The second war feels both unreal and distant and chillingly close, for more reasons than just this living relic of it beside her; Narcissa doesn't remark on the celebrations that must have inevitably followed it beyond a sound that mirrors his, unimpressed. It's not a war that'll have any true victory for anyone.

"Fancy living here a hundred years," she speculates, turning her cigar in her hand, "and dredging up this history with another frazzled veteran every decade."

What a horrible damned thought.