Though he has long stopped looking at it, Carlisle's gaze remains locked on the painting; he closes his eyes, giving the slightest of shrugs. "Well," he starts softly, "spare no sympathy, as the saying goes." He realizes almost immediately that Qubit might not be familiar with an idiom of his world, and continues after a brief pause. "Spare no sympathy for those already dead, as they have no time for their own consequences. Though I suppose that's not been entirely true for me, now has it?"

He says the full saying so smoothly, his observation after presented with an air of levity. Maybe it's because it's been so long since his death, or that he's just so used to stifling how he truly feels about his lineage and his affliction, but he manages to keep the emotion from his voice, the waver from his tone. Better to not let his congregation, or his family, or Qubit see him that way, to know how much of his own loathing and bitterness he buried in his own heart as the years passed. His congregation might have suspected. His uncles knew, but were never sure of how to address it - and then they were gone.

But Qubit knows. He has known for some time, and what's more, he understands. When Carlisle finally manages to glance Qubit's way, he's taken aback by his companion's solemn expression, his own brows over his glowing eyes knitting together in silent surprise, then concern. "I appreciate your sympathy, Mister Qubit, but... you need not apologize. What pain I felt then over my father's words seems so distant now, and inconsequential compared to... well."

He gestures toward himself.