Carlisle has had a long time to come to terms with the fact his life would end. He didn't realize it would be in so horrible a way, and that the aftermath would be particularly devastating with regards to both his friends and bloodline, but he's been trying to reconcile that within himself. He's prayed for guidance, spent hours of quiet contemplation and meditation in his garden; he has sought the comfort of his partner for both his physical and mental well-being.
But his biggest regret has not just been what he would leave behind, but who. He's made plans to have the Revenant taken care of, but it's Glacius he's most worried about. Carlisle knows what it's like to be left alone with the sorrow and guilt that comes from the death of a loved one. He is no mere loved one, however: he is Glacius' beloved, a distinction that should be taken into the highest consideration. He's not s ure how to help Glacius cope with that. He feels his partner's remorse, his concerns -- fears draining his strength. That apprehension is new, unexpected, and Carlisle immediately kicks himself for having not seen it before.
"Oh," he murmurs softly, unsure of how to respond -- in all honesty, he doesn't think Glacius can stop any of this, not with the time they have. What force could cease the gnawing of that abyss within him?
Not that Carlisle doesn't want to stay. He does; he truly, irrevocably does. More than he fears death, he is afraid of what agony he will put his partner through following his end, and to spare him that misery, Carlisle would do just about anything.
And so he tries to be Glacius' bulwark for now. "I would say death is something we all must face eventually, but you and I both know that this is no mere death. I—"
He cuts himself off, his eyes meeting his partner's; he casts his gaze away, unable to mask his own trepidation as he tries again, his hands tightening on Glacius'. "I... I don't want to go, but- but if there is nothing we can do, you must not blame yourself. Promise me that. Promise me you'll at least try. I would—"
The facade starts crumbling, his teeth grinding together. "I would rend myself from this world before I put you through that. Before you had to endure the same guilt I have for years and years and years now. So please, do not take it upon yourself to stop this, and that, if it proves impossible, do not blame yourself for having done your best. You've... given me more reason to live than I have ever had."
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But his biggest regret has not just been what he would leave behind, but who. He's made plans to have the Revenant taken care of, but it's Glacius he's most worried about. Carlisle knows what it's like to be left alone with the sorrow and guilt that comes from the death of a loved one. He is no mere loved one, however: he is Glacius' beloved, a distinction that should be taken into the highest consideration. He's not s ure how to help Glacius cope with that. He feels his partner's remorse, his concerns -- fears draining his strength. That apprehension is new, unexpected, and Carlisle immediately kicks himself for having not seen it before.
"Oh," he murmurs softly, unsure of how to respond -- in all honesty, he doesn't think Glacius can stop any of this, not with the time they have. What force could cease the gnawing of that abyss within him?
Not that Carlisle doesn't want to stay. He does; he truly, irrevocably does. More than he fears death, he is afraid of what agony he will put his partner through following his end, and to spare him that misery, Carlisle would do just about anything.
And so he tries to be Glacius' bulwark for now. "I would say death is something we all must face eventually, but you and I both know that this is no mere death. I—"
He cuts himself off, his eyes meeting his partner's; he casts his gaze away, unable to mask his own trepidation as he tries again, his hands tightening on Glacius'. "I... I don't want to go, but- but if there is nothing we can do, you must not blame yourself. Promise me that. Promise me you'll at least try. I would—"
The facade starts crumbling, his teeth grinding together. "I would rend myself from this world before I put you through that. Before you had to endure the same guilt I have for years and years and years now. So please, do not take it upon yourself to stop this, and that, if it proves impossible, do not blame yourself for having done your best. You've... given me more reason to live than I have ever had."