As Glacius turns his head, Carlisle can't help but stare at the ruined flesh, transfixed by the scar where his mandible used to be. It isn't disgust that grips him, but captivation -- and most importantly, recognition.

Though one hand remains tight on his chest, his trembling slows as he reaches toward his partner with the other, sliding it from his torso to the side of his face. "You kept this for me," he murmurs; though his voice is barely above a whisper, it rings in the unnatural stillness all around them. "There was... regret in this, in how it happened and why you would remain so scarred on my behalf, but- but also... gratitude. Fondness. A comfort I could not describe. That you would keep such a thing because of what it represented meant so much to me. It... still does."

He slides his hand into the familiar grooves, closing his eyes as he feels the Mote thrum. Ah, there's that something he could not grasp earlier, what it was -- is -- Glacius feels for him that he had struggled to recall. He basks in it for only a moment, color returning to his form, the world around them both less clear than it was—

And he awakens with a gasp, coughing as he breaks through the ink in his throat.