The war was a short one. Do not, however, let its length persuade you to see it any less then the important, yet ferocious, battle it was - and always has been.

Summer never seems to last long enough. Gradually Winter strikes at the parimeter of its warmth or rains down from the sky. The Summer fights through its Autumn campaign for supremacy over the land but its demise at the hands of the Ice Giants is inevitable.

Gone is the land of warmth and sun; all hail the Kingdom of Winter.

The Summer waits in silence; scarred from battle but not truly defeated - there is always the Spring Campaign.

The Ice Giants were victorious earlier then normal this year and have brought darkness as their companion. On the land the people queue motionless to conserve heat, ignorant of the battle itself, but not to its consequences. Steam drifts from their mouths and nostrils reflecting the mist creeping around Shadingham.

Three roofed areas make up the ill lit bus station they stand within, each consigned a small number of buses that make their way around this small, forgotten town.

No moon can be seen through the filthy cloud that blankets the sky, instead the sole lamp post that stands infront of each bus shelter lazyily throws an electrical orange light upon its inhabitants.

A moth flickers around the light, seemingly in a desperate struggle to escape this dreary reality. Exhausted from its desperation the moth lands on the post to rest before its next attempt. Rest, however, would be far from one's mind if you were warm enough to take interest, instead it seems this creature of the night definitely does not feel comfortable in its evolutionary surroundings. It moves minimal distances with quick, short bursts - restless is what you would think, even scared perhaps.

It stops in personified contemplation; light is where it wants to be, so in another flutter of desperation it flies away from the post and, on a strange and chaotic path, heads towards the queue of people.

A boy of about four years stands next to his mother. He is cold and dressed in clothing that is unforgiving to the weather which he stands in; even the mildest of breezes feels like a cold slap across his tender face.

The moth circles him a few times which awakens the boy from his numbed state. His eyes follow it enthusiastically, his icey body becomes animated and begins to follow the moth. It flickers briefly around the bus timetable before flying to the boy's outstretched hand. His eyes glow with awe and his smile matches the warmth of his eyes. One would not believe that this moth, currently being gently stroked by the boy, was the irratic moth they may have observed earlier; calm and content would now be their perception.

Then, with ferocity, a hand swipes the moth from the boys hand and grabs hold of his thin jacket.

"What have I told you about touching insects and things? Hey?! They are disgusting and dirty. Get back in the queue you filthy boy and don't move!"

The child's mother drags him back to his original position. He looks behind him in worry for the moth but is met by his mothers hand across his face. Tears form in his eyes, but he doesn't let out a cry - he is used to it now.

The boy looks out at the bus station, his vision blurred from the tears, the cold and the darkness set in around him once again.

He can hear his mother talking to somebody else in the queue but he doesn't look, it doesn't interest him. Instead he continues his blurred stare at the opposite shelter. A bus moves into his view and within a minute dissappears and leaves behind a single person.

He wipes his eyes with his icy hands and focus' on the person. An old lady with greying black hair sits opposite him, her eyes connect with his and she smiles.

Suddenly the moth flies past his face and breaks his contact with the lady. His face darts in the direction of its path and his worries come to fruition; his mothers heavy hand has damaged its wing. If its flight path was not already chaotic, it now had to compensate for a badly ripped wing. Whatever silent control his mother held over him was now gone, she had hurt the creature for no reason and know he felt compelled to protect it.

The boy took off with what strength his little frozen legs could muster. His hands stretched out urging the moth to land but it flew onward. His mother continued her pointless conversation, oblivious to her son running after a moth that is taking him into the path of a bus.

The bus driver is cold and tired. He looks back at his passengers sitting stone-like, waiting to reach their destinations. He is envious and annoyed that they get to go back to warm houses while he finishes his shift. A little pity sits somewhere in his mind because the heater is broken on the bus. But his job makes him apathetic to such problems.

Suddenly a burst of fear clears his head as a child runs in front of his bus. He slams both his feet onto the brakes which animates his statue-esque passengers and, due to the loud screech, the future passengers under the shelter.

A hand reachs out and grabs the boy by the back of his coat and pulls him back. He spins around confused as everything seems to have happened so quickly, he doesn't even realise that he nearly got run down by a bus.

"A little impatient aren't we?"

The lady that sat in the opposite shelter was standing infront of him, the smile still firmly placed on her face.

"It's not quite time yet, Alexender."

The boy just stared back at her in amazement, she knew his name!

"Run along to your Mother, I do not think she has noticed your dissappearance yet. And do not worry about your little friend, he will be fine."

Alex just stared at the woman and then ran back to his mother. She was right, his mother hadn't noticed. He looked back towards the woman but she had gone. His bus, which happened to be the one that nearly hit him, pulled up infront of the shelter. Rejoining his Mother he stepped onto the bus.

As the bus pulled away, the lady who saved his life stood watching from the shadows. She watched the bus dissappear and then looked to the sky and shivered, she hated the Winter. Someday, she thought, she would have to show the Gods of Summer how to fight a war.

Then, looking down at her closed hand, she whispered something and gently opened her palm to reveal the moth, his wing healed.

With another shiver she bagan her walk home with a single thought; she had finally found him.