It grew colder still, and thick drifts of the white powdered water covered everything, ice hanging from the nests.

The two-legged animals buzzed about, the little thing dodging between their legs. It seemed there had been more of them lately, even as it saw less of its own kind, and they were always in some commotion. When the taller, deeper-voiced ones kicked at it, the strange thing would fearfully snatch it close, out of the way. But even its mother seemed to not care for the little thing so much; it ceased giving it scraps. That was fine, because the strange thing still did.

It was one night like this, like any other- the two-legged animals had eaten, and the little thing was nestling up with its companion to sleep. The thick sheafs of fur they slept under smelled of something that, instinctively, made the little thing feel safe.

Yet it was not so.

The smell of smoke, of burning, came, and the little thing was jolted awake by keening, terrible sounds it knew to be of distress. Tinges of heavy blood began to scent the air; at first tinges, and then it became overwhelming. The only smells were fear, fire, and flesh.

The little thing had no time to protest before it was shoved inside dark, enclosed fabric, confused and scared; it tried to protest with its claws, but the strange thing only admonished it, running so fast that it bounced, shaking the little thing around; as much as it tried to escape, it could find no way out, only managing to get a paw out at a time.

But then there was a jolt, and it heard its strange thing cry out, screaming; the fabric it was being held in was taken away, and flung, hard, crashing against a tree. It felt parts of its body move in ways they weren't meant to move, and a deeper pain than it had ever felt before radiated through its body.

The screaming continued; the screaming continued, the screaming continued.

The screaming continued.

The screaming continued.

The little thing ebbed in and out of consciousness, pain ravaging its body and consuming it.

After a while, it seemed even the screaming had stopped.

What was the little thing thinking of?

Perhaps it was thinking nothing at all.

When the fabric it was wrapped in was thrown, whatever held it inside snapped. In a haze of fear and pain, it dragged itself out of the darkness.

Its strange thing lay in the snow some distance away. It was unmoving, its grey not-furs cut away from it and dyed red with blood.

The little thing, in its own way, understood it to be dead, but it was so badly injured itself that all it sought was closeness, comfort, familiarity. It believed that it would die soon.

It dragged itself over to its strange thing, crying out, the same plea it used to beg for scraps or gentle pats.

The more it cried, the more it received no reply; the weaker it grew, and colder.

" You poor thing," someone said; it paid no mind.

A hand rested upon it.

" I'm sorry," that someone spoke again. " I was too late to save your master..."

Warmth radiated through the little thing's body, and it became tired. It embraced the comfort spreading through it, relieved at last of the pain, and at length, fell asleep.

<- .....->