Lament of the Traitor King (Complete)

Chapter 42 - Nightmare's End

She was unable to stop the tears that coursed down her face, the sobs that tore out of her throat.

She was high on the last remaining vestiges of desperate, maddening hope.  A hope that was giving away, moment by moment, to engulfing despair.

If she could not find him now, he would be lost to her forever.

 And then it came to Netta, a potent increase in strength. She felt, then, as though she was standing not very far from where a great fire had just died.

It came, after she had leaped over a fallen log, a small clearing that was free, utterly, of any sign of the snow.  it was free, also, of the cold that covered the rest of the world.

She glanced up and found It, like a burst of vibrant color amidst the shadowed sea of rapidly melting snow surrounding.   It stood, thick shadows that could never quite cover the outline of the large shape of the bipedal, great Monster barely concealing it.

She hesitated, her body preparing for a mad dash back to the temple in the hopes that she wouldn't be slaughtered before she could reach help.

Still, she could not flee.

Netta tried to make Its features out. She could see the shape of large, gaunt arms, long legs and a head that was connected to what looked like a duet of twisted arms of the branches of a tree.  They rose above Its head, bold with the immediate impression of a spindling, wicked-looking, natural crown.

Fear choked Netta at first.   And then longing - sorrowful hope - broke through.

Ashwood. This had to be him - somehow, she hoped, needed this terrifying creature to be It.  Him.

Her hand extended, along with her mind, struggling to touch this Monster's with her own. No sooner than she had grasp of Its mind, Its wild, barbarian's consciousness, than she felt the heat, the blinding fire.

She realized that she recognized this fire, had felt it when she had told Ophelia to kill her.

Heartbreak, as It divested Itself of her touch with shocking ease.

Gasping, Netta struggled to find her way back to that mind, to meld herself with It like twining fingers.

STOP.

Its thoughts were loud, blaring, with no pretense of humanity.

At first, Netta did as It told her to. She retracting, as though harmed by actual flame.

She slammed her eyes shut, regaining control of her breathing. Every aspect of Netta ached, burned with need that felt greater than her need for safety. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

Netta gasped. She had not heard a thing, but when she looked up, she found herself gazing up at a face that seemed to yell down the almost barren walls of her memory.

Before she looked up at his face, she could feel Him. It was not just his potent smell, which filled her head like a drug, but his presence.  It was him.  The legendary Ashwood that the Netta who she had been only a month ago had treasured, clung to like a last piece of debris in a flood.

Looking up, she saw His face. It was one shadowed by a dark, brown horseshoe's mustache and a patch of hair on his chin. Thick hair fell down to conceal the upper half of his face, leaving features, a long, overlarge nose and wide, almost-thin mouth in contrast from the darkness and shadow.

With very little to go on, Netta nevertheless felt that this was certainly not the face of the man that she struggled to recall. He seemed so very different from the outlines that she could barely grasp.