name was Nixon, he was the Alpha of Crimson Lock, a werewolf pack feared by others. Zion killed him the moment you fell limp."
"Why would an Alpha kill Zion?"
"The two of them had always been enemies, always holding a grudge against the other, and as they knew one day only one of them would remain, Nixon came for Zion, only to kill you."
I get why he would kill me then, for the pain of Zion to live everyday knowing everything he had was taken from him. This Nixon would rather cause Zion pain for years rather than put him in the grave without any pain. But what did Zion do that caused this man so much pain? What did Zion do to anger an Alpha of such a feared pack? To anger the Alpha of a pack, you must be someone powerful from another pack, a member of the pack, or perhaps a rogue. Something tells me he is not from Nixon's pack, nor is he a rogue, so how exactly do they know one another? How exactly did I even meet Zion?
Getting to my feet, I itch at the fabric around my arms, the crystals in the material putting pressure upon my skin as I want to get out of this...this dress I was burried in. "Where exactly am I, Fiona?" I look to the doorway where Zion left, wondering if this place is an old house or an abandoned one. Could I be in the middle of no where, in the mountains, or in the midde of a populated neighborhood. Perhaps in a witch coven, seeing that before I blacked out there were two more witches here.
"Ireland" Fiona responds, no accent found as I cannot remember where I was last, but I know it was in America, not Europe. "My coven moved here decades ago, I grew up in Canada, only to be brought back to my roots when Zion called for my aid."
"How did I meet Zion?" I ask, wondering if our story was one of true love or one of heartache. Was it love at first site or were we just friends?
Fiona takes in a deep breath, walking over to a window where curtains keep out all signs of light. "I believe that is a story for him to tell, for it is how you two met, and I was not present, I only know what the media presented."
Curtains are pulled open and moonlight floods into the room, a garden filled with flowers on display as I am confused. "What the media told you? Media?"
"Zion was not your average male, but someone of importance, and when you met him, the world seemed to change."
"You were a rogue when we met." My concentration is placed upon the male in the doorway, dressed up from the last time I saw him. Dark gray dress pants, a white button down which is well-fitting, even allowing for the ink on his ribs to been seen through the fabric, and dark brown hair combed back, he looks professional rather than informal and distraught like before. His eyes still lack any spark in them, watching me as he tells me of my past. "You were banished from your pack for reasons that had no justice. We met when you were chasing down a man who stole your purse and the moment I saw you, I wanted to marry you."
I don't bother with a follow-up question, rather knowing to allow myself that bit of information for now as I wonder if my family knows I am alive, or if I have family left. Ireland is a long way from home, unfamilair territory as I not only know where I exactly am and how I can get home, but I do not even know myself truly. Zion has informed me how we met and how he felt the moment he met me, but as to why I was a rogue and what happened after I met him, I know those will not be things I want Zion to have a bias on telling me. I need to uncover these things for myself, to learn about them the way I remember or perhaps a third party.
"I think you should leave us alone for now," Fiona informs to Zion, ordering him as I watch his jaw clench. "She needs to relax and not have you breathing down her spine every minute." She defends me once more, placing herself between Zion and myself as I find it irritating the amount of times Fiona allows herself to speak for me, to make me only feel weaker than I already know I am. "Go and take care of the business you have to attend to."
Zion looks like he wants to say something, to refute the fiery woman who demands his respect. Allowing himself to push his argument away, Zion pulling away as his gaze meets my stare briefly. "Goodbye," I add as he heads for the dark doorway, eyes seeming to glow in the shadows as he hears me say just one word. As if one word has caused him to pull away from reality and live within the reassurance that perhaps I may come back to him. Come back to a man I do not even know.
"Goodbye." Zion leaves, a small smile passing across his lips as he leaves the room. Fiona looks back to me, eyebrows furrowed together as she offers me the silence I have been wishing for since I last woke up.
"Answer me this one question, Fiona," I begin in the peace of mind knowing Zion will not hear the words that leave my mouth. The witch nods, agreeing to give me that piece of reassurance. "Will I ever feel like I belong back in the world of the living and my heart to beat again?"
The witch takes in the question, biting her lip as she rolls back her shoulders. "It depends."
That gives me no sanctuary.