When Legends Fall

Chapter I, Part II: Bran

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Chapter 1:2

Bran realized he was an idiot as he heard the high-pitched wail of a young girl and the crashing of a fifteen year old behemoth stumbling into the brush after him. Fifteen seconds ago, it had seemed such a plausible idea. Despite his impending beating, he smiled as he mentally replayed what he'd done:

He'd been watching for several nights now, and knew the older boy's habits as well as he knew his own. He didn't know the boy's name, but that didn't matter. He'd been pushed by him down in the mud twice, and had his afternoon meal stolen too many times to count. That was enough to know he needed punishment. And so he watched, and waited. As it happened, every night at eighth bell, the older boy would make his rounds along a garden path. At the moment, Bran was hanging upside down from the branch of a pine tree, needles festooning the front of his shirt. He breathed in and out shallowly, not wanting the faintest of disturbances to betray his presence.

Then, finally, through a break in the trees, he saw the boy coming. Another person, slightly shorter, walked beside him in pace. One of his cronies. Bran took another stone from his pocket and kept it in hand, ready to load it into the sling he had in his other. He wasn't expecting the friend. Merely a happy accident. Then, naturally, he whipped the worn leather sling around and let go, sending a fingertip-sized projectile hurtling towards the back of the older boy's head. It hit with a satisfying craack followed in quick succession by a yelp of surprise and pain. Bran smiled, savoring the moment before loading and whirling the sling again in a single fluid motion. When the stone hit this time, it slammed between the shoulder-blades of the second person, causing a strangely high-pitched girlish yelp which turned into a high, keening scream.

Bran muttered low to himself in disbelief,

"Horseshit."

Half of him was in muted horror at nailing a lady in the back with a sling, half of him wanted to laugh at the thought of the blundering, vulgar boy taking heartfelt moonlit strolls through gardens.

He froze as he heard muted curses and the boy charging through the thorny brambles to get at him. He's even more of an idiot that I thought admired Bran, He must be cutting himself to ribbons. He stared for a second in bewildered respect of such a threshold of idiocy before shaking himself into movement. He scrambled down the tree like a squirrel, scratching his palms on the rough bark and sending particles of dust into his eyes. He blinked furiously and continued, leaping like a deer over sticks and rocky formations.

He knew he couldn't keep it up 'till he reached Miss Ramen's, so he dove behind a tree, tucking clumsily into a roll. It hurt his spine where it struck a tree root, and didn't necessarily help so much as slow him down. I really need to practice this more often. Bran winced as he made sure no part of him was in sight, hugging his legs to his chest. As the boy came charging past, snorting like a bull, Bran darted a leg out. The boy went flying, arms flapping in the breeze like wings.

As he groaned in the dirt, breath knocked out of him, Bran knew he should run. He also knew, however, that this was prime time for gloating . He swung his sling around by one end a few times, making it whistle in the air. Putting on a posh accent, he chirped, "You! Yes, the putrescent wallowing slug! What might be your name?" With the boy's first shaky breath, he sputtered, "G-Gereth."

"Well, you Gereth," Bran continued, cracking his sling like a whip, "should be entirely ashamed of yourself. Playing in the mud like a hog." Bran clucked his tongue in the perfect imitation of a disappointed schoolmaster, "But" he sighed, "All learn through due punishment." Before Gereth could respond, Bran had whipped him three times stingingly across the backside, and scurried off into the darkness like a rabbit. Luckily for Bran, Gereth was too dazed to think about giving chase anytime soon. Unluckily, however, was the fact that even though Bran partially disguised his voice, Gereth recognized it. He tried to stand up quickly, knocking his head hard on a low-growing branch. As his vision gave way to blackness, his last thoughts were of Bran, and the things he swore to do to him.