a~{dance}~with~{dragons}~Charade/Zoe
Sept 13, 2012 20:40:48 GMT -5
Post by Rosetta on Sept 13, 2012 20:40:48 GMT -5
[/i]~Bran Wolfe
In the morning Rajas was the first person Bran thought of. He thought of Rajas strong arms and the way they’d lifted him up on the day of the Reaping. They were so warm and nestled in them, Bran had felt safe. At home. He was sure that in those arms, in those sturdy hands, a sword would feel just as welcome.
An Avox had to help him out of bed. At home, he had bars above his bed he could pull himself up with, but in the Capitol, surrounded by the most high-tech appliances he’d ever seen, Bran didn’t have that luxury. Cheeks burning, Bran thanked the silent slave from his wheelchair and then turned away from her, so alike. They were both slaves. He, a slave to his legs, his legs that commanded the way he lived his life, and she, a slave to the Capitol. And back home, Mother would be slave to her own mind. A husband, a son and a daughter gone. How was a person to function?
Down the elevator, Bran went, down, down, always going down. Rajas would be so strong. Rajas would win, he knew and as he watched the floor, the lobby below come flying up to him, Bran recalled the last word he’d spoken to his brother. “Don’t.”
It had been a desperate plea because Bran didn’t want him following Aria into the Games. It was Bran’s name that was called, not Rajas’s. He couldn’t watch his brother fight for his life. He couldn’t let Jeyne watch Rajas fight for his life. He couldn’t take away Mother’s strongest pillar. The doors slid open and Bran knew he’d reached the lobby. The Training gymnasium was close and he could hear the clang of metal on metal. For a moment, Bran’s hands lay motionless on the wheels of Hodor. He could skip out on training and find some place to read. It would be most desirable. His heart was aching, too sore to fend off the stares, his ears too large to ignore the whispers. He could feel it painted all over him. They doubted him.
Rightfully so because Bran doubted himself just as much. His hands tensed on the wheels, preparing to wheel himself away when Aria’s words rang in his ears.
“The hero never ran away. He rode Hodor off into battle even if he thought he was going to lose. And you know what? He never lost.”
She was the one who’d told him the story of the valiant hero who had ridden the noble stead, Hodor. Based off of her story, Bran had named his wheelchair Hodor. If he couldn’t run into battle, he would just have to ride. Turning his chair once more to the room from in which the smell of sand and plastic drifted from, Bran sighed, realizing that this was just another battle. And now, more than anything, he wanted Rajas’s arms, but Bran was older enough to not need an adult to guide him across the playground. Squaring his shoulders, the would-be hero began to wheel himself towards the gymnasium. Faster, Bran, faster. Hodor, the stead, never slowed. Hodor was the fastest horse ever. He never failed.
Pumping his arms, Bran felt his ears chiming with Aria’s words. “He never lost.” Did she really say that? No, that made no sense. Bran’s stomach lurched. Every hero had their downfall. Every hero. No, he had to have lost somewhere.
Every hero fell, didn’t they?
Bran’s eyebrows shot up in horror in this realization and he began wheeling faster. He had to find Aria! How did the hero fall? Did he always win? No, no, his heart was thumping so loudly, the doors that he’d wheeled himself through flying behind him in a blur of color and he saw a flash of her hair and before he knew it, Bran riding so quickly on Hodor collided with her, but in his frenzy, he hardly noticed.
“A-Aria, Aria!” he cried out, gasping for breath, “Aria, how did the h-hero die? He d-didn’t always w-win! How, how did he die, Aria?”[/color][/size]
[ooc: I hope you don't mind Aria telling him that story, Zoe! It only seemed right! And Charade wanted to join the thread too<3][/blockquote]
