It was dead.

By his will, it was dead.

Lavender gaze studied the lifeless form at his paws: a hare with a colorless pelt now stained crimson with its own blood. Its diminutive skull was positioned at an odd angle, its fragile neck snapped and crooked. Silas noted how its stark, void-black eyes were wide in wordless terror. What once possessed an animus was now little more than an object, cold and without volition in the snow.

How odd.

The man tilted his head and frowned. How strange to think that only a breath separated the living from the dead. How bizarrely cruel that in order for his own life to continue, another had to be forfeit. He and the hare had played the game, and the hare lost. Silas' prize? Continuing his existence, for at least a few more moments. Even then, he mused, nothing was guaranteed. 

A frown crossed his midnight maw, brow furrowed as an unexpected emotion came unbidden to his mind - guilt. He was no different from the carcass beneath him: the animal had wanted to live, and for the time being, so did he. Sorrow. Why was the game of life so cruel by necessity?

He found his stomach souring as it simultaneously growled in protest of his hesitation. Issuing a grumble of frustration, he gently nudged the hare aside, allowing the wave of emotion to pass. 

We aren't different, you and I.