Oliver blinked several times and swallowed hard. He was staring across the table at his father.

Unlike the last meal they'd shared together five years prior, it was late into the evening and the sky behind the count was a deep blue black. His features were illuminated by the rich golden glow of the candles and fireplace, and the boy could see clearly now just how much his father's face had worn over the years. It was not as though the two had never crossed paths in all the time that had passed, but they hadn't spent a great deal of it together either. James had been working himself too hard, perhaps. That or he was simply finally starting to age. He still had a handsome face, but his once youthful features had hardened. If at all possible he had become even darker and more intimidating than before.

Oliver opened his mouth. He wanted to say something, though he had no idea what. The words would not come to him, so he nibbled mindlessly at his carrots, again not really tasting anything he was eating. He wanted to say something that would make his father come back to him, something that would make him proud. At the same time, however, he wished he had the courage to stand up to the man and convey his hatred for him. Though, in truth he would have preferred not to care at all.

"Is there something you want to say?" James asked, quirking an eyebrow in an infuriating manner of mock-interest. Oliver cursed himself for being so easy to read and for playing into his father's hand once again.

"No sir," he shook his head, blushing in irritated embarrassment.

Luckily he was saved from further awkwardness as Marta pushed open the modest kitchen door to gather their dishes. The young noble wondered why it hadn't been Rufus instead, but he didn't exactly mind to see Marta. He had always preferred her for obvious reasons: anyone associated so closely with the count was not to be considered a figure of comfort.

"Your birthday cake, Young Master," she said, turning back to the entry way to give the trembling Rhys a little push. Oliver hadn't noticed him there at first, but he could see him now quite clearly. His eyes were wide with apprehension but it was also clear that he seemed rather proud of himself. The young count-to-be lowered his gaze to the cake which Rhys had on an ornate cake stand.

"Shall we sing for you, then?" she asked, nodding to Rhys as he scrambled forward to set the cake on the dining table with extreme care.

Oliver nearly laughed out loud at the idea of Rhys singing a birthday song to him, but he resisted, shaking his head instead rather soberly. Marta gave a humble curtsy and quickly dismissed herself, leaving a frightened Rhys standing there petrified. He eyed Count Aurick in fearful bewilderment, having obviously not expected to see him sitting at the head of the table.

Oliver sighed, returning his attention to the cake. He was surprised Rhys had actually made it himself—that he had done so was evident. Considering that he had no baking experience whatsoever and had made it all on his own, it was fairly well done. However, in comparison to the elaborate cakes he was typically presented with it was, simply put, a bit of a mess. Still, he was impressed and perhaps the smallest bit moved by Rhys' loyalty. But Oliver intended to test that loyalty thoroughly by berating him for it. Just as he parted his lips to scold the boy's sloppiness, he was interrupted by his father.

"Slave, did you make this yourself?" the count asked.

Rhys bowed deeply and give a meek nod, "Yes, Master."

Master? Yes, perhaps his father was master of the house, Oliver thought, but Rhys belonged to him. He curled his fists tightly.

"Unacceptable. Take it back immediately." James lifted his hand, and for a moment Oliver honestly believed his father was going to slap the boy, but he only pushed the tray dismissively toward him.

"Yes, Master." Rhys repeated, oozing with servility. He didn't look upset at all, but Oliver had to wonder. It didn't make sense. If he had put all his heart and effort into something he would have felt utterly crushed to have it so instantly rejected. No matter how well he hid it, there could be no way that Rhys truly didn't mind.

He found himself suddenly on his feet, staring down the length of the table at the two of them. "Don't you dare throw it away, Rhys."

His slave turned to him with a troubled look, caught between two very contradicting commands.

"Dispose of it." The count repeated, giving Rhys one more chance.

The boy worried his bottom lip anxiously for just a moment, but at least leaned forward, reaching out to pick up the cake stand. Before he could properly fasten his fingers about the base of it, Oliver had rushed forth and smacked his hands away. Rhys turned to face him in horror, whiter even than usual. The red tones in Oliver's dark eyes burned towards his father like flaming coals, the reflection of the candlelight flickering in them resentfully.

"He isn't your slave, he's mine. He will do as I tell him to, and not anyone else!" he growled, positioning himself between his father and his slave. "Don't you dare order him around as if he belongs to you, too."

James stood then, casting his eyes ominously down on Rhys as he approached them. Still Rhys did not dare reaching for the cake a second time. He braced himself as the count raised his hand, but it was Oliver's cheek that was struck instead. Both of the boys gasped, taken aback.

"What…" Oliver breathed in disbelief, trembling lightly. Though it was nothing compared to how much Rhys seemed to quake. He looked thoroughly horror-struck, Oliver thought as he cupped his stinging cheek. He had never been hit before, not even by his father. However he had never crossed him before now, either. His heart was beating quickly and the feeling was not altogether unpleasant.

But the budding excitement faded quickly into dread as the count hit him again, this time managing to knock the boy back and sending him tumbling onto his knees. It hurt. It was humiliating.

"You ingrate!" he hissed, "Who was it who gifted you this vile thing in the first place? You're my flesh and blood. My heir. My tool. You have no belongings."

"No more!"

Oliver ceased his shaking—he didn't even realize he had been. He blinked back the hot tears he hadn't noticed until he'd heard Rhys' trembling voice. It seemed he was crying Oliver's tears for him.

"What?"

Oliver was scared. He had never seen his father so enraged. He could not imagine how Rhys must have felt at that moment as the object of such anger.

"Please, no more…That's enough…" Rhys repeated weakly, welling up with tears, "He's your son," he sniffed, "It's his birthday," his tears escaped their pools and stained his cheeks, "How…How can you say those horrible things to him?"

The pale boy lifted a tremulous hand to wipe his tear-stricken face but the furious count seized it up in a bone crushing grip.

"I have never been so disrespected in my life, you filthy white rat." He seethed.

"Forgive me, Master," he murmured a plea, his voice cracking with fear. Oliver winced as his slave uttered such submissive words to the man he hated so. It made him sick, as though his father were somehow dirtying his belongings.

"Forgive you? I think not," he spat, throwing Rhys down on the rug beside the fireplace. He dug his boot heel into the boy's chest, still tightly clutching his breakable wrist, "Not until I've taught you what it means to be truly sorry."

With his free hand he snatched up a poker from the mantel, thrusting the end into the fire. Oliver watched, frozen in fear and disgust, still on his knees. He couldn't bring himself to do anything but look on in silent horror.

"Now, why don't you beg forgiveness?" the man said icily, suddenly thrusting the red-hot poker through Rhys' palm. Oliver tightly closed his eyes over burning tears. Rhys screamed.

"For – Forgive me!" he wailed, curling up in a pathetic ball on the floor. "Please…" pitiful heaving sobs made the words hard to decipher, but the count just nodded calmly.

"That will do, slave." He said coolly, casting the poker dejectedly to the floor before pushing open the double doors with grace and swooping away into the pitch-black foyer like a bat.

Oliver watched the doors swing slowly shut, closing out the eerie darkness, leaving the two of them bathed in low golden light. If his heart wasn't beating so unbearably loud, and if his ears weren't ringing with Rhys' howling, he might have had time to wonder why no one had been attending to the foyer. His eyes lingered vacantly over the weeping figure, slumped small and fragile on the floor like a crushed dove, shaking with every shuddering sob.

It wasn't long before Marta emerged, the other maids poking in through the doorway behind her. No doubt they had heard the screams and desperate pleading cries.

"Merciful heavens," she whispered, kneeling beside him and gently picking him up off the floor. Behind them she could hear the whispering and gossiping of the other maids, and she looked over her shoulder to give them a warning glare. They fell silent, and she returned her attention to the now only lightly whimpering Rhys.

He was cradling his injured hand. Though the poker had been hot, it had not quite burned the wound closed, and blood oozed everywhere. Oliver thought he might pass out; after one good look at it; Rhys did.

"Help me carry him, he needs treatment." Marta said to the other maids as she tried but failed to lift the boy on her own. He was small for his age, but he was a teenage boy, and she was an elderly woman. Suddenly it seemed the nosy young maids had something to attend to after all, as they all fled the doorway rather quickly.

She sighed, turning to Oliver for just a moment, who started a little at the sudden eye contact. Up until then he had felt somewhat of an outsider to the scene, and being acknowledged made him uneasy. He wondered if she would request his help, but she seemed to think better of it.

"You can treat him in here if you cannot lift him," he said awkwardly at last, trying his very hardest to mask the quivering in his voice; his throat was dry and felt strangely full of something. He thought he rather wanted to vomit. "I'll send for – for medical assistance." He swallowed hard, turning quickly on his heels and heading for the exit.

Not quite daring to brave the darkness of the unusually empty foyer, he went through the kitchen entrance instead. A group of maids were there, huddled all in a circle gossiping quietly amongst themselves.

"Young Master!" One of them said in surprise as she noticed him, bowing deeply. The others scrambled to follow suit, all red-faced with shame. None of them could meet his eyes as he exuded an aura of absolute lividity.

"See to it in whatever way you find most suitable that my slave receives immediate medical attention," he hissed at them, "Else you find your sorry selves in his position, in which case I would find it very hard to care if you found treatment or not."

For all he knew they had turned to stone at his frightening tone—the room fell still enough to hear a pin drop—but he did not trouble himself to look back at them as he left.

Rhys tiptoed down the hallway, clutching his tightly bandaged hand to his chest, his other hand holding firmly to a candle-holder. He swayed back and forth, still dizzy from blood loss and simply from crying too much. In a way he was glad he'd lost consciousness for most of the ordeal. It was embarrassing enough that he had behaved so disrespectfully to the count—and disappointed his young master, no doubt. Desperately he wished he could have taken back those pitiful tears. But more than anything he wished he'd baked a more adequate cake; that was the root of all the night's disaster anyway. As usual, it had all been due to his grave mistake.

He reached the dining room, half expecting to see the cake still sitting there, but after waving his candle for a moment he could see the table was completely bare. Of course one of the maids would have taken care of it, thrown it away already as the count had intended. But just to make certain, he tiptoed into the kitchen, the door shutting behind him with a low creak.

Rhys nearly dropped the candle.

"Y-Young Master!"

Oliver was as surprised as he was. He sat there hunched over on a stool by the countertop, blushing and scowling at the same time. It was only a matter of time before Rhys noticed he was eating his birthday cake.

"What are you doing nosing about?" he asked aggressively.

"I wanted to see if the cake—oh, the cake!" the slave drew his hands to his face in astonishment, trying to cover up the smile forming on his lips. Oliver felt more embarrassed than ever. The cake was really delicious, but he would rather eat a bar of soap than admit it. His eyes flitted over to the thick white bandages, soaked through with murky red, which masked his smile. How he could still smile after all that had transpired Oliver did not at all understand.

"Your hand." He gestured for Rhys to come closer, and he did so hesitantly.

The boy bowed his head, his white blonde hair hiding the guilt on his face, "I'm sorry. I did something very shameful and out of place."

Oliver could not comprehend why Rhys was so full of remorse. He was beginning to feel convinced that this boy must be an absolute idiot. Was he seriously sorry for something entirely out of his control? He had suffered the worst of it and here he was apologizing.

Oliver noticed his eyes were red and puffy, no doubt from crying, and he felt another small pang of guilt. Anyone would cry subjected to that amount of pain, but surely this foolish child was ashamed on behalf of his tears as well. Idiot.

"Give it here," he commanded sourly. Rhys paused nervously before offering his hand to his master, who began to slowly unwrap the severely soiled bandaging. As he tentatively unwound the fabric his chest tightened nervously, afraid of just what lay under the bandages.

The wound was as horrifying as Oliver had anticipated, and he blanched at the sight of it. Too unsightly for words. It was all he could do not to become sick as he wet a cloth and very gently wiped the excess blood and pus from the wound. Rhys did not dare say anything, and Oliver was grateful for it—he knew what he was doing was unheard of, to show this much care to a mere servant. Still, the silence was suffocatingly palpable in the air.

He found some cheesecloth and used it to sloppily re-bandage the wound. It was difficult to look at the pale boy who was obviously fighting back tears and happiness, a mess of emotions. For some reason a new wave of anger flared up inside of Oliver.

"Rhys." He could feel his fists curling up again, his nails digging in his palms.

"Yes, Young Master?"

He stood up suddenly, and backed Rhys into the door. The boy let out a small, startled noise but didn't move.

Oliver parted his lips to speak; he wanted to apologize to him for what his father had done, he wanted to thank him for standing up for him.

"Don't you ever even look at that man again, do you understand?" he said instead.

Rhys nodded in a way that said he didn't really understand at all.

"Don't look at him, don't talk to him—don't let him lay a single finger on you. As far as you know, he no longer exists." Oliver pinned Rhys' shoulders to the door with his hands to demonstrate how serious he really was.

"But—"

"Also. He is not your master. If you call him Master one more time, so help me, I will…" Oliver shook his head, trying to sort out his words. Why was this so difficult?

Rhys looked utterly lost, but he had the look of desperately wanting to understand and obey. The young noble sighed.

"You are mine, understood? Mine. You are to call me Master and no one else." He felt embarrassed by how possessive he sounded, but at this point he didn't care.

Rhys nodded, backing himself further into the door if at all possible, "Yes, Yo—Y-Yes, Master."

"As long as you understand," he said, turning away brusquely to hide his childish satisfaction, "Now hurry to bed and leave me be."