It's a bit hard to imagine sometimes how others might feel about a situation. Whether it be a feeling of joy or sadness, any manner of creature can be hard to read. As if on instinct, an impulse to protect an already fragile emotional state, most creatures refuse to wear their hearts on their sleeve.
Of course, when that creature's heart is quite visible for all to see, not even by their own choice, they become that smaller minority- that of emotional fountains that can easily break, as if made of glass.
Such was the case of the poor boy floating in the early morning mist beside an open grave. It was not his own, surprisingly- though he himself could more than count as deceased to the eye. He duly listened as a coroner droned on about final rites of passage, memories of the departed, and more details he didn't care to remember. His soul, visible for all to see who paid mind to him, was a deep blue. A color you could find quite pretty if you did not know it's meaning.
And as he stood here, staring at the grave as the men with shovels began to line in to cover it to dirt, his mind could only function enough to facilitate one phrase:
'Why did she have to die?'
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't fair to her other family. Her brother, her adoptive daughter and son, even her rival. He tightened his grip on the fresh flowers he'd been given as, he considered it, a consolation prize for her death. Why on earth, he wondered, would you give someone something so... short-lived? He knew the gesture was supposed to be kind, and that his own thoughts were just bitter and spiteful. But it just felt cruel to give someone something that could die so easily after they had just experienced death.
In fact, he thought as he held the small, freshly cut bouquet in his translucent hands, the blooms were already dead, weren't they? They just didn't know it yet.
He watched as the workers meticulously laid dirt onto the grave, further seperating him from the one he loved. Forever seperating him. He knew he'd never see her again. They were from different worlds, and different afterlifes as such- if he himself even would recieve an afterlife on bodily death in the state he was in.
Either way, things looked bleak for him- and he knew he'd never feel her wings around him, her gentle touch, and hear her voice ever again. A strong voice with just enough tenderness to have a heart. He'd never see her again...
He felt a crack in his soul, but he hardly cared. It was normal. That was supposed to be there. Or at least that was how he saw it.
It was a crack that was never to be repaired. A crack no one could ever fix, not the finest doctor, not the most magical of beings. Even breaking the taboos of Life wouldn't bring her back. He knew it. Fate had torn his heart apart. And it was a tear that would last for eternity, if he even got that.
He vaguely heard the worried call of his brother, telling him to come back down. So he did, but he didn't speak to him. He didn't feel like speaking to anyone.
And so he didn't. He remained silent the rest of the day. The rest of that week. He refused to speak to anyone. The other spirits around had to force him to eat. He refused to sleep until he passed out, and even then sleep was fleeting.
He was still affectionate of course. He played with his daughter, scavenged with his son, he went on missions with his brothers and best friends. But they would never hear a word breathed from him. He felt no desire to speak anymore. He had no feelings to express through words. He had no words to describe his emotions. His cracked soul would do, he figured. What was the point in announcing it to the world when you're so obviously broken?
A silent duelist, a broken soul, and a scorned fate. Forever he would remain silent, never would he see his love again. And he would always feel that tear in his soul.
For that is the nature of a link even beyond love.