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Stockholm Syndrome	By : BlueSchmoo Category: +A through F > Baldur's Gate Views: 5857 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Baldurs Gate, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Chapter 2.

Hours later�
When Jon led her back down the passageway towards her holding cell, she almost ran ahead of him in relief. The past few hours were some of the most mentally and emotionally draining she had spent in her short life. She walked into the cell and immediately closed the door herself, then backed away until her back was firmly and safely pressed against the solid stone wall. As useless an act as it may be against such a powerful wizard as Jon Irenicus, she desperately wanted to put some sort of separation between them.
Jon silently observed her reaction. The past few hours had been pretty intense for her, he had to admit. She had held up quite well under the circumstances, though. She had only vomited twice.
He walked up and placed his hands around the bars of the cell door, and peered in, addressing her. "I won�t lock this door tonight, Imoen. I imagine you would like to bathe after your lesson this afternoon, so I will lock the outer door to the hall. You have permission to roam this small section of the dungeon. You know where the washroom is. I will have someone bring you your dinner."
He took a step backwards and turned to leave, but hesitated a moment. He looked back over his shoulder to see the woman behind the bars cringing against the back wall.
"Imoen," he said, his voice resonating softly in the harsh starkness of the dungeon. She reluctantly opened her eyes and met his unblinking, reptilian gaze through the bars of the cell. The past few hours with him had forced her to accept him for what he was. A Necromancing mage � and a most powerful one at that. She was awed by the power he had demonstrated to her, and was now more intimidated than terrified by him. He had ample opportunity to kill or maim her over these past few days but he had not, and it confused her. She was almost accepting him as a person now, not just her captor. She no longer just stared in fascinated horror at the stark row of stitches that ran along his scalp, which held the mask of dead skin onto his face. However, to some degree he did still frighten her � even more so after this afternoon.
"Yes," she replied weakly.
He continued to stare at her, taking in the sallowness of her face, and the dark circles under her eyes. "I want you to know you did well today. I am very proud of you."
Without another word, and not waiting for her reaction, he turned and strode out of the room, leaving Imoen shocked and surprised at his parting words.
She waited until she heard his footsteps fade, and the door close and lock as he exited the passageway. Breathing a sigh of relief, she pushed herself off the wall and reached for the cell door. She felt tired and greasy, and more than anything else she just wanted to feel clean again.
Opening the door, she walked the short distance to the washroom that was just around the corner from the small dining table. Stripping off her soiled clothes, she let them drop on the floor in a heap. She quickly reached up and removed the coil of beads that held her bangs away from her face, and placed them on the small shelf above the toilet. Reaching into the shower, she turned it on and waited for the water to warm before stepping in.
She could not remember the last time a shower felt this good. She rinsed her hair and turned her face towards the spray, opening her mouth and letting the force of the water wash away the foul taste that still lingered there. Reaching for the bar of soap, she began to wash her body, cleansing it of the stench and gore that clung to her. She brought the bar up and ran it through her hair. Even after she was clean, she stayed in the warm shower, letting the heat of the water warm her throughout. Reluctantly, she turned off the shower and squeezed the excess water from her hair. Reaching out, she pulled the bath towel off the rack beside the toilet, and wrapped it around herself. Stepping out of the tub, she picked up her dirty clothes and placed them inhe the tub, turning on the water and throwing in the bar of soap, so they could soak. She would return later to scrub them properly.
Wrapping the towel around her chest, she grabbed her hair beads and left to go back to her cell. She was surprised to see a tray laden with her dinner already placed on the small table. It could wait. She padded back to her cell and sat on the bunk. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying the get the tangles out, so it would be easier to put the beads back in.
Pulling the blanket from off the bed, she wrapped it around herself for warmth. She rested her head back against the headboard, and closed her eyes, thinking back to the terrible events earlier on in the afternoon.
Jon had dragged her to one of the many small alcove rooms, and forced her to stay there, while he went over to some sort of glass holding tank. Inside she could see glimpses of something moving and she had felt very afraid. He had engaged some sort of mechanism and the solution in one of the tanks drained out, allowing the creature inside to be revealed. It appeared to be human � a woman a few years older than herself. She was naked, and Imoen felt embarrassed and ashamed of her nudity, although the creature did not seem to be disturbed by it, or even aware of it at all.
As the fluid in her lungs drained, the creature coughed, but eventually cleared its airway, and breathed on its own. Jon had commanded her to help him move the being over to a metal table a few meters away, but she had been too frightened to touch it, and had flatly refused. She remembered the dark look that came over his face at her reluctance, and in that calm, arrogant tone, he gave her an ultimatum. Either she helped him, or she would be the one to return to the tank. She had not hesitated in making a decision � she grabbed the creature by its slimy arm and lifted. Together, they managed to place the creature on the table, such that she lay face up, looking at them.
And so began her practical lessons with Jon Irenicus.
"Now, Imoen," he began in a tone that was half lecture, half taunting. "I realize that when new mages are taught their crafts, they are instructed that all healing spells should be left to priests. Generally, they do not teach you how to prepare and cast the most simple of healing spells. Well they are wrong. Just as a necromancer mage is taught to identify and control dead creatures, they should also be able to identify physical wounds on the living, and heal them. I am not speaking of diseases or damage to your soul or such that required the intervention of a Divine spell, but of simple, physical wounds. To be successful at this, you must have a basic understanding of anatomy. This is absolutely necessary if you are to learn how to cure, or to kill. It is easy to learn a spell, cast it, and say �I know it works, but I don�t know why�. Priests rely upon their Gods to deal with the details of where to heal a wound. They are mere conduits through which the Deity�s power passes. I rely upon so such God."
He moved around the table until he was standing right next to her. She had to lift her head up high to see him, since he was so much taller than she was. Just the fact that he stood so close to her, near enough that her head could touch the armour he wore across his shoulders, made her nervous and very aware of his presence beside her. She ignored that feeling, and tried to pay attention to what he was saying.
With that introduction, he turned and removed a scalpel from the tray that stood beside the table. Carefully, and precisely, he made a small, shallow incision in the creature�s stomach. She had felt sick at the sight of the thin line of blood that appeared, but the woman did not flinch or say a word, and she wondered what kind of creature she was, such that she voluntarily let him do that to her.
"So, here we have a very small slice across her abdomen. It is a common wound, one you will find on any battlefield. Now I will show you how to heal it." She watched as he moved his hands in a complex motion, and listened carefully as he enunciated the words of the healing spell. With a rush of sound and light, the wound across the creature�s stomach healed completely. Once more, he had picked up the scalpel aade ade a similar incision on the other side of the creature�s stomach. For the first time, she noticed that the creature laying there, motionlessly, had no navel. Odd.
She had brushed past him in order to stand next to the creature. They were now standing so close that she could feel the heat emanating off his body, and for some sge rge reason, it felt comforting to her. Once more she was filled with conflicting emotions about the mage. She was disgusted by him and his actions, yet he had never touched or harmed her in any way. The apparent contradiction left her off balance, and unsure of what she really felt about him.
Forcing those questions aside, she calmed her mind, she held up her hands in front of her. She began to chant the words of the spell in a clear monotone, while imitating the hand movements he had just done.
She waited, and felt a small stir within her body. There was a faint glimmer of energy that was created, but nothing else. The wound stared up at her, red and accusing, for not having healed it. She sighed in her failure.
She heard his voice right behind her. "Try again, Imoen. Your hands were not quite right. Imagine the wound healing as you speak, and this will help you focus."
Clearing her throat, she took a deep breath and lifted her hands. Just before she was about to speak, she felt his arms come around, engulfing her, and he lay his fingers on the back of her hands as if to guide her. She had to stop herself from shrinking away from the physical contact.
"Go ahead. Move your hands as you will, and I will correct you," he said. She felt her heart beat start to quicken at the weight of his touch, but her hands remained steady.
Once more, she initiated the vocal part of the spell, and started to motion her hands. She felt his cool, dry fingers rest lightly against her own warm, moist ones. Ignoring the sensations it caused deep within her, she focussed her attention on the wound in front of her, picturing it closing as it healed. She felt a tug within the core of her being, and she was filled with an odd energy � very faint, but definitely present. Just as the spell ended, she could hear a rush of sound and saw a bright light of energy surrounding her hands. She looked down to see the edges of the wound pulling closer together. It was not complete, but it was a start.
She looked over her shoulder in excitement to see Jon�s face smiling down on her.
"Congratulations, Imoen," he said mockingly. "You have almost completed the most basic of spells a first level necromancer could perform. Almost." Immediately, her elation drained at this pointed reminder.
"Come. This is just your first lesson. There are many more to learn."
With that, the rest of the afternoon was spent watching his as he systematically sliced, stabbed and severed different parts of the creature�s body, then demonstrated to her how to heal them. She did nothing but watched, and learned how to heal all of the different types of wounds. How to stop major arterial bleeding, and when to cast a spell for just superficial cuts and abrasions. After almost six hours of watching, attempting and failing, she was mentally and emotionally exhausted. It was then that they lifted the creature back into her tank, and with a reversal of the mechanism, the solution once more flooded the tank. All the while, the creature never spoke a word, but listlessly accepted what was being done to her.
Shaking her head to rid herself of the memories, Imoen rose from the bed and walked over to her dinner tray. She lifted the cover to see a bowl of stew, a thick slice of bread and a wedge of cheese waiting for her. She was not hungry after seeing the gore from the afternoon, however, she knew she had to keep her strength up. First things first, she admonished herself. She set off to the washroom to scrub her soiled, soaking clothes and hang them to dry.
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Stockholm Syndrome