He sits in the window that shows the view most like Heaven with an empty book in his lap, stroking it like an inconsolable child. Silent.
I have never had the words to comfort or express. My language has always been that of clashing spears and cold hard coordinates; I can mimic the masters of pathos when it serves me well, but when it comes to speaking my own true emotions I am as dumb as the butt of a spear. Any elegance I may have, I learned from him.
Once I had the honor of belonging to the sweetest song in Hell.
And now that voice is silenced, perhaps forever. The gash across his throat boasts itself like a second mouth mocking the uselessness of the first. The memory of seeing him take it will forever drown out the rest of the battle; the blood of the one who inflicted it has long been washed from my hands into oblivion, but the consequences remain.
His pen is just as silent now. He no longer writes, for with no ability to reproduce the music or narrate he composes all joy in the work is gone. His only words now are letters, notes of necessity, soulless and brief. And even those grow more and more brief. (The other day I asked him if he wanted anything. It was only a look, but in it I read the word Heaven carved deeper than stone can allow, and I had to turn away--I. We communicated no more that day, and shamefully I was grateful, for although that has always been the answer, the heart behind it has never been so desperate.)
And when at night we sleep we do not touch except in careless error, and even though after so many millennia (they pass faster than they do for you, and faster yet when one is happy, but slower than the fall of your most precious creature when one is not) we have shared bed and breath alike, now we take our separate sides and suffer Silence to take our place between us, heavy and inexorable.
And every day I can tell he is waiting for an opportunity to die.