Master of Slaves

A/N: Just a quick note about Rinoa’s character. I’ve gotten quite a few reviews concerned about her bashing. First in foremost, I don’t consider what I’ve written to qualify as bashing. Case in point, in the game Seifer throws Rinoa to Adel. Arguably this is a Seifer bashing scene, but no one thinks ill of the games’ manufacturers. Why? Because sometimes people act irrationally or erratically when their emotions get the better of them. It’s very realistic. Great people make cowardly decisions in life. I’m sorry if anyone is unhappy with my choices in this story concerning her. If this were purely for bashing purposes I never would have built on her character. That would be an effective waste of my time.

Master of Slaves
Chapter 14: The Humbling River

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Despondent doe eyes stared blankly at nothing, hands nervously wringing her apron. She sat with soiled heart and soiled apron.

“ Out!”

She shut her eyes against the tormented voice. Her ears saw the silver tray launch and clatter on the tiled floors and the scampering feet of frightened servants.

And tormented became tormentor.

It seemed there was nothing that could pacify her master.

No, it seemed there was nothing she could do to pacify her master.

Amidst the scurrying of the servants in the house she heard the familiar voice of the head servant greeting a guest in the foyer.

“Sir thank you for coming.” The old woman uttered, voice unsteady.

Rinoa turned slowly with glossy eyes to see the elegant sway of brown hair.

“ Not at all my dear, what seems to be the problem with the young master?”

She would have recognized the sensual drawl of the young Kinneas anywhere.

“ I cannot get him to eat! I’ve even made his favorite dishes two days in a row! He just sits in the dark all day brooding!” The old servants’ matronly voice squabbled. Her jowls trembling in her earnestness.

“ I see.” The purple-eyed man muttered distantly as he folded his arms in contemplation. Then, “ Where’s the slave boy?”

“ Gone. He released him days ago. You don’t think this has something to do with him do ya?” She carried on, her arms waving emphatically.

Rinoa scoffed bitterly to herself, looking away. She had to swallow hard against the threatening tears.

With folded arms he tapped his pointer finger atop the bridge of his nose, “ I think it may my dear.”

“ If he wants another slave can you not just bring him another?” The old woman suggested with zeal in her eyes.

Irvine breathed a knowing laugh, “ I don’t think that’s the issue. Thank you Sirrah, I’ll take it from here.” He picked up her hand and placed his on top with a slight bow before walking off toward the master’s parlor.

Rinoa quickly got to her feet, purpose in her strides. She had heard enough. Though it pained her to think that Irvine could do more for her master than she could, it also gave her hope. Hope that someone else could affect her master as deeply as the rebellious slave boy did.

She disappeared into the servants quarters as Irvine’s boots stopped in the threshold of her master’s parlor. She was nothing more than an apparition in the dark now.

Purple eyes strained to adjust to the pervading darkness of the parlor. And once they did, they softened at the desolate sight they beheld.

Irvine breathed a heavy sigh and leaned his shoulder against the door frame. It was in bad taste to brood, and to brood over the boy.

“ So the cat got out huh?” Irvine drawled in his usual sarcastic undertone, yet his face betrayed none of his humor.

Morbid green eyes awakened from their reverie and looked up at Irvine. And Goliath fell from his throne.

He took a moment to respond. He simply stared with sharpened eyelids as if trying to cut through the gloom and into Irvine’s soul. But then that faded too.

“ Who invited you in?” His voice lacked all conviction.

The corners of his eyes seemed to be drooping downwards. And there was such bleakness in them that Irvine found himself ensnarled in that same gloom.

Irvine took a tentative step into the parlor, waiting, watching. However, Seifer just sunk further into his seat and bowed his head as if his neck could no longer support him.

“ I didn’t think I needed an invitation.” Irvine spoke softly his eyes trained on Seifer.

He took a seat on the sofa across from Seifer. He looked frail in the dim light. Even the light looked as if it lay limp across the blonde’s sagging shoulders.

Irvine found his mouth had gone dry.

“ Sirrah says you won’t eat.”

Seifer snorted bitterly, “ I eat.”

“ She says you sit in the dark all day.”

“ She isn’t with me all day.”

Irvine cast his friend a long, hard look. He looked aged, the shadows making home in every crease and crevasse along his face.

And then finally he could keep silent no more, “ Why’d you let him go?”

It was barely a whisper but it sounded a cacophony to the blonde’s ears. Irvine could see the silent battle waging, from the sag of his eyes, to the furrow of his brow, and the crease of his forehead. And as his features melted from pride to prostration an inkling of clarity twinkled in his darkened eyes.

The look alone said enough. Irvine wished he would not speak.

“ I couldn’t have him.” Dry lips moved on their own accord, not recognizing the words yet understanding all too well what was said.

How the mighty have fallen.

Restless fingers swept across Seifer’s forehead. They trembled.

“ Is he worth losing your religion to?” But those purple eyes asked so much more.

Eyes caught his, a green that had started to fade.

Irvine’s chest felt heavy as he heard the sorrow-laden sigh of his companion. He felt he was looking at a stranger. He wanted reprieve from the stiff sorrow just as much as Seifer did.

“ I have something that will ease your pain.”

Bony fingers removed a long and thin wooden stick from the inside of his coat and laid it on the table.

Seifer paid him no heed.

He removed a vile of black oil resembling tar and poured the sickly sweat substance into a metal bowl protruding from the stick.

Seifer paid him no heed.

He pulled out a tinderbox from his pocket and sparked a flame that lit the tar in the metal bowl. It sizzled sharply. Watching his friend he placed the end of the pipe in his mouth and inhaled, filling his lungs with smoke.

Within minutes the sweat smelling smoke pervaded the air and Seifer had no choice but to pay his friend heed.

Opening his mouth a cloud of billowing gray spiraled towards the window and danced above their heads in twisted halos.

Irvine held the pipe out for Seifer.

Seifer looked between the pipe and Irvine with something akin to disapproval, but there was too much despair glossing his eyes to really judge. Irvine wanted to gouge the sadness from his eyes. He gestured more firmly for Seifer to grab the pipe.

“ Come on.” Little wisps of smoke escaped the cavity of his mouth as he spoke.

It smelled of sweet temptation; it whispered promises of respite. That was all he needed to yield to the magic of the poppy.

His body tingled as the wisps of magic coursed through his body with a purpose. His throat burned, sweet Hyne it burned. It punished his throat but he welcomed it, knowing it would heal him soon enough. He breathed it in until tendrils of gray were slipping through his nostrils. He released it in a slow, shaky breath. His eyelids slide shut and his limps instantly grew numb. The pipe dangled loosely in his open palm.

Irvine bent over and retrieved the pipe. He watched the transformation in Seifer’s body as he slipped into comfortable numbness. But his eyes were still plagued.

Irvine took a deep drag and another cloud of smoke mingled in the air above their heads.

“ You know there’s an old Galbadian hymn.” Irvine started to hum in a voice deepened with wisdom…


Nature, nurture, heaven and home.
Sum of all and by them driven
To conquer every mountain shown
But have never crossed the river


Seifer’s bleak eyes shifted ever so slightly towards Irvine as the words fell from his lips and burrowed their way into his heavy heart.


Braved the forest braved the stone
Braved the icy winds and fire
Braved and beat them on my own
Yet I'm helpless by the river


Time seemed to still, suspend over their heads in clouds of smoke.

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Angel, angel what have I done?
I've faced the quakes the wind, the fire
I've conquered country, crown, and throne
Why can't I cross this river?

Squall was forcefully thrown into a cellar in the Count’s manor. The stone floor scraped his shoulder and thigh.

The light patter of the Count’s footsteps stilled a few feet behind him.

“ Stand up.” The Count’s words slithered off his tongue.

Squall lay there awkwardly tethered hand and foot feeling the floor cold and damp against his cheek.

“ I said stand boy. ” The Count ground his jaw as he spoke.

Squall lay there, trying to disappear. He felt eyes on him and lifted his heavy head. He meet with the wide unblinking eyes of a boy tied up like him. He heard the heavy footsteps of the lackey’s approach, he felt them grip his upper arms with bruising force and hoist him to his feet, but he could not look away from those glossy brown eyes.

It had been so long since he had seen eyes like that.

Eyes that glistening in song, a song that serenaded him, implored him, begged him.

They begged him to obey; they begged for his safety.

“ Strip him.” The command cut through the thick air into his consciousness.

He snapped his neck around, his hair swinging wildly about his face. The Count caught the look and knew he had recaptured the boy’s interest. He smiled wickedly, proudly. Squall closed his eyes against the sound of his breeches being ripped from his body. The cool air rushed up his legs with invisible hands and he shivered. He felt utterly vulnerable. Never had be felt so naked before, not even in the presence of Seifer…

He would not think of that. He could not. It was too much too quickly. Being transferred from hand to hand, master-to-master, all within moments of one another. So instead he concentrated on everything else, anything else but those thoughts.

He heard the crunching of loose morsels of gravel under the Count’s boots as he advanced, slowly, calculatingly towards him.

His muscles tensed under the calloused hands of the goons.

A hot vile breath was on his face. It made his hairs stand on edge.

He wanted to continue ignoring, wanted to keep his eyes screwed shut, but his pride, what minuscule amount still existed, implored him to open them.

He opened them right into the black depths of a soulless shell. Squall was looking into nothing, just black, never-ending black.

The Count’s fingers ghosted his cheek, lightly, and his soulless eyes followed. His fingers grew hungry and he cupped his chin with a vice grip and smashed his lips against Squall’s.

Wide-eyed Squall tore away, violently taking a piece of the Count’s lip with him. Nausea churned in the pit of his stomach, threatening to emerge at any second. He felt sick and violated.

The Count hissed as he pulled away, gingerly touching his fingers to his lip. Upon seeing the smear of red on his fingers his eyes narrowed and he smiled something wicked.

“ You will be punished for that.” He grinned, his lips painted scarlet with blood, “ But not now, I prefer an audience.”

He boldly advanced Squall again, stopping a breath away from his face, “ In the playground.”

A rage he had long thought had been extinguished ignited in his veins. He spat in the Count’s face. He spat out his disgust, the Count’s vile tasting blood that poisoned his mouth, the saliva that burned his lips. It landed right under the Count’s black eyes and slide down his face, mingling with his blood-smeared smile.

He let out a cruel semblance of a laugh and licked the spit away.

“ I will make you the coveted play thing of all the lords and ladies in the land.”

Then with a swift fist he gripped Squall’s jaw in his hand and squeezed. Squall fought back a shout as the Count maimed him through a pressure point.

“ But first, we shall see just what you are capable of. On your knees.” The Count hissed.

Squall fought to keep standing straight but he was forcibly brought to his knees. He wheezed through crushed cheeks. The veins in his neck became pronounced as he trembled with exertion.

“Edmond!” A foreign voice sliced through the hostility.

The Count stopped. Everything stopped. A cold chill seemed to slither from the Count’s hand into Squall’s body. His eyes smoldered. Those black abysses dilated and Squall saw the faintest traces of brown around the edges of his pupils. The hand that held his face captive started trembling uncontrollably as his eyes dilated from black to brown then black again. Finally the Count released Squall as if his face burned his hand. His fingers tangled in his hair and he stumbled backwards howling in pain. The two lackeys ran for the exit and did not dare look back.

“ You! How dare you!” He cursed, his voice raspy.

He pointed at the boy with the captivating brown eyes. And just like that the Count was upon him, whip in hand and slashed his exposed flesh vehemently.

He whipped him, whipped him, and whipped him until the whip had stolen his voice to cry. The Count stood there gasping for air, blood dripping from the tail of his whip. He looked down at the sound of it dripping onto the stone floor with wide eyes, then back at the boy who stood slumped against his bindings. He dropped the whip as if he was just now witnessing his atrocities, as if he had been possessed by something else. He ran from the boy. He ran with fear in his brown eyes. He ran away.

Squall lay painfully on his bruised shoulder. He was reeling. His skin shimmered in sheens of cold sweat. Through matted bangs he looked up at his savior. The boy’s dead weight dangled by his arms, it seemed his arms would pop out of their sockets at any moment. His body adorned with fresh welts. They too glistened under the candlelight. A drop of sweat rolled down the bridge of Squall’s nose and down his parted lips. It tasted like a tear.

“ Thank you.” Squall breathed, it sounded like the whisper of a ghost in the vacant chamber.

The boy lifted his head. His lips, coated with snot from his running nose and tears from his red-rimmed eyes, curled into a small smile. Not the sadistic type of smile one would expect from a boy who had just been beaten within an inch of his skin, but a genuine smile.

Squall felt he was in the graces of a martyr. The saving graces.

He started inching his way closer to the boy’s side, dragging his naked body like a worm on the ground. The stone peeled some of the skin of his shoulder, neck and side but it seemed inconsequential compared to the deeds of the martyr boy.

As Squall crept closer the martyr boy sniffled and whipped the snot from his nose on his bare upper arm.

With some effort Squall sat up and propped his back against the cobble stonewall next to the boy. He grimaced as his shoulder was pulled back at an awkward angles from his hands being tethered behind his back. He slumped forward to take the pressure away and cocked his head towards the boy whose brilliant brown eyes were already watching him.

“ Why did you do that?” Squall asked of the boy.

“ It’s painful to watch others receive such a disservice.” His voice had a masculine quality to it that his physical appearance lacked.

He was young, too young for these conditions. His face lacked the hard lines of age and experience that are commonly seen in slaves. He still had a boyish charm to his features. The faded scars and welts that protruded from his body told a different story though. It made Squall frown.

“ What of yourself?” Squall posed firmly, his eyes lighting up passionately.

The boy emitted a small soundless chuckle and looked down at his dilapidated state. For moments he merely looked down at himself, or maybe at nothing at all. It was clear Squall would receive no answer either way.

“ Who is Edmond?” Squall tentatively pressed.

He did not want the boy to stop talking. It was his only consolation down here in the bleak chamber of the Count. It was the only thing to take his mind off of…

The boy picked his head up slowly his lips drawn into a stern line, “ Edmond was the man the Count was before he sold his soul to the devil.”

Squall’s brows knit together in question, but the boy continued despite.

“ Rumor has it that the Count was falsely imprisoned for a crime in Chateau D’lf for thirteen years.”

“ Chateau D’lf? I’ve never heard of it.” Squall spoke smoothly though he butchered the pronunciation of the place.

The boy veered his neck to look at Squall.

“ That was the name it held during the reign of Adel the Great. You might know it now as D-District Prison.”

Squall wondered again at this boy’s supposed age.

“ What were his crimes?”

“ Treason.” The boy answered abruptly. “ Yet it remains as to if he was actually guilty. Guilty or not though, thirteen years there would make anyone go mad.” He chuckled humorlessly, his eyes dropping away from Squall again.

Squall stared at him for a moment, deliberating, “ You speak as if on his behalf.”

“ I do.” Those brown eyes met firmly with his.

“ Why?”

“ Because a great disservice has been done to that man. I mourn for Edmond Dantes.” He trailed off at Edmond’s name.

Something flickered within his bright eyes and Squall watched as he battled with some memory, some epiphany perhaps before he began again.

“ Edmond had a lover named Fernand Mondego. They were both sailors away at sea. Edmond quickly moved up in the ranks, from first mate to captain, while Fernand got no recognition. Fernand should have been happy but competition ran fierce between those two. Crazed with jealousy Fernand exposed a secret of Edmond’s that would forever ruin him. It involved politics, insignificant really, but that landed him in Chateau D’lf. It was in Chateau D’lf that Edmond learned the love of hate. One can only imagine that things he thought up, alone. When he was finally reunited with his old lover, he murdered him. He has since been overwrought with grief.” As he ended the tale the corners of his eyes seemed to sag.

Though his face was unreadable Squall was brooding over this tale. Suddenly the man who had only soulless black eyes now became human. Squall tried to imagine such unspeakable betrayal. Even through the hatred he harbored for his lover, he still loved him more than anything. If he hadn’t the monster known as the Count would not exist.

“ And who are you to know all of this?” Squall questioned, his eyes shining with genuine curiosity.

The boy smiled easily, “ My name is Albert. Fernand Mondego was my father. The Count keeps me as a sort of poetic justice. I’m the last piece of Fernand that still lives.”

Squall’s heart thudded wildly in his chest. It was demented; it was sick. However, he felt the hatred he harbored dwindle into pity.

He pitied the Count of Monte Cristo. The savage creature was really just a broken man.

Albert watched Squall slip into a pensive state of silence.

“ Rest assured tonight.” Albert offered.

Squall looked up with furrowed brows.

The look made Albert’s heart sink in his chest.

He answered softly with a rueful half smile, “ he won’t take you to the playground until tomorrow evening.”

Dread quickly kindled through Squall’s being. He fought back the bitter bile that had crept into the back of his throat.

“ Do not fear him tomorrow.” The advice was a command. “ I will be with you.”

Squall glanced over at Albert. The boy had saved his hind once already and he was positive that his martyrdom would not save him tomorrow.

No one could.

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Deep within the confines of the Count’s chambers a solemn sound sent the night phantoms cowering within their shadow temples.

It was a sound so disturbing the devil herself fell to her knees and wept.

The husk of the man that was Edmond Dantes howled into his trembling hands, his shoulder convulsing and his palms damp.

He wept so hard tears of blood fell. They littered the wooden desk he sat hunched over. In his wet hands he held a tiny artifact. A piece of black thread tied into a small circle.

It was a ring. The ring Fernand had made for him. They promised each other real rings once they became first mates. He buried Fernand with his silver band. Edmond never received his ring…

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Rinoa stood slumped under the threshold of Seifer’s parlor. The sun had slept and awakened since Irvine’s visit and yet the young Master had done nothing. She had long thought he had turned to stone.

He looked on with eyes that did not see. He listened with ears that did not hear. He felt with heart that did not beat, not for anyone but the slave boy.

If only he would realize that she ached for him as he ached for the boy.

Cruel Hyne, she thought bitterly, who could not have birthed her in class any lower or higher to appease her soul but had to throw her in the midst of two worlds where she belonged to none.

She wanted to belong. She wanted to belong to her young master.

“ What would please you my lord?” She begged in the softest voice that floated like a feather to her master’s deaf ears.

Slowly he craned his neck to look at her. His glazed eyes did not see her. He did not see her disheveled raven tresses splayed out like ribbons across her face. He did not notice the transparent texture of her skin or the dark circles weighing down her big doe eyes.

He answered with silence.

She could bear it no more! She fell to her knees gracelessly and pressed her clammy forehead to the wooden floors.

“ I give myself to you then. It is the only way I can show you how much I truly care.” She sobbed her voice breaking pathetically.

It took a moment but the master’s eyes focused fully on the display before him. He looked on aghast.

“ Have you lost your mind?” He chastised.

Rinoa whimpered blissfully. It was the first time he had spoken like his old self in days! She wiped at her tears furiously, flinging her head up.

“ Make me your slave. Have me! Body and soul. Train me, beat me, punish me, do whatever you will with me.” She cried, clinging to his hands.

“ Stop this madness!” He demanded rising from his seat, shoving her hands away from him.

“ Please, you are my lord and master!” Rinoa implored wringing her trembling hands together.

“ This is not the life you want for yourself.” He took a step away from her.

Her feverish exhibition of fervor frightened him. He could not comprehend her wishes or her motivations.

“ It is! I have wanted you for so long! Take me or not, I am but a humble servant girl, however I want nothing more than to serve you for the rest of my life.” She groveled, scooting closer to him on her knees, her hands still pressed together in mock prayer.

His brows furrowed even deeper and his eyes regained their sharp edge at her confession.

All these years and he never realized her love for him. He had never cared enough to notice. It was not guilt that made him pity her but his obligation as her master to be observant of her health. This he had not done.

“ Then be as you have been, a servant in my home.” He spoke in a level and stern voice then began to stride past her.

She clawed at his shirt in profound desperation.

“ You would deny me servitude to you? Even as I beg for it?” Her voice quivered along with her watery eyes.

He glared at her sternly for her inappropriate behavior but was in no mood to admonish her.

“ I don’t take slaves anymore.” He replied brusquely as he shrugged her off.

She did not catch his eyes soften at the statement, but she knew he was thinking of Squall.

“ Why must you pine after a boy who despises you?” Her voice broke into shrieks of fanaticism.

He whirled around on his heels, his eyes dark,“ You know not what you speak.” His voice dangerously low.

“ It was plain as day! You finally saw it! That’s why you got rid of him!”

“ Hold your tongue!” He hissed.

“ He has ruined you!”

“ It is I who ruined him!” Spit flung from his vile tongue as he screamed, the veins pulsating from his crimson forehead.

She cowered in silence her lips quavering and the tears spilling from her red-rimmed eyes. Never in all her years of service to the Almasy family had she witnessed him lose it as he had right then.

Seifer heaved from exertion. He ran a shaky hand through his hair frantically trying to quell his nerves.

That was all the convincing she needed. She had her answer.

Still on her knees, her hair thrown wildly across her face she blubbered, “ Either way you’re both ruined now. And if he wasn’t, the Count shall remedy that.”

He had not heard her entire admission but hearing the Count’s name was enough to make his blood freeze thrice times over.

“ What did you say?” He wheeled around on his heels, hand still lingering on the back of his neck.

His eyes were wild, utterly alive. The animal inside him had awakened.

Mouth agape she snapped her neck up. Her eyes glimmered with guilt. She could not stand looking into his eyes, eyes she knew she deceived with her secrecy.

“ Rest in peace. His ruin won’t be by your hands, but of the Count’s.” She whispered quietly as it pained her to speak the words at all.

Seifer grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently, “ How do you know this?”

Tears sprang freely and soundlessly from her guilty eyes.

“ It’s the talk in the town. The Count plans to make spectacle of him at the playground.” She forced out as her neck snapped back and forth like a spineless puppet.

Seifer’s eyes widened and his pupils dilated, “ Did you plan to keep this hidden from me? Did you think I wouldn’t want to know this information!?” He rasped out cruelly.

Rinoa offered him no answer but to look away in shame.

He pushed away from her and she fell down forcefully onto her side, her hair wiping around.

She peeked through her hair up at her master in disbelief.

He towered over her, the menacing master he was with not the slightest shred of remorse.

“ I’ll deal with you when I return.” He promised in controlled rage.

Just like that she was beside herself again. The boy made him alive. The boy made him feel. She would never be that boy.

“ When you return, I’ll be gone.” A single tear strolled down her cheek.

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There had been very few times in Seifer’s life where he had not thought and weighed every decision through. Now, he simply reacted. He acted on the basest of human levels, primal instinct.

Urgency filled his limbs, started as a quiver in the base of his spine and exploded in his chest. He sprinted through the vast corridors of his manor his boots skidding and screeching upon the different textured floors. Throwing the doors of his weaponry room open he ripped his gunblade Hyperion off its mount on the wall. The place setting ripped out with it throwing up dust and debris as the wall particles fell to the ground. He buckled the holster around his waist and sheathed Hyperion.

All thought went by like a whirlwind, like a violent squall had besieged the seas of his mind. He could think of nothing, no logic, no consequence, no action, nothing but Squall. The image of the boy burned from his mind into his retinas, blurring his vision and blinding him from all else.

Seifer burst through the threshold of his manor and the cold night wind lashed against his heated flesh. He ran down the cobblestone streets of the market, his footsteps clopping heavily against the wet pavement. His thighs burned and his lungs wanted to quit him, but he would not let them. He was master now. He was taking back control.

Though the revelation may have come too late, he hoped there was still time.

He prayed to Hyne that it was not too late.

And as he ran an old hymn echoed in the recesses of his mind.


Pay no mind to the battles you've won
It'll take a lot more than rage and muscle
Open your heart and hands my son
Or you'll never make it over the river
It'll take a lot more that words and swords
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we'll cross the river

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TBC…

Hey guy’s I’m really sorry about the long wait! It has taken me forever to find time to work on fanfiction these days. I promised I would finish the story and I will you gotta have faith in me!

I am feeling kinda rusty guys, tell me what you think! As always I appreciate all criticism and compliments!

Thank you to everyone who sent me nice messages asking me to continue! They do motivate me!