As Glacius helps him disrobe (and then robe once more), what energy Carlisle had sapped from the Mote fades, leaving him limp, painfully still against the bed; even the rise and fall of his chest is muted, nearly imperceptible. His voice is lost somewhere amongst the fatigue, but he answers regardless.

Perfect. Thank you, my friend.

His words slip away as he drifts out of consciousness, absolutely unable to stay awake any longer... and unaware that his communication through the Mote, and his proclivity to tap into its energies for himself, will be waking him again far sooner than he thinks.