Like a startled cat, Griffith spooks away from him, hair rising, eyes alert. Guts stills suddenly where he's standing, hands raising slowly to turn his palms outwards and reveal himself for the scant danger he poses. Whatever threat Griffith's spied within him, Guts can't name, but is willing to diffuse. He stays diligently put, then whispers carefully, "I didn't do anything."

At least, as far as he can tell. But Griffith's already galloping on to the next obstacle, the next threat, the next futile inconvenience. Guts should have learned early never to confront his general with so simple a thing.

"You said it yourself", he gives with a deeper sigh than the pretence of this whole disaster being a natural occurrence can afford him. "You go on like this, they'll think you've lost your wits."

There's no easy answer to Griffith's quandary, but carrying on in hopes that the problem will resolve itself of its own accord is the least likely or elegant solution. If it could, it would have done so already. And it didn't.