branstorm, part five

[maculategiraffe]

Happy birthday, rdwind!

Title: Still no title. I was reading The Lamp and the Bell and thought "Buy Me A Singer" would be a nicely lyrical title, but then when I thought about it, it sounded sort of like a sewing-machine reference. Curses.
Summary: Bran is a "pleasure slave" in a society where particularly poor peasants are legally permitted to sell their children into slavery starting at age 15 (kind of The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty meets "A Modest Proposal"). When he tries to run away one too many times, his master sells him to the fearsome married couple known as "the slave breakers."
Warnings: slavery, bondage, dubious consent, references to torture and past rape, slash, oblique references to child abuse, references to forced sterilization and abortion
Rating: NC-17 (overall, though not in this chapter, which is depressingly sexxxless, sorry)


"Master?"

"Yes."

Bran had come to love the firm tone of that "Yes" in response to his respectful address. It wasn't a question, or even an invitation; it was an answer. Bran had been puzzled by the tone at first, and Holden had caught his hesitation, as he seemed to catch everything Bran did.

"Yes, you may speak," he said. "That's what you're asking, isn't it?"

That wasn't all there was to it, though, Bran had thought, then and since. The tone was not only decisive but strangely warm. Yes, I like it when you call me that. Yes, you belong to me.

Possessive as all hell. Bran had thought of his master's words often over the past two weeks, at a caress, a claiming kiss, an arm pulling him insistently closer. Bran had thought of possessiveness in association with a hair-trigger temper, storms of anger blaming Bran for someone else's appreciative gaze on him, but so far that hadn't been the danger of it at all.

"It's nothing personal," he whispered firmly to himself in his bed, which he was surprised to find himself thinking of as lonely, at night while his master slept curled around Alix or Yves or both plus Greta (Bran had the freedom of the house now, even at night, and one sleepless three o'clock had seen the four of them piled up in the master bedroom like a heap of contented puppies). "I'm his, that's all; that's how he feels about anything that's his. Once he sells me--"

But the last words produced a cold stab of fear, with the familiar sensation of constriction and inability to breathe. The next morning, when Holden came to wake him, Bran asked him about it. Holden was pleased with him.

"I wasn't sure if you were ready to talk about this," he said, "but I'm glad you brought it up. You're improving by leaps and bounds, and I'm going to be extremely proud to put you up for sale when the time comes. Not that I can really claim credit for your natural sweetness of disposition, but you wouldn't know it to hear Dunaev talk, so I'm going to rake in credit from my astonished clientele anyway. Are you worried about whom I'll sell you to?"

"Not really, master," said Bran honestly. "I know you won't sell me to anyone awful."

"Thanks for the confidence. Then what's worrying you?"

"I--" Bran hesitated, his mouth dry. "Forgive me, master, but I don't feel ready."

Holden laughed at him. "What, to be sold? You aren't, kid. Not by a long shot. This is only your second week!"

"How long will it take?" Bran asked, smiling a little.

"We'll see. Months, anyway." Holden reached out and ran a hand through Bran's hair. "I'm in no hurry."

Bran smiled gratefully at his master.

"And when it does come time," his master added, "you'll know it, because I'll talk to you about it, and if I think you're ready but you still don't feel like you are, we can talk about that. Nobody's going to drag you off kicking and screaming. Okay? You still look worried."

Bran swallowed. "What if I'm never ready?"

"That's not going to happen. Trust me. You're going to be one of Jamesen and Larssen's great success stories."

Bran smiled again, but he thought, What if I'm ready but I still don't want to go?

"Where are you going?" he asked now, watching his master pull on his boots.

"Out, kid," said Holden. "I've got a business to run." He looked thoughtfully up at Bran. "Want to come along?"

Bran smiled slightly, thinking his master was joking.

"You can if you want," said Holden. "I think you're about ready to leave the house, and you could make yourself useful."

"How?" Bran asked curiously, his heart beating a little faster at the thought of leaving his new home for the first time since he had arrived.

"I'm going to visit a man named Nikol Argounov," said Holden, sitting back down next to Bran. "He's an old-- friend, who helped us out a lot when we were first getting started in business. We don't need his financial support any more, of course, but he still takes an interest, and he's a good contact to have. He's also my daughter's godfather."

Bran sat up in surprise. "I didn't know you had a daughter."

"Yes, about your age. She's away at school. As I was saying, Nikol's invited me to meet a woman who wants to be added to our list of trusted buyers. If you come with me, you can help me size her up."

"Size her up?" Bran echoed, puzzled.

"People can look pretty different to a slave and to a slave owner," Holden said. "I'm not committing myself today-- this is just a social meeting-- so I wouldn't mind hearing what you think of her, later. If you're feeling up to it I can probably manage to leave you alone with her for a few minutes; sometimes people's expressions change, then. I used to take Yves, but he's getting too old; it's obvious I adore him or I wouldn't still have him around, so they're careful."

"I'll come if you want me, master," said Bran shyly, both intimidated and excited by the prospect of what amounted to giving his master business advice.

"All right. Get dressed."

"Your boy is beautiful," said Lady Raskolnikova, looking down at Bran with frank interest. Bran moved instinctively a little closer to his master's legs.

"He is," agreed Lord Argounov. "Perhaps a little... skittish."

"He's had a hard time," said Holden. "But he's making great progress. You should have seen him when I first brought him home. Could hardly move for shaking. He's still shy, but some people like that."

"Oh, I do," said the young noblewoman eagerly. She was probably in her early twenties, Bran thought, and seemed anxious to impress Bran's master. "I think it's very sweet."

"I like a bit more fire," said Argounov, winking at Holden. "How long have you had him?"

"Just two weeks," said Holden shortly. "Lady Raskolnikova, I understand you may be interested in learning more about our business."

"Oh, please, call me Tonia. Yes, I'm very interested. I've only ever owned one slave, and I'm afraid it was an unfortunate experience for both of us. My husband said it would be more cost-effective to buy a girl straight from her parents, but I regret that now. The girl was... upset, I suppose, and difficult. Especially over-- well, when we did the, um, the sterilizing operation, she got very upset. I should have realized that an inexperienced mistress shouldn't have an inexperienced slave... I wasn't very helpful to her, I'm afraid. My husband said I should discipline her better, but everything I tried just seemed to make things worse." Her voice was young and puzzled, her face sad. "And then, when I made up my mind I'd have to sell her to a friend, that upset her even more. Even when I told her my friend knew much more about how to deal with slaves than I did."

"What was her name?" Holden asked.

"Kira."

"Kira." Holden paused for a moment. "Is your friend Lady Brokova?"

"Good memory," said Argounov.

"I try. She's doing well, now, isn't she?"

"Very well," said Tonia, eager again, "so I can't have done too much damage, can I? And Lara says that I just need a slave who's a bit more... educated."

"That's what we specialize in," said Holden. "But, Lady-- excuse me, Tonia-- my wife and I generally offer either quite young slaves, or ones with a history of behavioral issues. I'm not sure either one is quite what you're looking for. Why not just look around for an older, more experienced slave?"

"Oh, I am!" the young woman said quickly. "I am, that's what I'm doing. But--" She blushed. "Well, everyone who has a slave for sale wants to know if I'm, er, on your list."

Holden smiled. "Everyone? I rather doubt that."

"Everyone nice," said Tonia earnestly.

"And naturally you want to buy from someone nice," said Holden. "I see."

"And I'd never even met you. I mean, it's not that they refused to sell to me if I'm not-- you know-- but it's such an advantage, and I don't have many other advantages, so--"

"I understand," said Holden gently. "I'd like to oblige you, Tonia. Suppose you write to me and arrange a visit to my home where we can discuss your ideas and preferences more fully-- that is how we usually go about this."

"Oh, of course. Thank you, Mr. Larssen."

"My pleasure. And you might bring your husband. We do like to understand the whole situation."

"Of course," Tonia repeated, blushing again. "And I can meet your wife."

"She will be delighted," said Holden gravely.

The talk turned to social chatter, then, and Bran tuned out, leaning his head on his master's knee and watching the other two faces in the room. Tonia was reasonably pretty, in a round-faced, well-scrubbed way. Argounov was old, at least ten years older than Holden, with gray hair and a deeply lined face, and could not have been particularly handsome even in his prime; he smiled when he spoke, but his face in repose looked tired. Bran wondered how the two men knew each other at all, let alone well enough for Argounov to be godfather to Holden's daughter. Perhaps he would ask his master, later, if an opportunity presented itself.

"I should be getting back," his master said finally, stirring, and Bran lifted his head, "but before I go, Nikol, would you mind if I see Jer?"

"Of course," said Argounov, rising, and Holden rose with him. "Let me take you to him. Excuse me for a moment, my lady."

"Stay here," said Holden to Bran, who had started to get up to follow his master. "I won't be long."

Bran settled back as the two men left the room. Remembering what his master had said about leaving him alone with the noblewoman, he glanced up at her a little nervously.

Tonia sighed softly, then looked at Bran.

"Do you think he liked me?" she asked hopefully.

Bran tried not to laugh. "I think so, my lady."

"I hope so. He's very handsome, isn't he?"

"Yes, my lady," said Bran, grinning up at her.

"Not that that has anything to do with it," she added, suddenly prim. "I'm married, after all."

"Yes, my lady," said Bran, trying to stop grinning.

There was a silence, while he looked up at her pretty face under its childlike fringe of hair, and she seemed lost in thought.

"You like belonging to him?" she said finally, sounding wistful.

"Yes, my lady," said Bran sincerely.

"I'd like someone to like belonging to me."

Bran wasn't sure what to say to that.

"I'm sure anyone would, my lady," he ventured finally.

"Oh no. Not anyone. But someone might. I did try."

Another silence fell, this one only broken by the return of Lord Argounov and Bran's master. Holden looked tired and drawn, and motioned to Bran without smiling. Bran jumped quickly to his feet.

"Thank you," said Holden to Argounov. "And it was a pleasure to meet you, my lady. I look forward to hearing from you."

"Thank you," Tonia fluttered, as Holden bowed slightly to her and walked out, followed by Bran.

The first half of the drive home was silent; Bran stole sidelong glances at his master's face, but dared not interrupt his thoughts. At last Holden said, "So. What did you think of the little lady?"

"She seemed nice, master," said Bran, relieved that his master had emerged from what looked like a rather unpleasant reverie. "Very-- young."

"Very young," Holden agreed, smiling. "Maybe younger than some others her age. But nice, yes. So you wouldn't mind belonging to her?"

Bran was startled. His master glanced sharply at him when he hesitated.

"Um, I guess it could be worse?" said Bran cautiously.

"I'm not actually going to sell you to her, idiot," said his master affectionately. "You really don't like the idea of being sold, do you?"

Bran wasn't sure how to answer, but his master didn't seem to expect it, and neither spoke again for the rest of the drive home.

"How's Nikol?" Alix asked at dinner that evening.

"Fine," said Holden.

"Did you see Jer?"

"Yeah."

"How is he?"

"About like usual," said Holden, unsmiling.

Alix changed the subject.

After dinner, as on most evenings, the five of them sat in what Bran's mistress called the lounge. It was a quiet time. Alix sat at her desk, sorting through the day's mail. Greta nestled comfortably in a soft chair with knitting in her lap. Holden and Yves were seated at a low table, playing a game that looked like chess, but appeared to have different rules, or at least different stakes, judging from the tragic whimpers from Yves and unholy chuckles from Holden whenever Holden made a move, and the almost unnerving intensity with which Yves considered his own moves. Bran curled in an unobtrusive corner of the sofa; his first night he had sat there frozen, trying to watch everyone at once to figure out what direction the danger would come from, but tonight he was content to sit, ignored, and watch the changing expressions on his master's face.

"Letter from Val, darling," said Alix, offering it to Greta. Greta snatched it with pleasure, broke the seal and began to read as Alix went back to her desk to tackle the rest of the mail.

Interested (a letter to a slave?) but not quite bold enough to ask, Bran shifted his focus to Greta and was the first one to see the transformation in her placid face as she read. She went very white, so that her freckles stood out startlingly against her chalky skin. Her eyes filled with tears and went red around the rims, her mouth looked red, and there were pink blotches on her cheeks and nose as the tears spilled down her cheeks, her face still impassive but for its colors.

Holden was the second to notice.

"Greta?" he said, getting to his feet in alarm. "What's wrong? Is something wrong with Val?"

Greta shook her head, swallowing a sob, then nodded. Holden strode to her, grabbed the letter from her hand and began rapidly scanning it. His face changed too as he read it, first slackening with shock, then hardening with grim rage. Bran felt an upsurge of unpleasantly familiar terror; he had not seen that look on Holden's face before, but he had seen it many times on Dunaev's.

"Holden," said Alix, starting up from her desk. "What's wrong? Is Val-- what's wrong?"

Holden handed the letter back to Greta with a controlled gesture.

"Seems the Marmeladov boy thinks he's too good for Val," he said tightly. "He told her they can't ever get married-- because he's the son of a noble and she's--"

He turned and with a sudden violent gesture sent the chess table flying across the room, pieces scattering everywhere. There were a heart-stopping few moments of silence, except for the chess pieces rolling to a halt on the hard floor.

"If he's that much of a prick, it's better she knows it now," said Alix calmly. "Anyway, she's got no business getting engaged yet. She's only seventeen."

"That's not the point," said Holden, turning on his wife with a ferocious suddenness that nearly sent Bran diving to the floor as a matter of old habit. He made himself as small as possible in the sofa corner instead.

"Master," said Yves quietly, "you're scaring Bran."

Holden turned and looked at him, his face still hard and angry. Bran bowed his head submissively, his heart racing.

"Take him upstairs," said his master shortly.

Yves got up, came to Bran and held out his hand. Bran took it nervously, and Yves led him from the room, pausing on the way to grab the letter from Greta's slackened, unprotesting hold. Bran followed him up the stairs, and into Bran's own bedroom, where Yves sat down heavily on the bed and started reading the letter.

"Oh, that melodramatic little bitch," he said, half under his breath. "She knows just what buttons to push."

"Who?" Bran asked, shivering. "What's going on?"

"His daughter," said Yves, still reading. "Miss Valor."

"I don't understand," said Bran, feeling his voice go slightly higher with frustration. "The letter's from his daughter? Why was Greta reading it?"

Yves looked up at Bran, distracted. "Greta's her mother."

Bran blinked. "What?"

"Yeah."

"But--" Bran tried to make sense of this. "I thought--"

"All slaves were sterilized?" said Yves wearily, as if he'd had this conversation too many times before. "Yes, well, sometimes-- when done by a doctor less competent than Dr. Carey-- the operation doesn't work. Not often, but it happens. Greta got pregnant when she was sixteen. It was just a couple of months after I came here."

"Pregnant by-- the master?"

Yves grimaced slightly. "Apparently."

"But why didn't she just have an abortion?"

"She didn't want to," said Yves.

"And they let her decide?"

"The mistress was madly in love with her, even then. Anyway, they kind of liked the idea of having a child. They knew they couldn't have their own, so-- It's worked out okay, except now apparently Val's little blue-blood boyfriend at that school they sent her to has dumped her because of her, uh, humble origins, and she's written to her mother all about how she's so miserable and will never fit in and wishes she'd never been born, which of course is exactly what her parents have worried about her entire life and she knows it, too, the little brat."

While Bran sat, head spinning, trying to take all this in, Yves looked up from the letter at the half-open door, a moment before Holden appeared in the doorway, his jaw set. Yves stood up.

"Need me?" he asked his master quietly.

"Yes," said Holden.

Yves went to him. Holden took him by the arm and started to close the door.

"Master?" Bran blurted, not knowing what he wanted to say.

"Not now," said Holden, and the door clicked softly to.