A Very Special Slave Breakers Solstice

[maculategiraffe]

Gyaaah. Things are just too insane right now (and I still haven't got a gift for my stepbrother-in-law's girlfriend, though I suppose that's why God invented the Body Shop) for me to plot and pace to my own standards, let alone those of the faithful readers I wouldn't disappoint for the world. Chapter eight is therefore still in the revisionary stages, but lest y'all think I don't love you-- and at Christmas!-- will you have a dashed-off, eggnog-sweet, G-rated holiday special? Takes place four months after Holden brings Bran home for good.






"Yves?"

"Hey, kid. Come on in."

Bran came in and looked over Yves' shoulder at the complicated symbols he was scratching onto paper. Yves put down his pencil and smiled up at Bran. "What's up? Need some company?"

"Only if you're not busy."

"I'm not." Yves got up and sprawled out on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow and gesturing to Bran to sit next to him. Bran obeyed, and Yves patted him on the leg. "Something on your mind?"

"I was just wondering." Bran hesitated. "Do they-- celebrate the solstice?"

Yves peered at him. "We're not really religious around here, kid."

"No, I know," Bran mumbled. "But some people-- I know nobles don't celebrate-- but they're not. Noble. I just wondered."

"Did your family celebrate or something?"

"Sure." Bran was surprised. "Didn't yours?"

"Are you kidding? First time I ever saw my parents celebrate anything was my brother's fifteenth birthday. Next time was mine." He grimaced. "I forget-- some people's parents actually wanted them."

Bran nodded. "Mine did."

"Yeah? How'd you end up--" Yves gestured vaguely at both of them, or maybe their clothing.

"They died," said Bran uncomfortably.

"Oh, hey, I'm sorry, kid."

"It's okay." Bran shrugged. "So they don't-- celebrate?"

"Most kids who get sold don't have great solstice memories," Yves pointed out gently. "I doubt it's any different for the master and mistress."

"No, I guess not." Bran shrugged again. "I just wondered."



The evening before the solstice Bran feigned sleepiness until Holden ordered him to bed, hoping the ruse would ensure no one would summon him to service tonight; he wanted to be alone. He wanted to remember, as he hadn't had time or energy or courage to remember in a long time, his parents.

He lay in bed thinking-- as he had on the eve of the solstice as a child-- of how his mother would make his favorite foods, would make sure there was a gift waiting at the foot of his bed when he woke: a toy or a picture book his eye had lingered on at the market, or, as he grew older, some bit of clothing-- a hat, a belt, one year a money pouch-- that his mother had made or scrimped to buy for him. How he'd wake up smelling breakfast, and the pancake on his plate would be made in the shape of a capital B, and his mother's pretty, fragile face would be flushed and smiling at his delight when she kissed him, while his father joked that they should have named him Owen and saved a lot of trouble on solstice mornings.

And, later, his father would lift him up in his strong arms to place the winter offering-- a robin's nest, still cluttered with discarded eggshells, carefully searched for in spring and preserved until now-- on the highest branch of the little rowan tree planted by their door, to welcome spring back and ensure that the turning year would be a good one for the crops. And, back inside, they'd all tell their favorite god stories. Bran was good at telling stories; when he was caught up in the telling, he could do the best roaring-giant voices, and the best trembling-peasant voices, though he could never replicate the effect unless he was in the middle of a story.

Bran was glad his parents had never known he'd become a slave. He knew they didn't think slavery was right; when his mother had gotten so sick, a slave dealer had offered his parents an advance on Bran for when he turned fifteen, to help with the medical bills, but they'd been horrified at the idea. After they were dead, he'd told his grandfather that, but it had only seemed to make his grandfather colder to him, and more determined to sell him as soon as he turned fifteen.

He turned over, hoping more than ever that no one would want him tonight; he really wasn't in the mood to be pleasing. Of course, just the fact that he had the luxury to think that after having been sent to bed-- his bed-- instead of punished savagely for yawning in the presence of his betters, made this a considerable improvement over the last solstice evening.

And tomorrow was his day to go to the market; he could look at the toys they were selling and see if there were any like what he used to have. That might be fun. He'd kept every solstice gift he'd ever gotten, even when he got too big to play with some of the toys; his mother said waste not, want not, and his own children could play with them when he was grown. He wondered what his grandfather had ever done with them all. Thrown them away, probably. No one would pay much for old toys. Certainly not as much as they'd paid for Bran. And it wasn't like Bran would ever have children of his own now.

He turned over again, determinedly; this was getting maudlin, and he was dangerously close to pointless tears. If he didn't go to sleep, he'd be little good to anyone in the morning.

But he slept restlessly and woke up what seemed like every hour, as if the excitement of the solstice were still in his blood, rousing him early to check the foot of his bed, even though he knew nothing would be there. He got up early and took special care washing and dressing himself; it could still feel like a holiday, even if no one else knew he was celebrating it. He was especially cheerful at breakfast, and when Holden leaned down on his way out the door to kiss him on the mouth, he considered it a good omen, a sweet beginning to the day. Bran was grown up now; he didn't need his breakfast shaped into an initial to start a holiday out right.

Later, at the market, he saw that other people, and not just children, were celebrating; they had bits of rowan tied over their stalls and were wishing one another a happy solstice. One pastry seller was selling little robin's nests made of scraps of dough woven together. Bran had seen them before; when he was little he'd begged his mother to buy him one, and his mother had laughed and said she'd make him one at home-- and she had, even brushing the dough with egg white to make it gleam when it was baked. These, he saw, were even more elaborate; they had little blue candy eggshells inside, and were more expensive, but indulgent parents were buying them for their children anyway.

He suddenly discovered that he felt sorry for Yves and Jer and Greta, and even Holden and Alix, whose parents hadn't wanted them, or loved them, or celebrated with them. At least Bran had his memories; at least he felt like part of something today. And not just part of someone's property.

He also discovered that grown up or not, he wanted one of the little robin's nests badly. But the only money he had was his owners', and he didn't have the right to spend it on things for himself, especially things he was pretty sure he wasn't allowed to eat. He knew refined sugar, like coffee and alcohol, was generally forbidden for slaves, who needed healthy bodies and teeth. But he didn't even really want the little candy eggs, although he thought they were a cute touch; he just wanted a nest like the one his mother had baked for him. He couldn't remember how it tasted.

"One for you, lad?" the baker asked in a kind voice. He'd bought from her before, often, but he still didn't know her name. He was ordinarily shy and awkward around the free people at the market, but today he couldn't feel it. These were people like his parents; this was a woman who made little robin's nests for the solstice, like his mother. Bran forgot the gulf of status between them and spoke to her as if he were an ordinary customer.

"I can't," he said regretfully. "They're great, though. My mother used to make these, but the eggs-- I've never seen that before."

"You're one of those who belongs to the slave breakers, aren't you?" the woman asked, and Bran felt himself redden as at a slap, dropping his gaze. That was what he got for forgetting his place.

"Yes, ma'am," he said dully.

"Take one, lad," she said, wrapping a nest up in paper as she spoke.

"I can't," Bran repeated, feeling almost angry now. "I don't have any money."

"Slaves usually don't," the woman agreed mildly. "No charge. Happy solstice."

"But--" Bran didn't know what to say, but she was thrusting the delicate little package into his hand, closing his fingers carefully around it. "Ma'am-- I don't--"

"Call me Marta." She reached out and touched his flaming cheek. "And wish me a happy solstice."




When he unloaded his purchases for Fox, her sharp eyes caught the small package, and she tried to snatch it up. "What's this?"

"It's mine," he said, grabbing it and holding it defiantly behind his back. "Someone gave it to me. For the solstice."

"For the solstice?" Fox looked puzzled. "I didn't know anyone around here even remembered what day it was." She peered at him, suddenly suspicious. "Who gave it to you? Tell me you're not idiot enough to have a lover."

"I'm not," said Bran, outraged.

"Well, it's none of my business," said Fox, still suspicious, "but if it's something you ought not to have, you'd better find a good hiding place or learn to tell a decent lie before your master gets back."

"It's not--" said Bran, and under the influence of the same odd sense of holiday kinship he'd felt with the people at the market-- Fox remembered what day it was-- he unwrapped the foolish little confection and showed it to Fox. "My mom used to say these were overpriced-- she'd bake me one at home. I was looking at them, and the baker gave me one for free. For the solstice."

"How much was she charging?" Fox asked, and when Bran told her, "They are overpriced. Just scraps of dough brushed with egg white. Though the little eggshells are cunning. But you know you can't eat this, Bran."

"I just--" Bran flushed. "I just wanted to-- have it."

Fox wrapped it back up and pushed it into his hand. "Well, don't be blaming me if you get in trouble."

Bran ran upstairs and put the package in the drawer of his nightstand. It wasn't much of a hiding place-- in fact, it was no hiding place at all, considering that lubricant was kept in the same drawer and Holden was extremely likely to open it-- but it got the thing out of sight for a moment while Bran sat down on the bed, his heart pounding at Fox's words: if you get in trouble-- He felt sick at the idea of making Holden angry by eating forbidden foods, especially when actually eating it felt a bit beside the point, but he didn't want to throw the pretty little nest away, either. He didn't know what he wanted. He didn't want to have to hide his solstice gift. The whole point was to show off how happy getting a gift made you; the whole point was sharing.

Before your master gets back, Fox had said-- so Holden was still out. Bran went slowly back down the stairs and sat on the bottom one, facing the front door, waiting and thinking about the baker's gentle, motherly touch to his cheek, and his own mother, and how it used to be before she got sick. His restless night was catching up with him, and he leaned his head on the stairs.

He woke with Holden's hand on his shoulder. "Bran? What are you doing sleeping on the stairs?"

"I was waiting for you, master," he said, his heart pounding all over again. "Do you have a minute? I want to show you something."



Seated beside his master on his bed, he explained as Holden examined the little nest Bran had placed in his cupped hands.

"I didn't want to eat it without permission," he finished. "I know I'm not supposed to have-- candy. If you don't want me to eat it, master, that's fine. I just-- you know. Wanted to-- show you."

Holden handed the nest back to Bran and leaned over to kiss him on the forehead.

"Of course you may eat it," he said. "You were right to ask permission, but a few little candy eggshells once a year aren't going to ruin your health. If I'd known you were celebrating I'd have given you some money to get yourself something." He put a warm hand on Bran's back. "Do you want to pay the baker back?"

Bran smiled at his master, filled with relief. "No, thank you, master-- I think she liked giving it to me."

"I think you're probably right, at that." Holden stroked his back as Bran rewrapped the little nest and put it back in the drawer. "Going to save it for later? Don't wait too long-- it will get stale."

"I'll eat it tonight before bed." Bran leaned against his master as Holden put an affectionate arm around him and hugged him close. "Thank you, master."

"Nothing to thank me for, kid." Holden gave Bran another quick squeeze and got up. "And, hey. Save me a piece?"

Bran looked up at him hopefully. "You mean-- tonight?"

"Yeah," said Holden, pausing in the doorway and smiling at the look on Bran's face. "Tonight."



That evening when Fox served the dinner, she served Bran last, slamming down his plate as if daring anyone to comment.

"What the hell?" said Jer, leaning over for a better look at Bran's plate, but Fox had already vanished back to the kitchen. Bran couldn't stop grinning at his plate, at the fish filet that Fox had deftly cut out and manipulated into the shape of a rather spiky capital B.