It is Winter.

Cold winds swirl about my rickety hut. They enter like icy daggers through seams in the splintering wood slats that I have not the means to patch. Snow is falling, but at least the numerous cracks in my walls are too small to let that in. A meager fire burns in the fireplace, and I huddle there with my two small sons.

One is a strong young fellow of about five seasons. He looks as ragged as any starving beggar, but that has not yet wiped the confident smile from his young face. Optimism still lives within him; I can only put up a front nowadays. Anything to keep his young hopes alive. He deserves better than this.

My other son is curled up in my arms. I look at him with a fond smile, trying not to let the tears blur my vision. He's lucky that we got him weaned before my wife was taken by hunger and sickness at the beginning of the season. Otherwise, he'd be just as dead as she. He sucks his paw quietly; I stroke his head and look into the fire.

Noises outside.

Quickly I wrap the younger son in a threadbare blanket and shove him into the paws of his brother. "Under the bed!" I hiss. "Hurry!"

"Open up in there! Kotir tax patrol!" Bang, bang, bang. The door shudders as heavy paws beat on it. I must open it, or they'll break it down. We cannot survive without a door in the dead of winter.

Five mail-clad beasts in cloaks flood into the room. Ferrets, stoats, and weasels all; they tower over me and have to strive to keep their heads below my rafters. "Well, mousie," one sneers, "where's your food tax? Gotta pay up, y'know."

I want to plead; we don't have enough food to begin with. They have an entire settlement to pillage, why starve my family out? But I know these words will only earn me bruises. I produce our last loaf of bread. Pulling a rusty knife from my belt, I meticulously saw it in half and offer one piece to the patrol Captain.

"This is it?" the weasel growls, scornfully baring his teeth at the paltry piece of bread in his paw. After a short pause he leans over and grabs the other half from my paws, motioning to his patrol. They turn and begin to file outside.

Something deep within me snaps. Bruises don't matter anymore. "Hey!!" I run, paws churning up the snow, and latch my paws onto the Captain's cloak. "That's the only food I have! Will you condemn my family to death?"

The weasel barely looks at me; grabbing my tattered jerkin, he throws me off with an indifferent, "That's not my problem."

I regain my footing in the snow, and pull out my knife. My blood is really up now; I can feel myself slipping out of my own control. With a wild yell, I leap on the Captain's back and manage a few well-placed stabs before the others are on me. "Strike an officer, condemned to death!" they chant at me as they beat and slice me. I fall into the snow. I hear a wail and see my young son running toward us with a blazing log from the fire in his paws. I try to yell at him, warn him to go back.

I can't.

My vision blurs as the wounds inflicted on me take their toll. I cannot see my son. I hear the soldiers run from my side to meet him. I hear shouting. The torch goes out. But I don't know exactly what is happening.

I can still make out what is within a body length of me. With mild satisfaction, I note that the weasel Captain has not moved from the spot where I stabbed him. I can hear his breath rattling in his throat as he struggles to rise. He finally collapses with a groan, stretching his length upon the snowy ground.

I feel the wind as several dark shapes rush past. The patrol is fleeing back to Kotir. Does this mean my son has lost? Or won? Does he run, and they chase him? I hope for the best, but I am not sure a mouse of five seasons can stand for long against five grown Kotir patrollers. I also wonder about the younger son; what has become of him? I can feel my mind slowing down, the speculations taking longer to unfold across my consciousness.

We should have left the settlement a long time ago.