Carlisle Longinmouth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tongueamok) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hadriel_logs2018-09-01 02:38 am
tongueamok) wrote in hadriel_logs2018-09-01 02:38 am
Entry tags:
Everything Fades
Who: Carlisle Longinmouth (tongueamok), Glacius (glacius), & [open]!
What: Deserted Event Nearly Kills Local Cleric. You Won't Believe What He Looks Like Now!
Where: Memorial Garden, North Island
When: August 31st - September 8thish
Warnings: Just a general catch-all for Carlisle for the early month! Probably going to be some sad topics like impending death, terminal illness, and suicidal ideation, so PG-13ish. Will update!
Shops, Western Island [closed to Glacius]
In good news, people are showing up again -- people, not monsters. The bad news is that Carlisle is still a complete wreck. He's alive, yes, and moving, both improvements over... well, all the alternatives: alive but not moving, dead and not moving, moving regardless of how dead he is. Yes, alive and moving is certainly the most preferable combination of those two words, no matter how utterly exhausted he feels.
The first of his current problems (or at least the problems that move themselves to the forefront of his mind, as he'd rather focus on what he can control over what he cannot) is his appearance: his hands are trembling, his legs doing the same as they struggle to hold him up. His glasses are cracked, his clothing torn, and though he hasn't yet seen his reflection, he's positive his hair is a complete and utter disaster. Worst is that there's ink all over him, traces clinging to the crevices of his skin, blotches soaked all the through the fabric of his jacket, his pants, and his tabard. That last one is particularly grievous, the dark mark spreading all the way across the emblem of his order, marking what wounds lie beneath.
He can still feel ink seeping from them, the old scars having been torn asunder by the incredible duress his body had been through only a day prior. He may have stopped coughing, and the ink might have finally ceased trailing from his eye, but he can still feel that tear eating him from the inside. He's sure of it.
And that brings him to his second problem: he cannot possibly get home on his own. He'd been in fair health when rowing himself to the western island from the northern one, but now? With his hands shaking as they are, his head thundering, and his heart feeling as though it might pound its way out of his ribcage?
He puts a hand to his chest, leaning against the wall of the darkened, empty store he's tucked himself away in for the time being. It is pounding, isn't it? But there's a familiar energy behind it, something he hasn't felt in days. Fear strikes as suddenly as a knife, apprehension abound -- what will Glacius think when he finds out? There will be guilt, certainly. Carlisle knows his partner well enough to know that much. Anger, perhaps. Frustration at their circumstances... and desperation to change them. All things Carlisle himself has felt in spades.
As badly as he wants to spare Glacius the heartache of this revelation, Carlisle knows he cannot hide this from him -- more importantly, he doesn't want to hide this from him, nor does he want to bear this alone. Burying his head in his hands, the throbbing behind his eyes nearly drowns out the sob that rattles from the back of his throat as his hopelessness finally catches up to him. The distance between them feels endless, but he reaches out regardless through the Mote.
Glacius?
Memorial Garden, Northern Isle [open]
Those who haven't been to the Memorial Garden lately might notice a change in it. First is the decor: with the trees gone, it's more obvious that the shrubs and bushes in the area have been properly pruned over the past few weeks, the foliage trimmed into tight shapes -- mostly orbs, but one is more of a pyramid. The markers themselves haven't moved, but around several of them are soft patches of soil, ones containing clippings from a shrubby plant with flowers as clear as glass. One marker in particular has the start of a curvy stalk buried next to it, the single, thorny leaf attached to it curling against itself.
And in addition to the new landscaping is its latest regular gardener, Carlisle Longinmouth. The garden has changed, and for those who know him, so has Carlisle. His already pale skin is nearly white now, sharply contrasted only by the dark marks under his eyes; what brown there was in his hair has now faded entirely, leaving behind only dull, grey locks. The only features that have any real color at all are his eyes, and what color there is -- they glow vibrantly now, the blue light behind them bright even bhind his glasses, so strong that it nearly drowns out his pupils.
Even his attire has seen some changes for the time being. Gone are his usual vestments, the blue pants and jacket replaced with a sweater and slacks. His tabard remains, now marred by a black stain that runs horizontally across it at his abdomen. At some angles, the head of a penguin can be seen hiding behind his ruined tabard. Given he looks as though he's been put through the wringer several times, he hopes no one notices, or at least has the courtesy to not ask about it.
Being on the same island as his personal garden, it wasn't hard for him to transplant some of the more stable plants over the past weeks, just something to spruce the place up... and to, perhaps, better commemorate those they've lost over the years. He looks almost lost himself as he wanders among the names, stopping beside one in particular and contemplating just how long it may be before his name ends up there.
Despite the penguin sweater, most people wouldn't describe him as a cheery fellow, even on his good days. Perhaps the caretaker of a place of sobering remembrance suits him more than he'll ever admit.
tongueamok), Glacius (glacius), & [open]!What: Deserted Event Nearly Kills Local Cleric. You Won't Believe What He Looks Like Now!
Where: Memorial Garden, North Island
When: August 31st - September 8thish
Warnings: Just a general catch-all for Carlisle for the early month! Probably going to be some sad topics like impending death, terminal illness, and suicidal ideation, so PG-13ish. Will update!
Shops, Western Island [closed to Glacius]
In good news, people are showing up again -- people, not monsters. The bad news is that Carlisle is still a complete wreck. He's alive, yes, and moving, both improvements over... well, all the alternatives: alive but not moving, dead and not moving, moving regardless of how dead he is. Yes, alive and moving is certainly the most preferable combination of those two words, no matter how utterly exhausted he feels.
The first of his current problems (or at least the problems that move themselves to the forefront of his mind, as he'd rather focus on what he can control over what he cannot) is his appearance: his hands are trembling, his legs doing the same as they struggle to hold him up. His glasses are cracked, his clothing torn, and though he hasn't yet seen his reflection, he's positive his hair is a complete and utter disaster. Worst is that there's ink all over him, traces clinging to the crevices of his skin, blotches soaked all the through the fabric of his jacket, his pants, and his tabard. That last one is particularly grievous, the dark mark spreading all the way across the emblem of his order, marking what wounds lie beneath.
He can still feel ink seeping from them, the old scars having been torn asunder by the incredible duress his body had been through only a day prior. He may have stopped coughing, and the ink might have finally ceased trailing from his eye, but he can still feel that tear eating him from the inside. He's sure of it.
And that brings him to his second problem: he cannot possibly get home on his own. He'd been in fair health when rowing himself to the western island from the northern one, but now? With his hands shaking as they are, his head thundering, and his heart feeling as though it might pound its way out of his ribcage?
He puts a hand to his chest, leaning against the wall of the darkened, empty store he's tucked himself away in for the time being. It is pounding, isn't it? But there's a familiar energy behind it, something he hasn't felt in days. Fear strikes as suddenly as a knife, apprehension abound -- what will Glacius think when he finds out? There will be guilt, certainly. Carlisle knows his partner well enough to know that much. Anger, perhaps. Frustration at their circumstances... and desperation to change them. All things Carlisle himself has felt in spades.
As badly as he wants to spare Glacius the heartache of this revelation, Carlisle knows he cannot hide this from him -- more importantly, he doesn't want to hide this from him, nor does he want to bear this alone. Burying his head in his hands, the throbbing behind his eyes nearly drowns out the sob that rattles from the back of his throat as his hopelessness finally catches up to him. The distance between them feels endless, but he reaches out regardless through the Mote.
Glacius?
Memorial Garden, Northern Isle [open]
Those who haven't been to the Memorial Garden lately might notice a change in it. First is the decor: with the trees gone, it's more obvious that the shrubs and bushes in the area have been properly pruned over the past few weeks, the foliage trimmed into tight shapes -- mostly orbs, but one is more of a pyramid. The markers themselves haven't moved, but around several of them are soft patches of soil, ones containing clippings from a shrubby plant with flowers as clear as glass. One marker in particular has the start of a curvy stalk buried next to it, the single, thorny leaf attached to it curling against itself.
And in addition to the new landscaping is its latest regular gardener, Carlisle Longinmouth. The garden has changed, and for those who know him, so has Carlisle. His already pale skin is nearly white now, sharply contrasted only by the dark marks under his eyes; what brown there was in his hair has now faded entirely, leaving behind only dull, grey locks. The only features that have any real color at all are his eyes, and what color there is -- they glow vibrantly now, the blue light behind them bright even bhind his glasses, so strong that it nearly drowns out his pupils.
Even his attire has seen some changes for the time being. Gone are his usual vestments, the blue pants and jacket replaced with a sweater and slacks. His tabard remains, now marred by a black stain that runs horizontally across it at his abdomen. At some angles, the head of a penguin can be seen hiding behind his ruined tabard. Given he looks as though he's been put through the wringer several times, he hopes no one notices, or at least has the courtesy to not ask about it.
Being on the same island as his personal garden, it wasn't hard for him to transplant some of the more stable plants over the past weeks, just something to spruce the place up... and to, perhaps, better commemorate those they've lost over the years. He looks almost lost himself as he wanders among the names, stopping beside one in particular and contemplating just how long it may be before his name ends up there.
Despite the penguin sweater, most people wouldn't describe him as a cheery fellow, even on his good days. Perhaps the caretaker of a place of sobering remembrance suits him more than he'll ever admit.
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He trails off, trying to recall. He feels so utterly exhausted, as though if he closed his eyes for too long he might drift off, despite the pain, tears, and ink; however, it's when he does that everything seems to stand still, the world outside him silenced, fading.
He shakes his head. Can't sleep. It is there that he's closer to his greatest fears. Instead, he tries to get to his feet, but they completely fail him, and back down to the ground he goes.
I know I'm near the Clinic. One of the stores. I- I needed some things.
Bandages, mostly.
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This might seem like an overly-fanciful way of thinking that's leaping too far into the future too quickly, but its purpose is to keep Carlisle awake and with him as much as it is to inspire hope. Getting the cleric to think and focus will hopefully keep him from drifting off while he makes the last legs of his journey... and the ice alien knows his voice has managed to ground his partner in the past. Hopefully all of these factors can work together to help Carlisle endure, even when it seems like so many things are conspiring against them.
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I want you to hold me.
It's something he'd like right now, actually, not just waiting for that nebulous, hypothetical day when he will suddenly be well, uncursed and unburdened. He knows Glacius is trying to instill hope within him -- and perhaps within himself, though he has yet to see with his own eyes how dire things really are -- and so Carlisle continues.
We could explore the ocean a bit. Just near the islands, but that's... quite far for me. I could work on an enchantment to allow me to breathe beneath the depths. With you, I believe I would be safe.
Oh, but that monster that attacked him is down there now. On the other hand, it didn't seem to be able to swim, so...
I don't know if I could learn to swim, but when I am with you, there is no need.
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It certainly does to the alien, though he's aware they have to make it to that point first; he's still pushing himself in his dogged run, the clinic drawing nearer and nearer. Once he reaches that familiar building he immediately starts looking around for Carlisle, though it might be easier for the cleric to spot him first, given the alien's hulking figure and his own prone position on the ground.
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Though his answer comes through the Mote, his voice is quieter still, the voice of his partner and presence through their Bond enough to lull him into a sense of security for the first time in days. He'd like to close his eyes to imagine the reef -- it has always helped him envision things in his mind's eye when he closes his true ones; however, he fears what lurks in the darkness when he does, what lingers on the edge of his periphery in both this world and others. The fear he might not awaken is enough to stir him into speaking again.
I have only seen what reefs look like in illustrations. The waters around Bear Den are not particularly warm -- not really the right place for such things.
Glacius might not find Carlisle in his search, but tracking him down isn't too difficult: he left a trail of ink behind him. In some places, it isn't much more than a footprint and some droplets; in others, it is a thick, viscous pool, more congealed than it has ever been. At the door of the building he's using as his sanctuary are handprints, a dark puddle spilling across the threshold.
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... On second thought, the alien wishes he hasn't wondered, knowing that might just be what his partner is headed toward. He follows the dark trail with even more urgency before, finally making his way inside and spotting his lover in a crumpled heap.
"Carlisle—!" Glacius cries out, breaking the mental link in his horror as he dashes over and skids into kneel next to his partner. The warrior leans over, helping the cleric sit up with a careful hand at his back; it only takes a second of taking in the pallor of the human's features and the absolute greyness of his hair before he's wrapping him up in a concerned embrace instead.
"I'm here, Carlisle. It's alright, it's... it's going to be alright," the ice alien murmurs, cradling his partner tightly; his words seem like they are as much to convince himself as they are to reassure the human, at this point.
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"Ah. There you are." His voice is raspy, barely a whisper, yet the corner of his mouth twitches as he leans against Glacius' chest, the barest hint of a smile crossing him as he finally feels safe enough to close his eyes. "I feel... better already."
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The ice alien keeps the cleric tucked against his chest, but releases him with one arm to manifest his Mote in his palm. It rotates and thrums mere inches from Carlisle's chest, spilling its warm light over the both of them, inviting the ailing human to partake in its energies.
"You must let me restore you, even if temporarily. I cannot afford to let you sleep until I am sure that you have the strength to wake once more."
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"How gentle can you be?" he asks, both in earnest and in jest -- his humor only shows at the most macabre at times, it seems, but he cannot help but take advantage of the reprieve his partner has given him simply with his appearance. "A strong breeze could knock me off my feet, much less the... currents you provide. I..." Another breath, in and out, as he tries to focus his eyes. "I haven't the control necessary Not presently."
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He reaches out to brush his fingers along the Mote, his hand trembling as it connects -- the light in his eyes explodes in intensity, drowning out his pupils entirely. The current indeed pulls at him, and however gentle Glacius may be, Carlisle himself is truly worn too thin. What energy there is of his own is awash immediately: he feels himself being pulled down, out, toward that terrible maw within him—
Carlisle shudders as he pulls away, his chest heaving as he gasps for air. He mutters an apology under his breath -- he is certainly awake now, if nothing else.
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He heaves a sad, weary sigh, not feeling at all like he's helped in the way he has wanted to. "What say we head home? You need rest, and I need a chance to think, to figure this out."
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"Please," he returns; his voice is steadier, even with his uneven respiration. "I hardly made it here. No doubt I could not make it back now. My decision to venture out was at the worst of times, it seems."
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—Realizing his focus is being pulled away from what is really important, the ice alien stops himself and nods instead. He rises to his feet, hoisting Carlisle with all the gentle strength he can muster. "Perhaps... perhaps my focus has been too divided for too long," Glacius muses, at first seemingly to himself, but then he flicks his green eyes down to regard his partner through his peripheral vision as he starts walking.
"I thought that getting those fragments... leaving you alone... I thought that I was doing it for us. To pave the way for a better life that we may share, in a safer world," the otherworldly being continues, followed by a grimace. "But maybe... maybe I was doing it for myself just as much. I want to leave this place, desperately so—I have ever since I got here. I will not act on that yearning ever again if it could put you at risk, Carlisle. From here on out... until I am sure that you are safe... I will always be at your side. I promise you."
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Ah. But the thought of him going with Glacius was more of a hopeful afterthought to the main priority: getting Glacius back to his people, to his home he so desperately wished to return to. That was bigger and more important than them in the long run, wasn't it? Carlisle had certainly managed to convince himself of that, but he'd always looked at his lifespan as short, temporary. Getting Glacius home would make his partner happy for far longer than he ever could.
And perhaps, with that line of thinking, he too had blinded himself to what was truly important: them. He'd swallowed down his anxieties, but it wasn't from some newfound bravery, but the desire to do what was best for Glacius. They had both been fools in that regard.
"Your intentions were good, my friend," Carlisle continues, looking toward Glacius' face; his own is a mess, but he tries to be reassuring.
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The alien pauses, experiencing how odd and terrible those words feel coming out of his gills; they pull at him, stabbing at his hearts to consider. But he knows, now, it isn't the worst thing that he could experience. No, the worst thing has been watching Carlisle suffer so terribly from his curse; it has been holding the cleric as his life threatens to slip away from him in the thick, inky rivers that seep from old wounds. Glacius shudders, his grimace twisting into an expression of outright remorse... but then resolve, as he finally finds the final point he needed to cement the mindset that he'd been working towards for so long in this place.
"... Even if I never do leave," Glacius starts again, "...It would be alright, so long as I get to keep you with me."
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But perhaps no other Glaciuses in any other world have a Carlisle for companionship. This might be the only world and time the two of them find one another as they are, as much as the idealistic scrap of Carlisle's imagination would like to hope otherwise.
Carlisle's mouth stretches wide, one corner turning up, teeth bared in a somber, uneven smile as he does his best to hold back the emotions welling within him. Glacius can no doubt feel them through the Mote: gratitude, remorse... but ultimately, he's relieved, glad to hear his partner say that. He has always wondered what the icy warrior would choose if given the opportunity -- his dying lover or his permanent freedom. It wouldn't be a decision made easily, given how close to both his hearts are, but... the selfish part of Carlisle had hoped...
He presses a palm against his eye as it brims with tears and ink. "I would remain in this world forever if it meant being with you. I would forsake the cycle, my lineage, and everyone in this damnable place if it meant I would be at your side."
Carlisle reaches for Glacius' scar, grazing against it with his fingers. "Perhaps that is miserly, but... you are everything to me."
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The alien can't help but offer a smile that leans towards apologetic in return; he never should have given his partner a reason to wonder what his choice might have been. That ends now; he leans his head down towards Carlisle's reaching palm immediately so that the cleric won't have to extend his tired limbs too far, then presses that torn, grooved scar firmly into the human's hand.
"As you are, to me... as you have always been. But—" with his head lowered towards his lover's, Glacius fixes Carlisle with a look that is intent at first, then filled with care. "This decision only holds up if you are alive, so no dying on me, alright?"
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"I would not consider it," he says. Though his fingers are numb, he can feel the coolness of Glacius' scar against him, and it brings him more comfort than he could ever express in words. "I merely need rest and your company. We will best this together, as you said... together, as in all things."
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When they do finally make it home, Glacius wastes no time in crossing the den into the bedroom and setting Carlisle down on the side of the thick mattress. "I would bring you to the shower to clean you up, but I really think you should just close your eyes for now. Do not worry about the sheets; they can be replaced. Would you... like my help disrobing at all?"
Though there's ink smeared across nearly every part of the cleric's body in some amount or another, that stain across the middle of his tabard looks awful. "I am not sure if any of this can be salvaged," the alien continues with a sorry frown, knowing how his partner will feel about that, "But I can try, and... it will be more comfortable if you're not trying to rest in sticky, filthy clothing."
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"Something clean to sleep in, please," he requests, his fingers failing to undo the clasps. He pulls in another breath, his exhale punctuating his words: "I will no doubt... fret about it later. It can wait until... I awaken."
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Glacius' frown intensifies, though it's more out of resolve than woe at this point. He will find a way to set it right—he'll find a way to set all of this right. There is so much more than just a cherished garment at stake, after all. The ice alien nods and moves to undo the clasps, then pulls the ink-ruined tabard off over his partner's head. From there he moves to assist him with the rest of his clothes; whether it is helping him to sit up so that they can remove his jacket and undershirt, or lifting his legs so that his lower garments can be pulled free, Glacius takes the utmost care to be sure that Carlisle doesn't have to make a single motion of his own waning strength.
With blackened clothing draped over his muscular arms, the otherworldly being departs from the room and immediately sets them to soaking in warm, soapy water. Then he returns to the bedroom where he shuffles around in the closet briefly, returning to Carlisle's side with one of his favorite bath robes. Aside from the practicality of its simplicity, he can feel the softness of it in his arms, and hopes it will bring his partner some comfort.
"Here," Glacius speaks up, "I think this will be easier to get you into than your usual clothes. Just sit forward, and I'll slip it around your shoulders and your arms through the sleeves—yes, like that—and now... there you are."
With Carlisle finally situated, the big alien takes a small step backward and looks him over. He was hoping that things might look a little bit better now that the human is safe and resting, but... the whole situation honestly still looks ghastly. With how grey and pale the ailing cleric has become since Glacius last saw him, and the way his limbs rest so heavily against the sheets... this looks more like some terrible death bed than a place of recovery. In that moment, the ice alien feels something that he hasn't experienced since... Makers, he can't remember when: a spike of terror deep in his guts, so powerful it makes him feel sick.
"How... how's that?" Glacius asks in a hushed tone, trying to keep himself out of his own head; hoping against hope, maybe, to hear some sort of affirmation, even though he knows Carlisle will likely be too tired at this point to give him much.
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Perfect. Thank you, my friend.
His words slip away as he drifts out of consciousness, absolutely unable to stay awake any longer... and unaware that his communication through the Mote, and his proclivity to tap into its energies for himself, will be waking him again far sooner than he thinks.
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One foot in front of the other, the otherworldly being reminds himself, as he tries to ruminate on old proverbs taught to him by his mentors. Your greatest enemy will be your own mind. When faced with challenge or hardship over time, it will want to despair. Overcome that, master your mind and your emotions, and there is nothing that cannot be overcome—for the greatest strengths are born of adversity, and dedication to what you hold dear will be your greatest weapon. Glacius draws another breath, looking over his partner—inert in the bed—once more. Remember what you fight for; remember what you love. More than any shatter, hail, or power of body or ice, this is is what gives us our strength.
Now as steeled as he thinks he can be, the alien strides from the room, attempting to make himself as useful as he can while his partner rests. First things first, he supposes he should attack those stains before they have a chance to set in... any more. Glacius heads to the bathroom and begins washing, though he's on tenterhooks as he goes about his self-assigned chore, trying to remain tuned in to the Mote for any signs of his partner waking... or, Makers forbid, slipping further from him.
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Within the bedroom, Carlisle rises from his slumber, though he is not quite himself.
The clergyman's frame is stiff as he moves, his fingers twitching, limbs barely coordinated as though guided by strings of an amateur puppeteer. His head tips to one side as his legs carry him forward; his footsteps are uneven, but soft, barely audible in the still of the dark apartment. What illumination there is comes not from the lamps, not a single switch flicked on as he proceeds down the corridor -- it shines from his eyes, the glow of them having consumed what characteristics they had, leaving only the intense, unnatural light.
A breath finally escapes him as he reaches the kitchen and stands in the middle of it. Were he animated by only the tattered remnants of his soul and the bitterness of the black bile, he would do as the undead do -- he would seek out others, cause them harm as repentance for what befell him. He would hunger endlessly, his appetite never sated, his sorrow and anger never abating. He could not find rest.
But he is not animated by such foul sources. He drew upon the Mote as he fell asleep, and in that serendipitous act, was awakened by its benevolent energies instead. Not entirely aware of himself, he falls back on his repetitious behavior, patterns and practices so ingrained in him that he could do them in his sleep.
And in a way, he does: his hands shake as he grabs his chalk and starts drawing his glyph for tea right on the countertop. His penmanship is more jittery than usual, but given he isn't seeing the marks before him, his eyes and mind elsewhere, he's lucky he can draw at all.
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