The death of an unjust soul and the release of the weary.
The raucous call of the carrion bird shivered across a dead air, stirring the dead man from his gaze of the void. His chains rattled painfully to his ears, shackles keeping him from escaping an end. Wrists chaffed red, skin stretched over sharp stakes of bone, eyes red from restless nights within a cage.
The prisoner was a condemned soul. Ignorant of his crime, he had spent his first eternity spouting abuse to the uncaring gazes and contemptuous visages that warded him, yet on the tide of his second age of absolute isolation his mind, once sharpened to an infinite edge, had eventually dulled through his sentence. Injustice and rage had brimmed within him, threatening to break free, eventually dimming to a faint hostility.
He was weary of life, docile to a trancelike state. Without grasping the cause of his grief, his continued existence is meaningless.