Plenty gentle, you know that by now, Glacius responds, though by now he has half a mind to be anything but. Would it be best to just wake the cleric up? Maybe a few quick shakes would solve this, bring back the Carlisle he knows, get rid of the empty husk tracing his chest now—turning an expression of intimacy into unnerving contact.

But no, the ice alien thinks. This is not a natural sleep—clearly—and so one probably cannot wake from it by natural means. There are also probably a number of risks that could come of being too rough; he might harm Carlisle while he's so frail, or he might elicit a more aggressive responds instead of the placidity he's been exhibiting so far. How to fix it, then? He doesn't know—and in that moment he's never felt not only so out of his depth, but so alone, with nothing but a shade of his partner in his arms reminding him of all he has to lose. Glacius feels that sickly terror threatening him again; what if he cannot wake him up?

No, he will not give up. He has brought Carlisle out of the depths of his own compulsions before; this may not be the exact same thing, but it is similar. He just has to keep trying. Keeping a steady hold on his partner, the ice alien tries to see if he can steer him back into the bedroom. It will be easier to focus on reaching him if he doesn't have to worry about the cleric moving around so clumsily.

Come, Glacius urges gently. There is a place for you, and being lost to your own influence is not it. You belong with me, yes?