Esea. [Two] [Jon/Marton]
Jun. 28th, 2005 12:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
palace_jon.
Jon was nervous. No, Jon was awestruck and nervous, palms sweating, the hair on the back of his neck standing to attention and his pupils highly dilated. He knew this because he could see his reflection in the polish on the desk as he addressed himself to the man behind it.
“B…b…brother Jon?” he stammered. “To see His High . . . err, His Majesty.”
The man, ‘Lucius Parnell, Assistant to His Majesty.’ the nameplate on the desk said, nodded his head. It was he who had called, Jon remembered, to say that his presence was required on a matter ‘pertaining to the Church’. That was all he knew and he swallowed hard and resisted the urge to wipe his hands down the front of his best trousers again as Lucius opened the ornate studded door and bid him enter.
Marton looked up when the door opened at the expected time and quickly hid his dismay when he noted how young the new Christian brother was. Lionel knew the ropes, had even organized the carnival once or twice when Sean was otherwise occupied, this young man could not possibly . . . Oh well, maybe he could. The Brothers were pretty damned good at this kind of thing. He’d see.
Mustering a pleasant polite smile, he acknowledged the bow with an offer of a hand to shake and directed the obviously nervous youngster to a seat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.” he told him. "And I apologize for my tardiness in making the introduction."
"Oh. Oh. Thank you Hig . . . Majesty." Jon tried without success to keep his eyes on the king. Instead they wandered about the room, taking in the subtle trappings of office and admiring the restrained, yet impressive, décor.
"If I can call you Jon," Marton said. "Then I'd like it if you called me Marton. At least in private." He offered a grin. "It speeds things up."
It was hard to look at him, Jon was finding. He was a handsome man, no doubt, and the formal suit, even though it was unbuttoned a short way and the sleeves pushed up, looked really, really good on him. It was just . . . he was him and every time Jon tried to make eye contact, his own seemed to slide away, as if disbelieving what he was seeing. "Of course." He managed.
"I wanted to talk to you about organizing a charity event to kick off a relief effort for Esea." The Ki . . . Marton, was saying. "Brother Lionel helped us out in past years with a carnival and . . ." he went on to explain what it was he wanted Jon to do.
Jon listened as intently as he could manage, keeping quiet and just nodding in what he hoped were the right places. Eventually the flow of words ceased and the king looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for a reply.
"Oh. Oh, yes. I'd be happy to." Jon nodded enthusiastically. It was a marvelous idea and would raise tons and tons of money for those poor people.
"Excellent. Much appreciated." Marton eyed the young man with a little misgiving and then reached behind him for the folders he'd had pulled up from the archives earlier in the day. "These are the records of the last three carnivals we held here." He told him, holding them out. "Sean did two and Brother Lionel the other. I thought they might prove useful, give you an idea about how it's been previously done, what they used, where they put things, all that."
Jon accepted the folders and opened one. "I'm sure they'll be invaluable." He said.
Marton leaned forward and pointed. "The different sections are color-coordinated." He told him. "Red for Adult, green for Children and General Public areas and orange for the outside stalls etc. There's a map, see?" He pointed.
"Oh." Jon looked a the sheets and then apologetically at the king. "I'm colorblind, I'm afraid." He told him. "Monochromatically. I only see black, white and grey."
Marton was nonplussed but quickly recovered. "I see." He thought about it and had a practical and face-saving solution in moments. "It's going to be a big job." He said. "And a lot of it involves the West Wing. It's their kitchens we've used in past years and they're the only area partially open during the carnival besides Reception and the shops. What if Michael were to assist you? He's the Head of West."
Jon seized the offer, and the lifeline, with alacrity. "An excellent solution." He pronounced with a nod.
"Glad to help." Came Marton's response. He settled back, leaning once more on the edge of his desk. "If it's not too personal, and please, tell me if it is, might I ask about your colorblindness? It's rare, isn't it?"
Jon settled the folders into his lap. He didn't mind. "Yes." He said. "It is. Monochromatic colorblindness is exceedingly rare and comes with other, more serious, health problems. I had heart surgery as a child as well as corrective operations on my spine. It's all fine now, well, except for the color thing. The Brothers, they raised me," he explained. "Seemed to think it was probably the reason I was abandoned, left with them. My health, that is." His explanation was, he knew, a bit muddled, but hopefully it was clear enough for the king to understand. Apparently it was.
"I see. They didn't do anything about the colorblindness though?"
"No. It's an expensive operation and not a life-threatening condition. The Brothers had already been more than kind to me and the money was needed . . . elsewhere. I don't mind." He smiled. "I've never seen in color so I don't miss it."
"No, I suppose not." Marton was silent for a moment, digesting all this. Then he stirred himself and stood upright. Jon did the same.
"I'll get a message to Michael Praed." Marton told him. "Tell him you're coming and why. I'm sure he'll be very helpful. In fact, I think he's been here long enough to have attended our carnivals, so that should come in handy." He made a mental note to tell Michael of Brother Jon's youth and apparent inexperience and ask him to do him a favor and watch out for the young man. He was a nice kid.
They shook hands and Marton walked him to the door. When it closed behind him, Jon didn't realize he had a silly grin on his face until he saw Mr. Parnell looking in his direction, an expression of resigned dismay on his patrician face. Jon schooled his own into a similar haughty air and marched smartly out the door, but not before letting a wee waft of Charisma flow behind him and over the snobby little twat behind the desk.
Jon was nervous. No, Jon was awestruck and nervous, palms sweating, the hair on the back of his neck standing to attention and his pupils highly dilated. He knew this because he could see his reflection in the polish on the desk as he addressed himself to the man behind it.
“B…b…brother Jon?” he stammered. “To see His High . . . err, His Majesty.”
The man, ‘Lucius Parnell, Assistant to His Majesty.’ the nameplate on the desk said, nodded his head. It was he who had called, Jon remembered, to say that his presence was required on a matter ‘pertaining to the Church’. That was all he knew and he swallowed hard and resisted the urge to wipe his hands down the front of his best trousers again as Lucius opened the ornate studded door and bid him enter.
Marton looked up when the door opened at the expected time and quickly hid his dismay when he noted how young the new Christian brother was. Lionel knew the ropes, had even organized the carnival once or twice when Sean was otherwise occupied, this young man could not possibly . . . Oh well, maybe he could. The Brothers were pretty damned good at this kind of thing. He’d see.
Mustering a pleasant polite smile, he acknowledged the bow with an offer of a hand to shake and directed the obviously nervous youngster to a seat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.” he told him. "And I apologize for my tardiness in making the introduction."
"Oh. Oh. Thank you Hig . . . Majesty." Jon tried without success to keep his eyes on the king. Instead they wandered about the room, taking in the subtle trappings of office and admiring the restrained, yet impressive, décor.
"If I can call you Jon," Marton said. "Then I'd like it if you called me Marton. At least in private." He offered a grin. "It speeds things up."
It was hard to look at him, Jon was finding. He was a handsome man, no doubt, and the formal suit, even though it was unbuttoned a short way and the sleeves pushed up, looked really, really good on him. It was just . . . he was him and every time Jon tried to make eye contact, his own seemed to slide away, as if disbelieving what he was seeing. "Of course." He managed.
"I wanted to talk to you about organizing a charity event to kick off a relief effort for Esea." The Ki . . . Marton, was saying. "Brother Lionel helped us out in past years with a carnival and . . ." he went on to explain what it was he wanted Jon to do.
Jon listened as intently as he could manage, keeping quiet and just nodding in what he hoped were the right places. Eventually the flow of words ceased and the king looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for a reply.
"Oh. Oh, yes. I'd be happy to." Jon nodded enthusiastically. It was a marvelous idea and would raise tons and tons of money for those poor people.
"Excellent. Much appreciated." Marton eyed the young man with a little misgiving and then reached behind him for the folders he'd had pulled up from the archives earlier in the day. "These are the records of the last three carnivals we held here." He told him, holding them out. "Sean did two and Brother Lionel the other. I thought they might prove useful, give you an idea about how it's been previously done, what they used, where they put things, all that."
Jon accepted the folders and opened one. "I'm sure they'll be invaluable." He said.
Marton leaned forward and pointed. "The different sections are color-coordinated." He told him. "Red for Adult, green for Children and General Public areas and orange for the outside stalls etc. There's a map, see?" He pointed.
"Oh." Jon looked a the sheets and then apologetically at the king. "I'm colorblind, I'm afraid." He told him. "Monochromatically. I only see black, white and grey."
Marton was nonplussed but quickly recovered. "I see." He thought about it and had a practical and face-saving solution in moments. "It's going to be a big job." He said. "And a lot of it involves the West Wing. It's their kitchens we've used in past years and they're the only area partially open during the carnival besides Reception and the shops. What if Michael were to assist you? He's the Head of West."
Jon seized the offer, and the lifeline, with alacrity. "An excellent solution." He pronounced with a nod.
"Glad to help." Came Marton's response. He settled back, leaning once more on the edge of his desk. "If it's not too personal, and please, tell me if it is, might I ask about your colorblindness? It's rare, isn't it?"
Jon settled the folders into his lap. He didn't mind. "Yes." He said. "It is. Monochromatic colorblindness is exceedingly rare and comes with other, more serious, health problems. I had heart surgery as a child as well as corrective operations on my spine. It's all fine now, well, except for the color thing. The Brothers, they raised me," he explained. "Seemed to think it was probably the reason I was abandoned, left with them. My health, that is." His explanation was, he knew, a bit muddled, but hopefully it was clear enough for the king to understand. Apparently it was.
"I see. They didn't do anything about the colorblindness though?"
"No. It's an expensive operation and not a life-threatening condition. The Brothers had already been more than kind to me and the money was needed . . . elsewhere. I don't mind." He smiled. "I've never seen in color so I don't miss it."
"No, I suppose not." Marton was silent for a moment, digesting all this. Then he stirred himself and stood upright. Jon did the same.
"I'll get a message to Michael Praed." Marton told him. "Tell him you're coming and why. I'm sure he'll be very helpful. In fact, I think he's been here long enough to have attended our carnivals, so that should come in handy." He made a mental note to tell Michael of Brother Jon's youth and apparent inexperience and ask him to do him a favor and watch out for the young man. He was a nice kid.
They shook hands and Marton walked him to the door. When it closed behind him, Jon didn't realize he had a silly grin on his face until he saw Mr. Parnell looking in his direction, an expression of resigned dismay on his patrician face. Jon schooled his own into a similar haughty air and marched smartly out the door, but not before letting a wee waft of Charisma flow behind him and over the snobby little twat behind the desk.
