As Tiátlien departed from the Alpha Pack, his stride was bold and purposeful. Yes, Ruusk's appearance had been unfortunate. Yes, he'd wanted to join the Alpha Pack, very much wanted to join. But he'd been a loner before, and he could do it again — this time, he'd just have to be careful. He couldn't befriend more than he could protect. He couldn't go about things so willy-nilly.

A sad thought. He'd enjoyed that carefree lakeside winter so much. Yet Tiátlien would not let his mood be damped; he trotted along cheerily as possible, humming a few songs from time to time. Yet as the day went on, humming seemed to take a great deal of effort, and his posture sagged. All his breaths were so shallow, and simply keeping one foot in front of the other was a dizzying effort. He couldn't make sense of these strange sensations. He'd been coming along swimmingly! What had happened? It didn't occur to him that Ruusk's blows weren't simply skin-deep — that they'd aggravated the barely-healed internal wounds from his battle with Casolt, and his insides were bleeding, slowly, steadily, fatally. The connection was lost on him, partially because his mind was too muddled, and partially because the idea of Ruusk causing him any true, deep harm was simply unthinkable. She'd been angry, furious, irrational, but she was still Russk. She wasn't evil.

Tiátlien was resting by a tree. He stood there, leaning against its trunk, panting for a long while before he realized that he had stopped walking. Blinking perplexedly, he lifted his head and blinked. Suddenly it occurred to him how dark everything was. "Night has fallen," he remarked. He'd been in too much of a daze to notice that the sun had fallen two hours ago.

"I'd best rest, then," he said cheerfully to himself, but the worlds were drained of their usual vigor and gallantry. Tiátlien felt suddenly tired, immeasurably tired. Almost at once he sprawled in a heap beneath the tree, hitting the ground with a sharp impact.

A great chill seized him when he tried to shut his eyes. He snuggled closer to the tree, but his body yearned for the warmth of someone, anyone. Where had everyone gone? "Asai?" Tiátlien cried in a piteously frail voice. "M'lady, please, come close... a-a-ah..." He remembered with a moan that she'd stayed behind. How was she doing? He hoped she was well. Maybe she could find a place in the pack. It just wasn't a place for him. No place for him...

"So lovely," Tiátlien muttered to himself, though speaking was a great agony now. There was a change in his tone, now — as though, subconsciously, he realized the truth that would've been evident to any bystander hours ago. He was going to die. And Tiátlien was babbling, because words were how he made sense of the world, even this close to the brink. "Lovely world. The lake. Asai, and Ruusk. Sir Demo, ah! and his lady, and Chandra, and Warple, and Two... everyone, lovely." The past and present was mingled in his mind, and he was at last too tired to talk. At last he let his head fall, and almost immediately he sunk into sleep. No nightmares, no restless twitching, just a pure, heavy sleep.

His expression seemed peaceful, at ease, like it had often been during that winter by the lake. It had been lovely — the lake, his friends, the little island he called home, and...

And Tiátlien breathed his last.