The silence is more companionable than Devin imagines it would be. It's not an easy silence for him, given the subject of conversation, but the tension isn't of his own creation. It exists external to his actions, and the Fool has allowed him to share in some part of it. Devin keeps his eyes on his tea, occasionally taking a sip. Were their places reversed, he wouldn't want to be watched.

"Easier said than done," he acknowledges quietly of letting go. Devin has little advice to offer on that front; he's a poor example of how to deal with guilt. The past century has certainly left him time to try, but it hasn't been a high enough priority - or else Devin felt the guilt was reasonable for what he'd done.

He takes a carefully deeper breath, mindful of his ribs. "Konryu does make a significant argument for living in the present, for those who can. From what I've seen, you're not lacking in kindness to offer others, however." He gestures to the canister of arnica.

In Fitz's case, Devin suspects that it was precisely how close he and the Fool are that makes it easy to hurt one another. Such is the argument that Devin abides by, that allowing people in only leads to pain. Konryu has been doing it's best to chip away at that particular resolve.