She was amazed at how readily she embraced the fact, how clearly she recognized it. She should have been fighting against it, struggling to break free of its grip. She knew that the Elves might be in terrible danger from the second demon and have need of her. She knew that if she continued to lie there, to fail to rise and go on, she would be unable to help them. But a deep and pervasive lethargy gripped her, discouraging resistance to its immense weight, leaving her content merely to lie there and accept the dark hands reaching out to gather her in.
She saw the cloaked figure in her dream anew, the one the ghost of Johnny had taken her to meet. Death was waiting patiently for her to come, and now she was almost there. She thought again of the four-legged horror that had brought her to this, a thing of chameleon shapes, first a woman with spiky blond hair and finally a monstrous cat, but always a demon with an insatiable need to destroy her.
Which now, it seemed, it had.
She was tired. She was so tired.
She could feel the tears gather at the corners of her eyes, then trickle down and freeze on her face.
Her hand gripped the carved surface of her black staff, but she could feel no life in it. The warmth that marked its magic was gone and the runes that signaled its readiness, dark and unresponsive.
What should she do? She could continue to crawl forward through the snow, searching for the ice caves and shelter. But she had no idea where they were, and in the darkness there was nothing to show her the way. Her wounds from the battle had drained her of energy and strength, of willpower and purpose. It all felt so hopeless. She knew it was wrong to feel this way, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
The dream, she thought suddenly, had been a premonition of what was coming. She was going to meet Johnny. She was going to where he waited for her, away from this world, away from the madness.
?Tienes frío, Angel? she heard him asking from the darkness. Are you cold? ?Tienes miedo de morirte? Are you afraid of dying?
“Estoy muy cansado,” she whispered. So tired.
She would go to him. She would let go of what held her tethered to this world, to her hopes and plans and sense of obligation to the Word and its order. She had done what she could, and she could do no more.
She closed her eyes and began to drift, the sensation both freeing and welcoming. She floated on the promise of a long, deep sleep that would end with her waking in a better place. With Johnny, once more. Her child’s world had been so good with him. That was why he was in her dreams. It was the best of what she remembered of a shattered childhood, of her dead parents, of her world destroyed. Johnny.
Then suddenly he was coming for her, surrounded in a blue light that blazed out of the darkness like a star. She opened her eyes in surprise, the brightness reaching for her, bathing her in warmth. It approached from across the broad expanse of the snowy slope, a steady beam that stretched from far away to draw her in. She lifted her hand in recognition, reaching out to grasp it.
“Angel!” he called to her.
She watched him materialize out of the blowing snow and dark night, shrouded in a heavy-weather cloak, the blue light shining out of his extended hand. She tried to call back to him, but her mouth was dry and the words came out a thin, hoarse whisper.
“Angel!” he repeated.
“Johnny,” she managed to respond.
He knelt in front of her. The blue light went out. “Angel, it’s Kirisin,” he said, bending close, his young face pinched against the cold.
She stared at him, trying to find Johnny’s face in his young features, failing to do so, and then realizing who it was. Not Johnny. Kirisin. She blinked against her tears. She was back in the real world in an instant, lying cold and exposed on the frozen slopes of Syrring Rise, still alive, but not by much. “Kirisin,” she answered.
He brushed snow from her crumpled body, his eyes scanning her bloodstained clothing. “Can you get up?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
“I’m going to help you,” he told her at once. “You’re freezing to death. We have to get you inside, out of the cold.”
He worked himself into position that allowed for decent leverage and put an arm under her body to pull her upright. The pain returned to her in a sharp flood as he did so, the wounds opening anew. But he got her into a sitting position, put both arms around her, and heaved her to her feet. She stood leaning into him, unable to move.
“If you can’t walk, I will carry you,” he told her, his mouth against her ear so that she could hear him through the howl of the wind. “Do you understand me?”
She almost laughed aloud; she knew he was too small for such a task. Nevertheless, she let him try. She brought the black staff around and used it for leverage, putting her weight on it. She found she could take a step by doing so. Then take another step, move the staff, take another step, and so on, while he moved along with her, taking her weight on his shoulders, guiding her with his arms.
“It isn’t far,” he said, breathing hard.
She nodded. Couldn’t speak.
“Is the demon dead?” he asked a moment later. The powdery snow had already formed a layer of white on his hunched body, a cloak of sorts, blown in from the Void. He looked to be a ghost. As she must, too.
She nodded. Dead and gone. “The other one?” she managed to gasp out.