Bones of Salt

Matias

When Matias woke up, the day after the ball, the last thing he expected to find was Athanasios in the hallway.

He hid behind a column, to gather his wits. He was perfectly capable of facing his master. The two had always discussed politics and, while they didn't see eye to eye, Athanasios had never told him to shut up when he made his pointy comments.

Actually, the relationship between the two of them had improved when Matias had told his master that he wanted to join the Court. Still, facing Athanasios in the morning, with disheveled hair and in his nightgown wasn't the best idea.

Besides, Matias feared Athanasios must have heard about the punch Roman had given Jason, and must have thought his slave had something to do with it.

Matias had been almost shocked at Jason's words. Not because of their cruelty, but because of their creativity. Growing up with Jason, he'd had time to know him. The other boy had talked in sentences of a few words stringed together until puberty, and even a little after that. Matias had fooled himself that it meant Jason was mysterious and might be interesting under the surface.

Then, one day, Athanasios' son started using his words to offend everyone around him, and Matias understood he'd inherited a wicked streak from his mother, it had just taken a while for him to fully embrace it.

Matias didn't fear much, but he had come to be apprehensive of Penelope's wicked streaks more than Athanasios' cruelty.

Before he could lose himself in his thoughts, a voice brought him back to reality.

"Isn't that... you know, Jason's father?" Jonathan was asking him.

"You can say master, you know," Matias whispered. He didn't want Athanasios to hear him. He still believed, even after all those years, that every time the two met he had to make an impression. "That is what he is. He must think I had something to do with Jason getting punched."

"Don't worry," Jonathan commented cockily, crossing his arms and leaning against the column. "I'll tell him I had everything to do with it."

Matias wasn't cross with Jonathan, but he couldn't help but say impatiently, "He wouldn't care. You don't know him."

Matias knew Athanasios looked for every reason to punish him. Still, other kids had been sold to houses or working places that were far worse. He never had to live in the streets, he never had to fight for food, join a criminal organization or sell his body.

There were things that were far, far worse. Then why wasn't he feeling exactly grateful at that moment?

"If you went into our house," Matias added, for telling Jonathan some little thing about his family life had opened up a dam he didn't even know he was there. Now, everything was slipping out. "You might understand what I mean when I try to tell you Athanasios has only eyes for himself. On every wall there's a painting."

Jonathan opened up his teal eyes, and tilted his head, confused. "Does Athanasios paint?"

"Ah, I wish," Matias joked. "He poses for portraits. He has one for every time he's changed style, or haircut. He also has portraits that represent him surrounded by things he doesn't have anymore. Sometimes he'll be like, when I was five years old I only had a wooden soldier, I did not have as many toys as you have, Jason. And next thing you know, he's taking some portraits off the wall and showing you an oil painting of a chubby five-year-old with a wooden soldier in his hands, who's eating from the three-legged-table he's always telling us about."

Jonathan gave Matias a little knowing smile, as if he'd realized the other boy was talking to get his mind off things. "Good luck with Athanasios, whatever he wants from you or Jason. Yesterday... you might think it strange to hear it from me, but I'm afraid I made a fool of myself."