[ oh, he's sitting down — not what he intended, but it doesn't look like he's getting out of this conversation now, either. so he sighs, and listens, and takes a sip of his drink to avoid having to say anything for a moment.

he thought he knew how he feels about death — thought he knew it once, then thought he knew it again... only to find out, here, that none of it means anything at all. that whatever he feels — there is always a choice, he'd told jayce once, except it now seems that he doesn't have one; not here, not back home. ]

You could say that about everything, [ he says finally, ] That it depends on the person. On their circumstances. And yet, death is the same for everyone. You're gone, whether you want to or not, and all that's left is whatever imprint you've left behind, deep or shallow.

[ a pause. ] Or so it should be. Not so here. [ or even back home, but he's trying not to think about that — ]