But regardless of how much she had grown, Midnight had always been herself, while Yves had not. When they had first formed their bond, he had shared all his feelings with her outright. He had used his body to communicate. He had used his voice, too, but it was always to underline what his body said, not to contradict it. His body had told her when he was hungry, and when he was tired, and when he was cold, and when he was afraid. He had different ways of screaming for each of these messages, and with that, his voice had always clearly underlined what his body said.
Gradually, this had shifted to a phase where the screaming had stopped and the voice had become more complex. He had given Midnight her first name, Sina, and had learned to call out for her with it. He had learned words. He had learned the language of the wizard people, and Midnight had learned that each word meant a different thing, and that she needed to combine the meaning of the word with what the voice itself said to understand him.
During the time when he still acquired words, the language of the body, the message of the voice and the meaning of the word almost always supported each other. They built upon each other. Midnight and Yves would be out in the fields where Midnight could run, and when he wanted her to come back, he would wave at her, and shout “Come back!” and convey with his voice whether he was afraid or tired or simply wanted her at his side to explore another place. When training, his body would tell her “I cannot realise my full strength anymore and my senses are dulling,” and his voice would say “I am in pain,” and his words would say “I need a break.” This was the time, where he told her everything outright. The time where he and their bond had still been whole.
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