Tristan sat at the table, the bench creaking a bit as he settled. Unlike the grand table in the Hall, waxed to a shine and intricately carved, this one was simple, smoothed by years of use. Though the oak was stained and pockmarked, it was sturdily made and proudly showed its life as a worktop as well as a place to gather. Tristan ran his hand over the irregular surface, tracing its irregularities.

He jumped a little as Mor slid along the bench beside him, pressing as close as he could to his side. He shook Tristan's sleeve a little, never taking his eyes off the food before them.

"Can I really eat this? I can eat all of this?"

"…Of course," Tristan replied guiltily, thinking of the rest of the soldiers in the Hall with their hunks of bread. He took a fig and tore it open.

"This whole hen!"

"Um…well, yes, if you can fit that much in you." Tristan eyed him, knowing very well how small his waist was, how easily he could be lifted as Tristan—

Mor gave him a very filthy look and Tristan's ears went hot.

Despite his excitement, Mor didn't make his own plate first, piling food onto Tristan's before attending to his own. He cut a slice of bread, buttered it, then balanced a generous portion of the bird on top. Finally, he spooned a bit of the chunky, pea pottage atop the whole thing.

Tristan found himself charmed by the blissful look on his face as he took a bite, his cheeks full like a squirrel. He finished his fig and clumsily tried using the bread as a plate, like Mor did. It was messy but he liked it, all the flavors mixing together in a satisfying way.

"I know you have, ah," Mor started, swallowing, "Worries. About your meals. Do you really sneak food from here every time you eat?"

"Not always," Tristan admitted quietly. He probably wouldn't have grown as tall as he had if that were true, and he'd only started to actively avoid it after it was announced that Nest would have a child, a new heir, by spring.

"I just don't care for mutton," he said, a much simpler truth.

"Oh, really? What's your favorite food, then?" Mor took a long sip from his goblet.

"…Figs, I suppose. If I must choose."

"Oh?" Mor turned and kissed him, licking into his mouth. He tasted like the spiced wine.

"They're sweet," he said under his breath, smiling against Tristan's lips.

"Wh-what about you?"

"Salmon and sorrel," Mor said dreamily, pulling away, "When they come back to the rivers in late spring, my mother would fry one in a pan with a chunk of butter the size of my fist. I'd go out to look for sorrel leaves, and she had me crush them up. Then she'd strain them through a cloth, make a sauce of it. It was delicious."

Mor looked far away, and his smile faded into something a little more wistful.

"I would like to try that one day," Tristan said quietly.

"Well, nothing could compare to this lovely little hen, here," Mor said, brightening once again as if anything like sadness simply didn't stick to him, "But it reminds me of home."

"Do you miss her?"

"Of course. I will go visit her in the spring and tell her all about this place. She was so worried that I was going off to fight on the moor. All the villagers are terrified of it, actually. And not because of the war, or stray bandits."

Mor sipped more of his wine, apparently done with the food. Between the two young men, the table had been picked clean.

"They say the bog is haunted by spirits of the dead."

Something about that didn't surprise Tristan. He knew the shadowy shapes and echoing screams could only be just tricks of the weather and the wind, but he wanted to give Mor an excuse to talk about them, hungry to hear more of his low voice.

"Really."

"Oh yes. The villagers have many stories about them. I would say that they were all just stories, but I myself have seen a ghost, once! Or so they say."

"'So they say'?"

"Well. It happened when I was little. I don't actually remember. It's why my hair is like this. They say that it turned white from the shock."

"Why were you out in the bog?"

"I was with my mother," Mor said. He casually leaned back from the table and crossed his legs, looking bored, "The women used to tell me the story every chance they got. My father had disappeared some days earlier, and she went looking for him. She said that she heard the sounds of a battle, and ran from the path. She ran until the noise went quiet, and by then she was lost. As she searched for the path again, she came across a figure just my father's height, standing some distance away, turned away from her.

Mother called out to him, but the man started…twitching, she said. He moved like a man shouldn't move, and she was so frightened that she ran away before he could turn around. I suppose I must have seen its face while she was running. I don't remember, of course.

But, that's the story. When she finally made it back to the village, she unstrapped me from her back and my hair was like this. I'm afraid the incident has become something of a legend, where I'm from."

Tristan could tell, the way Mor tiredly recited the story as if from rote.

"Did your father ever return?"

Mor shook his head, letting out a quiet little huff of a laugh.

"Sometimes I wonder if whatever she saw truly was my father, that she really did find him, but was so frightened that her mind betrayed her. But I…I hope it truly was a monster that she saw. To think of her leaving him behind, I..."

Mor's features darkened. A chill came over Tristan, for the look was strange on the man's always-smiling face. His eyes were distant and hard, and when slid to meet Tristan's, he nearly shrank back.

"I don't think I would ever forgive her."