People seemed to think he didn't feel.
Which struck him as funny in several ways, to be perfectly honest. If the Goddess could feel – feel so much that her sorrow flooded the world with her tears – how could one of her creations not feel just as much? Besides, anyone that knew him knew that he felt; Titania had seen him cry, Boyd could make him laugh, and Mist had been witness to his anger.
He felt, it wasn't something he could turn off.
Perhaps it was the serious, blunt, more often than not monotonous way he spoke. He wasn't prone to chitchat, didn't like to dawdle or linger on topics that didn't interest him or seem relevant. He didn't care to talk just for the sake of it. Business came first, and if he didn't talk about it like it was all roses and sunshine, what was so wrong about that?
Maybe it was his expressions – most of the time, he was scowling, though it was hardly intentional. In war, in business, it was rare to find anything to smile about. He didn't really trust people that smiled too much for no reason, couldn't help thinking they were up to something. Being in charge of a group of mercenaries, an army – neither really lent themselves to moments of relaxation. If he looked serious, brooding, unfriendly – it was because he was consumed with casualties, money issues, battle plans, telling families their loved ones would never be coming back, deathdeathdeath.
He felt, damn it, he felt a lot.
People on the other side of their cause, he could understand why they put it into their heads that he didn't feel. He killed their men, invaded their homes and lands, forced them into worse conditions than they'd been in while under a mad man – all while still considered so young, barely even seen as a man or recognized as the general of an army for his age. What sort of child led an army? What sort of boy killed men who were older, wiser, more experienced in droves on the battlefield? Demon of Crimea, some sort of hellish war dog come to claim souls and destroy lives – how could someone like that feel?
It wasn't that he didn't feel.
Fighting through a cowardly slew of bandits for his sister and her friend –panic. Watching his father die before his eyes – horror. Seeing his sister, his patchwork family, deal with the loss of a father and a leader – grief. Enduring the senseless and demeaning prattle and mockery of senators and nobles – anger. Seeing the torture and abuse in the tower where Feral Ones were created – disgust. Fighting the Black Knight, and believing he had avenged his father's death – fulfillment. Throwing down Ashnard at long last – relief. Thinking things could finally, finally go back to some semblance of normalcy after the war was finished – happiness.
It was that he didn't want to in certain situations.
Don't show how scared you are, how you feel like you might throw up from sheer panic or worry. Don't feel tired, you can't let exhaustion get to you now; too much to do, too many people counting on you. Anger doesn't do any good in a fight, don't let it take you over and control you, you'll make a mistake and mistakes mean death for someone. Crying isn't something expected of you when you make a living this way, men in charge of armies don't shed tears for the enemies they kill.
Don't feel it, not now. Don't show it, not now. Not now, not now, not now. Save it for later, save it for the dark, save it for when you're so painfully alone that you wish you could go numb to it all.
Oh, how he wished he felt about as much as people thought he did.