Dark eyes blink red, then back to black again. Long lashes flicker as the wolf blinks away blood, bones as strong as chicken noodle soup and all his power drained. The fox still crouches on a limb high above, strained and bleeding. Wolf closes his eyes for only a moment, then opens them again on hell. His blond lover is falling, blood streaming from a thousand cuts, unable even to scream. He hits the ground with a sickening thunk as the mad weasel shows his first real expression—a wicked mocking grin. Dark eyes fade to red with cold fury.

Pale skinned body lies before him, still wrapped in a torn inverted sky. The weasel's throat is ripped out, and the Wolf feels oddly cold. Who would have thought that all he fought and bled for could seem so meaningless? He turns away from the hollow husk, walking away without a sparing a glance backwards. He walks towards his blond fox, his golden angel of the summer, his only warmth. Then the ice prince, the coldest man in all the world, falls to his knees and weeps. He weeps tears of brittle ice, cold diamonds for his lost summer king.