Carlisle has enough sense to insist that immediately, knowing how utterly oppressive guilt can be. Even in his terrified state, that is a truth he cannot deny.
He pulls in a breath, trying to steady himself, dipping his toes into the metaphysical energies of the Mote; it feels as though they will drag him away almost immediately, and rather than the euphoria he is accustomed to with such inundation, fear dominates him once more. It bleeds through the Mote as thick and horribly as the ink across his abdomen, barely held back by what determination he can muster. He cannot die here. Ravine may have helped close his wound, but he can still feel himself ebbing away, getting lost completely in energies that are not his own. His head pounds, his fingers curling against his scalp.
He needs grounding. He needs Glacius. They are real, he reminds himself; if he cannot trust his own feelings through the paranoia, he can believe in them.
no subject
Carlisle has enough sense to insist that immediately, knowing how utterly oppressive guilt can be. Even in his terrified state, that is a truth he cannot deny.
He pulls in a breath, trying to steady himself, dipping his toes into the metaphysical energies of the Mote; it feels as though they will drag him away almost immediately, and rather than the euphoria he is accustomed to with such inundation, fear dominates him once more. It bleeds through the Mote as thick and horribly as the ink across his abdomen, barely held back by what determination he can muster. He cannot die here. Ravine may have helped close his wound, but he can still feel himself ebbing away, getting lost completely in energies that are not his own. His head pounds, his fingers curling against his scalp.
He needs grounding. He needs Glacius. They are real, he reminds himself; if he cannot trust his own feelings through the paranoia, he can believe in them.