Update: There is new art at the end of the chapter. I’ll be updating all the chapters with this as a beyond generous digital artist has decided to do fan art for my story.
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII, its characters, and settings are all property of Square Enix so I can take no credit nor claim any ownership of that. I do take some credit for the story’s plot.
Banner Artwork Disclaimer: The featured artwork for the banner is entitled White rose I and was created by the very talented Deviant Artist RemusSirion who was gracious enough to grant me permission to use it here. The picture has been slightly altered from the original. All rights belong to the artist, and links are included for both the artist page and the work.
Chapter Artwork Disclaimer: The featured artwork for this chapter is entitled Rose in Blood and was created by yet another very talented Deviant Artist Kawaielli. The picture has been slightly altered in appearance and to include the chapter number and title. All rights belong to the artist, and the image is used here with their permission. Links are included for both the artist’s page and the work.
*******MAJOR CONTENT WARNING*******
Consistent and sustained graphic descriptions and mentions of rape/ sexual assault, sexual slavery/bondage, slavery, human trafficking, physical abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, mental abuse, emotional abuse, psychological abuse, body shaming, starvation, torture, forced pregnancy, forced childbirth, miscarriage, forced miscarriage, abortion, and other potential disturbing and triggering topics.
The arrival of her murderer to what was once her church casts a deeper shadow over the horror of Aeris’s life.
“I’ll bind your wounds and comfort you,
‘Cause I know who you are.”
-Mary Fahl “Gravity”
“You have not lived today
until you have done something
for someone who can never repay you.”
The instant he saw her he wanted her. The Cetra was going to be his. She was naked of course, as all the slaves were, slumped by a broken pew. They were shackled together, but she was alone, fragile limbs within thick cuffs. Around her raw throat was an iron collar, and huge chains held her to the floor. Her bangs, oddly bright, were high on her head, and a coiled braid pooled by her side.
“Has she been used?” the Great General asked, looking down at the greasy slaver. Emerald light spilled on his silver forelocks, cut through pupils so thin. He wore his flowing, black leather coat with the armor brighter than dawn.
“Yes, sir.” The man darted his gaze to the slave, grinning like a rat at a feast. “Well used, but still just as tight.” He chuckled and didn’t quite lick his lips. “She’s got a miracle cunt that one. I’ve had her meself loads of times, and that’s what all the other lads say.” The slaver winked. “She’s a screamer.” Then scoffed. “You’d think after a thousand romps she’d be used to it. You go deep enough and she’ll struggle ‘round you. She’s weak as a kitten, but loves to fight.” He laughed deep in his belly to cold Mako stare. “I’ve got ‘er back full covered in bruises, but they heal just the same as her cunt. The whip marks though, well, she should have a reminder of what happens to willful slaves.” Chortling again, he gave a glance to the others who whimpered and cringed away. “She’ll tear around you, no worries for that. Her cunt’s always tight, general sir. I rent her out usually by the day, but I’ll bargain you for the week.” He considered a moment, picking at teeth that though slanted still flashed their white. “You’d think all torn up, she’d struggle more, but I think the pain steals ‘er fight. She won’t even scream, though you’ll see her sobbin’ without sound or even a tear. Funny really.” The stout slaver spat, casting lustful eyes towards his prize possession.
That entire speech the tiny slave made neither twitch nor cry. She remained hunched and chained to her pew when her owner hauled himself before. “Here you can see ‘er,” he said to the general whose gaze pierced the kneeling Cetra. Cast in the man’s shadow, she remained still as stone ‘til he asked, “You want the whip? We have a guest, the Great General. Get up and show some respect.”
The slave lifted her head before struggling to rise against thick, heavy chains. Yanking the link closest to her chafed throat, the slaver jerked her to her feet. She tried not to whimper, but it still escaped and his scowl promised later pain. Delicate limbs were weighed down by the bonds, and she withered, clothed only in irons. With fetters far bigger than her tiny wrists, the shackles stretched half up her arms. Unwound, her braid bumped shriveled calves, but the Cetra had other “assets.” Her breasts were full despite sagging a bit with nipples bright pink and high. They pointed to stars that she’d never seen and her waist could’ve fit in one hand. Before the Great General could fully see all, the slaver turned her around. Knocking apart those quivering thighs, he bent his property over.
A sharp tug to long braid jerked back the slave’s head, and she barely swallowed her scream. The cacophony of chains gave her quaking away, while she awaited the tearing thrust. Digging her teeth into lower lip, where the blood pulsed so close to the edge. Shiny, black boots blurred through her vision as her master stabbed at ragged flesh. Within his pants, but she still shut her eyes as those boots took a step fully forward.
“I can’t decide what’s more lovely, general. These teats.” He squeezed one. “Or this ass.” Pushing hard against her bottom, the slaver half-hoped he’d say no. Even though he’d fucked her bloody several times that morning, it was his favorite way to end the day. Scowled resignation shuffled him to the side to show the customer his “wares.” Lifting one finger, he wound dull braid tight. Might as well give him a show.
“I’ll see for myself.” The low voice called his pause.
“Oh, yes, sir, by all means, yes!” Opening his hand in rapt invitation, the slaver quaked beneath looming light.
“If I make the purchase.”
“W-Well…” He scrambled to catch the lost thread of patter in a fluster that nearly failed. “You can see though she’s always wet. Doesn’t matter the time. Doesn’t matter the hour. Her cunt just gushes with heat.” He tittered a bit like a manic jackal. “Not really rape then, is it, general? If the little wench wants it so.” His body reacted again at the thought, but now was the time for restraint. A well-deserved profit could be made today and more upon return. When word spread the Great General had spent his good gil, the girl’s demand would soar. The slaver yanked her up, unconcerned with the whimper that cut off as he spun her around. Merciless Mako spilled on her stomach, but the cold didn’t freeze ravaged flesh.
“She’s been bred,” the general observed, slits slithering on pink morass. “Often.” The grooves scored her belly to match her back scars, the skin before stretched and flaccid. It was worse by her navel, which mournfully frowned to the low-slung bulge like a striped melon.
“Aye…yes, that,” the man sputtered, his cheeks wobbling a guilty red. “Well rather, she’s been breedin’. Never to term though, general, sir. She’s defective and expels ‘em before, but she’s fertile as the green grass above. She’s been seeded…oh gods, loads of times.” He winked at that blank, marble mask. “Some’ll pay more to fuck a pregnant wench. The longest she’s carried has been six or seven months from my estimation that is.” He huffed peevishly. “Course I usually have her when that nonsense come about, screamin’ and wailin’ the entire time as if she’d carried ‘em full.” The slaver’s glare hunched the Cetra in cower, but emerald ice stayed his hand. He used it instead to scratch his fat chin. “She pretty much only drops twins, and a few of the lads have mentioned triplets. She screams a lot less around three or four months, not that most of ‘em mind her fuss. Some downright enjoy it, and those that don’t, well, easy enough to make it worth your while.” The mere thought made him brighten, and he coughed out a laugh. “It’s so much better when it just happens in the midst of a little fun.”
“She’s miscarried while being used?” the general flatly asked.
“Too often to count, general, sir! Usually after one or two months of seein’ her belly blown. If I’m lucky it’s when she’s out for rent. Then I just hear the complaints. Like I said though, nothin’ ruins her. The wench has a magic cunt.”
“How many?” the Great General asked, gaze transfixing the little slave. Her tremors were violent to match quivering lip, but haunted eyes shed not one tear. Sharp knees fought the buckle that bid them bend beneath the heavy chains.
The slaver scratched his chin again at the question. “Er, how many men do you mean, general, sir?”
A silver brow lifted, and the greasy man babbled. “W-Well, er, I’ve honestly lost count of both. Since she’s been mine about twenty years, I’ve rented her out thousands of times.”
“Twenty years?” his customer snapped, shifting his glare to the slaver. Only those eyes were alive to dance in the winter of that perfect visage.
Thin slits cut through Mako turned the man’s tongue to lead, and for a moment he mimicked his chattel. “Y-Yes, sir, a-and that’s another thing, th-the little wench…w-well she don’t age. I meant to tell you. I’ve had her for years and my father had her for more. Even before that, me grandfather found her, right ‘ere in this church.” He forced a stiff laugh, slapping the pew, which shed dust as it dully creaked. “She was prayin’ or something, that’s what he said. I guess she didn’t pray hard enough.” Humor returned in the form of a chortle low in his bouncing gut. “S-So, general sir.” He shuffled to face the towering man in black. “Do you want to try ‘er out? I’ll give you a good bargain. A thousand gil for the week.”
“I intend to buy her from you outright. There’ll be none of this renting nonsense. She’ll be mine and mine alone. I am a possessive man.”
“B-But sir,” the slaver whined like a kicked cur, “she’s my best bit o’ property!”
“Then I will pay you very well.” Slivered dark cut him over, nor could cold emerald’s gleam be denied. “A million gil. Will that suffice?”
The seedy man’s knees nearly crumpled, as the Great General retrieved his phone. He managed to decipher the slaver’s babble to transfer the funds between. The price was paid. The girl was his.
“Do you want me to keep her in chains?”
“Remove them all,” came curt command.
“Even the one at her neck, general? She’s tried to run quite a few times. Well,” the man tittered, “she did in the past. Just needed a firm hand and a thicker whip to put her back in line.”
“All of them.” In repeat it was darker, and the man fell to the little slave’s feet. She neither moved nor dared to react when he reached up to paw her thighs. Thinking to pierce flesh one final time before a massive hand captured his wrist. That angel mask neither blinked nor wavered, and the pallid slaver grew paler. The moment stretched long, and the man nearly begged, but the release came before his word’s breath. Gulping more air, the slaver swallowed and completed his task in all haste.
The tiny Cetra stood fully bare in the shadow of her new and larger master. Without the chains she shrunk even smaller, as if shackles were all of her substance.
“Do you know me?” His words stilled the shadows, and she was the palest of all. Yet he had asked her a direct question, and silence at such was no choice.
“Yes, greatest master. I do…” As scarred as her skin from a century’s screams, her voice wilted at just those few words. She’d seen his great hand cage her old owner’s wrist. Hers would be pulp in his grip. Haunted eyes lifted, and the Cetra swayed. He was so tall it made her dizzy. Through bleary eyes, his features swam, perfect, white, and cold.
“Good,” he answered, stepping closer, though silver hair hid winter’s mourn. “That makes it easier.”
Clinking like chains filled the Cetra’s ears then warmth cloaked her better than summer. A strangled cry escaped her split lips, as her battered body ascended. Lifted high with no effort and wrapped in black leather, her whimper bled pure fear.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Aeris,” he promised, low voice filling the air with her name. “You’re in my arms now. I have you. You’re safe. Do you truly know who I am?”
Blinking and bleary, she attempted to focus. The brightness was much closer now. Midgar, the church, her former tormentor faded away around light. All that existed was emerald and pale. She forced consciousness back like a mask.
“Yes…perfect master. I do know you.” The gleam from his eyes was so bright to near blinding, but she didn’t dare shield her face. “You’re the Great General…S-Sephiroth.”
“That’s right.” The so-named lowered his head, shifting her easily in his strong arms. Aeris gaped up, too frightened to blink as a long forelock brushed her bruised cheek. His step was so smooth, his black boots so silent, and her vision’s edge curdled and curled.
The general carried his charge down the nave where once hopeful flowers had grown. Wrapped in sweet warmth and held with such care, she fought the miasma of dark. A whip would awaken. A scourge or a thrust…tearing through her tender flesh. Each whimpering breath begged for this moment, though surely it had to be lie…
“I’m…in your arms, g-greatest of masters. You’re…carrying me…away.”
“Yes,” he whispered gently down. “I’m taking you to a place where you’ll never be hurt again.”
Those words meant nothing to the tiny Cetra. A world like that didn’t exist. He’d throw her down soon, beat her, use her. He owned her. It only made sense.
“Lay your head on my shoulder, Aeris.” The rich baritone rolled through her skin.
“Yes, master…” she murmured and obeyed.
“I’m not going to hurt you, little flower,” he promised, “but I may have to burn down your church.”
An important note on artwork: The final piece is by Bethany Anne, a professional illustrator/digital artist who has not only decided to do this beautiful work for this chapter, but has offered to do one for each. So I will be updating each chapter as that occurs. You can find her work on Deviant Art and ArtStation.