There's silence for a several seconds, no answer for Glacius' metaphysical signals. Perhaps it's because Carlisle has drunk himself into a stupor, or perhaps he's asleep. Perhaps he's been knocked unconscious himself, having fallen to the gods' game at the hands of someone else's gun. It could be a number of things, but the truth is, thankfully, more benign.
Carlisle stirs from his spot on the floor of his cabin in the garden, his glasses askew, hair as frazzled as the rest of him. The past several days have been some of the most turbulent he's ever experienced, his mind turning on him more and more with every passing second -- with no one there to pull him from the edge, he's let himself be swept away by self-degradation and disgust. Why hadn't he been able to awaken Glacius? Just when he'd thought he might be a worthy partner after all, he failed his alien friend -- and for said failure, had Glacius taken from him. Though he could still feel his partner through the Mote, he couldn't find him within the city. He was gone.
Just as it should be for a twice-cursed.
And that thought just about destroyed Carlisle Longinmouth. He has a man who had failed to die, failed his family, failed his goddess -- and now, he'd failed the one person he cared for more than any other. What did he have left?
Liquor, for one. Without Glacius at the apartment, Carlisle couldn't bear to stay among, and so he'd taken some of his plants and the rabbit to the cabin, stopping along the way to pick up a bottle of something potent enough to drown out his misery. It would be so much more effective than tea, he told himself. He'd be welcoming back an old friend who had gotten him through a lot of dark times.
But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He'd spent nights writing, meditating, ranting and raving among the trappings of a life they'd been building together, but Carlisle hadn't yet succumbed to temptation. He had, however, given into exhaustion a time or two, hence his position on the floor when something from the back of his mind rouses him. For just a second, he'd thought he'd heard Glacius -- the alien's voice isn't clear, and it's likely a delusion, he tells himself. That's what happens in the panic-ridden mind of a desperate man. He remembers seeing figures when his father died, shadows where his uncles used to linger when they vanished into the night.
It's when Carlisle hears Glacius' voice again, clearer now, that he wonders if he truly is going mad. He pulls himself off the floor, pawing at his eyes -- they burn, so dry from his sobbing. Another reason for disdain he will apply later.
He doesn't know how to answer, aside from aloud. "G... Glacius?"
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Carlisle stirs from his spot on the floor of his cabin in the garden, his glasses askew, hair as frazzled as the rest of him. The past several days have been some of the most turbulent he's ever experienced, his mind turning on him more and more with every passing second -- with no one there to pull him from the edge, he's let himself be swept away by self-degradation and disgust. Why hadn't he been able to awaken Glacius? Just when he'd thought he might be a worthy partner after all, he failed his alien friend -- and for said failure, had Glacius taken from him. Though he could still feel his partner through the Mote, he couldn't find him within the city. He was gone.
Just as it should be for a twice-cursed.
And that thought just about destroyed Carlisle Longinmouth. He has a man who had failed to die, failed his family, failed his goddess -- and now, he'd failed the one person he cared for more than any other. What did he have left?
Liquor, for one. Without Glacius at the apartment, Carlisle couldn't bear to stay among, and so he'd taken some of his plants and the rabbit to the cabin, stopping along the way to pick up a bottle of something potent enough to drown out his misery. It would be so much more effective than tea, he told himself. He'd be welcoming back an old friend who had gotten him through a lot of dark times.
But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He'd spent nights writing, meditating, ranting and raving among the trappings of a life they'd been building together, but Carlisle hadn't yet succumbed to temptation. He had, however, given into exhaustion a time or two, hence his position on the floor when something from the back of his mind rouses him. For just a second, he'd thought he'd heard Glacius -- the alien's voice isn't clear, and it's likely a delusion, he tells himself. That's what happens in the panic-ridden mind of a desperate man. He remembers seeing figures when his father died, shadows where his uncles used to linger when they vanished into the night.
It's when Carlisle hears Glacius' voice again, clearer now, that he wonders if he truly is going mad. He pulls himself off the floor, pawing at his eyes -- they burn, so dry from his sobbing. Another reason for disdain he will apply later.
He doesn't know how to answer, aside from aloud. "G... Glacius?"