Carlisle looks to Glacius and tries to meet his gaze, his own eyes still red; the glow in them has faded for the moment, barely perceptible behind the glass of his spectacles. A part of him is embarrassed to seek such physical comforts, ashamed that he often finds more respite there than he does in even prayer. He doesn't need such earthly pleasures, he tells himself. Just his goddess and a drink to quiet his thoughts. He doesn't deserve such commodities as it is.

But in a way, that makes Carlisle want them more. They are forbidden because he is not worthy, and yet Glacius makes him feel otherwise when he'd rather feel nothing at all. It is with Glacius that he feels needed, and is truly alive. Perhaps that is one reason the alien's absence shattered him so: he'd been deprived of what life he'd found, what life sustained him. For a man straddling the line between life and death with his very existence, it was too much for his ill body to bear.

Well, Carlisle has Glacius now. He should cherish that life while he can. Time moves ever forward, after all.

"Take me from here, Glacius," Carlisle pleads, his voice barely above a whisper. He pulls himself to meet the icy warrior's forehead with his own, one hand still resting on his broad chest.