Lee chapter 40

[maculategiraffe]

"Come on, master," said Bran, laughing. "You know his lordship is going to guard Lee with his life."

"I'd rather he didn't have to," said Holden, slowing the car to take a sharp curve on the bumpy dirt road. "And I'd rather Lee weren't adjusting to a new owner and sudden notoriety at the same time. Andrei's waited this long; he can wait until we see just what the fallout from the article is going to be."

"What's the worst that could happen?" Bran asked, his glance darting out the window again.

"Never ask me that, kiddo," said Holden. "I've got an overactive imagination. And if Dunaev's nasty little mind snaps under the strain of national humiliation, I'd rather he came and battered down my door than Andrei's."

Bran laughed so loudly he startled Holden, and he kept laughing.

"Oh, gods, I almost hope he does," he said finally, wiping at his eyes. "I mean, not really, but if you and Jer were there--"

"The legal repercussions would be considerable," said Holden, with an amused sideways glance at Bran. "Getting bloodthirsty on me, Bran?"

"Maybe a little," said Bran, grinning back.

They had already been driving for several hours, first to the small town, and then on a series of long, rambling, unreliable dirt roads outside it, and Bran was still in a giddy mood, as if it were a holiday. Holden supposed it was, in a way; he'd taken the day off all work obligations, including Lee (who barely seemed alarmed at the prospect of being left alone with only Yves and Jer and Alix for protection; he'd really made fantastic strides) and they weren't expected back at the house until evening. Bran was wonderful company, and Holden was in a good mood himself, though he couldn't help an edge of nervousness about their destination.

"Anyway, I definitely like the idea of 'national humiliation' for Lord Dunaev," Bran continued, still staring out the window. "Do you really think it will be that?"

"You read the final drafts," said Holden. "And that wasn't even the illustrated version. Unless there's serious backlash against the article and us, Dunaev is not going to be a happy man tomorrow."

Bran shivered. "I wonder if he's bought a new slave yet."

"I don't know," said Holden quietly. "If he has, I guess we can hope he'll be shamed into not doing anything too dire."

"Yeah," said Bran. "I don't know if-- oh!"

"What?" Holden asked.

"We're getting close," said Bran, and then he didn't say anything else for a while, as Holden kept driving.

Eventually, his hand shot out and closed around Holden's wrist; Holden looked up and saw that he was staring at a tiny house-- more of a cottage, or a cabin-- painted gray, and set well back from the road, in the middle of a field.

Holden pulled over and parked. Bran was very pale, and his hand was at the steel collar around his neck, tugging restlessly at the chain leash clipped to it.

"This is weird, master," he said, forcing a smile.

"I can take it off," said Holden, reaching for the ring of keys at his belt.

"No, no, not that," said Bran, clapping his hand protectively over the collar. "I meant being here at all."

"We can leave if you want, kiddo," said Holden gently. "You know where it is now. We can come back another day."

"No, master," said Bran resolutely. "I want to see if anyone's living there now. And I want to see--"

Without finishing his sentence, he opened the car door; Holden opened his, too, and got out. They met in front of the hood, and without speaking, Bran offered the end of the leash to Holden, and Holden took it. When Bran took a step forward, Holden moved with him.

"I should have made you wear proper shoes," he said, looking at the harsh thistles and stones on the dirt path as they walked, slowly, through the field and towards the house.

"I'm fine, master," said Bran, looking up at the house. "I used to play along here, barefoot."







It had been three days ago-- Holden had taken a little time to make sure no pressing matters would come up today-- when he'd poked his head into Bran's bedroom, looking for Lee, and found it empty but for something lying on the neatly made bed. Three things, actually, once Holden looked more closely: a simple metal collar, the kind that locked at the back, with a lead ring at the front of the neck; the key to the collar, on a key ring; and a light chain leash.

Holden looked at them for a few long moments. The collar was unlocked, the key ring strung on it like a pendant. Holden picked them both up, and then the leash, pouring the cold metal of the chain links into one hand, before he went downstairs to the kitchen.

Bran was in there, sitting at the kitchen table with nothing in front of him; he looked up quickly when Holden came in, but without his usual smile of greeting.

"Hey," said Holden. "You okay?"

"Yes, master," said Bran, his eyes staying fixed on Holden as he crossed the room and sat down at the table. He didn't seem to notice what Holden had in his hands. "Just thinking."

"Don't let me stop you," said Holden.

Bran shook his head. "It's okay."

There was a pause before Holden added, placing the collar, leash, and key on the table, "Found these on your bed."

"Oh--" Bran looked up quickly. "I got them out of the training room. I-- I should have asked permission."

"It's okay," said Holden. "But what did you want them for?"

Bran looked at the items for a few moments, and then he slid from his chair to his knees at Holden's feet and dropped his forehead, as if wearily, onto Holden's knees.

"Bran, sweetheart," Holden said softly, and put one hand on Bran's back and the other on his curls. "My love, what's wrong?"

Bran was trembling under his hand, and he shook his head. Holden waited, keeping still by an effort of will that had him trembling a little himself, until the boy finally lifted a pale face to his and said, "Master--"

"Yes," said Holden, one hand now cupping Bran's cheek, the other rubbing gently at his shoulder.

"You know how you've been saying you wanted to pay me, for all the work I've been doing with Lee?"

"Yes, of course."

"I thought of something," said Bran.

"Good," said Holden, even though he wasn't sure it was, what with all the kneeling and trembling. "What is it?"

Bran was quiet for so long that Holden started counting, silently, in his head, to keep himself still. He'd reached four hundred and twelve by the time Bran spoke again.

"Did you know I actually have five runaway attempts, not four?" he asked.

"There's one I don't know about?" Holden asked lightly. "Should I update your record?"

"No," said Bran, smiling faintly. "That record doesn't start till I'm fifteen. Before that-- I ran away from my grandfather's house. I was trying to get home, to my parents' farm. Of course it wasn't theirs any more-- my grandfather had sold it, and he'd gotten rid of all their things, and all my things, too. My toys from when I was little, and most of my clothes. He said there wasn't room to keep them at his place. Well, there wasn't. There was barely room for me. He had to put a cot in his bedroom."

"What did he do with the money from the farm?" Holden demanded. "He couldn't have gotten a bigger place, once he had you to look after?"

"I guess not," said Bran, furrowing his brow. "I didn't really think about that. Maybe he didn't think it would be worth it, since he was going to sell me as soon as he could. Anyway." He smiled up at Holden. "I was just a kid. I guess I thought if I could just get back home, everything would somehow be okay again. So I tried, but I didn't make it. I got ridiculously lost, and then a policeman took me home, and my grandfather punished me for being gone so long. He didn't even ask where I'd been."

"Someday I'm going to find your grandfather," said Holden, "and take great pleasure in punching him in the face."

Bran smiled. "Don't do that, master. He wasn't so bad, not compared to my other owners-- I mean--" He laughed. "I mean, compared to Lords Oreskovich and Dunaev. I guess my grandfather wasn't technically my owner."

"He might as well have been," said Holden grimly.

"Yeah, well, that's true for all kids, isn't it?" said Bran pensively. "Your parents own you, until they sell you or you grow up. But my parents were good owners. I was so happy, when I was a kid, when they were alive. They loved me, and I loved them. And all those times I tried to run away-- I knew they were dead, I knew it was all gone-- I just--" He looked away. "I guess I couldn't make myself believe there was no way-- home."

Another silence fell, but this one didn't last too long before Bran added, "I never thought to ask before, because-- well, I'm afraid it might be a lot of trouble. We can't take the train. It's way out in the country, so it would have to be the car. I don't even know exactly where the farm is. I only know what it's near. And there are probably new people living there-- or not, I don't know. But I thought, since you wanted to-- reward me-- I just thought I'd ask."

Holden kept his voice steady when he answered, "Of course I'll take you there, Bran."

Bran looked up at him, his eyes bright. "You will?"

"If that's what you want, absolutely," said Holden. "I'll take a day off, and we'll find it for you."

"Thank you, master," said Bran, rising from his knees, and sat back down at the table. "It doesn't have to be right away. Whenever's convenient for you. I didn't mean to rush you, getting out the leash and collar and everything."

"What do the leash and collar have to do with it?" Holden asked, puzzled.

"I thought I'd wear them, when we go," said Bran, reaching out to pull the links of the chain slightly towards himself, then spread them in a circle with his fingers.

Holden blinked at him. "What? Why?"

"Because I'm a slave," said Bran.







Holden let go of the leash when he knocked on the door; he wasn't going to have it look, to whatever strangers lived here, as though he thought Bran might bolt at any moment. A mousy-haired young woman answered the door, a dishcloth still in her hand, wearing a flour-dusted, soapsud-spattered apron over a visibly pregnant belly. Her eyes nearly started out of her head at the sight of Holden, dressed like a nobleman in blue, black and gold, and Bran in his slave tunic, flimsy sandals, and steel collar, with the chain leash hanging down in front.

"My lord...?" she said in confusion.

"I'm sorry to intrude, ma'am," Holden said courteously. "My name is Holden Larssen, and this is my slave, Bran."

"Bran?" said the woman, her eyes going even wider as she stared at Bran. "Bran the little boy who used to live here?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Bran, watching her.

"Bran, it's me," she said. "Hilda."

Bran was much too pale, and his forehead was glimmering with perspiration. Holden wanted desperately to pull him away and take him home-- this had obviously been a huge mistake-- but he stayed still.

"Hilda," Bran said slowly, with the ghost of a smile. "Of course. Evan's big sister."

"Even bigger now," said the woman, who seemed to want to smile back, but was eyeing Holden warily. "And so are you, Bran. I haven't seen you since you were--"

"Nine," said Bran, swallowing. "Ma'am."

"Won't you come in?" she asked, backing up awkwardly to let them into a sunny, yellow-curtained, slightly cluttered area that seemed to serve as both living room and kitchen. There were toys on the floor: a brightly painted wooden horse on wheels, with a doll astride it, its skirts hitched up. Holden stepped on a wooden building block. "I'm sorry, the place is a mess-- and the baby's asleep, so don't mind me if I speak softly. Please sit down, sit--"

She gestured at the kitchen table, which had a milk bottle filled with wildflowers in the center of it. Holden and Bran sat down. Hilda seemed to hesitate.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" she asked. "Coffee?"

Holden looked at Bran, who looked back at him, still too pale, his eyes suspiciously glassy.

"If it's no trouble," he said to Hilda. "Black for me, cream and sugar for him."

Hilda busied herself making coffee, and Bran raised his eyebrows at Holden.

"You need something hot and sweet right now," Holden said, under the sound of the coffee grinder.

"I'm glad you came by," said Hilda, when it had stopped, "but I-- I don't understand. Didn't you have family in the city? Weren't they going to take care of you? How--"

"My granddad," said Bran. "He sold me."

Hilda started to say something, and then she darted a look at Holden and shut her mouth.

"Why don't I leave you two alone to catch up?" suggested Holden, who could take a hint. He started to rise; Bran grabbed his arm, digging his fingers in hard. "I'll be right outside, Bran. Take your time. Have anything you like to eat or drink."

"Master," Bran whispered, and Holden reached out to caress the collar with one hand as he kissed Bran's cheek.

"Let me know when you want me to come back in," he said gently.

The house had a small porch, with two rocking chairs, their red paint weather-blistered and peeling. Holden sank down in one of them, trying not to think about anything in particular. Like Bran as a child, playing around his parents' feet as they sat here in the evenings. Bran's toys scattered across that floor. Bran grown up, coming home from the fields for lunch, kissing his pregnant wife, the toddler jumping up from her play to scramble into her father's waiting arms.

Bran sitting at the table where his mother had taught him good table manners, collared and leashed with steel.




"Why on earth should you wear a collar and chain? The last time I took you out, you wore my clothes."

"I know, master," said Bran. "But that was for you and Lee, so you wouldn't have to deal with all the attention on the train. This is for me. If I'm going back to-- to where I used to live, I don't want to do it dressed up as a citizen. Pretending I'm something I'm not."

"Okay, but not wearing a leash and collar isn't pretending anything," said Holden, frowning. "I've never needed to use anything like that with you, not since..."

He trailed off, and after a moment Bran said, "Since you brought me home. I know, master."

He lifted the collar from the table and put it around his own neck; there was a sharp click as the lock snapped into place. Both of them looked at the key for a moment before Bran picked it up, placed it in the palm of Holden's hand, and curled Holden's fingers closed around it.

"I never ran away from home," he said. "Not once. I was always just trying to get home."

Holden's fist clenched so tightly around the key that the ring dug painfully into his palm. "I know."

"But there's only one other place I've ever thought of as home," said Bran. "And if we're going there, I want your collar around my neck."






"You want your coffee, Mr. Larssen?"

Holden jumped and looked up; Hilda was standing next to him, holding out a thick crockery mug by the handle.

"Thank you," he said, smiling up at her as he took it and cupped it between his hands, which were oddly cold, despite the mildness of the day.

"You're welcome," she said, not smiling back, and then hesitated. "Bran looks-- well. I guess he eats all right."

"I try," Holden answered.

"It's decent of you to bring him here," she said. "Since he asked."

Holden nodded. "I'd do a lot to make Bran happy."

"That's good," said Hilda, and hesitated again. "Well-- sure you're all right out here?"

"Fine, thanks," said Holden, and Hilda went back inside.




He was just thinking of going back in and asking for something to read when Hilda and Bran came out onto the porch.

"I'm ready to go now," said Bran, who looked exhausted; there were dark circles under his eyes.

"Sure you won't stay for lunch?" Hilda asked, taking Holden's empty coffee cup from him as he rose.

"No, thank you," said Bran, managing a smile at Hilda. "Thank you for everything, though. It's been-- thank you."

"You're welcome, honey," she said. "Come back and visit any time, you hear?"

Bran jammed the end of the leash so hard into Holden's hand that it hurt; Holden laced his fingers through it. It was a bit of a comfort, especially since he didn't want to touch Bran himself just now; the boy looked strung out and fragile enough to shatter at a caress.

"Thank you," Holden said to Hilda.

"You're welcome," she said again. "You take good care of him, now."

"I'll do my best," said Holden.

As they walked down the path towards the car again, Holden looked back and saw her still standing on the porch, watching them go.

"Worse than going back to Dunaev's?" he asked Bran in a low voice.

Bran nodded. "Way worse."

"Sorry we came?"

Bran shook his head.

It wasn't until they had gotten into the car and were pulling away, leaving the little house behind, that Bran said, "There's somewhere else I want to go."

"Where?"

"Hilda asked if I’d been to see where my parents are buried," said Bran. “I haven’t. Not since the funeral.”

Holden flinched. "Bran-- are you sure you're up for that right now?"

"Yes," said Bran, his jaw set.

He looked too tired to be up for anything but a nap, but he also looked determined, and making the boy beg to be allowed to visit his parents' graves was out of the question. Holden said, "Do you know how to get there from here?"

"Hilda told me," said Bran. "Stay on this road for a while. Back into town."

Holden obeyed.

They drove in silence until they reached the town, and then in near silence as Bran gave him terse directions ("Turn left here." “Keep going.”), until they reached a small cemetery, and Holden pulled over and parked again. Bran sat looking out the window at the headstones. Holden did math in his head and stayed still, until Bran turned to him, touched the collar, and said, “Will you take this off?”

Holden took the keys from the ignition, reached up and brushed the ends of Bran’s hair aside, and turned the little key in the lock. Bran pulled the collar off and set it between them, then opened the car door.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Holden asked, and Bran shook his head without looking back.

Holden watched as he wound his way among the graves, looking at the names on the stones; he went quite slowly and it took a long time before he stopped, near the far end of the cemetary from where Holden had parked, and then knelt down on the ground, beside two stones set close together. He was too far away for Holden to make out the expression on his face, or tell whether he was speaking, or crying, but he knelt there for a count of eight hundred and sixteen before he curled in on himself and seemed to collapse onto his side on the ground.

Holden was out of the car and walking towards him, fast, not bothering to close the door; he didn’t quite run, and he slowed a little, not wanting to startle Bran, as he approached him and knelt down on the ground.

“Bran,” he whispered, and Bran turned his head to look at him, his eyes wide and unseeing in a face drawn with tearless agony.

“You can’t make this okay,” he said, white-lipped. “It’s never going to be okay.”

“I know,” said Holden, feeling as though something with needle-sharp teeth were tearing, messily, at his stomach.

“They didn’t deserve this.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t deserve this.”

“I know.”

“This is so fucking unfair!” Bran screamed, and slammed his fist into the ground.

Tears spilled from Holden’s eyes, and Bran blinked, and sighed, and sat up, pushing himself clumsily into Holden’s arms. Holden pulled him closer and adjusted him more comfortably against his chest; Bran’s head fell onto his shoulder, his body limp as a tired child’s.

“I want to go home,” he said in Holden’s ear. “Take me home. Please. Master.”