“You and your melancholy,” General Pritchard said, sitting down next to Archibald. “Why won’t you be done of it? Lay it down on the battlefield with the rest of your enemies.”
“Oh, that it were so simple,” Archibald lamented. He had been sharpening his sword in even strokes; hand going out and back and out and back across the edge of the blade.
“Simple or not, see it done, Lieutenant,” the General said, rising. “It is a distraction, and it is smothering the fire within in you, it does not serve to feed the flames of your soul. Be done.