Carlisle wraps his arms around him, picking at the bandage on his arm; it is nearly black with ink these days, stains he is no longer able to scrub out.

"I don't believe he will have a choice in that matter, even if we do find a way to open the Door for ourselves. I—"

He pauses, pushing out a sigh.

"I was told I had but a year left. I am sure my time may be much shorter now. A matter of months, at best. My hair has never been so grey."