"No, he was--" Dexter paused. Right. He was talking to a thirteen-year-old. True, as a thirteen-year-old he himself had already known how to remove a full suit of armour in less than two minutes, to say nothing of riding in a full suit of armour, with shield and banner. And definitely saying nothing about having been trained to use himself as cannon-fodder for his brother.
But that was three centuries ago. This was today. Today was a lot better about not tossing your kids under a bus.
"He died," he said instead of what he'd planned, which was 'he'd been murdered'. "In a war that was going on at the time. The way he was killed didn't let his soul move on." He shrugged. "It's a bit more complicated than that, but that's basically it."
Paddy wasn't exactly wrong. A conjuration was magical, true, but there was something more grounding about a hand-built church, especially one more than a few decades old. Solomon was just looking up at the church from nearly inside its periphery, wondering what it would feel like if he tried to touch it and if he dared, when Paddy's unease rippled past him.
"What?" He blinked, looking down to the priest. "No. Oh." He knew he'd said something. He just hadn't paid attention, exactly, to what he'd said. Or what he was responding to. It was actually something he'd started noticing lately; his concentration wasn't where it should be, or at least was in different places than it had been before. It was like the difference between seeing someone at a bar who obviously didn't want to talk, and answering a question someone hadn't meant to be answered. One discouraged response. The other implied a response was requested without expecting to get one.
It meant that while Solomon could choose not to comment on things he saw, there were moments when he did without intending to.
This was something that could very easily get frustrating.
"It's something you've been turning over in your head for a while," he said lamely. "It just ... grew enough weight for me to see evidence of the consideration when it was unguarded."
no subject
But that was three centuries ago. This was today. Today was a lot better about not tossing your kids under a bus.
"He died," he said instead of what he'd planned, which was 'he'd been murdered'. "In a war that was going on at the time. The way he was killed didn't let his soul move on." He shrugged. "It's a bit more complicated than that, but that's basically it."
Paddy wasn't exactly wrong. A conjuration was magical, true, but there was something more grounding about a hand-built church, especially one more than a few decades old. Solomon was just looking up at the church from nearly inside its periphery, wondering what it would feel like if he tried to touch it and if he dared, when Paddy's unease rippled past him.
"What?" He blinked, looking down to the priest. "No. Oh." He knew he'd said something. He just hadn't paid attention, exactly, to what he'd said. Or what he was responding to. It was actually something he'd started noticing lately; his concentration wasn't where it should be, or at least was in different places than it had been before. It was like the difference between seeing someone at a bar who obviously didn't want to talk, and answering a question someone hadn't meant to be answered. One discouraged response. The other implied a response was requested without expecting to get one.
It meant that while Solomon could choose not to comment on things he saw, there were moments when he did without intending to.
This was something that could very easily get frustrating.
"It's something you've been turning over in your head for a while," he said lamely. "It just ... grew enough weight for me to see evidence of the consideration when it was unguarded."