When Legends Fall

Chapter II, Part I: Miss Ramen's Home for Boy's

Chapter 2:1

Bran stretched blearily into awakening as he was swatted by Miss Ramen, who was bustling around the room and waking the other's. The smell of thirty other boy's sweat flooded his nostrils like it did every morning, making him grimace. He could hear the snobbish voice of Miss Ramen as she flurried about like a stuck chicken, "Up! Up, up! The Sun's almost risen, you hogs! Get to work, or no breakfast for you!" Bran opened his eyes. It was pitch black outside. Miss Ramen was a portly woman perhaps in her mid forties, short and stocky with thick jowls and piggish eyes. She had inherited this orphanage from her mother perhaps fifteen years back, and in that time managed to turn it from a happy home where unfortunate children could find refuge, famous for its reputation and tenacity; to a hellish, chore-riddled slave yard famous for its god-awful smell and food that was questionable at best.

Bran closed his eyes, listening to the sound of Mrs. Ramen's voice fading as she worked her way down the narrow room. He'd get at least an extra minute or two of sleep this way, and be well out the door before she got back to this side of the room. As he lay there, musing over his own cleverness, he realized something: There was no sound. Sure, there was the shuffling of feet as boys woke up and rushed out the door half-dressed, but the bellowing voice of Mrs. Ramen was conspicuously absent. Slowly, Bran opened his eyes a fraction, just in time to see the meaty hand of Miss Ramen slap him heartily across the face. Bran yelped embarrassingly, jumping up and hitting his head on the bunk above him. "You worthless twerp! You should be grateful I don't string you up by your ears! You think it's cheap to--"

And thus was the auspicious beginning to an equally ghastly day:

Bran's punishment for being a "Schnorring, ungrateful, putrid slime" was that he had to skip breakfast. Bran sighed. It was probably better off that he wasn't eating today, as breakfast was Miss Ramen's special runny green soup, and if he was caught for an instant disliking the soup, he would be given a worse punishment than skipping a meal. Bran tied his filthy rags around his feet and scampered outside, head ducked against the onslaught of laughter and mockery from the older boys. He had sold his boots ages ago to a passing fripper's cart to buy a new sling. That was before he had been assigned the duty of cleaning the cow pen. Now, Bran dreamed of shoes, and was starting to second-guess buying his sling--the only thing that kept him sane.

Bran stopped in his tracks. Thinking of his sling had reminded him of something: Gereth. Bran erupted in laughter, an imagined picture of his victim strolling through the gardens with Ms. Lady-love. Mrs. Lady-love Bran thought, storing the nickname away for future use. He chuckled once again, a picture of the hulking Gereth with a slight, fragile female on repeat in his head.

Bran knew though, that however funny he thought last night's little incident was, Gereth thought it equally so--or more--unfunny. He was actually surprised that he hadn't seen Gereth this morning. Usually if something such as this had happened, he would have loudly demanded to know who had done such a thing. When nobody answered, he would brood for the rest of the day, snapping at anyone came close. Eventually, he would decide to persecute Bran whether he did it or not, (he always did), and Bran would get revenge, starting the process over. That's why Bran was so apprehensive. Typically, he would have had his breakfast stolen, toads on his face, a fist in his guts, and a good threat taboot. The thing that irked Bran was the fact that Miss Ramen never seemed to notice when Gereth did anything; from undoing his chores to punching him in the face, but on the rare occasion Bran tried to fight back, he would be punished.

Thus, Bran resorted to covert missions. His favorite one had been when he had smuggled several live mice into Gereth's bed one night. However, when it came to the time where Bran had been expecting shouting, nothing had happened. A few weeks passed, and Bran forgot about it. But one night when Gereth went to lie down, he instantly sprang up and screamed as dozens of brown and grey mice poured out of the inside of his cot. Apparently, one of the mice had been pregnant or gotten so during its little stay.

Bran stepped into the cow-pen before realizing he had forgotten a spade. Cursing himself, he rushed to the tool-shed. When he reached it, he remembered that only Miss Ramen had the key, so none of the boys could run off and sell her ancient, half-broken implements. Curiously though, as he looked down at the latch of metal where the lock was typically stowed, it was empty. Praising his good luck, he began to open the door. For some reason unbeknownst to himself, he did it cautiously, something tickling his subconscious into suspicion. It might have been that everything was still a bit dark, or that something didn't feel right about Gereth missing, but either way, it saved his face from a whole lot of pain as an enormous fist shot out from the darkness. Startling, Bran jumped back, sending the door forward slightly. In doing so, the fist glanced off of the hard oak-lined door, causing the owner to draw a sharp intake of breath. Bran stood frozen as the vast figure loomed in the doorway, just imperceptible in the early-morning light. The figure took a step out of the shed, revealing himself. It was Gareth. In his hand was a large, though admittedly dull, spade. His eyes revealed his intentions: he was out for blood.

Never had things escalated this far before, Bran realized. I'm going to die! Part of him screamed, clouding all other thoughts. Bran's knees started to buckle as Gareth took another slow step towards him, smiling. He knew he had him. Bran felt a pulling in his gut. No. This part of him was cool and collected, icy hatred frosting his vision, crystallizing the situation into perfect clarity. He was not going to die. He would not wallow, rolling over in the mud like a timid pup. He was stronger than that. He was stronger than Gereth. He realized that all in one moment, and it calmed him. I am stronger than him.And he knew what he needed to do. He needed to appear weak. And so he did. He made his bottom lip tremble, and started blinking as if to ward off tears. Gareth raised the shovel, breath coming hard, as if he had just run ten miles. His whole face and ears were a murderous red.

Good.

Gereth's anger was hot, so it used him. Bran's anger was cold, so he could use it. "Not so cocky now, eh?" Gereth breathed, raising the shovel and swinging it sharply down in two jerky movements. To Bran it seemed as if descending through syrup. He smiled, stepping once precisely towards the inside of the blow, so it cleaved itself into the ground beside him. Gereth's arm was still holding the haft of the spade, so he was extended further than he would normally be. Seizing the opportunity, Bran drove his elbow into Gereth's exposed armpit, knocking his shoulder out of place with a surprising schclunk. Normally, it would have revolted Bran, but now, it gave him an opening. He knew he needed to keep Gereth's inner-fire raging, to keep him making rash rushes. He kindled it through an insult, "Hey Gereth, you wouldn't be in this situation if you'd stuck up like a real man for Miss Lady-love." Gereth roared and charged flat-out, dropping his shovel. Bran dove right under Gereth's right arm, picking up the shovel and standing in a vaguely defensive position before Gereth had turned around. As Gereth pivoted, Bran slapped him in the shins with the flat of the shovel, hard. Gereth dropped to his knees, grabbing at his shins at the same time, bawling like a hurt hound. Bran slithered over to him, and was only just at eye-level even standing up. When he spoke, his voice was cold and flat and neutral; like a deathly still winter night, when it hurts to breathe, and the shadows themselves are frozen into place. "You're going to leave me alone. You will not look at me. You will not talk to me. I own you. And you will obey." Gereth's eyes widened "If you fail to do any of these things, I will reach down your throat, pull out your guts, and strangle you with your own intestines in front of Miss Lady-love." In the moment he said it, Gereth believed. He stumbled to his feet, before falling from the pressure on his shins. By the time he had gotten off the ground and steadily onto his feet, Bran was long gone, but his threats lingered.

But not for long.