Christian and Marton. Job Offer.
Sep. 14th, 2004 10:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
palacechristianChristian lay on the grass and stared blindly at the sky. It was a gorgeous day; an endless blue sky above and, if he bothered to sit up and look down through the cliff-edge rails, a cut glass expanse of azure sea below.
This was one of his favourite places within the entire Palace complex and when he’d first arrived in Balize as a child to live with his father, he’d found his own personal sanctuary right here, in what his nurse, obviously a closet romantic, had told him was a Secret Garden.
It wasn’t actually that much of a secret, but it was well hidden by the topiary hedge and mostly invisible from the main house, so it kind of qualified. A part of the old gatehouse which guarded the road that used to wind it’s way up the steep, seaward side of the cliff, it was now part of the larger garden and tended to by the horticulturalists.
With the gatehouse empty and abandoned it was more private than ever, although if anyone really wanted to find him, they always knew where to look.
He listened to the bees buzzing in the rose bushes around him and gave himself over to idle thought.
Apathetic, that was the word he’d been searching for. While his body had fully recovered from the privations he’d forced on it and he was well enough to resume his normal activities, instead he found himself feeling uncharacteristically listless and lethargic, as if nothing mattered and bothering with it was, well, too much bother.
It’s not like you’ve got anything to actually do, he told himself, swatting at a fly which tried to land on his cheek. Everything you were involved in before this happened has been resolved. Or left you. He dispelled the thought with a soft sigh and rolled over onto his stomach, the soft green grass tickling his stomach where his t-shirt had ridden up.
Craig had a job, Orlando had a job and even Anna seemed to have found something to occupy her time. That leaves you, dopey. He told himself. Unemployed and indolent. And unable to bring yourself to care much.
He sighed again and then sneezed as a piece of the feathery dandelion he’d been shredding floated up and tickled his nose. He wiped furiously at it with the back of his hand.
“Flowers fighting back, are they?”
Christian rolled over and sat up. “Hey dad.” he greeted. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Course not.” Marton dropped onto the stone bench and leaned back, crossing his legs at the ankles and folding his hands into his lap. “You were too busy wrestling with the flora.”
“Actually, I was indulging in some deep thought.” Christian defended, looking curiously at his father. It was the middle of the day and by rights Marton should be ensconced in a meeting somewhere, determining policy or arguing points of law, not strolling around the gardens dressed in jeans and a casual shirt of questionable origin, with a pair of secateurs in his pocket. “Pruning?” he asked, pointing.
“Thought I might.” His father smiled easily, looking more relaxed than Christian had seen him in days. My fault. It wasn’t entirely true, he knew that. Marton had more than just his son’s concerns on his plate, but it was a mindset Christian was having trouble ridding himself of. “What was the deep thought?” Marton asked.
“About boredom.” Christian swung around and propped his feet against the base of the bench, his back resting against the wood slats of the old fence, facing his father. “Mine specifically.” He shrugged eloquently. “I’ve nothing to do and no motivation to do it.” he confessed. “Think I need one so I can find the other.”
Marton nodded. “My timing is perfect then.” he said. “Can I offer you a job?”
“Doing what?” Christian looked at his father’s smile, the bright intelligent gaze and felt a rush of love. He wasn’t certain how he’d react to other people, to acquaintances and strangers, just yet. He still found himself flinching involuntarily if one of the servants came too close, but he had no trouble with his reactions or his emotions around his family, his father particularly. But he was up to something. Christian didn’t need telepathy to tell him that, it was written all over his handsome face.
Marton disclaimed any nefarious purpose with a lift of his shoulders. “Take some of the load off me.” he offered. “Administration mostly. Kingdom business.”
Christian couldn’t help but grin. “Join the family firm, eh?”
Marton grinned back. “Basically, yes.” he chuckled, dimples forming in his cheeks and a fine network of attractive laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I really could use the help.” His voice was sincere.
“Be happy to.” Christian couldn’t think of anything else he could be doing and, like it or not, he might one day need to know. “I need something to snap me out of it.” He added with a wry twist to his lips.
“Takes time.” Was all his father said and, for a little while, there was a pleasant silence, broken only by twittering birds and the distant sounds of the palace going about it’s daily routine.
Christian opened eyes which had drifted shut and saw that his father’s eyes had likewise closed. “Dad?” he said hesitantly, waiting for a response. When Marton opened his and looked across and down at him, he said. “I . . . I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Marton’s voice was gentle.
“Lots of things.” Christian went on, his voice quiet and tinged with old pain. “Not all of them recent.” he hinted.
“That’s history.” His father’s tone of voice never changed and he didn’t look angry, so Christian ventured more.
“I know, but . . .”
“Christian?” Marton interrupted. “Before you get into it, can I say something.” Christian fell silent and nodded. Marton sat up and leaned in closer, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s not that great an age difference between us, son.” he said. “Sometimes, I think we grew up together, you and I. And . . .” Now Marton hesitated, seeming to search for words. “I was still learning how to be a parent.” he said.
“You were working out who you were, growing up, and trying to deal with one hell of a difficult Talent, all at the same time.” Marton sighed and looked at his hands. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, it wasn’t entirely your fault and I over-reacted.” He looked up and gave a little smile. “Practice makes perfect, you know. I got better with Craig and, according to him at least, spoiled Orlando rotten.”
Christian smiled in return. “True.” he said. “But still . . .” He thought about it. “What I intended to do was unconscionable. If you hadn’t stopped me . . .”
“What you intended to do,” Marton cut in. “was use your Talent for selfish reasons. All teenagers try it on with their parents, Christian. Talented ones just have more . . . ammunition. You didn’t do it and I don’t believe you would have. Even if I hadn’t found out and stopped you, I believe you’d have stopped yourself. But,” he held up a hand to silence Christian’s protest. “I did go over the top. I was way too harsh.” He shrugged his shoulders and gave Christian a smile. “Still on ‘L’ plates.” he finished.
“So . . .” Christian looked at his father. “That’s it? End of discussion?”
“I hope so.” Marton got to his feet, pushing himself upright with his hands on his thighs and looked down at Christian, holding out a hand to help him rise. “You’ll take the job?” he asked again, changing the subject.
“Might as well.” Christian took the proffered hand and got up, wiping the slivers of grass from his palms off onto his jeans. “Princes have to be seen to be useful after all.” he smiled.
Marton slung an arm around his shoulders and gave a brief squeeze. “Good.” he said, a pleased smile brightening his face once more. “Now come and help me prune the grapevine."
This was one of his favourite places within the entire Palace complex and when he’d first arrived in Balize as a child to live with his father, he’d found his own personal sanctuary right here, in what his nurse, obviously a closet romantic, had told him was a Secret Garden.
It wasn’t actually that much of a secret, but it was well hidden by the topiary hedge and mostly invisible from the main house, so it kind of qualified. A part of the old gatehouse which guarded the road that used to wind it’s way up the steep, seaward side of the cliff, it was now part of the larger garden and tended to by the horticulturalists.
With the gatehouse empty and abandoned it was more private than ever, although if anyone really wanted to find him, they always knew where to look.
He listened to the bees buzzing in the rose bushes around him and gave himself over to idle thought.
Apathetic, that was the word he’d been searching for. While his body had fully recovered from the privations he’d forced on it and he was well enough to resume his normal activities, instead he found himself feeling uncharacteristically listless and lethargic, as if nothing mattered and bothering with it was, well, too much bother.
It’s not like you’ve got anything to actually do, he told himself, swatting at a fly which tried to land on his cheek. Everything you were involved in before this happened has been resolved. Or left you. He dispelled the thought with a soft sigh and rolled over onto his stomach, the soft green grass tickling his stomach where his t-shirt had ridden up.
Craig had a job, Orlando had a job and even Anna seemed to have found something to occupy her time. That leaves you, dopey. He told himself. Unemployed and indolent. And unable to bring yourself to care much.
He sighed again and then sneezed as a piece of the feathery dandelion he’d been shredding floated up and tickled his nose. He wiped furiously at it with the back of his hand.
“Flowers fighting back, are they?”
Christian rolled over and sat up. “Hey dad.” he greeted. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Course not.” Marton dropped onto the stone bench and leaned back, crossing his legs at the ankles and folding his hands into his lap. “You were too busy wrestling with the flora.”
“Actually, I was indulging in some deep thought.” Christian defended, looking curiously at his father. It was the middle of the day and by rights Marton should be ensconced in a meeting somewhere, determining policy or arguing points of law, not strolling around the gardens dressed in jeans and a casual shirt of questionable origin, with a pair of secateurs in his pocket. “Pruning?” he asked, pointing.
“Thought I might.” His father smiled easily, looking more relaxed than Christian had seen him in days. My fault. It wasn’t entirely true, he knew that. Marton had more than just his son’s concerns on his plate, but it was a mindset Christian was having trouble ridding himself of. “What was the deep thought?” Marton asked.
“About boredom.” Christian swung around and propped his feet against the base of the bench, his back resting against the wood slats of the old fence, facing his father. “Mine specifically.” He shrugged eloquently. “I’ve nothing to do and no motivation to do it.” he confessed. “Think I need one so I can find the other.”
Marton nodded. “My timing is perfect then.” he said. “Can I offer you a job?”
“Doing what?” Christian looked at his father’s smile, the bright intelligent gaze and felt a rush of love. He wasn’t certain how he’d react to other people, to acquaintances and strangers, just yet. He still found himself flinching involuntarily if one of the servants came too close, but he had no trouble with his reactions or his emotions around his family, his father particularly. But he was up to something. Christian didn’t need telepathy to tell him that, it was written all over his handsome face.
Marton disclaimed any nefarious purpose with a lift of his shoulders. “Take some of the load off me.” he offered. “Administration mostly. Kingdom business.”
Christian couldn’t help but grin. “Join the family firm, eh?”
Marton grinned back. “Basically, yes.” he chuckled, dimples forming in his cheeks and a fine network of attractive laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I really could use the help.” His voice was sincere.
“Be happy to.” Christian couldn’t think of anything else he could be doing and, like it or not, he might one day need to know. “I need something to snap me out of it.” He added with a wry twist to his lips.
“Takes time.” Was all his father said and, for a little while, there was a pleasant silence, broken only by twittering birds and the distant sounds of the palace going about it’s daily routine.
Christian opened eyes which had drifted shut and saw that his father’s eyes had likewise closed. “Dad?” he said hesitantly, waiting for a response. When Marton opened his and looked across and down at him, he said. “I . . . I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Marton’s voice was gentle.
“Lots of things.” Christian went on, his voice quiet and tinged with old pain. “Not all of them recent.” he hinted.
“That’s history.” His father’s tone of voice never changed and he didn’t look angry, so Christian ventured more.
“I know, but . . .”
“Christian?” Marton interrupted. “Before you get into it, can I say something.” Christian fell silent and nodded. Marton sat up and leaned in closer, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s not that great an age difference between us, son.” he said. “Sometimes, I think we grew up together, you and I. And . . .” Now Marton hesitated, seeming to search for words. “I was still learning how to be a parent.” he said.
“You were working out who you were, growing up, and trying to deal with one hell of a difficult Talent, all at the same time.” Marton sighed and looked at his hands. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, it wasn’t entirely your fault and I over-reacted.” He looked up and gave a little smile. “Practice makes perfect, you know. I got better with Craig and, according to him at least, spoiled Orlando rotten.”
Christian smiled in return. “True.” he said. “But still . . .” He thought about it. “What I intended to do was unconscionable. If you hadn’t stopped me . . .”
“What you intended to do,” Marton cut in. “was use your Talent for selfish reasons. All teenagers try it on with their parents, Christian. Talented ones just have more . . . ammunition. You didn’t do it and I don’t believe you would have. Even if I hadn’t found out and stopped you, I believe you’d have stopped yourself. But,” he held up a hand to silence Christian’s protest. “I did go over the top. I was way too harsh.” He shrugged his shoulders and gave Christian a smile. “Still on ‘L’ plates.” he finished.
“So . . .” Christian looked at his father. “That’s it? End of discussion?”
“I hope so.” Marton got to his feet, pushing himself upright with his hands on his thighs and looked down at Christian, holding out a hand to help him rise. “You’ll take the job?” he asked again, changing the subject.
“Might as well.” Christian took the proffered hand and got up, wiping the slivers of grass from his palms off onto his jeans. “Princes have to be seen to be useful after all.” he smiled.
Marton slung an arm around his shoulders and gave a brief squeeze. “Good.” he said, a pleased smile brightening his face once more. “Now come and help me prune the grapevine."
