The Undeveloped Story {Curtis DP}// Bran

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~Bran Wolfe

When night fell, Bran made his escape. The vile thing that contained him relaxed and even soon fell into a rhythmic snoring pattern. Carefully, Bran detached himself from the beast and, using its own slime, eased the chains that bound him off. Once free, he hastily slid himself back into his toga and before dragging himself over, Bran took the risk and swiped the spike-studded collar that the beast wore around its neck. Scrawled in a dazzling array of what appeared to be diamonds was the name “Tartarus.” Frowning at its unusualness, Bran slid the collar into his bag, gathered his stuff and slipped off, dragging himself away as quickly as he could. One would think he would be well-rested, having spent the day pampering a worm, but in reality, Bran was exhausted. His muscles were sore, his eyes were droopy, but most of all, his head ached for he was forcing himself to keep awake and keep moving for he had to find Curtis.

Though he didn’t like to admit it, the real source of Bran’s headache was fear that bound his chest more tightly than the chains ever did. Throughout the day, Bran had heard cannon after cannon after cannon. Three in total which meant the number of survive tributes had reached five, Bran himself one of them. It left him with a sort of elated, shocked feeling, a balloon in his stomach that popped into butterflies when he remembered that he didn’t even know if Curtis or even his sister for that case was still alive.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Bran saw him. A figure, on the ground, looming out of the darkness even darker against the black ground. Asleep? That’s what Bran wanted to think. Not dead, surely not dead. Asleep, maybe asleep. Until it called out his name in a weak, shivery force. “Curtis,” Bran muttered softly unable to even cry out for it didn’t appear to be true. Curtis’s voice was stronger than that. No, it couldn’t be him. But, Bran dragged himself faster and faster onto his was nearly upon the figure and that was when his stomach lurched.

Curtis. Lying in a pool of his own blood, barely clinging to life. Bran felt hot bile rise up in his throat when he saw the fatal wound: something had split his skull, revealing that soft and squishy, bloody thing inside of it. And through it, Curtis’s soul was escaping. “No…no…” Bran whispered out, his voice pained for he felt every single jab of agony that afflicted Curtis. That’s what brothers did and for a vague moment, Bran wondered if perhaps Rajas felt the same numb feeling in his legs when Bran woke up, screaming in horror.
"Haahnng. C-can't f-ffeel my my anyth-th-thing. B-bran? D-don't leave p-pplease? T-ttell me a st-story or s-s-omething? Heh. I w-w-was s-supp-pp-pposed to p-pro-tt-tect y-you. C-couldn't e-even do t-that. I-I'm h-a-ha-lf the man I u-used to b-b-e. Heha-h-haha G-get it?"

Curtis’s dying humor was lost on Bran who was caught up on one thing only. Tell him a story? That was what Curtis could ask now in all times as he lay dying? Bran’s mind was blank, unable to fulfill a dying boy’s wish. “Curtis…oh my gosh…Curtis…you want…you want a story?” Stories were lies, illusions. Aria had told him stories of heroes who’d vanquished all, but that was all a distraction to hide who the real villain was. Would Curtis want to hear of the hero and his mighty stead, Hodor? Would he laugh, as weak as he was, at the farse the story surely was? All Bran’s mind could find was a more somber story…a story of the dead. And swallowing hard, Bran told it.

“When a hero dies, he must pass through several great trials. He must walk through a sea of fire without turning back, climb an icy mountain without falling, dance nonstop for three days and three nights and so on and so forth.” Bran paused. It was a story that Rajas had actually told him, a story Mother found too harsh to fall upon the delicate ears of young children like Bran and Ricky. But, Rajas could take it. In fact, Rajas liked to tell it…Curtis would like to hear it especially if Bran was the one to tell it. “The last trial is the most important,” Bran went on, taking a long deep breath and lowering his voice for a story for the dying always came in a whisper. “The hero must resist the voices of the past. He must climb a ladder as they call for him. Those he always knew and loved.” Bran took a deep shuddering breath for his arms were aching with the climb. “He must never turn back, he must keep climbing. And if he turns back or looks, he will…be eternally damned,” and Bran’s quivering hands reached out and gripped tightly to Curtis. “But, that won’t happen to you,” he swallowed hard, “I know you’ll keep climbing and up there, it’s heaven, Curtis…it’s heaven…you’ll make it.” His voice was barely a desperate whisper now for he didn’t want Curtis to make it. He wanted Curtis here, but the boy was instructing him towards his cuff link now and he wanted him to take it home.

Like a leaf on a tree in high winds, Bran took the cuff link and turned it carefully over in his hand, expecting its silver to catch the light, but there was no light in Curtis’s eyes. It was fading and Bran desperately grabbed at his neck, knowing that he needed Curtis to climb that ladder with a piece of him. “Curtis, take this, take this please,” the necklace easily came off of Bran’s neck and he fumbled as he struggled to clasp it around Curtis’s neck, slick with blood. “It’s a Wolfe heirloom,” Bran told him speaking so quickly he barely made any sense at all, but trying to fill the swiftly closing window of time. “It’s a raven, not a wolf, but that’s okay. I wish I could fly. You’re a Wolfe now,” Bran told him, his teeth chattering as he finally got the clasp closed and he was able to pull away, his hands scarlet with what used to be Curtis. “You’re my brother, you’re a Wolfe now, you wear it. You…you take it with you, alright?” Bran’s voice broke and there were hot tears in his eyes. Curtis was leaving. Gone. He wasn’t coming back and Bran felt sick.

“Th-th-thanks for n-not leaving m-m...”

Curtis’s voice was fading and Bran gave a great cry, not caring if anyone heard, and began to beg breathlessly. “No, Curtis, no, no, don’t go. Don’t leave me. Please!” He even reached forward, towards the broken halves of skull and plunged into the warm flow of blood, trying to push Curtis back together, into a whole piece. “Don’t go, don’t go,” Bran moaned out, his tears flowing freely now, his chest heaving, “don’t go, please, Curtis, don’t go, please.” It was fruitless. Curtis’s eyes were staring, but they didn’t see Bran. In fact, they didn’t see a thing.

It was hard for Bran to later piece together what happened next. He remembered gasping as if he couldn’t breathe. He remembered pounding his fists on the ground. He remembered throwing up. He remembered clutching his stomach in pain. And he remembered screaming and screaming just like he had when he woke up crippled because this was another fall, another blow to the spine, another crippling effect and Bran was immobilized, shaking hard over Curtis’s body. He was dead. He was gone. And he had begged Bran to win, but Bran had begged him to stay.

Two things that could never be done.

Bran didn’t move until he knew that he was making matters worse for himself by keeping the Gamemakers from retrieving the body. And then, he finally took a deep breath to calm the chills that passed up and down his body and squeezed Curtis’s hand which by now had gone cold and whispered to him the truth, “I’ll see you again soon.” It chilled him down to the bone, but there was reassurance in knowing that neither Curtis nor Bran would climb alone and so Bran lifted his hand and promised, “Soon, brother. I promise, soon.”

Pulling himself away was the hardest part. Bran felt like he was leaving a part of himself behind, the same part he left crumbled at the foot of the Justice Building and that part was slowly dragging at him as well into the land of the dead and only leaving this terrible place would sever that tie. At least he has me, a bit of me, Bran thought vaguely, trying to reassure himself.

Later that night, Bran curled up on his own, by himself, completely and utterly alone and searched for the part of Curtis inside of him, but all he found was cobwebs and a hammering heart for Bran was jusas he was as the day he’d heard his name cried out. Bran was hollow inside, incomplete without his brother by his side.