Winter Holiday, a matched fanfic

Winter Holiday

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Matched

Ky Finnow is five years old, riding on his father's shoulders as the village gathers to sing. The skinny tree in the middle of the square blooms with light strings instead of leaves or flowers; the nutrition personnel hand out steaming cups of hot chocolate; mist rises from people's breaths as the ancient carols rise through the air. His parents' voices, warm baritone and clear soprano, rise above the rest for him. He has never heard anything so lovely in his life.

"Hark, the herald angels sing: Glory to the newborn king … "

"Papa, what's a king?" he asks later, watching his father's head disappear into the meal truck's engine.

"Someone who's born to lead," Sione replies. "It's a word from before the Society."

"Born to lead? Like the Pilot?"

"No." Sione scoots out from under the truck and gives his son a look. "The Pilot chooses to lead, and his people choose to follow him. Birth has nothing to do with it."

"It doesn't?"

Sione beams. "The greatest leader in human history was born in a stable. I'll have to tell you that story someday."

There is a dignity to him that no grease stains can hide. Ky is too young to understand, but many years later, the memory will come back to him, and he will honor the man who, despite all his mistakes, gave him the foundation of love and pride that will last for all his life.

Whump! Snow hits the back of his head, trickling down his collar. A giggle rings out behind him. He turns around.

Xander Carrow is there, smirking, holding another snowball in his mittened hand as Cassia Reyes doubles over with laughter. Their coats are brown, like their student plainclothes, picking up the red highlights in Cassia's shining auburn hair under her faux-fur hood. Her green eyes sparkle with cold and mirth.

"Sorry!" she calls. "We're just having a snowball fight. C'mon, it's fun!"

What Ky wants is to peg Xander so hard that the smirk on his face will be wiped off for the rest of the season. He knows that, since the incident with the red tablets, Mapletree's golden boy doesn't mean him any harm, and Cassia, being Cassia, would be happy to make friends. Still, he does not appreciate being laughed at. Especially by her.

Still, he knows by now that what he wants to do is rarely what he should do – especially with others watching.

It would be … inadvisable, his homeroom Instructor told him privately, for you to become too close to the other children. You don't want to put their futures at risk by association, do you? I'm saying this for your own sake as much as for theirs.

As if I believe that, he wanted to say. Instead he gritted his teeth and nodded.

"No time today, sorry," he says casually. "I've got homework."

"On the last day of class?" Cassia exclaims.

"Don't want to spoil the vacation, after all."

"You're as bad as Xander. Workaholics, both of you." The blond punches her on the arm, and she squeals. "Well, optimal results, Ky. And Happy Winter!"

"Happy Winter," he repeats, waving over his shoulder.

Merry Christmas, Sione whispers on the wind, and Ky huddles into his coat. At least during Oria's winters, he can pretend his shivers are from nothing but the cold.

The year he turns sixteen, his share of the Winter Holiday dinner is replaced with a standardized portion. Next to Patrick and Aida's roasted turkey legs, mashed potatoes with cranberry sauce, fresh peas and carrots, and a slice of fruitcake each, the cold sticky pile of noodle salad on his tray is the most dismal thing he's ever seen.

Aida's lovely blue eyes, so like his mother's, blink back tears as she silently squeezes his hand. Patrick is flushed and tight-lipped with anger; if not for the port humming in the next room, Ky has the feeling his adoptive father might just explode.

"Another streamlining measure, I guess," Ky says, using an effort of will to keep his face neutral. Trust the Society for something like this. Why should an Aberration get to enjoy food?

Patrick jumps to his feet, comes back with their old black-market scribe in his hand, furiously types something, and passes it to Ky. I contacted the local nutrition center. I told them it wasn't fair, but they refused to listen!.

I understand, Ky types back. Besides, food is not what Winter Holiday's about anyway, is it? It's about family.

He passes the scribe to Aida, and her face lights up through her tears. He knows that this holiday makes them remember Matthew more than any other, and that they feel the need to hold their second son as close as they can.

Take half my dessert, she types, Please. I don't care how illegal it is. You, of all people, deserve it.

Mine too, Patrick adds, smiling wryly. My friends in the department tell me the individualized vitamins are just a myth. Trust me.

Ky does trust them. And it's that, more than anything, which makes the sweet and spicy fruitcake so flavorful on his tongue.

Dearest Ky,

How is your flight training going? Is your commander still so tough on you? What about Indie, how is she? I'm so glad you two are looking out for each other. Your work sounds much more interesting than mine – nothing but the same round of sorts in the same gray cubicle day by day. I keep waiting, for a sign from the Rising yet, but nothing happens. How this is supposed to bring down the Society, I have no idea.

I sent holiday cards to my parents, Bram and Xander today, and I wished I could have sent you one. Those silly little port messages with their dancing snowmen and sparkling mistletoe probably sound shallow to you, but they always make me smile. Lately, smiles have been in short supply for me; this is the first Winter Holiday I've spent away from home. And by home, I don't just mean Oria. I mean you.

If you were here, we could walk down the streets of Central arm in arm and look at the rainbow lights strung over the pines and along the housefronts. We could write poems in the snow and chase each other, like we never did as children. If you were here, you could teach me how to sing the old songs your parents taught you. And no matter how cold it was, we could keep each other warm.

We cannot do those things this year, but we can think of each other. Think of me and I will think of you, and it will be as if we live that day together. And don't give up hoping for more someday, because I certainly won't.

Happy Winter, Ky.

All my love,

Cassia

"Silent night, holy night,
all is calm, all is bright
'round yon virgin mother and child,
holy infant so tender and mild … "

Cassia laughs softly at Ky's song, since the screaming red bundle of energy in her arms is anything but tender and mild right now. Still, the longer he sings, the more the baby quiets down, until he finally falls asleep with a sigh and a crinkle of his tiny nose. Cassia, in hospital scrubs, sweaty hair plastered to her forehead, shadows under her eyes, and a radiant smile as she holds their son in her arms, is beautiful beyond even the power of music to describe.

"He's got a good ear," she whispers. "He already takes after your side."

"He's got your lung power, though."

"Oh, perfect," she jokes, but the look in her eyes tells him she sincerely means it.

"Perfect," he repeats. "Yes, he is. The best Winter Holiday gift we could possibly have."

Sione Abran Markham will grow up, not only beloved, but challenged. He will be free to choose where he works, whom he loves, and even when he dies. He might have his heart broken or break another's someday, fail a task, get into rivalries and conflicts over work, politics, friendship or love, but he will also have the chance to do anything, be anyone, he wants.

The greatest leaders in history were babies once, whether born in a stable or a hospital. There is nothing more infinite than the potential of new life.