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."
A chuckle, laced with either genuine humor or bitterness: it isn't clear.
"I left the Templars because they were a bunch of blowhard reactionary fucking idiots," he says amiably, draining his glass, "you can't hear about things like what happened here, with the Knight-Commander, and maintain any self-respect in the profession."
As much effort as Barrow puts into not having any strong opinions at all, it's clearly difficult to hold this one back.
"The answer to that was to put down all our charges or to be put down ourselves. Or fuck off, I suppose. Where's the Maker's will in that? It was lunacy."
"I wouldn't be surprised if there were other once-Templars who shared your way of thinking. Otherwise, the Divine would hardly need to have issued the invitation that they return to join the March." Fitcher tips her head faintly, as if something has occurred to her in saying it. She asks, "You weren't tempted by that? To return to the Order, now that both it and the freed mages have been pointed in a similar direction rather than at one another?"
For once, although prickly, Barrow isn't too evasive on the subject of the Templars. Chalk it up to them having had a few glasses of wine, or simply that he likes Fitcher. Trusts her, even.
He has to consider her question for a moment, stroking the rough dark hairs on his chin.
"I think I'd be a hypocrite," he decides after a moment, even a little surprised by his own answer, "...you can't just turn your back on an institution like that and then walk back in as if nothing happened."
A tip of the head, a quirk of an eyebrow. Fair enough, they say.
"Then I see no reason why you should be ashamed of any of it. It sounds like you made a difficult choice guided by principle, and have stuck beside it regardless of the fact that it be made easy not to." Her small ghost of a smile is warm as she fetches up glass. "Some might call that admirable, you know."
"Mm. It would be a waste of a good fellow, otherwise," she agrees with a tip of the glass.
When she has had her drink, Fitcher trades her half eaten meal for his empty plate so he might finish hers saying, No, no, it was a kind thought. Let us stay away from authentic Antivan cuisine the next time, which at the very least implies a next time.
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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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"I left the Templars because they were a bunch of blowhard reactionary fucking idiots," he says amiably, draining his glass, "you can't hear about things like what happened here, with the Knight-Commander, and maintain any self-respect in the profession."
As much effort as Barrow puts into not having any strong opinions at all, it's clearly difficult to hold this one back.
"The answer to that was to put down all our charges or to be put down ourselves. Or fuck off, I suppose. Where's the Maker's will in that? It was lunacy."
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He has to consider her question for a moment, stroking the rough dark hairs on his chin.
"I think I'd be a hypocrite," he decides after a moment, even a little surprised by his own answer, "...you can't just turn your back on an institution like that and then walk back in as if nothing happened."
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"You think there's no hope of reedming the Order, then?"
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"Might be. I just don't think I need to be part of it."
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"Then I see no reason why you should be ashamed of any of it. It sounds like you made a difficult choice guided by principle, and have stuck beside it regardless of the fact that it be made easy not to." Her small ghost of a smile is warm as she fetches up glass. "Some might call that admirable, you know."
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"You're infuriating, you know that," he says warmly, "can't just let a fellow doubt himself in peace."
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When she has had her drink, Fitcher trades her half eaten meal for his empty plate so he might finish hers saying, No, no, it was a kind thought. Let us stay away from authentic Antivan cuisine the next time, which at the very least implies a next time.