Blackfeather Woods sleep is a welcome gadget in our headbondhood

Crying is supposed to be a release; therapeutic, relief of the pressure of all the emotions built up to that point. It's supposed to feel better — all of these things Zephyr had learned during his time as a captive. It'd seemed so easy for the others, who'd all followed the rules of it like clockwork and seemed better off for it. Not one applies to him.
Crying is an angry, burning, skin-crawling thing to him; fiery tendrils of misery clawing their way down his cheeks, eyes itching, stinging, throat tight. His face feels too warm. Suffocating. The icewraith was never made for the strident heat of emotions like these —

But this is what it means to live, isn't it? This is what it is to breathe and feel and think — the price of ice-made-flesh, soul threads spun into fragile being. So what is he doing, tearing himself apart like this? It seems absurd; the sea thrashing herself raw and bloody against the cliffs, ignorant to their fate already decided long before the hurt settled in.
He takes another step back, then turns, still blinded by tears. An eternity passes in the handful of seconds it takes for him to reach his decision — but the wraith is long gone from the scene before the hurt starts to subside, and the tears die into guilt-laden silence. He'd shamed himself with the interaction, made a mess of things by bringing more unnecessary conflict between himself and Taikon, and no doubt Takiyok soon enough.

Later, brooding alone, he promises himself it will never happen again.