His mind is a conglomeration of feelings – grief, guilt, anger, and, in a dark corner, murderous love. It's not that the sentiment is murderous, could drive him to take a life (especially his friends'), but the object of his love is a murderer. Undoubted. Witnesses and corpses testify to that - he's locked away never to be seen or heard from again. Yet, the love is there. It burns to think of it and on full moons the wolf tries to tear it out of him, and fails, its roots buried too deep in too many good memories, all tainted now.

(When did he change? When did it happen? When did blood-borne genetic hatred – for there is no other word – win out over the man that they all thought he was?)

The grief is obvious – three of his best friends lost at the hands of another, two buried and only a finger left of the other. And the fourth, the dark angel of the grey eyes, grief for him to, for what he was and could have been, destroyed so brutally, left to rot in an inescapable prison. He aches for him, for his touch and his closeness, and hates himself for it.

The guilt and anger are understandable – guilt that he couldn't protect his friends, anger over it too, directed at both himself and the other one. It's overwhelming, a whirlwind, the presence of so many feelings, so that so often he's simply numb, blocks out everything and focusses on survival. Though what the point is of survival anymore, he doesn't know.

(Frankly, he suspects that he hasn't really known in a terribly long time.)