"Why?" Hera asked it, her voice betraying only a little strain from the weight and pressure of the Witch who furiously clutched her. "You don't seriously think that you can kill me in good conscience. If I die, who's going to be there for our people? Either of you?" She barked a laugh. "Pitiful, the both of you, like shaking, mongrel dogs. Hate me if you want, loathe me for the measures I take, but think, realistically, about what either of you could do, could ever manage, to bring our people together. To save the little drowned rats from the hateful, raking claws of Humans or the Monsters who would trick them. Good karma has nothing to do with leadership ability, or what it takes to possess the grit needed to do what needs done."

Ophelia spoke, her anger almost gaining control over her. "Netta - she would have done it. But you -"

"Yes, yes," Hera said, snapping. "Look at what the wretched creature's been lowered to, now. Oh, but she does produce so beautiful a symphony, the sound of her being digested..."

Winnie choked her, hands tight around her throat, before she laxed her grip, lowering her arms once more to keep her in check.

As Hera finished gasping and choking, she began to laugh. "Brutes. That all either of you are good for. Our women do not need any more brutes, we need clear thinkers, strategists."

Ophelia asked, "And you think you're the one capable of leading them?"

"My dear, I'm the only woman capable of it. Now, before either of you tries to strangle us, do you mind me telling a story about what I've seen in my life that makes me adamant of the decisions I've made?"

Ophelia gazed at the woman and realized, as she managed to look beyond the cold, beautiful facade of the woman who had been the cause of her Sisters' deaths, what it was that she most felt for the Witch. She did not fear this madwoman, she decided. What she most felt was a desire to stop her ceaseless fucking talking.

"No," Ophelia answered, straining as she tightened the rope against Sia's neck. She grunted as the Witch struggled, tried to free herself from Ophelia's grasp.

Winnie responded, taking a piece of rope that she had been tied with, hurriedly wrapping it across Hera's throat, tightening the Witch against her.

Sia flailed, arm reaching back up, as though beseeching the ceiling to save her. Ophelia wondered, as both Witches continued to strangle their respective prey, how long this would take. How long until she could stop straining -

It happened in an instant, Ophelia falling to the ground as though she had been struck by some inhuman, great force. She cried out as she fell, felt as the rope was tossed out of her shock-slackened hand.

Grunting, Ophelia struggled, tried immediately to regain her footing. She opened her eyes and was about to try to bounce off of her hands to her feet when she felt something strike her again, sending her flying backward, hitting a very hard wall.

It sent the breath from out of Ophelia's lungs, had her croaking for air, helpless, her back alight with fire, pain. As she opened her eyes, she beheld the rapidly moving, robed form a moment before wide, sharp fingers felt as though they were digging into the tender flesh of her neck. She gagged, her hands flying to where she felt the indents of the phantom fingers, clawing to free herself.

And then the hand was dragging her up the wall, dragging until she was kicking, flailing at the same height of the woman who approached her.

As she struggled with consciousness, Ophelia gazed into the cold, cold eyes of Hera Oleander. As soon as she felt darkness beginning to take over her vision, she felt as the grip on her throat laxed.

Gasping, Ophelia forced air into her lungs, desperate. As she scrabbled her hands along the base of her throat, where she felt the fingers as they clenched, just enough to keep her pinned, she could only feel the indentations they left on her flesh.

As the realization of what was grasping her came for Ophelia, Hera spoke, her voice calm. "I may have exaggerated a bit when I said I was "powerless". Frankly, I was interested to see what you would do. Not a meek mouse. Headstrong. Hm. You would make for a mighty little force to be reckoned with, if you were allowed to bloom. A pity. Unfortunately, you have a place in our future, but not as an active participant in the war to come."

Ophelia gagged, thrashed her arms against the wall she was pressed to. Anger lashed through her, a need to strike, rend.

Hera laughed once more, brushed a lock of her hair out of her face. "You react like a rabid dog, tethered to a tree. You have the imagination, the ability to think beyond your immediate situation, like one as well."

Ophelia began to scrabble at her throat, trying to tear away fingers that latched on but could not be touched. When she tried to yell, speak, she found that the pressure on her throat soon had her struggling for breath. She looked up at the almost gentle smile of the Witch who stood in front of her and could, still, not comprehend how she had ended up in this position.

Hera cocked her head to the side, then walked the rest of the distance to Ophelia. Her hand stretched out, cold fingers glancing across Ophelia's cheek, her chin.

Ophelia flinched, slammed her eyes shut.

Hera said, "No need to prolong your suffering, I suppose. Or, I should say, I think I've gotten enough of seeing your pathetic struggling. Not many know this, because I went to great pains to hide it, but my talent lay in harvesting the power of others. I suppose I don't need to kill Witches to take some of their power - or more often, have others do the wet work for me - but you little Witches these days have so little to begin with. I'll harvest your little flowering power, then I'll brand you with the insignia of a little ring of entwined antler. It's a traditional matter, meant to let the old King know who Its prey is. Don't worry, you won't be aware of the branding while I'm doing it, seeing as how you'll be quite dead when it happens."

Ophelia focused, stared into Hera's eyes, hoped that her eyes held as much loathing as she felt for the mad woman.

Hera paused, then leaned forward, her cold fingers brushing aside loose strands of Ophelia's hair. Ophelia flinched, then failed as she attempted to struggle free once more before the pressure around her throat spasmed until it felt like a manacle tightening. She laxed in a panic as she felt her gaze darkening once more.

Hera sighed, dragged her fingers across the beginning of the edge of Ophelia's scalp. She moved her fingertips with what felt like a predetermined journey, as though tracing a design that she knew all too well - a circle that she branched off from before returning to the same, circuitous journey.

"I wonder if my daughter ever found the one I branded her with. I placed it right - here," she drew her finger away, leaving Ophelia with a phantom impression of the same brand. "I wanted something larger, more obvious, but then she never would have called the Great One to her if she had ever discovered the importance of it. I taught her to never wish to shave her head, or get it cut so as to not reveal this brand. I wonder, also, if her husband found the pattern. What It would have made of the mark, meant to brand Its quarry, on the flesh of Its lover? Did It ever tell her, after discovering it as the creature explored her body?"

Ophelia had shut her eyes, thought that she must be hearing Hera's voice in a nightmare she was experiencing.

"Yes, keep your eyes shut just like that. I swear I can taste your fear."

Ophelia shuddered, the movement clenching the sore, painful muscles in her throat. In the horrible silence, she heard for the first time sobbing, a sound that she recalled with nightmarish clarity from the night she and Winnie had crouched in the woods as her Coven had been slaughtered.

It did not strike her as odd that there was an almost serene silence until she heard the sweet, female voice, keening out in song from far behind Hera.

"Keep your irises and oleander, twine their sweet white petals in a crown fit for a faerie king..."

Ophelia's eyes snapped open in time to see the wretched, fearful look that crossed Hera's face. For a moment, Ophelia thought that she saw something that reminded her of a Human in the Witch's face, in the girl-like fear that slackened her jaw, brightened her eyes.

Almost as soon as Ophelia saw the change in the Witch's face, she watched as Hera leaped away from Ophelia, spinning around. The grip that had clenched around Ophelia's throat let go completely, leaving her to drop to the ground as she desperately gasped for air.

As she lifted her head, blinking to alleviate the darkness that shrouded her sight, she heard that voice that should not have been. The voice, undeniably, of a very, violently, dead woman, was in an Irish accent that she had only adopted when she was very tired or very much unaware that she spoke with.

"Dance 'long the fairy ring, dance along with me..."

And her voice sounded unlike anything Ophelia could have imagined - hoped - that it would have. She did not sound sorrowful, fearful - even angry. Netta's voice sounded dreamy, carefree, as though she were singing from a sun-warmed hammock on a lazy, late-Spring day. Not as though she were -

The great creature that was hunched over on the altar, turned, faced them.

Ophelia felt her stomach turn, jerk in her abdomen. She felt as her feet moved backward instinctually until she was willingly pressed with her back once more to the wall that she had almost been choked on.

The golden-skinned creature's skin was glazed in red, a berserker's red, a beast's ruby, wet and brilliant. The eyes were wide, a glittering and infernal red that seemed to pulse. And It smiled - large teeth that ended in sharp dagger points exposed, their ivory white besmirched by the red smears, the gore caked on them.

"Netta." Ophelia felt her name breathe out of her lungs.

As though It could plainly hear her whisper, the creature's gaze jerked, settled on her. For one long moment, Ophelia was unsure of who she was looking at - what she was looking at.

Maybe it was some madness that she had fallen into, but Ophelia thought that she saw the creature's smile fade slightly, the vivid, senseless bright quality to Its eyes dimming slightly, softening. For a moment, she was stricken with the impression that this was not Ashwood, or some ancient, half-mad King.

She was gazing at a creature that possessed her hero's soul.