In contrast, the general's expression eases in understanding. It isn't a kind look—there is no pity to be had—but he is neither interested in making light of Ralston's affliction nor in discussing its particulars any more than they already have, so he simply moves past it. Simple. It's almost as if he doesn't care.

(Almost.)

"It lies there," he says, and without any apparent thought points to the garden; not the garden, but the building beyond it; not the building, but the wilderness beyond that, the miles of land between where they stand and the monument that sings to him even now. As easy as if he were, indeed, indicating the garden. And then he turns his hand on its way down to snatch a glance at the ring on his finger, still undecided whether or not he likes it; his other hand crosses his waist to fiddle with it afterward.

"It's constant," he concedes with a tip of the head, "and less distracting now than it was. Straight after we returned I could scarcely think of anything else."