The Brother Who Burned, The Brother Who Burned Him

The older one was fire—
not the flame,
but the hand that held it
just long enough to scar.
He towered,
silent in the way
that tyrants always are—
speaking not in words
but in ruin.

And the younger,
sharp-jawed, sharp-eyed,
dragged his rage behind him
like a sword too big to lift.
He learned silence, too—
not because he wanted to,
but because the screaming
never helped.

What is brotherhood,
if not a war with shared blood?
One born to crush,
the other born to crawl,
and both told it was love.

The world crowned the Mountain
as if power were the same as worth.
But the Hound,
the Hound was watching.
He kept his hate like a prayer,
spoken beneath every breath,
as if revenge might be
a form of resurrection.

They say men like them
are made, not born—
but what if the making
was the wound?
What if survival
was the sin?

The older brother
burned him.
The younger brother
carried it.
And in the end,
they both fell into the fire—
not because they were enemies,
but because
they were the same.

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