Nothing. Absolutely nothing! If Ozymandias had a single fear of a future of torturous discontent, he was hiding it spectacularly. All he was doing was being a high-and-mighty, bloody smarmy know-it-all, even though it was supposed to be Endymion’s turn to be that here, and forevermore, til death did they part and whatnot.
There was nothing he could say to get a rise out of him, or to beat some sense into his head. Dymion scanned the room hopelessly, picking out a variety of objects within reach he could very well aim at Oz’s head – his glass, the bottle, the rest of the liquid in it, a stray shoe – and he even considered casting a spell to tip up the chair Oz was sitting in and upending his brother with it, but he swallowed the urge and his frustration as best he could, because his temper had always been tamer than most of the family’s.
His mouth twitched unhappily downward again though: if he was giving up, he could still be miserable about it. “The flowers look very nice,” he muttered a little churlishly, returning to the first question Oz had posed upon his coming upstairs.
After that, he shrugged and turned towards the door again to go back down and grumble his way through the preparations with everyone else – but, at a sudden thought, grasped the doorway and looked back. “Please tell me somebody else tried,” he demanded, sure that someone else in the family – their sisters, their mother – or one of Oz’s close friends or even one of the Pomfreys must have tried to reason him out of this before now. “Is there no one you’ll listen to?” (Dym thought he knew the answer already, though: as ever, Oz refused to heed anyone’s opinion but his own.)
There was nothing he could say to get a rise out of him, or to beat some sense into his head. Dymion scanned the room hopelessly, picking out a variety of objects within reach he could very well aim at Oz’s head – his glass, the bottle, the rest of the liquid in it, a stray shoe – and he even considered casting a spell to tip up the chair Oz was sitting in and upending his brother with it, but he swallowed the urge and his frustration as best he could, because his temper had always been tamer than most of the family’s.
His mouth twitched unhappily downward again though: if he was giving up, he could still be miserable about it. “The flowers look very nice,” he muttered a little churlishly, returning to the first question Oz had posed upon his coming upstairs.
After that, he shrugged and turned towards the door again to go back down and grumble his way through the preparations with everyone else – but, at a sudden thought, grasped the doorway and looked back. “Please tell me somebody else tried,” he demanded, sure that someone else in the family – their sisters, their mother – or one of Oz’s close friends or even one of the Pomfreys must have tried to reason him out of this before now. “Is there no one you’ll listen to?” (Dym thought he knew the answer already, though: as ever, Oz refused to heed anyone’s opinion but his own.)
