His pity was different. It was not the suffocating, drowning pity he saw in the eyes of everyone else he knew and who knew him and Zelda and what they hd meant to each other. It did not sweep over him like an oppressive police searchlight. It did not gouge out what little of him was left; did not regard him as some poor, wretched whelp, left too soon by his best and only friend to fend feebly for himself in the now cold and lonesome world she’d left behind. It did not think of him as someone who had been dashed from reality and replaced by a pile of living grief twisted into a cruel caricature of himself. It did not view him as if he had lost something. It did not treat him like he was less. No, Sidon’s pity was there–-frustratingly, irrevocably there as it was in the eyes of everyone who encountered him, as if the residue left by Zelda’s death had stained him like dye–-but it was different. It lacked the history, the knowledge of the years the two had spent seemingly fused at the hip. It had never seen Link withdraw from everyone else, into himself whenever Zelda was absent from school. It had not heard the silence that replaced his voice during the terrible week she was missing. It had not caught the twinkles in their eyes at each other; the hands lazily intertwined half out of safety, half out of a desire to remember the other’s presence; the inside jokes passed from ear to ear with hushed, giggling voices; the sheer liveliness and vitality she stirred up within Link. It didn’t know–- Sidon didn’t know the before. He had only ever known the after. He did not know what his grief had taken from him. He only knew it as a part of him, something that simply existed in tandem with his shyness or his quietness. It did not seem him as changed. It did not see him as emptied.
And for this, Link was grateful.