Silvertip Mountain let sleeping dogs die.

Stoic had never truly known death. Sure, his father had disappeared, leaving Mother inchoherently upset and the boy drew the conclusion that his practically nonexistent father had just simply vanished from view. He could not miss what he did not know. But Death would make him feel the pain, what he had not mourned for his father. But the mere sight of his twin upon the brackened ground made his feet fail beneath him, his body swaying momentarily before staggering to the ground. A sob racked through his broken frame, but then, nothing. He could not feel.

The numbness took in, lingering slowy throught his body, reaching the corners that had previously been warm with the heat from the bodice of his siblings. Haze covered his vision, he did not will to see the boned body of his brother dead upon the ground they had walked since birth. He did not will to feel the already chill that radiated of his dead brother's once tender body. One heavy foot infront of the other, clawing it's way to the lifeless corpse of his twin, he did not hear the cries screeching to the heavens in utter dismay. Where was God when the world fell apart? 

The boy lay, head resting upon his brother's cold one. The chill of death set in among his bones, but he did not move to the warmth of the sun. There was no sun, but a mere facade of lies made for them to think the world was okay. How had he not even noticed his own Brother was starving? How did anyone not notice? There had to be a finger to blame, if not himself. Slowly but hatefully, an ache began to form in his heart. He would find whoever caused the death of his twin, reasonably or not. But for now he lay upon the stone cold ground, unmoving, unfeeling,

willing himself to die.