Cold mountain wind keened softly, skimming the sky uncontrollably, unable to clutch even the treetops. It could only cry a high pitched whine as it was swept by the deep current of winter. Sleeping trees stood like naked skeletons, stretching their grotesque fingers in search for the absent sun's warmth. The ground was completely frozen, grass stiff as steel. Nothing moved. Only the sharp sound of splitting wood echoed through the forest, the dead of winter only making the sound more prominent in the silence. A boy no older than ten years adjusted his swollen, blistered hands around the handle of an old ax that was as long as his leg, and heaved it over his shoulder, his bony elbows popped into the air. Shifting his weight, he swung it directly over his head and down upon the hapless piece of wood, which cracked and fell apart in a single stroke, the blade buried into a large stump, a stump that still had roots deep below the surface of the solid crust of earth. The boy ran his arm over his forehead, moping up gathering sweat with his tattered sleeve, and pried the ax out of the log. He was a good looking young boy, a beautiful child with dirty gold hair and large, bright blue eyes. Aside from the dirt and sweat on his face, his skin was clear, cheeks flushed red from the labor and cold. His white shirt was too large for him and threadbare. It was a man's shirt, the broad shoulders slipped off the boy's slender ones, the giant sleeves were rolled in a bulging bundle, the torso bagged out before it was sharply tucked into ragged pants held up by suspenders. The boy's feet were bare.

Finishing his chore, he propped the ax against the stump before tossing the pile of wood into a cart. The cart had long handles, meant to be pulled by a mule or pony, but there was no animal. Once the wood and the ax were all loaded into the cart, the boy ran around and picked up the handles, toes snapping stalks of grass as he dug his feet into the ground to heave the cart into motion. It was easier once it got moving, even though one of the wheels stuck sometimes. Easier to keep moving than to stop. It was warmer this way too. He'd have to get some shoes soon.

Pulling along the trundling cart behind him, the boy made his way through the wood until he reached a lone mountain farm. It wasn't much of a farm anymore. There was the house and there was the barn. Not much else. The barn used to have all kinds of animals in it, but they sold them all when Uncle Joshua died, all except the chestnut mare. They needed the horse to get into town, which was about twenty miles away. Now running eagerly, blue eyes sparking from the cold, he parked the cart outside of the barn and opened the doors, hauling the load inside. The mare nickered in her stall, tall flicked and swished idly. After checking that she had been fed and watered, the boy pulled the doors shut and ran to the house, up the rickety porch and straight into the tiny kitchen.

"You put the wood in the barn, Al?" Another boy was inside the house, stuffing the wood burning stove with a log before standing up, stirring some kind of concoction in a dull dented pot. He was identical to the first boy, aside from his slightly longer, curlier hair which was matted and thin with grease.

"Sure did. You don't gotta ask, I ain't a kid." Alfred petulantly pulled up a chair and plopped heavily into it, sticking his feet straight out until the soles of his feet brushed the burning iron side of the stove.

His twin gave his abused feet a disapproving look. "You're gonna burn yourself."

"No, I ain't." Alfred stuck out his tongue. "I been doing this for so long and you still fuss over me like a mama hen. Whatcha cooking, Matt?"

"Stew," said Matthew vaguely.

Alfred's face twisted unpleasantly, his nose scrunched and his mouth pinched tightly into itself. "Don't tell me it's your rotten pickled vegetable stew. It's disgustin' and it makes me toot louder than a train!" Alfred had never actually heard a train whistle, let alone see a train itself, but he had heard of the locomotives. He liked to bring them up as often as possible to show how knowledgeable he was.

"You eat the stew or you don't eat at all," Matthew said, suddenly cross. He smacked the burnt spoon against the rim of the pot, making a loud bang. It didn't make him feel any better so he took the warmed broth off the stove and slammed it on the kitchen table. Now the anger deflated a little.

Alfred frowned. He could see it all. Neither of the twins could keep secrets from each other. They were closer than most brothers, they were inseparable. "What's wrong?"

Matthew sighed, too heavily for a boy his age. "We're running out of food, Al. We already eat one meal a day and that's barely good enough. We need money and we need food, or we aren't going to last the winter."

"Relax," Alfred smiled reassuringly. He turned his feet so his toes pointed out then rotated them inward. Blessed heat. "I got a good haul today. Got me the wood and we already got the kindling. We can sell the whole bunch for a real nice price in town. That should keep us going before the first snow."

"What then? We run out of money and food again. And then what?" Matthew eyes were red, pooling with unshed tears, glittering in the dim light of the house. "What if it snows before we expect it? What is there's a blizzard? What then?"

Alfred was on his feet in an instant and pulled his twin close. They weren't kids anymore, but they weren't grown-ups so it wasn't shameful to cry and to hug. So Alfred hugged his brother tightly, squeezed the worry and sadness right out of Matthew's body. Matthew shook, sniffled, but didn't cry. Matthew was already on his way to being a grown-up. He was always too good at being in charge. Too good at not crying.

"We'll be fine, Matt. Just you wait and see. One winter ain't nothing. Hell, before Uncle Joshua died we was practically on our own already. We'll figure something out, I promise."

Matthew wiped the corners of his eyes with his wrist and sniffled. "I don't think we can do this on our own, Al."

Now Alfred grew angry. "Whatcha sayin' we should do, huh? Are you sayin' we gotta tell someone? Matt, you know what that means! We tell somebody Uncle Joshua kicked the bucket and we get separated! You know that! We'll get put in orphanages thousands of miles away and we'll never see each other again! Is that whatcha want?"

"No, I don't want that," said Matthew.

"You tell somebody and then that's it! We ain't got no more relatives to live with! It's just us, Matt, and we need to stick together!"

"I'm not gonna tell anyone, Alfred!"

Alfred's shoulders slumped and he instantly calmed, his grip loosening. He let go of Matthew and sat back down on his chair, sideways. Blue eyes dropped to the floor, suddenly ashamed, and neither of the boys spoke. Matthew took a pair of bowls down out of the cupboard and poured the liquid meal into each, now cooled. Alfred kept his eyes to the floor, running his toe against the grained wood, toes still numb from the cold. Telling a grown-up about their Uncle Joshua's death wasn't an option. Their parents had died a long time ago when they were both very young. Alfred could barely remember his father, a broken man who had no will to live, a sad man who never looked at them fondly or proudly. All they had was their Uncle Joshua, who was alright when he wasn't drinking. He'd cuss and yell at them, he'd kick them around a little bit until he suddenly changed his mind. He drank himself to death that past summer, the summer of '08, and left the two boys to fend for themselves or risk being separated by the cruel, uncaring world. Alfred was afraid he was becoming like Uncle Joshua, mad and violent. But he suddenly was realizing that if no one was there to yell at them then they would both give up. No one there to keep them in line, to tough out the winter. Alfred hated yelling at Matthew, but they could not be separated.

They drank their broth in silence and then immediately settled around the stove with their pile of blankets to sleep. Matthew turned his back to Alfred, huddling close to an oil lamp with an old book. Occasionally, Alfred could hear him sound out long complicated words. Matthew was smarter than Alfred, always had been and probably always would be. He could read, he could write, he knew his arithmetic as well as any believer would know the Lord's Prayer. The books didn't come from Uncle Joshua or from their parents. Alfred wasn't sure where exactly the books came from, but they belonged to Matthew and he treasured them like a horde of gold. They might be able to sell the books. Alfred suddenly shook his head, waking himself from his half asleep stupor. No. Ugly thought. Never take away something so precious to him.

"Matt?"

Matthew stopped mouthing syllables and was quiet.

"Matt?" Alfred was louder this time.

A sigh, a rustle of pages as the book was lowered. "What?"

"I love you."

Silence. Alfred grew embarrassed and tucked his face into the quilt blanket. They weren't kids anymore. Then the light of the lamp went out and Matthew shifted behind him, warm arms slipped around him, a body huddled close.

"I love you too," Matthew whispered.

Alfred grinned into the darkness, turned over and sharply pinched Matthew's arm. His twin yelped in surprise then punched Alfred lightly in the stomach, who was giggling too loudly to care. A small slap fight ensued before they cuddled close and fell asleep. All was well again.

Author's Note:

I should really learn my lesson. This is just the glimpse of an idea I've been plotting absentmindedly. If people like this then I may write out a full story. This is more for getting a feel for the story and possibly getting early feedback before I begin a larger project. I'm testing the waters. So feedback is very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!