Softā¦so softā¦ of all the senses that returned to me first, it was the sense of feel that flooded my consciousness. I no longer lay on a cold, damp floor, no longer did I hear the crashing of waves against the underbelly of this dark house that had swallowed me like the fish had swallowed Jonah. I thought I was dreaming, I didnāt want to open my eyes at first, too sweet was the sensation of lying in a soft bed. I didnāt think I ever lay on a mattress such as this one.
Not even at home. Homeā¦wherever that was. It felt so distant that even my memory refused to bring back the images. Just one sentence echoed through my mindā¦āNot made by human hands.ā I stirred, rolling over to one side, my face turning towards a source of light and warmth.
I inhaled deeply and another sense cameā¦scent. The whole room smelled pleasant, of flowers. Lillies and roses, I could even smell the wine sitting in a pitcher next to me. My stomach rumbled. I hadnāt eaten for days in the brothel. Not because they didnāt feed meā¦water and stale bread had been offered once a day. I refused the food, I refused to accept their meagre offerings, barely enough to keep me alive, but enough to fill their pockets and make them rich.
As a final act of defiance, I refused every crumb. I was ready to burn out like a candle. A final act of spite to sour the deal these merchants had struck. I wasnāt sure what my selling price had been. When they discussed back and forth, I only noticed the melodic language they used and the wild gestures they both made as they fought over the price of my life.
I heard movement from the far corner of the room, and finally I opened my eyes. I blinked, disoriented and in disbelief at the splendour that unfolded before my eyes. The four-poster bed was heavily draped in red brocade curtains, a golden pitcher of the wine I smelled on the nightstand, and golden plates laden with fruit and bread.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes to see more clearly. And then I saw him, he sat on his writing desk. Lost in thought, scribbling something into a small book with great speed and great care. He looked concentrated and serene at the same time. His pale golden hair framed his face like a halo. When I first saw him, I had mistaken him for our Lordā¦coming to free me from my wretched existence. I remembered how he smiled at me, how he lifted me into his arms and told me to sleep on the way home.
Homeā¦was this where this was? I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I hesitated to disturb his seemingly meditative state. But speaking out loud didnāt seem necessary. He had noticed that I was awake, and his pale blue eyes fixated on me with an intensity that made my cheeks redden. āMasterā¦ā I said quietly in Greek, the only language other than my own that I remotely understood, no matter how hard it was for me to roll it off my tongue.
For the first hour after Marius had brought the boy home, heād sat in his chair inches from the bed, listening intently to the faint mortal heartbeat. And in those thinly stretched minutes Marius had feared, perhaps feared too much and with little reason, that at any moment the feather soft beat of the boyās heart might fade to nothing.
In that quiet, anxious time Marius had made a careful, delicate study of the beautiful boy who was but a slip of a child. In his hands heād taken a small wrist, feeling in it the sharp bones made too prominent from malnourishment. Dotting the arm were bruises, the sort made by intentionally cruel hands. How afraid Marius was, despite his tenderness, that he might leave more bruises in the wake of his curious explorations.
Vincenzo was in and out, checking on their newest pupil, bringing food and wine and fretting to Marius that the boyās condition was too fragile, too uncertain. Yet what did he know with his mortal senses, Marius thought, when Marius alone could hear the quiet and persistent beating of his heart, which he hoped had just a bit more will left in it? Mariusās confidence grew after heād fed the youth some soup and had seen a hint of color return to his cheeks.
No, this auburn haired boy had endured too much to simply give up, not now that the salvation heād prayed for had come.
After a while Marius had returned to his desk, lulled into an unfamiliar peace by the steady breathing of his new mortal child. Within the book containing his deepest thoughts, Marius passionately recounted his finding of this child. He wrote of the moment the lantern had spilled in enough light to reveal the youthās soiled but resplendent face. He wrote of how closely heād clutched the child to his chest in the gondola that had whisked them home. Noted too was the look of curious fear on Riccardoās face when he glimpsed his newest brother, the other boys long since gone to bed. How solemn the elder had looked when given the task to introduce this precious one tomorrow to the rest of the apprentices.
In the midst of his patient but fervent writing, Marius heard the soft rustle of blankets and the whisper of satin against skin as the child roused and sat up. Quickly he looked up, not prepared to immediately lock eyes. Sleepy, faded amber eyes gazed at him and his heart thundered for a moment. A soft secret shiver worked down his spine. The single word seized his heart and in that moment everything felt right. Gone were his fears, his lamentations. There was only this, their eyes met from across the room and a softly spoken word.
Closing his journal, Marius rose. He brought his chair back so as not to stand over the boy, which may be intimidating considering all heād suffered. Sitting in the chair next to the bed, Marius leaned forward, keeping hands that wanted to touch and soothe firmly in his lap for the moment. āYes. Master,ā Marius said softly, kindly, worried the slightest efforts might exhaust this waif. āYou are too weak still for more than this. How does your stomach fare?ā
