At least Carlisle is learning to keep his priorities straight... though on second thought, perhaps the fact that he simply doesn't have the energy to fret about the mundane as he usually does is also a worrisome sign. The tabard itself isn't a mundane issue, anyways; though it might just be a garment, it is also a part of the clergyman's identity. To see something with a holy symbol marred so thoroughly by his curse...
Glacius' frown intensifies, though it's more out of resolve than woe at this point. He will find a way to set it right—he'll find a way to set all of this right. There is so much more than just a cherished garment at stake, after all. The ice alien nods and moves to undo the clasps, then pulls the ink-ruined tabard off over his partner's head. From there he moves to assist him with the rest of his clothes; whether it is helping him to sit up so that they can remove his jacket and undershirt, or lifting his legs so that his lower garments can be pulled free, Glacius takes the utmost care to be sure that Carlisle doesn't have to make a single motion of his own waning strength.
With blackened clothing draped over his muscular arms, the otherworldly being departs from the room and immediately sets them to soaking in warm, soapy water. Then he returns to the bedroom where he shuffles around in the closet briefly, returning to Carlisle's side with one of his favorite bath robes. Aside from the practicality of its simplicity, he can feel the softness of it in his arms, and hopes it will bring his partner some comfort.
"Here," Glacius speaks up, "I think this will be easier to get you into than your usual clothes. Just sit forward, and I'll slip it around your shoulders and your arms through the sleeves—yes, like that—and now... there you are."
With Carlisle finally situated, the big alien takes a small step backward and looks him over. He was hoping that things might look a little bit better now that the human is safe and resting, but... the whole situation honestly still looks ghastly. With how grey and pale the ailing cleric has become since Glacius last saw him, and the way his limbs rest so heavily against the sheets... this looks more like some terrible death bed than a place of recovery. In that moment, the ice alien feels something that he hasn't experienced since... Makers, he can't remember when: a spike of terror deep in his guts, so powerful it makes him feel sick.
"How... how's that?" Glacius asks in a hushed tone, trying to keep himself out of his own head; hoping against hope, maybe, to hear some sort of affirmation, even though he knows Carlisle will likely be too tired at this point to give him much.
no subject
Glacius' frown intensifies, though it's more out of resolve than woe at this point. He will find a way to set it right—he'll find a way to set all of this right. There is so much more than just a cherished garment at stake, after all. The ice alien nods and moves to undo the clasps, then pulls the ink-ruined tabard off over his partner's head. From there he moves to assist him with the rest of his clothes; whether it is helping him to sit up so that they can remove his jacket and undershirt, or lifting his legs so that his lower garments can be pulled free, Glacius takes the utmost care to be sure that Carlisle doesn't have to make a single motion of his own waning strength.
With blackened clothing draped over his muscular arms, the otherworldly being departs from the room and immediately sets them to soaking in warm, soapy water. Then he returns to the bedroom where he shuffles around in the closet briefly, returning to Carlisle's side with one of his favorite bath robes. Aside from the practicality of its simplicity, he can feel the softness of it in his arms, and hopes it will bring his partner some comfort.
"Here," Glacius speaks up, "I think this will be easier to get you into than your usual clothes. Just sit forward, and I'll slip it around your shoulders and your arms through the sleeves—yes, like that—and now... there you are."
With Carlisle finally situated, the big alien takes a small step backward and looks him over. He was hoping that things might look a little bit better now that the human is safe and resting, but... the whole situation honestly still looks ghastly. With how grey and pale the ailing cleric has become since Glacius last saw him, and the way his limbs rest so heavily against the sheets... this looks more like some terrible death bed than a place of recovery. In that moment, the ice alien feels something that he hasn't experienced since... Makers, he can't remember when: a spike of terror deep in his guts, so powerful it makes him feel sick.
"How... how's that?" Glacius asks in a hushed tone, trying to keep himself out of his own head; hoping against hope, maybe, to hear some sort of affirmation, even though he knows Carlisle will likely be too tired at this point to give him much.