bram mortuus, district twelve | finished {cb}

Despite living eighteen years within the centerpiece of society, there's something about Bram that seems to settle almost peacefully in Twelve. In the place of damning his mother for her wicked schemes, or missing a father that he believes could have put more effort into combating the custody dispute, he opts instead to lose himself in his books and his education.

Studious, quiet, ever a creature of wonderment / a ruby brooch in his mother's chest of tragedies and trinkets. He sits barefoot on the windowsill, reciting poems under his breath, pressed wildflowers between all his favorite pages. When he watches the trees sway in the wind, cigarette smoke curling from his open lips, it's like they're watching him back. Where Vervain expresses her emotions innately, volcano erupting, his face is still as water in winter.

There is no question that he would sacrifice all for his family. When he loves, he likes to think that he does so as openly as Rhiannon, and when he engages with a difficult situation, he can only hope that the same fire in Fee's eyes burns in his, too. But he is patient to a fault, languid in his movements, prone to distancing himself from the people who need his guidance the most. When it counts, he will always appear, specter becoming corporeal in times of crisis. But he knows he could be better; always better than who he is now.

And yet he stays perched, mind lost in a forest of prose, always awaiting calamities.