"Oh, that old dog wouldn't hurt a fly. But rest assured," she says, patting his arm as they weave their way through the house's patrons, passing under the door and out onto the cramped and dusty street beyond. "Should his bite rather than his bark reveal itself, I will readily avail myself of the offer. It may surprise you to hear this, but 'independent sort' or no, I have very little pride when it comes to avoiding a fight. A low tolerance for pain, as it were. Now, as for this antivan dinner you promised me - you must lead on, serah."
This answer seems to satisfy Barrow, and he nods with a little smile. "At your convenience, my lady," he replies, and seems content to leave it at that, especially since they're talking about food now.
"Ah, yes! On the steps to Hightown-- I've heard it's the most authentic Antivan in the city. This will be an excuse to try it."
He leads her along, his easy smile and confident posture quite the opposite of how he began the night.
And she is led most easily without so much as a glance over the shoulder, satisfied enough to leave their arms looped together as they make their way through the city. For a time, their conversation is indeed perfectly regular, as if he had not all but begged for the favor of her company and she had not been half so cold to him there on the docks. Perhaps this is simply the way of things - quick to bristle, quick to forgive when there is no real harm done.
For really, what wound was there? Certainly no real cutting blow.
It is only once they have reached this most authentic Antivan establishment that some of the old stiffness begins to overcome her again. The moment they receive their first course, something in her face thins perceptibly.
It's not that the owner isn't Antivan, it's just, one can't always account for the ingredients, the chef, and the cleanliness of a kitchen to give that authentic experience. Barrow, of course, wouldn't know the difference if it punched him in the mouth, so he is placidly twirling a clump of some manner of long noodle around on his fork, a trick he definitely learned only recently and was definitely looking forward to showing off to his lady.
Despite all appearances, however, he's not an idiot, and he's quick to notice that Mrs. Fitcher has neither touched her food nor looked at all interested in doing so.
"S'matter, love?" he asks, with genuine concern and at least a partially-full mouth.
It's not that she hasn't touched the food. Her fork has absolutely been in contact with it, else she wouldn't have been able to push it around the bowl quite so effectively.
"Hm?" Her eyebrows rise, but her attention is slow to follow it upward from the study of the dish before her. "Nothing. I'm quite content."
Scuff, says the fork against the well inside curve of the plate ware.
"Only I think we may need another bottle of wine between us."
"North," she supplies, most helpfully as she continues to carefully shift around the contents of her plate. It is hardly terrible eating - she has had much worse in her stint in Kirkwall, and yet there is a particular disappointment in expecting one thing and getting something altogether not that. "Treviso is best known for its fishing and textiles. There is some trade in oysters and pearls as well."
She glances up, making the industrious decision to trade her fork for her cup.
More observant than he's given credit for, Barrow has noticed that she isn't eating, but knows better (see? he's got manners) than to comment on a lady's habits around food.
"Not at all," he admits, "--Treviso, is that where you're from?"
Something in her expression flexes, the hint of a smile across the top of her cup.
"That's right, though it's been some time since I've been back there. I left as a girl, and much of my business - when I have done it in Antiva - has been in the Weyrs." She tips her head in the other direction. "And you? I seem the recall that the last time we discussed Ferelden, you dodged the question. Though I suppose it was specific to Crestwood, and not to the country in its entirety."
"Oh." He blinks at her, realizing he should have expected that this would fall back onto him, yet somehow having not seen it coming.
"Well. Yes. I'm from Crestwood." He smiles disarmingly, and pauses to take another bite of this enchanting 'spagetty' to which they have been treated. "It's something of a painful topic, you might say." But, his tone seems to imply, because we are becoming more emotional intimate, if it's important to you I would consider relenting.
"Understandably so." It should be the sort of thing to inspire some note of awkwardness - apologies, for dredging up things like dead friends and family -, but instead there is something which warms slightly in her expression, the look she gives him from across the table, as if she is glad to know it regardless of the weight tangled in the fact.
She sets her cup aside and braves the plate once more.
"What were you meant to have done before you ran off with the Templars? Baker's boy?" She glances up, squinting at him in assessment. "Goat herder."
He takes no offense from the look, instead mirroring the warmth in her smile as he takes a drink of his wine. His smile only broadens as she guesses at his background, and he gives a lazy shake of his head.
"Just a farmer," he replies easily, "nothing so exciting as a goatherd. Though we did have chickens."
He smiles and shakes his head. "Mum didn't like us naming them, seemed extra cruel since they'd just be killed. ...well. Except for Greta, kept her just for laying."
He twirls some more spagettys around his fork in anticipation of another bite.
"My sister Prudence and I worked on the farm until I went off to..." Be a Templar, but it's still not something he loves talking about openly. "...training. She's still back in Crestwood with our da."
"Prudence is such a fine name. Do she and your father still farm, or was the land lost in the whole business there?"
Is there a way to discuss someone's tragedy and their relations left in the wake of it without making it grim and sad simply in the pursuit of satisfying one's own curiosity? She's at least making some effort toward it, tone and temperament light as if to imply, You don't need to answer if you'd rather not.
This hit an unexpected nerve-- Barrow is the expert of lying by omission, but finds it much more difficult to speak an outright untruth to someone's face, especially someone whose esteem he values.
So, with a somewhat defeated air: "...no. We're not."
Her fork is still nominally active - as of yet in hand, at least -, but otherwise she has largely given up the pretense of fiddling with the contents of her bowl in favor of giving this her full attention. It is by far the more compelling of the two.
Barrow takes a breath, opens his mouth as if to respond, and simply sighs it out again as he shakes his head.
"Too much to say," he decides, "too... little that they'd want to hear." Scraping up the last of what's on his plate, he finishes it off, chewing thoughtfully. Finally, he wipes at his mouth with his napkin and smiles apologetically at Fitcher.
"Surely you don't want to hear about that," he says kindly, "we ought to talk about nice things. Happy things."
She makes a low dismissive noise, a soft click of the tongue, and fetches up her wine glass.
"Nice and happy are all fine, but I would rather know a person just as well be their unpleasantness. But," she takes a sip, then sets the cup aside and laces her fingers together. Sets her chin there in the cradle of them. The bowl between her elbows with its half eaten dish has been forgotten. "If you'd rather we discuss something else, I'll hardly insist on holding your feet to the fire."
"It's just a--" He trails off, trying to find the words, "...I'm not proud of it, is all. It's... low, leaving loved ones to wonder at the truth, because the truth of it would upset them."
He gives the wine a gentle swirl, looking down into it.
"I try to be honest, but some things just aren't worth the pain of dredging up."
From where she sits with her chin across the lacing of her fingers, Fitcher regards him with a patient kind of thoughtfulness. You should write them, she thinks but doesn't say. It's a delicate thing - like spun sugar.
"Your reason for leaving the Templars is, I trust, one of them."
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"At your convenience, my lady," he replies, and seems content to leave it at that, especially since they're talking about food now.
"Ah, yes! On the steps to Hightown-- I've heard it's the most authentic Antivan in the city. This will be an excuse to try it."
He leads her along, his easy smile and confident posture quite the opposite of how he began the night.
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For really, what wound was there? Certainly no real cutting blow.
It is only once they have reached this most authentic Antivan establishment that some of the old stiffness begins to overcome her again. The moment they receive their first course, something in her face thins perceptibly.
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Despite all appearances, however, he's not an idiot, and he's quick to notice that Mrs. Fitcher has neither touched her food nor looked at all interested in doing so.
"S'matter, love?" he asks, with genuine concern and at least a partially-full mouth.
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"Hm?" Her eyebrows rise, but her attention is slow to follow it upward from the study of the dish before her. "Nothing. I'm quite content."
Scuff, says the fork against the well inside curve of the plate ware.
"Only I think we may need another bottle of wine between us."
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Waving over one of the barmaids, Barrow requests another bottle of wine and puts down the money for it right there, rather than worry about it later.
Then, back to noodle-twirling.
"Where are you actually from, then? Antiva," he answers in advance, but is clearly hoping for further elaboration.
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She glances up, making the industrious decision to trade her fork for her cup.
"Are you very familiar with the country, serah?"
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"Not at all," he admits, "--Treviso, is that where you're from?"
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"That's right, though it's been some time since I've been back there. I left as a girl, and much of my business - when I have done it in Antiva - has been in the Weyrs." She tips her head in the other direction. "And you? I seem the recall that the last time we discussed Ferelden, you dodged the question. Though I suppose it was specific to Crestwood, and not to the country in its entirety."
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"Well. Yes. I'm from Crestwood." He smiles disarmingly, and pauses to take another bite of this enchanting 'spagetty' to which they have been treated.
"It's something of a painful topic, you might say." But, his tone seems to imply, because we are becoming more emotional intimate, if it's important to you I would consider relenting.
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She sets her cup aside and braves the plate once more.
"What were you meant to have done before you ran off with the Templars? Baker's boy?" She glances up, squinting at him in assessment. "Goat herder."
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"Just a farmer," he replies easily, "nothing so exciting as a goatherd. Though we did have chickens."
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Why is the sauce on this pasta grainy? It's fine.
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He twirls some more spagettys around his fork in anticipation of another bite.
"My sister Prudence and I worked on the farm until I went off to..." Be a Templar, but it's still not something he loves talking about openly. "...training. She's still back in Crestwood with our da."
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Is there a way to discuss someone's tragedy and their relations left in the wake of it without making it grim and sad simply in the pursuit of satisfying one's own curiosity? She's at least making some effort toward it, tone and temperament light as if to imply, You don't need to answer if you'd rather not.
There is little necessity in interrogating him.
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"I imagine they do."
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"You're not in contact?"
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So, with a somewhat defeated air: "...no. We're not."
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Far be it for her to assume that one might be lain on at the door of the other.
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"...they don't know I left," he admits, looking down at what remains of his dinner, appetite suddenly gone. "It would've broken Mother's heart."
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"You don't write them?"
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"Too much to say," he decides, "too... little that they'd want to hear." Scraping up the last of what's on his plate, he finishes it off, chewing thoughtfully. Finally, he wipes at his mouth with his napkin and smiles apologetically at Fitcher.
"Surely you don't want to hear about that," he says kindly, "we ought to talk about nice things. Happy things."
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"Nice and happy are all fine, but I would rather know a person just as well be their unpleasantness. But," she takes a sip, then sets the cup aside and laces her fingers together. Sets her chin there in the cradle of them. The bowl between her elbows with its half eaten dish has been forgotten. "If you'd rather we discuss something else, I'll hardly insist on holding your feet to the fire."
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"It's just a--" He trails off, trying to find the words, "...I'm not proud of it, is all. It's... low, leaving loved ones to wonder at the truth, because the truth of it would upset them."
He gives the wine a gentle swirl, looking down into it.
"I try to be honest, but some things just aren't worth the pain of dredging up."
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"Your reason for leaving the Templars is, I trust, one of them."
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