The scent of blood is strong, the cool wintergreen amid the burning heat of the poison. Disjointedly, Terezi feels the press of skin against her flushed forehead, and the quiet shushing between her sobs. It doesn't make any sense in her head, there's no logic left to rationalize. She doesn't have enough coherent thoughts to think with. But somehow she understands the attempt at comfort, and she reciprocates in her own way.

Shaky hands fight against tremors in order to grasp against Redglare's clothes, grabbing fistfuls of cloth and pulling herself closer. She doesn't feel better--if anything, the movement sends new jolts of pain through her, but she feels safer. Less alone. Which is all she can really ask for in these last moments.

Eventually, the convulsions subside. Breathing stops. Her hands lose their grip on what was her comfort, her lifeline. Only a mere fifteen minutes into the arena, and Terezi Pyrope is done.