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Others sit more scattered about but my attention is drawn to the three who sit side by side.
I try to tamp down the curiosity within me, because it also brings pain. A throbbing ache deep inside my temples.
“Close yer eyes, little one,” the older female says, taking my hand gently. “My name is Mag. A couple of the females here have a line of magic within them. It will be enhanced by their sisters holding space in the circle with them. We hope to have a group meditation that might help yer memories break free.”
I sit across from Hisa and follow her lead—cross-legged, eyes closed, hands upturned on my knees. Everyone begins chanting, a rhythmic, soothing sound that reverberates from soft drums. I can focus on the drums and release the tension that’s throbbing inside my head.
At first it feels like I fall asleep while sitting up. Not that I’m aware of sleeping, I just feel calmed and relaxed and then I’m drifting, recalling dreams I’ve had—the dancing, the faceless male who now wears Bakog’s handsome grin. But then those daydreams become real dreams and I’m not sure if I’m recalling them or if I’m slipping into sleep. It sort of feels like both? Like I’m awake—and dreaming. At the same time. But this... this is the life. The lovely dream that I crave.
This time it has Bakog’s scent—Bakog’s face—Bakog’s voice.
But I run away from him. What am I thinking? I have to run because if I don’t, he’ll know that I’m mated to another. To a prisoner. I’ve never been so ashamed in my life. It weighs like a barrel on my chest, so heavy my head feels like it’ll pop.
I open my eyes to find the drums have stopped. The chanting has stopped. They’re all still, watching me.
And then I’m aware tears are streaming down my face. Angrily, I swipe them off my cheeks.
“’Tis all right, Shal—Jogug,” Hisa soothes.
“Nay! You don’t understand. My head, it aches!” Like the first time I woke, ugly faces peering at me, jeering because I didn’t remember my own name. That they had to tell me and that made me... weak. Automatically, I reach up to rub the sore lump in the back of my skull, but the lump is long gone. That doesn’t matter. It still hurts the same inside. “I don’t like this! I don’t like to remember—” I drop my sentence. Am I sabotaging my own memories? What a cowardly action that would be.
“Bakog!” Hisa calls out. “Shh, now.” She pulls me to her, wraps her arms around me. Again, she smells so good, like springtime. Like... home. I hear running footsteps behind us and then he’s here, sweeping me into his arms, rocking me against him.
“I’m here, Jogug,” he says quietly. “I’ll take care of you, baby.”
“Wait.”
One of the human women—the one sitting between the other two—takes a ragged breath and stands. The gown she wears straightens and I see the swell of her baby bump. There’s so much longing on her face and her hand comes out, but halts in mid-air, afraid to touch me.
But it’s not my Blackheart clothing that makes them wary, because I’m wearing the same gown they do. So, it’s because they don’t want to hurt me, then. It makes me sad enough to want to reach out and connect with her.
“I met your sons,” I say.
Her face softens. “Aye. They were so excited they could hardly get the tales out.”
“They’re adorable.”
“You thought so when they were born. Named them, you know.”
“I did?”
She nods and a tiny nostalgic smile twists her lips.
“I thought you were dead. Had given birth to me and died. That’s what I was told.”
She shakes her head. “Nay. Gave birth to you and have never known such utter joy in my life. Even let you talk me into giving you siblings as you got older and saw Hisa with younger brats in her house.”
She rubs her baby hump, apparently not just meaning the twins.
“I don’t remember naming them,” I say.
“Maybe soon, with this ritual, you’ll remember why you chose the names you gave them,” she says. “Now, because I can’t stand it any longer, may I please have a hug from my daughter?”
I nod and Bakog sets me on my feet. My mother sweeps me into her arms and the fresh whiff of roses hits me. Oh, Goddess. Just like my dreams. She feels wondrous, familiar, home... and the back of my eyes prick with tears.
Then I pull away and she cups my cheeks, then traces the tattoos on my forehead. She ends with the mating marks on the bridge of my nose. “I have a friend,” she whispers, “Oshin of the Blackhearts. Killed my first husband for me. He will love these.”
I smile at her because only a soul as sweet as hers can talk about having a friend in an enemy clan and speak so freely of him killing her husband for her.
