Carlisle nods at Glacius' insistence, his utter determination to try, no matter the odds. He could not ask his partner to do otherwise any more than he could ask the sun to not rise, or his head to not ache so much. They are inevitabilities.

"All right," he replies as he settles against Glacius, his forehead resting in the curve of the alien's powerful neck, his icy shell soothing the dull throbbing behind his eyes. Pulling in a breath, Carlisle tries to steady his trembling, desperate to hide how truly anxious he is. He may have accepted what is coming, but he undeniably fears it nonetheless. He fears what he has seen when he sleeps; he is frightened of becoming something so changed that he can no longer remember his lover's face, recall how his caresses felt upon his pale skin. Most of all, he is terrified of what his end means for Glacius. Even now, he puts his partner through a torment he wouldn't wish upon anyone.

Is it worse for your loved ones to simply vanish one day, or to be damned to watch them wither away? Carlisle doesn't know. He holds onto what truth keeps him grounded:

"We will face those challenges together," he responds, closing his eyes, "as in all things."