While Dais’ shift between lethargy and total invigoration had been sudden, his desperate fight for his right to speak freely hadn’t come as a shock to Aren. By default, he’d learned to brace himself for resistance from the soon-to-be deceased; most were unaware of the depths of their aversion towards pain—emotional, physical—until the actual moment of truth had arrived, so he was neither the first nor last to exhibit a never-before-seen lust for life in the moments before death.
The scuffles endured with the others were best described as a tussle between pointed apathy and oblivious lamentation; however, this time around, as Dais writhes and trades lam after lam in a stubborn attempt to evade Aren's hold, he arrives at the realization that he can [[sympathize->I]] with Dais’ plight.While Dais’ shift between lethargy and total invigoration had been sudden, his desperate fight for his right to speak freely hadn’t come as a shock to Aren. By default, he’d learned to brace himself for resistance from the soon-to-be deceased; most were unaware of the depths of their aversion towards pain—emotional, physical—until the actual moment of truth had arrived, so he was neither the first nor last to exhibit a never-before-seen lust for life in the moments before death.
The scuffles endured with the others were best described as a tussle between pointed apathy and oblivious lamentation; however, this time around, as Dais writhes and trades lam after lam in a stubborn attempt to evade Aren's hold, he arrives at the realization that he can sympathize with Dais’ plight. Not the fact that he was afraid of departing the world without casting a few stones and high-minded sermons at his onlookers, but his resignation to thanklessness and serving justice from the sidelines. It’s hard to quit, then harder still to accept, from the bottom of one’s heart, that both forbearance and fulmination in the face of rejection were as effective as flaunting a spoon before a brick wall; no action taken or word said could possibly reverse, rectify, or reduce the suffering incurred beneath its weight.
Once Aren manages to wrap an arm around Dais’ throat, barely defending himself from the man’s violent thrashing and desperate blows, the two share a furtive, though meaningful, look. In the seneschal’s eyes, he catches a glimpse of every emotion Dais burns to express—all sentiments that Aren has forcibly trapped in his throat, leaving him with no option but to choke and sputter on each fervent expression of untold ire and [[bitterness->Stay]]. While Dais’ shift between lethargy and total invigoration had been sudden, his desperate fight for his right to speak freely hadn’t come as a shock to Aren. By default, he’d learned to brace himself for resistance from the soon-to-be deceased; most were unaware of the depths of their aversion towards pain—emotional, physical—until the actual moment of truth had arrived, so he was neither the first nor last to exhibit a never-before-seen lust for life in the moments before death.
The scuffles endured with the others were best described as a tussle between pointed apathy and oblivious lamentation; however, this time around, as Dais writhes and trades lam after lam in a stubborn attempt to evade Aren's hold, he arrives at the realization that he can sympathize with Dais’ plight. Not the fact that he was afraid of departing the world without casting a few stones and high-minded sermons at his onlookers, but his resignation to thanklessness and serving justice from the sidelines. It’s hard to quit, then harder still to accept, from the bottom of one’s heart, that both forbearance and fulmination in the face of rejection were as effective as flaunting a spoon before a brick wall; no action taken or word said could possibly reverse, rectify, or reduce the suffering incurred beneath its weight.
Once Aren manages to wrap an arm around Dais’ throat, barely defending himself from the man’s violent thrashing and desperate blows, the two share a furtive, though meaningful, look. In the seneschal’s eyes, he catches a glimpse of every emotion Dais burns to express—all sentiments that Aren has forcibly trapped in his throat, leaving him with no option but to choke and sputter on each fervent expression of untold ire and bitterness. Aren, in turn, can hardly guess what Dais may see in his own, but it causes him to cease all struggle at once. His face takes on a miserable hue of red as tears huddle atop his eyelashes, balancing precariously upon a ledge that they’re denied departure from with every one of Dais’ dogged refusals to blink.
‘So long,’ Aren murmurs, angling the syringe clutched in his other hand into {reveal link: 'position.', text: 'position. Something between a scoff and a groan escapes Dais\’ mouth; the needle has pierced the skin of his arm. His heart beats at such a pace and intensity that Aren could almost swear its protests are audible to the ear. \‘And goodnight.\’'}
[after 4 seconds]
~~Even in death, the inferno of resolve in his eyes seemed determined to sear in perpetuity.~~
[continued]