Carlisle might be agonizingly aware of each day that has passed, his distraught, panic-stricken mind damnably aware of every hour, every minute that his partner does not awaken--but for Glacius, it is much the opposite. He's been rendered nearly comatose for the duration of this nasty little game, and when he finally awakens again he feels as if he is drifting through an endless black haze, his mind struggling to restart itself after being forcibly shut down for so long. He has no idea what has happened, where he is, or how long he has been there; all he really has the faculties to at first is cast out for his primary source of comfort when things go wrong.

Carlisle... Carlisle...

The pings start out aimless, less direct--subconscious, nearly. It takes the otherworldly being a moment or two, but his last few moments of consciousness gradually begin filtering back into his mind, and that's enough to dispel the lingering confusion and disorientation. When he reaches out next, there is much more intent to his call, memory and desire driving him towards his partner's soul.

... Carlisle!

The alien scrambles upright in the dirt he's been unceremoniously deposited on, scrubbing his face as he tries to figure out what's going on. Where is he? Where is his partner, for that matter?! How long has he been pulled apart from the clergyman? What if something has happened to him? Glacius immediately redoubles his effort, hoping that Carlisle will be able to detect these metaphysical pings despite how relatively recently he was gifted with the Mote.

Carlisle, can you hear me? Are you alright? I-- the guns, the gods, they... they wanted me to hurt you. I couldn't do it, but I didn't mean for this to happen, either.