Fic: Fair Market Value, 1/6, (Brendon/Spencer/Ryan, NC-17)
Title: Fair Market Value
Author: arsenicjade
Fandom/Pairing: bandom, Brendon/Ryan/Spencer (various permutations thereof)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~50k
Warnings: Mentions of rape, as well as long-term and systemic abuse. Sexual slavery and all that might go along with it.
Prompt/Summary: Written for bandom_hc prompt 59: Character x and character y are neighboring landholders. X needs a slave to help him in his fields and goes with the intention of getting one. Things go a bit awry when he sees character z, and can't resist the purchase.
Thanks: First and foremost to teaforbryony for running this and pretty much making all my dreams come true. Definitely to shaggirl, who really helped me get started and encouraged me all the way through. Last but so not least, untappedbeauty who not only beta’ed the fic in record time, but did it with incredible thoroughness, making the language of the fic far clearer and just completely whipping it into shape in ways I would never be able to. All mistakes and bad choices still contained in the fic are completely mine.
Notes: There isn’t a time period for this. It’s sort of an amorphous AU world.
Brendon should have waited for Spencer. After all, it was Spencer's idea that Brendon go in the first place, his insistence that this was what Brendon needed to do. Brendon should have put off the trip to the slave house until Spencer wasn't dealing with an unexpected fire on his lands. The summer had been oppressively hot. If rain didn't come soon--
Brendon cut off the thought and made himself deal with the task at hand. Despite how he felt about the ownership of other sentient beings--Spencer had had to hold his hand while buying a cow, which every landowner within the country seemed to have laughed at Brendon about--Spencer was right, Brendon did need help with his land. Particularly if the summer continued to be so brutal.
Brendon took a deep breath and stepped into the courtyard of the House of Sales. There were always a few slaves--the strongest of the workers, the prettiest of the pleasures, that sort of thing--on display-but Brendon didn't look at those. He couldn't afford them and it made his stomach hurt, the way other buyers were coming up and perusing, fondling.
Brendon hurried inside the house and turned toward the section for discounted slaves. Maybe he could find someone older, someone who would otherwise end up on the street, or, even worse, in a mill. Spencer had lectured Brendon all about how the slave needed to be in good condition, and Brendon understood. Realistically, though, his finances couldn't stretch to a brand new worker, and his morals shied toward someone who needed a safe way out of the slave house.
Brendon was looking for just such a slave when his gaze fell upon a long, elegant neck. He liked to think he wouldn't have noticed, only the neck was intricately tattooed, bands of black weaving into each other, thick and lovely. Brendon had heard stories of masters who inked their collars onto slaves' necks, but he'd never seen one, not in the township where he'd grown up, nor here, closer to the city. The sight was mesmerizing, and Brendon couldn't help moving a little nearer to the slave.
The slave didn't look up, which only made it easier for Brendon to notice the sharpness of his shoulder blades and the redness of his skin. It was almost as if--
"Were you burnt?" Brendon asked, horrified at the nearly blistered state of the skin.
The slave's face whipped up and then down, but not before Brendon saw that his neck wasn't the only place he was tattooed. The marks on his face were also black, although there were also red accent lines, bright and somehow sinister.
Brendon sucked in a breath and looked over the other faces in the holding area. There was a woman, stout and solid, with one arm held closer to her torso than the other. There was a man who looked to be in his sixties, maybe older, his posture brittle and his skin seeming to wilt on his frame. There were children, too young to be of much use for anything but the most sickening of crimes. There was nothing significantly more pathetic or horrifying about the man in front of Brendon, and he certainly was not likely to have much knowledge of working the land, nor the immediate strength to do it.
All the same, Brendon called to a sales clerk and said, "I am considering a few of these." Spencer had explained that he could not appear too interested in one slave; that would only drive the price up. Brendon picked four, largely at random, but the boy with the marked face was the third choice.
The sales clerk talked smoothly about the advantages of each slave, and Brendon made himself remember Spencer's advice: They're trying to sell you a product, Brendon. Believe them no more than you would the manufacturer of a plow.
The boy was a pleasure slave, of course he was, but if the clerk was to be believed, he was also literate. Brendon narrowed his selection down to two--Spencer had said, make them think you can walk out at any time--and said, as evenly as he could, "They're discounted for a reason."
The sales clerk did not miss a beat. She pointed out the boy's marks, how some people were adverse to that, how he was getting a bit old for the business of a pleasure slave, but of course, some people liked that, as well. Brendon said, "And the burns?"
She smiled. "Will heal."
Brendon’s stomach hurt and he made himself breathe before he said, "I meant, how did he acquire them?"
"Ah. One of the younger processing clerks left the merchandise too long in the sun upon its arrival. You can be certain he was dismissed from his position. The unmarked ones are being rested until sale is appropriate. You're welcome, of course, to come back and look for something more suitable from that lot."
Brendon heard the hope of a larger sale in the clerk's voice and thought, for one terrifying moment that he might lose his breakfast on the woman's shoes. Then he said, "As you pointed out, the damage will heal."
She looked at him oddly, and he suspected he hadn't fully been able to keep the censure out of his voice. He distracted her by asking about the other slave, and when he was fairly sure she had forgotten the exchange, he managed to barter for the slave he wanted. He ended up paying only a little more for him than he had budgeted-which, seeing as how he had fully planned to buy a field slave and was walking away with a pleasure slave, seemed to him something of a victory.
A price agreed upon, Brendon said, "Very well, draw up the papers."
*
Ryan's new master was taking an awfully long time looking over the slave contract. Ryan could not, for the life of him, imagine what could be worrying the man--he was the master, after all; the papers basically said that Ryan was his to dispose of at will--but whatever it was, he was being meticulous in making sure all was in order.
Ryan wanted to tell him that if he was buying a discounted slave, there really wasn't anything hiding in the contract, but the last time Ryan had spoken during a sale, the buyer had forfeited the purchase and the house had driven a heated needle through Ryan's tongue to prove a point. It hadn't hurt as badly as some of Ryan's punishments, and his mistress had really enjoyed the curved endings the smith had melded into the needle, but Ryan wasn't a fool, and he was too tired to be punished for the sake of making himself feel more human. It was easier, sometimes, to accept that he wasn't.
He did wish that his new master would at least call him to heel, allow him to kneel for the signing, but the man seemed to hardly realize Ryan was in the room. That could be a good or bad sign, and Ryan was too dehydrated to make any logical conclusions.
At some point, Ryan must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, someone was shoving at his back. It wasn't even a hard shove, but the sun yesterday had been intense, and Ryan had stood with his back to it for hours, perhaps even most of the day. He bit his tongue, trying to counterbalance the pain, but there were spots of black in his vision and he tripped over something--maybe his own feet.
His knees hit the pavement, the sound more alarming than the feeling. He was used to this, being on his knees, but when the enforcer's quirt hit between his shoulder blades, Ryan couldn't help but moan.
He was surprised to hear a voice say, "Good lord! Stop it!"
The quirt didn't fall again, and Ryan breathed through the pain, trying to get himself back to his feet. There were words being exchanged, but Ryan could not hear, didn't care. When his mind had cleared a bit, what he got was, "--the law. Even the most docile ones cannot be trusted to know what is best for them."
"He is hardly able to stand--"
"Sir," the clerk said, and Ryan did his best not to shiver at the irritation in her voice. He was no longer property of the house, and she could not do anything to him, not so long as his master stood in the way. She continued, "You may choose the type and you may fasten it, but until he has your identifier and a way to restrain him to your property, he must wear a collar."
In the silence that followed, Ryan very carefully glanced upward with his head kept down. His new master's jaw was clenched. Either he disliked collars, or he wanted something more personal. Ryan didn't think about the feel of the needles against his neck, his cheek, between his eyes. He didn't consider what else could be done. It didn't pay to think of those things; the masters would always do it for him.
Finally, his master said, "Have you something light? A chain?"
"We have a few delicate choke collars, if it would please," she said. Ryan closed his eyes and didn't pray. Praying was a stupid thing to do if nobody was listening, but the thought of those links against the back of his neck right now was nearly enough to make him beg, without permission.
"No," the man said, shortly and firmly. "Have you anything in cloth?"
"Some of our products are lined, but they are far too expensive for a damaged product, sir."
"Bring me the thinnest one with a cotton lining," the new master ordered. Ryan thought he sounded young and not as sure as he wanted to seem. Uncertainty in a master could lead to cruelty to those with whom he could assert himself. Then again, it could be to Ryan's advantage. His master did seem to be trying to exert a certain mercy in choosing a collar.
The clerk came back and passed over the collar and Ryan did his best not to tense as it was fastened around his neck, lying over some of the worst of the burn. The hands that buckled the collar were gentle, pulling the buckle to a tightness that wouldn't choke Ryan but would also lessen the friction against the injured skin. It still hurt. Ryan breathed deeply and didn't think of anything, nothing at all. He had found it reassuring over the past few years.
A lead was attached to the collar, but instead of pulling, the man said softly, "Come with me," so Ryan did.
*
Brendon was glad the ride home was no longer than an hour. His new employee, for lack of a better word, was clearly trying his best to stay silent as he rode behind Brendon. But he was clad only in the barest and roughest of robes, and the movement of the horse against the back of his legs and his backside had to be agony.
By the time they reached Brendon's lands, the man was panting, his eyes dilated and when he slid from the horse, he fell straight to the ground. He stayed there in a position of obeisance, and Brendon--entirely unused to it--did what he did best when faced with uncomfortable situations, which was to ignore it. Instead, he did his best to help the man to his feet and said, "Let's go inside."
The man followed at a close distance, and Brendon didn't look back. He went straight to the kitchen and grabbed two cups, then went to the well to pump some water.
He was turning to go back when he realized the other man was already there. "Oh," he said, and handed him the cup, heading back toward the house. When they were standing inside, the structure providing some comfort from the heat of the day, Brendon pretended not to watch as his purchase sipped slowly at the water, seeming to savor every drop.
Brendon winced inwardly, realizing the burns must be causing dehydration. He'd have to go pump more from the well, make sure there was water in the house until the man had healed.
He said, "So, uh. I'm Brendon. Brendon Urie. This is my home. It's not much, I suppose, but as youngest son I was expected to go into the clergy, so I haven't done so badly, I think."
The house was a sore spot. It was older and rundown, and Brendon never managed as many crops as the landowners around him, but he worked as hard as any of them, and he held his ground. That was what mattered.
The slave gave a small dip of his head. Brendon wasn't sure what he had expected, but as a response, it left something to be desired. Brendon tried, "What's your name?"
After a moment, the slave's lips moved, but nothing came out. He took another sip of the water and then tried again. "I have always responded to whatever designation my owner deemed appropriate, master."
Brendon frowned at that. "Oh. Ah. Is there a name you would like? Something that would be...deemed appropriate by you?"
Brendon tried to read the resulting stillness of the man in front of him, but he couldn't. Softly, the man said, "Ryan. I-- Ryan is a-appropriate."
"All right, Ryan." Brendon bit back his sigh of relief. A name was something. "May I take that collar off you? I haven't any salve for your burns, but I have to visit my neighbor later this morning. His sisters are forever burning their skin, so I'll see if he has any I can borrow."
Ryan did not say a word, but he managed to bow his head even further. Brendon took it for implicit permission and did his best to remove the piece gently. Ryan's skin was giving off a wave of heat that suggested how uncomfortable the burn must have been.
Brendon said, "I know that by law you must wear a sign of ownership, but I don't suppose you'd mind if I gave one to you a bit later? Putting anything to your skin just now seems cruel."
Another slight nod of Ryan's head. Brendon could see that he had finished the water. Brendon took the cup and refilled it. Without handing it to Ryan he said, "You need to rest if those burns are to heal. Follow me."
Ryan followed. There were only two bedrooms in the house, one clearly meant for parents and the other for children. Brendon had made up the children's room as best he could for an adult, but it was still small. All the same, it had a bed with clean linens, a basin for washing, a rug by the bed, and a dresser.
Brendon placed the cup on the stand with the basin, next to the bed. "This room is yours. If you close the door, I will not enter before knocking. I have to visit my neighbor, as I said, but you know where the kitchen and the well are, and you are welcome to anything from either. I do suggest you sleep, though. You look as though you could use it."
Brendon nodded and made to leave him, when Ryan surprised him by rasping out, "Master."
"Brendon," Brendon said firmly. Master made him feel old and scary and awful.
Ryan's shoulders tightened. Brendon asked, more gently, "Was there something else?"
Softly, ever so softly, Ryan said, "Leaving me here, alone, with no marking of your ownership. It is...unwise."
Knowing that he had invested in Ryan his hopes of staying independent, warm and fed throughout this winter, Brendon simply said, "Nobody has ever once accused me of an overabundance of wisdom."
*
Despite his warning, Ryan had little ability to run. He'd tried, once, in the days after his third master had laid ink and needle to his skin, and had gotten all of a day's walk away when he'd been returned. The slavemaster of the house had driven acid and lye into the webbing of Ryan's toes, where the skin was sensitive, but the marks would go unnoticed. He'd done so in front of the other slaves, making his point.
Brendon didn't seem the type to get his hands dirty torturing a slave, and Ryan doubted he was hiding a slavemaster somewhere else, but Brendon was within his rights to return Ryan to the House of Sale--any time in the first thirty days, a defective product could be returned for improvement--and that was more than threat enough.
And, in all honesty, even if Ryan had the nerve to run again, he wasn't sure his body could carry him. The heat sickness was bad enough, but he hadn't had a dose of whatever it was his last mistress had kept him on in days and his head felt as though it were trying to climb out through his eye sockets. The drug had made him itchy beneath the skin, eager to please with his tongue, his cock, his ass, constantly just a little bit sore, but it was preferable to the agony in every muscle, the way his stomach wouldn't stop flipping about.
Had he been feeling better, Ryan would have taken time to consider if Brendon had been serious about his offer of a bed in a room that was entirely Ryan's own, but Ryan didn't have the luxury. He needed to take off the coarse robes that had rubbed at his legs until they bled while on the horse, and to lie down. If he was to be beaten for taking the temptation of the bed later, Ryan supposed he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
The bed had cool, clean linens, a cup of water next to it and a basin, should he need it. Some things were worth being beaten over.
*
Brendon found Spencer in his fields and whistled, the sound low and concerned.
Spencer shook his head, though, and said, "At least we caught it." He was filthy, soot and ashes over nearly the whole of his face, but Brendon could see what he was talking about--the fire hadn't spread nearly as far as it might have.
Far enough, to Brendon's way of thinking. "The girls are all right?"
Spencer nodded. "Everyone is fine."
Brendon couldn't stop himself from settling his hands on his friend's shoulders, just to make sure. Spencer didn't throw him off or look at him oddly. Instead, the expression on his face was quietly grateful.
All Spencer said, though, was, "Did you go this morning?"
"Yes," Brendon said.
Spencer waited for a moment. "Brendon."
"And I purchased a slave." He hated the word. He hated it even more now that Ryan's face came to mind with it, his eyes over-large and the ink over his skin nearly dangerous in its sharp angles.
"A field slave," Spencer specified.
"He can work the fields," Brendon said. He didn't think it was a lie. Nothing seemed to be wrong with Ryan that some rest and food and perhaps a little kindness wouldn't take care of. Then again, he had only known Ryan for a few hours, so it was hard to say.
"Brendon," Spencer said again, his voice carrying worry this time.
Brendon smiled for him, making it as sure as he could. "Spencer."
Spencer rolled his eyes. "Come on, then. I need to clean up, and Crystal wanted to ask you something about her new song on the harpsichord."
Brendon nodded, always pleased to have the chance to talk of music. "I was also wondering if either of the girls had any aloe salve."
Spencer glanced sideways at him, already walking toward the house. "Aloe salve?"
"Ah, my-- Ry--"
"Brendon," Spencer said. "Brendon, you said you got a field slave."
"No, I said he could work in the fields."
"Field slaves are generally inured to burns."
"Generally doesn't mean--"
"Please don't tell me you bought a child. Please, Brendon. I know, I know the system's horrible, but we can only help so much come winter, especially now, with the fire, and--"
"I didn't buy a child."
Spencer still had his suspicious face on. "I'm cleaning up, and then we're going back to your place."
Brendon blanched, but Spencer was going to find out he'd spent his money on a pleasure slave sooner or later-and the sooner it was, the sooner Spencer would get over being frustrated with Brendon. Brendon shrugged. "With salve."
Spencer sighed.
*
Ryan woke up a second before the first wave of sickness hit, just long enough to scrabble for the basin and miss. He caught the side of it and it tipped off the stand, the heavy clay chipping but not shattering as it landed. The sound was deafening to Ryan's ears and he thought maybe he should be terrified--breaking things, being sick all over the floor. But the best he could manage was a weak twist of fear that had nothing on the bladed hand squeezing his insides.
It was cold, he thought, terribly cold, only he was burning and that wasn't possible, it wasn't, but Ryan couldn't think straight enough to figure it out. All he knew was that he was maybe dying. All he knew was that if it would just hurry up, he wouldn't mind so much.
*
By the time Brendon returned with Spencer, the worst heat of the day had passed, and Brendon thought he might be able to draw Ryan a relatively cool bath, to help ease the pain. But no sooner had they made it inside Spencer took a breath and asked, "Is something rotting in here?"
Brendon frowned. His house did smell somewhat similar to a midden heap in late August. "Not that I know of." Brendon didn't have the funds to waste food. He bought only what he could afford, cultivated the rest and was careful never to gather too much.
In the silence that followed, a sound that Brendon couldn't quite identify came faintly from the back of the house and Brendon's eyes widened. He shot off with a murmured, "Ryan."
When Brendon knocked on the door--and opened at what he now recognized as the sound of vomiting, rather than at Ryan's permission--Spencer was right behind him to say, "Christ's teeth."
Brendon looked down and saw one thing--Ryan was bringing up blood. He said, "Spencer, will you stay? I have to get the doctor."
Spencer nodded, Ryan’s violent vomiting seemingly enough to keep him from lecturing Brendon.
Brendon said, "I'll return quickly," then hurried to his horse, and set out for the house on the outskirts of town.
*
There was someone in the room. Ryan could hear it--not the voices themselves, but their echoes. The sound beat at the base of his skull, behind his eyes. He put his hands to his head to try to stop the pain, but even the touch of his own hand was too much. The air felt rough against his unharmed skin, violent against the burnt portion. Ryan could hear himself whimpering even though he knew better--letting anyone know how much it hurt was the best way to get hurt more--but he couldn't help it. Ryan's stomach twisted again, and nothing came out, but he heaved anyway.
A soft voice said, "Easy," calm and low. The noise hurt, but something about the cadence was soothing. Ryan tried to breathe. Breathing hurt, but it also made things feel better. Ryan wasn't sure how that worked, but he didn't much care, so long as it did. Strong, callused fingers took one of Ryan's hands, and Ryan made himself not jerk back, but all that happened was that he was given the cup of water that Brendon had put by the bed. The voice--not Brendon's, at least, Ryan didn't think so--said, "Slow sips. It'll help with the heaving."
Ryan knew the voice, or thought he did. Something about it felt familiar. He put the cup to his lips and followed the instructions. The heaving came back, but the voice had been right, it was a little easier. Ryan tried to remember to drink in between, the voice reminding him steadily. There were other noises, like whoever was speaking to him was doing something, but Ryan couldn't track it, except to realize that at some point the basin had been placed in front of him. The white hurt his eyes. He closed them.
The voice said, "I'm going to put some salve on your back, try to reduce the heat. It should help."
His back burned and stung with whatever was being put on it and for a second Ryan tried to remember what he'd done to deserve punishment--he was new here, he was pretty sure--but it didn't matter. Maybe his new master just liked making others scream. He did his best to take it, not to cry out, but the sensitive place where his neck met his shoulders caused him to moan.
The voice said, "Damn it."
Ryan tried not to worry too much about what he'd done. He couldn't fix it, so he kept working to breathe. He was so tired. He slumped to his side and tried not to make a noise as he hit the ground. It was hard and his bones felt fragile against it. The voice said, "Come, I'm going to help you up."
The same pair of hands that had given him the water took him beneath his elbows and lifted him up, onto the bed. He tried to open his eyes, tried to figure out what was going on. When he managed, he realized that he'd been hallucinating, and he was probably still on the floor of the room by himself, or perhaps even dead--although if death weren't any better than life, Ryan was going to feel terribly cheated. In any case, what was not happening was that Spencer was not standing over him, looking concerned.
Hallucination-Spencer looked confused for a good moment and then asked, softly, "Ryan?"
Ryan liked this hallucination. He hadn't had a nice one in a long time. He smiled, or at least, he tried to. His face hurt. "Spencer," he said, his tongue thick and the sound of the word not quite right, but Spencer was his hallucination, so he'd probably understand.
Spencer's eyes got sad, which Ryan didn't like at all, and he tried to change the hallucination to a happy Spencer. It didn’t work and he was exhausted. He didn't want to close his eyes, not with Spencer standing there. It was crazy, but he didn't know if the delirium would hold out after he'd slept. Ryan said, "Spencer," again.
Spencer said, "Ryan," sounding broken and wrong, and Ryan wanted to tell him that things were okay, that this was a good thing, but his body betrayed him and pulled him into sleep.
*
Dr. Way's house was nearly a forty minute ride from Brendon's farm, but he made it in half that time. He was aching and short of breath when he all-but fell off his horse. Dr. Way must have heard him approaching, because he was at the door before Brendon could knock.
"Brendon? Are you all right?"
"Fine," Brendon managed to gasp.
Dr. Way looked--understandably--dubious. Brendon shook his head and worked the word, "Friend," out of his throat. "A friend."
There were many, many things that Brendon liked about Dr. Way, but one of the foremost was how, despite how he was always asking questions, he knew when it was time to just act. He said, "I'll have my bag and be following you momentarily. Is he staying with you?"
Brendon nodded, and got himself back on his horse, leading the way. It was slower on the way back--Dr. Way was not the most comfortable on a horse. When he threw back the door to his house, it smelled better, and Brendon made haste to the room. Spencer had clearly cleaned up, and opened a window. To Brendon's surprise, Spencer was sitting on the edge of Ryan's bed, his hands twitching every time a tremor ran through Ryan's frame.
Dr. Way pushed Spencer gently out of the way and asked, "How long has he been unconscious?"
"Twenty minutes? Perhaps a bit longer." Spencer was biting his lip, which Brendon had never seen, even when Jacquelyn had gotten lost on a walk and gone missing for an entire day. "He was heaving, and I-- I gave him some water."
Dr. Way nodded distractedly, but he said, "Good thinking, Spencer." He touched carefully at the burns on Ryan's back. "When did he get these?"
"The--" Brendon was loath to talk about Ryan being sold, but he supposed the marks on Ryan's face and neck made it clear enough. "The traders. They left him in the sun. Yesterday."
Dr. Way continued his examination for a while before straightening with a frown. "Did the traders mention any sort of chemical dependence?"
Brendon had read all of the papers, every last one of them. "No. But would they have?"
Dr. Way sighed. "Most likely not, even if they knew." He sounded angry. Brendon knew he was adamantly opposed to the slave trade, often went so far as to write articles about it or go to larger towns to help the growing movement against the sale of humans. It meant he could trust Dr. Way with Ryan, but it also meant feeling ashamed at his own choice to take advantage of some--sorely needed, but still immoral--free labor.
Realizing how it must look to Dr. Way, Brendon started to say, "I didn't-- I wasn't going to--" but he stopped as Spencer made a small noise in the back of his throat. Brendon looked at Spencer, who looked away. Brendon wanted to ask him if he was all right, but it seemed strange to do so with Dr. Way in the room, and Ryan so sick.
After a few more minutes of silence, Dr. Way spoke without looking away from Ryan. "He was most certainly taking something, or being given it. Regardless, the withdrawal is not being easy on him, and the heat is not helping. May I assume that you are willing to take responsibility for his care?"
Brendon had never heard Dr. Way's voice so chilly before. He was about to respond when Spencer said, "I will. If-- I will. This is my fault."
That made absolutely no sense, but Dr. Way didn't seem to care. In fact, he was still looking at Brendon. Brendon made himself face him and say, "Of course I'll care for him. I-- When I brought you here, I said he was a friend." And perhaps Brendon was exaggerating his relationship out of guilt, but the fact remained that Dr. Way hadn't needed to guilt him into saying yes. He would have cared for Ryan regardless--he had, after all, gone for a doctor he couldn't really afford when the man got sick, hadn't he? And there was no law saying a slave must be provided for medically. There were no laws stating a slave need be provided for at all.
"Having two caretakers can't hurt," Dr. Way said, and some of the chilliness slipped from his tone. He started detailing what must be done, pointing out that, "He's likely used to people assuming his body is theirs, so you should talk to him when you need to touch him, let him know what you're doing. He may not be awake or understand, but he might. You want to keep his stress level as low as possible."
Next to him, Brendon noticed that Spencer had grown pale. When Dr. Way finished his instructions, Brendon asked softly, "Are you feeling all right? You were tending the fire--"
"I'm fine," Spencer said, and although he did not sound it, the assertion was strong enough that Brendon found himself unable to argue.
Dr. Way asked, "Fire?"
Spencer waved his hand. "My fields. Everyone is fine."
The doctor's eyes went wide and he said, "I'm sorry, Spencer, I hadn't heard yet."
"It's nothing," Spencer said, his eyes on Ryan.
Dr. Way tilted his head, but in the end all he said was, "I will come by tomorrow to check and see how he is doing. Perhaps he will be awake then, and able to tell us more."
Brendon nodded and said, "Thank-- I--" He swallowed and tried again. "We'll discuss payment at a later date?"
Dr. Way looked at Brendon for a long time before simply turning to go. Brendon waved helplessly at his retreating back.
*
Ryan was hot. Had he been put in The Box? He didn't remember having done anything wrong. Not that he really had to.
The Box was too small to fit in, unless you were bent and curved, and it was black, all black, dark even in the middle of the day with not enough air and too much heat. Ryan always vomited from it, and they left him in there even then. The guards always said it was for mouthing off, but Ryan hadn't, not after the second time, at least. Spencer would have told him to learn from his mistakes. Spencer was smarter about people than Ryan. In The Box, sometimes Ryan imagined Spencer was there with him, that he told stories and made Ryan laugh.
Something cool touched against the back of his neck and Ryan panicked. Not The Box, nothing cool ever came in The Box, but then where? And with whom?
Ryan tried opening his eyes. They were heavy, ridiculously so, and his head hurt, warning him what would happen if he actually managed. A voice said, "Shh, relax." Ryan wasn't sure if it was the voice that belonged to the hands putting cool cloths on his face, his back, but it didn't sound familiar.
Ryan fought with his eyes and won, even if it was Pyrrhic, light attacking his senses with a vengeance. Ryan closed them back up. After a second he tried again. The pain wasn't any less, but he was expecting it this time. The voice belonged to a man with dark hair and dark eyes and Ryan felt like he'd seen him before, though he couldn't remember where. It was a terrifying thought. A slave's survival depended on his ability to remember names and faces and, most especially, preferences.
"Ryan?" The man asked, and Ryan tried to act calm, like he knew where he was, and to whom he was speaking, and why he'd been punished. Mostly he did this by saying nothing.
The man asked, "Will you drink some water?"
Ryan tried to think the question through--his head hurt so much, the pain was bleeding through to his face, his teeth. Water was safe. He tried to say, "Please," because he wasn't sure who this man was, and politeness seemed like a better response than anything else. His throat rebelled, though, and he found himself coughing, gasping, and then man was helping him to sit up, which was pure agony, but clearly necessary.
"Ryan?" A different voice asked, but Ryan was concentrating on breathing, on anything but the pain.
The first man said, "He needs water, but he--"
The second man came around to Ryan's other side, and Ryan didn't like that, didn't like being surrounded, but there was nothing he could say. Had his owner given him to someone else? Why was nothing making sense? He still couldn't breathe, but he was trying and the second man said, "Ryan, look at me."
It wasn't an order, exactly. Ryan had learned there was a tone for everything, far more important than the words themselves. But Ryan also wasn't sure he trusted his instincts at the moment. He looked at the other man and said, "Spencer?" Something stirred in his mind and he remembered the illusion. "Oh. Fever."
The Spencer Thing shook its head. "No, Ry. You are fevered, but I'm real."
Ryan figured his mind wasn't exactly going to admit that it was making things up, so he didn't argue. Spencer Thing said, "Take a small breath."
His memories of Spencer had been the parts of himself that Ryan had fought most vehemently not to lose, but the last time he had really seen Spencer had been when he was twelve, almost ten years earlier. For the most part, they had grown somewhat hazy over the years. What Ryan did remember was that Spencer didn't give advice just to hear himself talk, and when he did give it, it was almost always right. Ryan tried a small breath. It wasn't nearly as hard, nor did it hurt as much as the gasps from earlier.
Spencer Thing said, "Good. Now another."
When Ryan was breathing somewhat normally, Spencer Thing brought a cup of water to his mouth and held it there, helping to sip slowly. Ryan couldn't take much and was exhausted by the effort. Spencer Thing and the other man lowered him down onto the bed again and Ryan, even knowing slaves weren't supposed to touch freemen without explicit permission, couldn't help reaching out, curling his fingers around the wrist of Spencer Thing. He said, "Missed you," because what could it hurt, telling a figment of his fevered imagination?
Spencer Thing said, "I won't let you be taken again."
Ryan felt his smile more than he suspected it actually graced his face. It was such a Spencer thing to say. It made Ryan feel like it was safe to go back to sleep.
*
The third time Ryan fell into something that at least resembled sleep--even if it wasn't necessarily that benign--Brendon bit his lower lip for a moment and then made the leap, saying to Spencer, "I. Uh, I thought Ray was your only slave."
Brendon had something of a hero-worship for Ray, which almost everyone but Ray made fun of him for, but Brendon didn't care--Ray was fantastic. There were a million stories of how he'd been bought by the Smiths, but his favorite one was the one Ginger told, the one that Ray always listened to semi-indulgently, like he could say something, but chose not to. In that story, Ginger and the kids had been on a picnic, and the field they'd been in had been on a road sometimes traveled by slave caravans.
A caravan had stopped near their picnicking site and Ginger had been teaching the kids not to stare, that the people on those lines were still people, and deserved respect, when Spencer said, "They're hurting that one, Mommy."
Ginger had turned to find Ray being beaten by one of the guards--Ray would not talk about the reasons, but Crystal always swore he'd been protecting another slave, a smaller one--and had offered to buy him, right then and there. Ray had come home with them, and once recovered, helped with their farm and to raise the children, and no matter how many times the Smiths had offered to arrange his freedom papers--a process easy on neither slave nor owner--Ray had just shook his head and said, "No, thank you. I like it here."
Spencer looked at Brendon, clearly confused. "Ray is our only slave."
"Then, ah. How is it that you know Ryan?"
Spencer must have caught on to what Brendon was thinking then, because he looked thunderous. "We never owned Ryan. We don't sell people. We don't--" Spencer's fingers reached out, nearly touching the marks on Ryan's face, but then drew back. "He wasn't my slave."
"Oh," Brendon said, not sure how to keep up his line of inquiry.
Spencer, though, said softly, "He wasn't a slave at all."
"He--" It wasn't exactly uncommon for people to be sold, traded into or punished by slavery, but it also wasn't something most people talked about. It was hard to maintain the idea that slaves were subhuman if, at some point, they had laid claim to a fully human status.
"Bryar's lands weren't always his." Spencer swallowed. "He bought them from the government, after they had been repossessed. Ryan's father-- Those were Ross lands, as far back as my mother or father or grandparents can remember."
"Ross? That's Ryan's family name?"
Spencer nodded tightly. "His father, he-- Well, I was a child and my parents wouldn't speak of it, but I think he had a fondness for liquor. He wasn't unkind to Ryan, or any of us. It wasn't like that, but he was no good with money, and when he died, they came and took Ryan away."
"They?" Brendon asked, shivering. It had been scary enough to leave home and strike out on his own, largely against the wishes of his parents and the morays of society. He couldn't imagine being taken away by people he didn't even know.
"My parents wouldn't say. I was only eleven. I think they must have taken him to debtor's prison, though. I asked Mikey, once, as a hypothetical, and he said that it was most likely the heir would have to serve the term, regardless of having created the debt or not. But I suppose he must have been sold from there, somehow. Perhaps to make up the debt?" Spencer was clenching his fist. "I don't know; I just don't know enough about any of this."
Brendon reached out, unsure if his touch was welcome, but needing to do something. He settled his hand lightly atop Spencer's shoulder. Spencer turned the slightest bit into the contact.
"How did you-- Why him? He's not a field--" Spencer's voice broke.
Brendon could feel a flush at the base of his neck. "I, well, see, he was--"
Spencer turned sharply on him and Brendon blurted out, "He was burnt and marked and I couldn't leave him there, Spencer. I just couldn't." Brendon made himself at least keep eye contact.
Some of the worst of the tension flowed out of Spencer then and he said, "Oh."
Brendon was about to open his mouth and ask when it occurred to him what Spencer must have thought. "That isn't fair of you to think that of me, Spencer Smith, not fair at all." He hit Spencer's shoulder, maybe a little harder than he'd meant to, but that was a terrible thing to think of someone.
Spencer rubbed at his shoulder and looked down. "I'm sorry, Brendon, I shouldn't have-- Well, I'm sorry."
Brendon nodded, not entirely over it, but knowing he would be soon. He said, "I'm sorry about your friend."
Spencer just turned back and found one of Ryan's hands, holding it in both of his.
*
Ryan had learned long ago to awaken with his eyes still closed. He wasn't sure how he had taught himself, only that it had been imperative that nobody else know he was awake, so he had learned the skill. He had no idea where he was. The last thing he could remember--
Ryan made himself breathe, slow and easy, and hoped that nobody had noticed the hitch in its pattern. He made himself work backwards. He could remember his last mistress selling him--he'd gotten too old for her--and being packed into the wagon, the heat, and the slave who had gotten sick on the way to the town, had died two days before they'd arrived and whom nobody had cared to remove.
He was fairly certain he had arrived at the sales house. He made himself concentrate--yes, yes, there had been the cages, too many of them all in one, and most of them not quite desperate enough to get out, which had scared Ryan even more than the times when other slaves had all-but mauled him to make sure they would get first-viewing.
And then... Then the boy with the dark eyes. Ryan tried to think if there had been papers. There must have been. He wasn't at the sale house any more, and he wasn't dead, so he had to have been sold. After that, there was just heat and pain and sickness and the weird delirium of a grown Spencer, as gentle as the child had been, but nowhere near as happy.
If he was in his new master's home, and he had been sick for some time, the fact that he was in a bed was most likely a good sign. There weren't voices, or anything obvious to let him know that someone else was in the room, but he could smell the faint scent of coffee--maybe from a room nearby--and there was a breeze, so a window must have been open, or a door, to allow for a cross-breeze.
Cautiously, Ryan opened one eye just a sliver. There wasn't anyone in his direct line of vision, so he let his eyes open all the way. The room seemed vaguely familiar, but Ryan couldn't place it. He was considering letting himself be lulled back into sleep by the weight of his own exhaustion when the dark-eyed boy came in the room and caught him awake. Ryan was almost sure, splotchy memory and all, that this was his new owner, so he started working to get himself up, to offer some gesture of obeisance, but he was stopped in his tracks by the enormous grin that spread over his probably-owner's face.
"Ryan?" he asked.
Ryan said, "Master," or at least tried.
"Oh, you must want, here," the other man said, moving toward the table next to the bed. "I realize it still can't be that comfortable to move, but if you just--" He helped Ryan roll a bit on his side, then brought a cup of water to Ryan's lips, so he could drink slowly.
Ryan wondered if he had gotten something wrong. Was the boy another slave? Someone who had simply been sent to the sale house to find a pleasure slave and bring him back? It was a lot of trust to place in a slave, but Ryan knew that sometimes owners did. The idea that an owner could trust a slave that much was reassuring, assuming that those slaves with seniority weren't cruel to those who were new. Then again, Ryan was in a soft bed sipping cool water, so he had no reason to be terrified yet. Ryan closed his eyes for a moment, fighting against the onset of a headache.
"Are you still tired? Dr. Way said we shouldn't wake you, that you should be left to sleep until you couldn't anymore. Do you need more sleep?"
Ryan did, but even more than that, he needed to know where he was, what his position was. Unfortunately, he didn't see any good way of getting those answers. He made himself keep breathing. Pete had taught him that--always keep breathing, no matter what. Pain, fear, anger, there was nothing that breathing couldn't get you through to the other side of.
The boy set the cup on the dresser and said, "Ryan?"
Ryan nodded, bending his head so that if this was his master, it would seem a measure of humility. It couldn't hurt in the case of a more beloved slave, either. But the boy just put his fingers to Ryan's chin and tipped his head back up. Then he asked, "Do you remember where you are?"
It could be a trick question. Slaves were meant to know what they needed to know, and if they didn't, they were meant to find out. It didn't matter how, so long as nobody noticed. Ryan nodded once, trying for all the world to look like the answer was obvious.
The boy frowned and said, "Well, all right. I just thought, you know, with how sick you were, that maybe you would have forgotten that I, uh, I, back at the sale house, and you were on sale and I needed a field-hand?"
Which told Ryan that this was his master, but a field-hand? Ryan considered the fact that he might still be mildly-delirious. He tried his best to keep his face blank, but some of his confusion must have bled through, because the smile he'd witnessed on his master's face earlier was back in full.
"I can see not. In that case, let me reintroduce myself. I'm Brendon, and this is my home. This is your room in my home, and I really need some help with my farm."
Ryan swallowed, not sure of how to tell Brendon that he'd picked himself the wrong type of slave. It seemed preposterous. Nobody had ever mistaken Ryan for anything other than what he was, not even when he'd been fourteen and new to it.
Brendon, though, was talking again, "...not, at least, until you're fully better. Dr. Way should be here later; he's been checking in every evening. You're feeling better, though, right?"
Ryan wasn't sure what his feeling better had to do with anything. He certainly couldn't remember the last time anyone had asked him. He supposed he was feeling better, though, as most of his memory was filled with the notion of absolute misery. He said, "Yes, master."
Brendon frowned, but whatever was bothering him, he just said, "In any case, you should sleep more, or at least try. Dr. Way said you needed to catch up on years of sleep, and you've only had three days."
Three days? The last slave Ryan had known who'd fallen that ill had been killed the second day in--slaves weren't considered worth the extra reserves if they couldn't perform their duties.
Brendon was saying something about the glass of water by the bed and calling if anything was needed and Ryan couldn't process what the words meant all strung together. Brendon said, "Sleep," one more time and then disappeared through the door.
Ryan thought, well, at least that's an order, and gave into the comfort of knowing what to do, if only for the moment.
Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six
Author: arsenicjade
Fandom/Pairing: bandom, Brendon/Ryan/Spencer (various permutations thereof)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~50k
Warnings: Mentions of rape, as well as long-term and systemic abuse. Sexual slavery and all that might go along with it.
Prompt/Summary: Written for bandom_hc prompt 59: Character x and character y are neighboring landholders. X needs a slave to help him in his fields and goes with the intention of getting one. Things go a bit awry when he sees character z, and can't resist the purchase.
Thanks: First and foremost to teaforbryony for running this and pretty much making all my dreams come true. Definitely to shaggirl, who really helped me get started and encouraged me all the way through. Last but so not least, untappedbeauty who not only beta’ed the fic in record time, but did it with incredible thoroughness, making the language of the fic far clearer and just completely whipping it into shape in ways I would never be able to. All mistakes and bad choices still contained in the fic are completely mine.
Notes: There isn’t a time period for this. It’s sort of an amorphous AU world.
Brendon should have waited for Spencer. After all, it was Spencer's idea that Brendon go in the first place, his insistence that this was what Brendon needed to do. Brendon should have put off the trip to the slave house until Spencer wasn't dealing with an unexpected fire on his lands. The summer had been oppressively hot. If rain didn't come soon--
Brendon cut off the thought and made himself deal with the task at hand. Despite how he felt about the ownership of other sentient beings--Spencer had had to hold his hand while buying a cow, which every landowner within the country seemed to have laughed at Brendon about--Spencer was right, Brendon did need help with his land. Particularly if the summer continued to be so brutal.
Brendon took a deep breath and stepped into the courtyard of the House of Sales. There were always a few slaves--the strongest of the workers, the prettiest of the pleasures, that sort of thing--on display-but Brendon didn't look at those. He couldn't afford them and it made his stomach hurt, the way other buyers were coming up and perusing, fondling.
Brendon hurried inside the house and turned toward the section for discounted slaves. Maybe he could find someone older, someone who would otherwise end up on the street, or, even worse, in a mill. Spencer had lectured Brendon all about how the slave needed to be in good condition, and Brendon understood. Realistically, though, his finances couldn't stretch to a brand new worker, and his morals shied toward someone who needed a safe way out of the slave house.
Brendon was looking for just such a slave when his gaze fell upon a long, elegant neck. He liked to think he wouldn't have noticed, only the neck was intricately tattooed, bands of black weaving into each other, thick and lovely. Brendon had heard stories of masters who inked their collars onto slaves' necks, but he'd never seen one, not in the township where he'd grown up, nor here, closer to the city. The sight was mesmerizing, and Brendon couldn't help moving a little nearer to the slave.
The slave didn't look up, which only made it easier for Brendon to notice the sharpness of his shoulder blades and the redness of his skin. It was almost as if--
"Were you burnt?" Brendon asked, horrified at the nearly blistered state of the skin.
The slave's face whipped up and then down, but not before Brendon saw that his neck wasn't the only place he was tattooed. The marks on his face were also black, although there were also red accent lines, bright and somehow sinister.
Brendon sucked in a breath and looked over the other faces in the holding area. There was a woman, stout and solid, with one arm held closer to her torso than the other. There was a man who looked to be in his sixties, maybe older, his posture brittle and his skin seeming to wilt on his frame. There were children, too young to be of much use for anything but the most sickening of crimes. There was nothing significantly more pathetic or horrifying about the man in front of Brendon, and he certainly was not likely to have much knowledge of working the land, nor the immediate strength to do it.
All the same, Brendon called to a sales clerk and said, "I am considering a few of these." Spencer had explained that he could not appear too interested in one slave; that would only drive the price up. Brendon picked four, largely at random, but the boy with the marked face was the third choice.
The sales clerk talked smoothly about the advantages of each slave, and Brendon made himself remember Spencer's advice: They're trying to sell you a product, Brendon. Believe them no more than you would the manufacturer of a plow.
The boy was a pleasure slave, of course he was, but if the clerk was to be believed, he was also literate. Brendon narrowed his selection down to two--Spencer had said, make them think you can walk out at any time--and said, as evenly as he could, "They're discounted for a reason."
The sales clerk did not miss a beat. She pointed out the boy's marks, how some people were adverse to that, how he was getting a bit old for the business of a pleasure slave, but of course, some people liked that, as well. Brendon said, "And the burns?"
She smiled. "Will heal."
Brendon’s stomach hurt and he made himself breathe before he said, "I meant, how did he acquire them?"
"Ah. One of the younger processing clerks left the merchandise too long in the sun upon its arrival. You can be certain he was dismissed from his position. The unmarked ones are being rested until sale is appropriate. You're welcome, of course, to come back and look for something more suitable from that lot."
Brendon heard the hope of a larger sale in the clerk's voice and thought, for one terrifying moment that he might lose his breakfast on the woman's shoes. Then he said, "As you pointed out, the damage will heal."
She looked at him oddly, and he suspected he hadn't fully been able to keep the censure out of his voice. He distracted her by asking about the other slave, and when he was fairly sure she had forgotten the exchange, he managed to barter for the slave he wanted. He ended up paying only a little more for him than he had budgeted-which, seeing as how he had fully planned to buy a field slave and was walking away with a pleasure slave, seemed to him something of a victory.
A price agreed upon, Brendon said, "Very well, draw up the papers."
*
Ryan's new master was taking an awfully long time looking over the slave contract. Ryan could not, for the life of him, imagine what could be worrying the man--he was the master, after all; the papers basically said that Ryan was his to dispose of at will--but whatever it was, he was being meticulous in making sure all was in order.
Ryan wanted to tell him that if he was buying a discounted slave, there really wasn't anything hiding in the contract, but the last time Ryan had spoken during a sale, the buyer had forfeited the purchase and the house had driven a heated needle through Ryan's tongue to prove a point. It hadn't hurt as badly as some of Ryan's punishments, and his mistress had really enjoyed the curved endings the smith had melded into the needle, but Ryan wasn't a fool, and he was too tired to be punished for the sake of making himself feel more human. It was easier, sometimes, to accept that he wasn't.
He did wish that his new master would at least call him to heel, allow him to kneel for the signing, but the man seemed to hardly realize Ryan was in the room. That could be a good or bad sign, and Ryan was too dehydrated to make any logical conclusions.
At some point, Ryan must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, someone was shoving at his back. It wasn't even a hard shove, but the sun yesterday had been intense, and Ryan had stood with his back to it for hours, perhaps even most of the day. He bit his tongue, trying to counterbalance the pain, but there were spots of black in his vision and he tripped over something--maybe his own feet.
His knees hit the pavement, the sound more alarming than the feeling. He was used to this, being on his knees, but when the enforcer's quirt hit between his shoulder blades, Ryan couldn't help but moan.
He was surprised to hear a voice say, "Good lord! Stop it!"
The quirt didn't fall again, and Ryan breathed through the pain, trying to get himself back to his feet. There were words being exchanged, but Ryan could not hear, didn't care. When his mind had cleared a bit, what he got was, "--the law. Even the most docile ones cannot be trusted to know what is best for them."
"He is hardly able to stand--"
"Sir," the clerk said, and Ryan did his best not to shiver at the irritation in her voice. He was no longer property of the house, and she could not do anything to him, not so long as his master stood in the way. She continued, "You may choose the type and you may fasten it, but until he has your identifier and a way to restrain him to your property, he must wear a collar."
In the silence that followed, Ryan very carefully glanced upward with his head kept down. His new master's jaw was clenched. Either he disliked collars, or he wanted something more personal. Ryan didn't think about the feel of the needles against his neck, his cheek, between his eyes. He didn't consider what else could be done. It didn't pay to think of those things; the masters would always do it for him.
Finally, his master said, "Have you something light? A chain?"
"We have a few delicate choke collars, if it would please," she said. Ryan closed his eyes and didn't pray. Praying was a stupid thing to do if nobody was listening, but the thought of those links against the back of his neck right now was nearly enough to make him beg, without permission.
"No," the man said, shortly and firmly. "Have you anything in cloth?"
"Some of our products are lined, but they are far too expensive for a damaged product, sir."
"Bring me the thinnest one with a cotton lining," the new master ordered. Ryan thought he sounded young and not as sure as he wanted to seem. Uncertainty in a master could lead to cruelty to those with whom he could assert himself. Then again, it could be to Ryan's advantage. His master did seem to be trying to exert a certain mercy in choosing a collar.
The clerk came back and passed over the collar and Ryan did his best not to tense as it was fastened around his neck, lying over some of the worst of the burn. The hands that buckled the collar were gentle, pulling the buckle to a tightness that wouldn't choke Ryan but would also lessen the friction against the injured skin. It still hurt. Ryan breathed deeply and didn't think of anything, nothing at all. He had found it reassuring over the past few years.
A lead was attached to the collar, but instead of pulling, the man said softly, "Come with me," so Ryan did.
*
Brendon was glad the ride home was no longer than an hour. His new employee, for lack of a better word, was clearly trying his best to stay silent as he rode behind Brendon. But he was clad only in the barest and roughest of robes, and the movement of the horse against the back of his legs and his backside had to be agony.
By the time they reached Brendon's lands, the man was panting, his eyes dilated and when he slid from the horse, he fell straight to the ground. He stayed there in a position of obeisance, and Brendon--entirely unused to it--did what he did best when faced with uncomfortable situations, which was to ignore it. Instead, he did his best to help the man to his feet and said, "Let's go inside."
The man followed at a close distance, and Brendon didn't look back. He went straight to the kitchen and grabbed two cups, then went to the well to pump some water.
He was turning to go back when he realized the other man was already there. "Oh," he said, and handed him the cup, heading back toward the house. When they were standing inside, the structure providing some comfort from the heat of the day, Brendon pretended not to watch as his purchase sipped slowly at the water, seeming to savor every drop.
Brendon winced inwardly, realizing the burns must be causing dehydration. He'd have to go pump more from the well, make sure there was water in the house until the man had healed.
He said, "So, uh. I'm Brendon. Brendon Urie. This is my home. It's not much, I suppose, but as youngest son I was expected to go into the clergy, so I haven't done so badly, I think."
The house was a sore spot. It was older and rundown, and Brendon never managed as many crops as the landowners around him, but he worked as hard as any of them, and he held his ground. That was what mattered.
The slave gave a small dip of his head. Brendon wasn't sure what he had expected, but as a response, it left something to be desired. Brendon tried, "What's your name?"
After a moment, the slave's lips moved, but nothing came out. He took another sip of the water and then tried again. "I have always responded to whatever designation my owner deemed appropriate, master."
Brendon frowned at that. "Oh. Ah. Is there a name you would like? Something that would be...deemed appropriate by you?"
Brendon tried to read the resulting stillness of the man in front of him, but he couldn't. Softly, the man said, "Ryan. I-- Ryan is a-appropriate."
"All right, Ryan." Brendon bit back his sigh of relief. A name was something. "May I take that collar off you? I haven't any salve for your burns, but I have to visit my neighbor later this morning. His sisters are forever burning their skin, so I'll see if he has any I can borrow."
Ryan did not say a word, but he managed to bow his head even further. Brendon took it for implicit permission and did his best to remove the piece gently. Ryan's skin was giving off a wave of heat that suggested how uncomfortable the burn must have been.
Brendon said, "I know that by law you must wear a sign of ownership, but I don't suppose you'd mind if I gave one to you a bit later? Putting anything to your skin just now seems cruel."
Another slight nod of Ryan's head. Brendon could see that he had finished the water. Brendon took the cup and refilled it. Without handing it to Ryan he said, "You need to rest if those burns are to heal. Follow me."
Ryan followed. There were only two bedrooms in the house, one clearly meant for parents and the other for children. Brendon had made up the children's room as best he could for an adult, but it was still small. All the same, it had a bed with clean linens, a basin for washing, a rug by the bed, and a dresser.
Brendon placed the cup on the stand with the basin, next to the bed. "This room is yours. If you close the door, I will not enter before knocking. I have to visit my neighbor, as I said, but you know where the kitchen and the well are, and you are welcome to anything from either. I do suggest you sleep, though. You look as though you could use it."
Brendon nodded and made to leave him, when Ryan surprised him by rasping out, "Master."
"Brendon," Brendon said firmly. Master made him feel old and scary and awful.
Ryan's shoulders tightened. Brendon asked, more gently, "Was there something else?"
Softly, ever so softly, Ryan said, "Leaving me here, alone, with no marking of your ownership. It is...unwise."
Knowing that he had invested in Ryan his hopes of staying independent, warm and fed throughout this winter, Brendon simply said, "Nobody has ever once accused me of an overabundance of wisdom."
*
Despite his warning, Ryan had little ability to run. He'd tried, once, in the days after his third master had laid ink and needle to his skin, and had gotten all of a day's walk away when he'd been returned. The slavemaster of the house had driven acid and lye into the webbing of Ryan's toes, where the skin was sensitive, but the marks would go unnoticed. He'd done so in front of the other slaves, making his point.
Brendon didn't seem the type to get his hands dirty torturing a slave, and Ryan doubted he was hiding a slavemaster somewhere else, but Brendon was within his rights to return Ryan to the House of Sale--any time in the first thirty days, a defective product could be returned for improvement--and that was more than threat enough.
And, in all honesty, even if Ryan had the nerve to run again, he wasn't sure his body could carry him. The heat sickness was bad enough, but he hadn't had a dose of whatever it was his last mistress had kept him on in days and his head felt as though it were trying to climb out through his eye sockets. The drug had made him itchy beneath the skin, eager to please with his tongue, his cock, his ass, constantly just a little bit sore, but it was preferable to the agony in every muscle, the way his stomach wouldn't stop flipping about.
Had he been feeling better, Ryan would have taken time to consider if Brendon had been serious about his offer of a bed in a room that was entirely Ryan's own, but Ryan didn't have the luxury. He needed to take off the coarse robes that had rubbed at his legs until they bled while on the horse, and to lie down. If he was to be beaten for taking the temptation of the bed later, Ryan supposed he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
The bed had cool, clean linens, a cup of water next to it and a basin, should he need it. Some things were worth being beaten over.
*
Brendon found Spencer in his fields and whistled, the sound low and concerned.
Spencer shook his head, though, and said, "At least we caught it." He was filthy, soot and ashes over nearly the whole of his face, but Brendon could see what he was talking about--the fire hadn't spread nearly as far as it might have.
Far enough, to Brendon's way of thinking. "The girls are all right?"
Spencer nodded. "Everyone is fine."
Brendon couldn't stop himself from settling his hands on his friend's shoulders, just to make sure. Spencer didn't throw him off or look at him oddly. Instead, the expression on his face was quietly grateful.
All Spencer said, though, was, "Did you go this morning?"
"Yes," Brendon said.
Spencer waited for a moment. "Brendon."
"And I purchased a slave." He hated the word. He hated it even more now that Ryan's face came to mind with it, his eyes over-large and the ink over his skin nearly dangerous in its sharp angles.
"A field slave," Spencer specified.
"He can work the fields," Brendon said. He didn't think it was a lie. Nothing seemed to be wrong with Ryan that some rest and food and perhaps a little kindness wouldn't take care of. Then again, he had only known Ryan for a few hours, so it was hard to say.
"Brendon," Spencer said again, his voice carrying worry this time.
Brendon smiled for him, making it as sure as he could. "Spencer."
Spencer rolled his eyes. "Come on, then. I need to clean up, and Crystal wanted to ask you something about her new song on the harpsichord."
Brendon nodded, always pleased to have the chance to talk of music. "I was also wondering if either of the girls had any aloe salve."
Spencer glanced sideways at him, already walking toward the house. "Aloe salve?"
"Ah, my-- Ry--"
"Brendon," Spencer said. "Brendon, you said you got a field slave."
"No, I said he could work in the fields."
"Field slaves are generally inured to burns."
"Generally doesn't mean--"
"Please don't tell me you bought a child. Please, Brendon. I know, I know the system's horrible, but we can only help so much come winter, especially now, with the fire, and--"
"I didn't buy a child."
Spencer still had his suspicious face on. "I'm cleaning up, and then we're going back to your place."
Brendon blanched, but Spencer was going to find out he'd spent his money on a pleasure slave sooner or later-and the sooner it was, the sooner Spencer would get over being frustrated with Brendon. Brendon shrugged. "With salve."
Spencer sighed.
*
Ryan woke up a second before the first wave of sickness hit, just long enough to scrabble for the basin and miss. He caught the side of it and it tipped off the stand, the heavy clay chipping but not shattering as it landed. The sound was deafening to Ryan's ears and he thought maybe he should be terrified--breaking things, being sick all over the floor. But the best he could manage was a weak twist of fear that had nothing on the bladed hand squeezing his insides.
It was cold, he thought, terribly cold, only he was burning and that wasn't possible, it wasn't, but Ryan couldn't think straight enough to figure it out. All he knew was that he was maybe dying. All he knew was that if it would just hurry up, he wouldn't mind so much.
*
By the time Brendon returned with Spencer, the worst heat of the day had passed, and Brendon thought he might be able to draw Ryan a relatively cool bath, to help ease the pain. But no sooner had they made it inside Spencer took a breath and asked, "Is something rotting in here?"
Brendon frowned. His house did smell somewhat similar to a midden heap in late August. "Not that I know of." Brendon didn't have the funds to waste food. He bought only what he could afford, cultivated the rest and was careful never to gather too much.
In the silence that followed, a sound that Brendon couldn't quite identify came faintly from the back of the house and Brendon's eyes widened. He shot off with a murmured, "Ryan."
When Brendon knocked on the door--and opened at what he now recognized as the sound of vomiting, rather than at Ryan's permission--Spencer was right behind him to say, "Christ's teeth."
Brendon looked down and saw one thing--Ryan was bringing up blood. He said, "Spencer, will you stay? I have to get the doctor."
Spencer nodded, Ryan’s violent vomiting seemingly enough to keep him from lecturing Brendon.
Brendon said, "I'll return quickly," then hurried to his horse, and set out for the house on the outskirts of town.
*
There was someone in the room. Ryan could hear it--not the voices themselves, but their echoes. The sound beat at the base of his skull, behind his eyes. He put his hands to his head to try to stop the pain, but even the touch of his own hand was too much. The air felt rough against his unharmed skin, violent against the burnt portion. Ryan could hear himself whimpering even though he knew better--letting anyone know how much it hurt was the best way to get hurt more--but he couldn't help it. Ryan's stomach twisted again, and nothing came out, but he heaved anyway.
A soft voice said, "Easy," calm and low. The noise hurt, but something about the cadence was soothing. Ryan tried to breathe. Breathing hurt, but it also made things feel better. Ryan wasn't sure how that worked, but he didn't much care, so long as it did. Strong, callused fingers took one of Ryan's hands, and Ryan made himself not jerk back, but all that happened was that he was given the cup of water that Brendon had put by the bed. The voice--not Brendon's, at least, Ryan didn't think so--said, "Slow sips. It'll help with the heaving."
Ryan knew the voice, or thought he did. Something about it felt familiar. He put the cup to his lips and followed the instructions. The heaving came back, but the voice had been right, it was a little easier. Ryan tried to remember to drink in between, the voice reminding him steadily. There were other noises, like whoever was speaking to him was doing something, but Ryan couldn't track it, except to realize that at some point the basin had been placed in front of him. The white hurt his eyes. He closed them.
The voice said, "I'm going to put some salve on your back, try to reduce the heat. It should help."
His back burned and stung with whatever was being put on it and for a second Ryan tried to remember what he'd done to deserve punishment--he was new here, he was pretty sure--but it didn't matter. Maybe his new master just liked making others scream. He did his best to take it, not to cry out, but the sensitive place where his neck met his shoulders caused him to moan.
The voice said, "Damn it."
Ryan tried not to worry too much about what he'd done. He couldn't fix it, so he kept working to breathe. He was so tired. He slumped to his side and tried not to make a noise as he hit the ground. It was hard and his bones felt fragile against it. The voice said, "Come, I'm going to help you up."
The same pair of hands that had given him the water took him beneath his elbows and lifted him up, onto the bed. He tried to open his eyes, tried to figure out what was going on. When he managed, he realized that he'd been hallucinating, and he was probably still on the floor of the room by himself, or perhaps even dead--although if death weren't any better than life, Ryan was going to feel terribly cheated. In any case, what was not happening was that Spencer was not standing over him, looking concerned.
Hallucination-Spencer looked confused for a good moment and then asked, softly, "Ryan?"
Ryan liked this hallucination. He hadn't had a nice one in a long time. He smiled, or at least, he tried to. His face hurt. "Spencer," he said, his tongue thick and the sound of the word not quite right, but Spencer was his hallucination, so he'd probably understand.
Spencer's eyes got sad, which Ryan didn't like at all, and he tried to change the hallucination to a happy Spencer. It didn’t work and he was exhausted. He didn't want to close his eyes, not with Spencer standing there. It was crazy, but he didn't know if the delirium would hold out after he'd slept. Ryan said, "Spencer," again.
Spencer said, "Ryan," sounding broken and wrong, and Ryan wanted to tell him that things were okay, that this was a good thing, but his body betrayed him and pulled him into sleep.
*
Dr. Way's house was nearly a forty minute ride from Brendon's farm, but he made it in half that time. He was aching and short of breath when he all-but fell off his horse. Dr. Way must have heard him approaching, because he was at the door before Brendon could knock.
"Brendon? Are you all right?"
"Fine," Brendon managed to gasp.
Dr. Way looked--understandably--dubious. Brendon shook his head and worked the word, "Friend," out of his throat. "A friend."
There were many, many things that Brendon liked about Dr. Way, but one of the foremost was how, despite how he was always asking questions, he knew when it was time to just act. He said, "I'll have my bag and be following you momentarily. Is he staying with you?"
Brendon nodded, and got himself back on his horse, leading the way. It was slower on the way back--Dr. Way was not the most comfortable on a horse. When he threw back the door to his house, it smelled better, and Brendon made haste to the room. Spencer had clearly cleaned up, and opened a window. To Brendon's surprise, Spencer was sitting on the edge of Ryan's bed, his hands twitching every time a tremor ran through Ryan's frame.
Dr. Way pushed Spencer gently out of the way and asked, "How long has he been unconscious?"
"Twenty minutes? Perhaps a bit longer." Spencer was biting his lip, which Brendon had never seen, even when Jacquelyn had gotten lost on a walk and gone missing for an entire day. "He was heaving, and I-- I gave him some water."
Dr. Way nodded distractedly, but he said, "Good thinking, Spencer." He touched carefully at the burns on Ryan's back. "When did he get these?"
"The--" Brendon was loath to talk about Ryan being sold, but he supposed the marks on Ryan's face and neck made it clear enough. "The traders. They left him in the sun. Yesterday."
Dr. Way continued his examination for a while before straightening with a frown. "Did the traders mention any sort of chemical dependence?"
Brendon had read all of the papers, every last one of them. "No. But would they have?"
Dr. Way sighed. "Most likely not, even if they knew." He sounded angry. Brendon knew he was adamantly opposed to the slave trade, often went so far as to write articles about it or go to larger towns to help the growing movement against the sale of humans. It meant he could trust Dr. Way with Ryan, but it also meant feeling ashamed at his own choice to take advantage of some--sorely needed, but still immoral--free labor.
Realizing how it must look to Dr. Way, Brendon started to say, "I didn't-- I wasn't going to--" but he stopped as Spencer made a small noise in the back of his throat. Brendon looked at Spencer, who looked away. Brendon wanted to ask him if he was all right, but it seemed strange to do so with Dr. Way in the room, and Ryan so sick.
After a few more minutes of silence, Dr. Way spoke without looking away from Ryan. "He was most certainly taking something, or being given it. Regardless, the withdrawal is not being easy on him, and the heat is not helping. May I assume that you are willing to take responsibility for his care?"
Brendon had never heard Dr. Way's voice so chilly before. He was about to respond when Spencer said, "I will. If-- I will. This is my fault."
That made absolutely no sense, but Dr. Way didn't seem to care. In fact, he was still looking at Brendon. Brendon made himself face him and say, "Of course I'll care for him. I-- When I brought you here, I said he was a friend." And perhaps Brendon was exaggerating his relationship out of guilt, but the fact remained that Dr. Way hadn't needed to guilt him into saying yes. He would have cared for Ryan regardless--he had, after all, gone for a doctor he couldn't really afford when the man got sick, hadn't he? And there was no law saying a slave must be provided for medically. There were no laws stating a slave need be provided for at all.
"Having two caretakers can't hurt," Dr. Way said, and some of the chilliness slipped from his tone. He started detailing what must be done, pointing out that, "He's likely used to people assuming his body is theirs, so you should talk to him when you need to touch him, let him know what you're doing. He may not be awake or understand, but he might. You want to keep his stress level as low as possible."
Next to him, Brendon noticed that Spencer had grown pale. When Dr. Way finished his instructions, Brendon asked softly, "Are you feeling all right? You were tending the fire--"
"I'm fine," Spencer said, and although he did not sound it, the assertion was strong enough that Brendon found himself unable to argue.
Dr. Way asked, "Fire?"
Spencer waved his hand. "My fields. Everyone is fine."
The doctor's eyes went wide and he said, "I'm sorry, Spencer, I hadn't heard yet."
"It's nothing," Spencer said, his eyes on Ryan.
Dr. Way tilted his head, but in the end all he said was, "I will come by tomorrow to check and see how he is doing. Perhaps he will be awake then, and able to tell us more."
Brendon nodded and said, "Thank-- I--" He swallowed and tried again. "We'll discuss payment at a later date?"
Dr. Way looked at Brendon for a long time before simply turning to go. Brendon waved helplessly at his retreating back.
*
Ryan was hot. Had he been put in The Box? He didn't remember having done anything wrong. Not that he really had to.
The Box was too small to fit in, unless you were bent and curved, and it was black, all black, dark even in the middle of the day with not enough air and too much heat. Ryan always vomited from it, and they left him in there even then. The guards always said it was for mouthing off, but Ryan hadn't, not after the second time, at least. Spencer would have told him to learn from his mistakes. Spencer was smarter about people than Ryan. In The Box, sometimes Ryan imagined Spencer was there with him, that he told stories and made Ryan laugh.
Something cool touched against the back of his neck and Ryan panicked. Not The Box, nothing cool ever came in The Box, but then where? And with whom?
Ryan tried opening his eyes. They were heavy, ridiculously so, and his head hurt, warning him what would happen if he actually managed. A voice said, "Shh, relax." Ryan wasn't sure if it was the voice that belonged to the hands putting cool cloths on his face, his back, but it didn't sound familiar.
Ryan fought with his eyes and won, even if it was Pyrrhic, light attacking his senses with a vengeance. Ryan closed them back up. After a second he tried again. The pain wasn't any less, but he was expecting it this time. The voice belonged to a man with dark hair and dark eyes and Ryan felt like he'd seen him before, though he couldn't remember where. It was a terrifying thought. A slave's survival depended on his ability to remember names and faces and, most especially, preferences.
"Ryan?" The man asked, and Ryan tried to act calm, like he knew where he was, and to whom he was speaking, and why he'd been punished. Mostly he did this by saying nothing.
The man asked, "Will you drink some water?"
Ryan tried to think the question through--his head hurt so much, the pain was bleeding through to his face, his teeth. Water was safe. He tried to say, "Please," because he wasn't sure who this man was, and politeness seemed like a better response than anything else. His throat rebelled, though, and he found himself coughing, gasping, and then man was helping him to sit up, which was pure agony, but clearly necessary.
"Ryan?" A different voice asked, but Ryan was concentrating on breathing, on anything but the pain.
The first man said, "He needs water, but he--"
The second man came around to Ryan's other side, and Ryan didn't like that, didn't like being surrounded, but there was nothing he could say. Had his owner given him to someone else? Why was nothing making sense? He still couldn't breathe, but he was trying and the second man said, "Ryan, look at me."
It wasn't an order, exactly. Ryan had learned there was a tone for everything, far more important than the words themselves. But Ryan also wasn't sure he trusted his instincts at the moment. He looked at the other man and said, "Spencer?" Something stirred in his mind and he remembered the illusion. "Oh. Fever."
The Spencer Thing shook its head. "No, Ry. You are fevered, but I'm real."
Ryan figured his mind wasn't exactly going to admit that it was making things up, so he didn't argue. Spencer Thing said, "Take a small breath."
His memories of Spencer had been the parts of himself that Ryan had fought most vehemently not to lose, but the last time he had really seen Spencer had been when he was twelve, almost ten years earlier. For the most part, they had grown somewhat hazy over the years. What Ryan did remember was that Spencer didn't give advice just to hear himself talk, and when he did give it, it was almost always right. Ryan tried a small breath. It wasn't nearly as hard, nor did it hurt as much as the gasps from earlier.
Spencer Thing said, "Good. Now another."
When Ryan was breathing somewhat normally, Spencer Thing brought a cup of water to his mouth and held it there, helping to sip slowly. Ryan couldn't take much and was exhausted by the effort. Spencer Thing and the other man lowered him down onto the bed again and Ryan, even knowing slaves weren't supposed to touch freemen without explicit permission, couldn't help reaching out, curling his fingers around the wrist of Spencer Thing. He said, "Missed you," because what could it hurt, telling a figment of his fevered imagination?
Spencer Thing said, "I won't let you be taken again."
Ryan felt his smile more than he suspected it actually graced his face. It was such a Spencer thing to say. It made Ryan feel like it was safe to go back to sleep.
*
The third time Ryan fell into something that at least resembled sleep--even if it wasn't necessarily that benign--Brendon bit his lower lip for a moment and then made the leap, saying to Spencer, "I. Uh, I thought Ray was your only slave."
Brendon had something of a hero-worship for Ray, which almost everyone but Ray made fun of him for, but Brendon didn't care--Ray was fantastic. There were a million stories of how he'd been bought by the Smiths, but his favorite one was the one Ginger told, the one that Ray always listened to semi-indulgently, like he could say something, but chose not to. In that story, Ginger and the kids had been on a picnic, and the field they'd been in had been on a road sometimes traveled by slave caravans.
A caravan had stopped near their picnicking site and Ginger had been teaching the kids not to stare, that the people on those lines were still people, and deserved respect, when Spencer said, "They're hurting that one, Mommy."
Ginger had turned to find Ray being beaten by one of the guards--Ray would not talk about the reasons, but Crystal always swore he'd been protecting another slave, a smaller one--and had offered to buy him, right then and there. Ray had come home with them, and once recovered, helped with their farm and to raise the children, and no matter how many times the Smiths had offered to arrange his freedom papers--a process easy on neither slave nor owner--Ray had just shook his head and said, "No, thank you. I like it here."
Spencer looked at Brendon, clearly confused. "Ray is our only slave."
"Then, ah. How is it that you know Ryan?"
Spencer must have caught on to what Brendon was thinking then, because he looked thunderous. "We never owned Ryan. We don't sell people. We don't--" Spencer's fingers reached out, nearly touching the marks on Ryan's face, but then drew back. "He wasn't my slave."
"Oh," Brendon said, not sure how to keep up his line of inquiry.
Spencer, though, said softly, "He wasn't a slave at all."
"He--" It wasn't exactly uncommon for people to be sold, traded into or punished by slavery, but it also wasn't something most people talked about. It was hard to maintain the idea that slaves were subhuman if, at some point, they had laid claim to a fully human status.
"Bryar's lands weren't always his." Spencer swallowed. "He bought them from the government, after they had been repossessed. Ryan's father-- Those were Ross lands, as far back as my mother or father or grandparents can remember."
"Ross? That's Ryan's family name?"
Spencer nodded tightly. "His father, he-- Well, I was a child and my parents wouldn't speak of it, but I think he had a fondness for liquor. He wasn't unkind to Ryan, or any of us. It wasn't like that, but he was no good with money, and when he died, they came and took Ryan away."
"They?" Brendon asked, shivering. It had been scary enough to leave home and strike out on his own, largely against the wishes of his parents and the morays of society. He couldn't imagine being taken away by people he didn't even know.
"My parents wouldn't say. I was only eleven. I think they must have taken him to debtor's prison, though. I asked Mikey, once, as a hypothetical, and he said that it was most likely the heir would have to serve the term, regardless of having created the debt or not. But I suppose he must have been sold from there, somehow. Perhaps to make up the debt?" Spencer was clenching his fist. "I don't know; I just don't know enough about any of this."
Brendon reached out, unsure if his touch was welcome, but needing to do something. He settled his hand lightly atop Spencer's shoulder. Spencer turned the slightest bit into the contact.
"How did you-- Why him? He's not a field--" Spencer's voice broke.
Brendon could feel a flush at the base of his neck. "I, well, see, he was--"
Spencer turned sharply on him and Brendon blurted out, "He was burnt and marked and I couldn't leave him there, Spencer. I just couldn't." Brendon made himself at least keep eye contact.
Some of the worst of the tension flowed out of Spencer then and he said, "Oh."
Brendon was about to open his mouth and ask when it occurred to him what Spencer must have thought. "That isn't fair of you to think that of me, Spencer Smith, not fair at all." He hit Spencer's shoulder, maybe a little harder than he'd meant to, but that was a terrible thing to think of someone.
Spencer rubbed at his shoulder and looked down. "I'm sorry, Brendon, I shouldn't have-- Well, I'm sorry."
Brendon nodded, not entirely over it, but knowing he would be soon. He said, "I'm sorry about your friend."
Spencer just turned back and found one of Ryan's hands, holding it in both of his.
*
Ryan had learned long ago to awaken with his eyes still closed. He wasn't sure how he had taught himself, only that it had been imperative that nobody else know he was awake, so he had learned the skill. He had no idea where he was. The last thing he could remember--
Ryan made himself breathe, slow and easy, and hoped that nobody had noticed the hitch in its pattern. He made himself work backwards. He could remember his last mistress selling him--he'd gotten too old for her--and being packed into the wagon, the heat, and the slave who had gotten sick on the way to the town, had died two days before they'd arrived and whom nobody had cared to remove.
He was fairly certain he had arrived at the sales house. He made himself concentrate--yes, yes, there had been the cages, too many of them all in one, and most of them not quite desperate enough to get out, which had scared Ryan even more than the times when other slaves had all-but mauled him to make sure they would get first-viewing.
And then... Then the boy with the dark eyes. Ryan tried to think if there had been papers. There must have been. He wasn't at the sale house any more, and he wasn't dead, so he had to have been sold. After that, there was just heat and pain and sickness and the weird delirium of a grown Spencer, as gentle as the child had been, but nowhere near as happy.
If he was in his new master's home, and he had been sick for some time, the fact that he was in a bed was most likely a good sign. There weren't voices, or anything obvious to let him know that someone else was in the room, but he could smell the faint scent of coffee--maybe from a room nearby--and there was a breeze, so a window must have been open, or a door, to allow for a cross-breeze.
Cautiously, Ryan opened one eye just a sliver. There wasn't anyone in his direct line of vision, so he let his eyes open all the way. The room seemed vaguely familiar, but Ryan couldn't place it. He was considering letting himself be lulled back into sleep by the weight of his own exhaustion when the dark-eyed boy came in the room and caught him awake. Ryan was almost sure, splotchy memory and all, that this was his new owner, so he started working to get himself up, to offer some gesture of obeisance, but he was stopped in his tracks by the enormous grin that spread over his probably-owner's face.
"Ryan?" he asked.
Ryan said, "Master," or at least tried.
"Oh, you must want, here," the other man said, moving toward the table next to the bed. "I realize it still can't be that comfortable to move, but if you just--" He helped Ryan roll a bit on his side, then brought a cup of water to Ryan's lips, so he could drink slowly.
Ryan wondered if he had gotten something wrong. Was the boy another slave? Someone who had simply been sent to the sale house to find a pleasure slave and bring him back? It was a lot of trust to place in a slave, but Ryan knew that sometimes owners did. The idea that an owner could trust a slave that much was reassuring, assuming that those slaves with seniority weren't cruel to those who were new. Then again, Ryan was in a soft bed sipping cool water, so he had no reason to be terrified yet. Ryan closed his eyes for a moment, fighting against the onset of a headache.
"Are you still tired? Dr. Way said we shouldn't wake you, that you should be left to sleep until you couldn't anymore. Do you need more sleep?"
Ryan did, but even more than that, he needed to know where he was, what his position was. Unfortunately, he didn't see any good way of getting those answers. He made himself keep breathing. Pete had taught him that--always keep breathing, no matter what. Pain, fear, anger, there was nothing that breathing couldn't get you through to the other side of.
The boy set the cup on the dresser and said, "Ryan?"
Ryan nodded, bending his head so that if this was his master, it would seem a measure of humility. It couldn't hurt in the case of a more beloved slave, either. But the boy just put his fingers to Ryan's chin and tipped his head back up. Then he asked, "Do you remember where you are?"
It could be a trick question. Slaves were meant to know what they needed to know, and if they didn't, they were meant to find out. It didn't matter how, so long as nobody noticed. Ryan nodded once, trying for all the world to look like the answer was obvious.
The boy frowned and said, "Well, all right. I just thought, you know, with how sick you were, that maybe you would have forgotten that I, uh, I, back at the sale house, and you were on sale and I needed a field-hand?"
Which told Ryan that this was his master, but a field-hand? Ryan considered the fact that he might still be mildly-delirious. He tried his best to keep his face blank, but some of his confusion must have bled through, because the smile he'd witnessed on his master's face earlier was back in full.
"I can see not. In that case, let me reintroduce myself. I'm Brendon, and this is my home. This is your room in my home, and I really need some help with my farm."
Ryan swallowed, not sure of how to tell Brendon that he'd picked himself the wrong type of slave. It seemed preposterous. Nobody had ever mistaken Ryan for anything other than what he was, not even when he'd been fourteen and new to it.
Brendon, though, was talking again, "...not, at least, until you're fully better. Dr. Way should be here later; he's been checking in every evening. You're feeling better, though, right?"
Ryan wasn't sure what his feeling better had to do with anything. He certainly couldn't remember the last time anyone had asked him. He supposed he was feeling better, though, as most of his memory was filled with the notion of absolute misery. He said, "Yes, master."
Brendon frowned, but whatever was bothering him, he just said, "In any case, you should sleep more, or at least try. Dr. Way said you needed to catch up on years of sleep, and you've only had three days."
Three days? The last slave Ryan had known who'd fallen that ill had been killed the second day in--slaves weren't considered worth the extra reserves if they couldn't perform their duties.
Brendon was saying something about the glass of water by the bed and calling if anything was needed and Ryan couldn't process what the words meant all strung together. Brendon said, "Sleep," one more time and then disappeared through the door.
Ryan thought, well, at least that's an order, and gave into the comfort of knowing what to do, if only for the moment.
Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six