Everything Fades

[tongueamok]

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.

Comments

[tongueamok]

"There is plenty to apologize for," he returns, that statement sounding almost like a correction in its insistent tone. His teeth grind together as he grunts, shuddering -- not in personal irritation at how quick he was to retort, but from a sharp ache right at his middle; it draws his hand to it, his fingers pressing into the fabric atop the stain on his tabard, trying to quiet the pain from the scars beneath his layers.

The moment passes after seconds, but it feels as though it lasts far longer when she's there, when he can feel her attention and worry upon him.

"But there is not much point in such things at the moment, I suppose," he continues. "I merely did not want you to be cross with me for... anything, really."

[dedikated]

That attention and worry isn't about to disappear anytime soon, not with the way his hand presses against his chest. Her frown deepens, shifting from confusion to concern as quickly as she moves towards him, brown eyes flicking to the centre of his torso.

"... If I were annoyed at everyone I fought with, wouldn't have any friends," she replies, practically waving it off as she sits back again, still staring at Carlisle with those narrowed eyes and that tight mouth.

"What brought it on?" This sudden change feels like it has more to it than Carlisle simply woke up one day and his time was up.

[tongueamok]

Though a little annoyed with how Kate brushes off his sincere apology, Carlisle buries his aggravation; it lies somewhere with his gaze, which is so pointed at the ground it might as well be burning a hole through it. He can feel her eyes upon him still, boring into him as deep as that maw within his abdomen.

"When everyone disappeared," he starts, swallowing a breath, "the monsters didn't."

[dedikated]

Apologies have always struck Kate as pointless. The people who have most hurt her in her life will never apologise, and apologies wouldn't be enough anyway. As for her friends? It's the opposite end of the spectrum. They've never done anything that has burned her that badly.

Arguing with her certainly isn't enough to warrant it.

Understanding flickers over her face at that. Yeah. Everything that had made the city as it was, all the influence of the gods, that all disappeared. The 'oh' of realisation quickly shifts to a wave of anger, simple undiluted rage at the fact that the gods - yet again - put someone in danger to feed. Party's response to the whole thing, even Goku's, they were all bad enough, but the fact of what's been done to Carlisle—

And she's sure they don't even know. Or care. Why would they, when Hope will just revive him, in their eyes?

"Fuck's sake."

[tongueamok]

He isn't sure how to take her brief response -- annoyance with their circumstances? With him? With his foolishness for having ever set foot outside his house when there might be monsters around? The answer, combined with the quiet ire that crosses her and his own proclivity for guilt, leads him to believe it's the last one. He is a burden yet again -- to her, to Ravine, to Glacius. Look at what he's done by simply existing.

Carlisle exhales softly, himself burdened by his own ineptitude. "I didn't ask to be attacked. Nor to fall from the cliffs. Nor to struggle to command my own energies when the wounds are mine."

[dedikated]

That... wasn't what she meant at all, and it takes Kate a moment of wondering where the outburst came from before she puts it to her own.

"Not you." Idiot. A sigh, her hand curling into a fist and gently pounding the ground beneath her. "The gods." Fuck them in particular. "Stupid idea of theirs made this happen."

Nothing else. Not him for being attacked or anything else.

[tongueamok]

Carlisle shrinks just a bit, her reassurance this isn't on his shoulders not changing his mind in the slightest. He does appreciate the clarification, however, privately.

"This has been their nature since we arrived. It was only a matter of time before it wore me thin, as it does everyone."

Unfortunately, he has ended up nearly threadbare, and no amount of aural or physical patchwork that he knows of can fix what's left of him.

[dedikated]

Doesn't mean she can't be angry about it. She's tried, for so goddamn long, to understand why they do the things they do. Promised Faith that they'd help the gods out. But Faith isn't here now, she didn't see Delight's betrayal or the hurt the invasion brought. She certainly isn't seeing this, right now. Would she still hold the same opinion if she saw Carlisle's health, how the gods' nature caused it?

(Probably.)

It's not the time to argue the point or continue steaming over the gods' natures. That is a conclusion she'll have to come to later. Instead, she needs to focus on the immediate — Carlisle's condition. A breath is sucked in sharply between her teeth and Kate closes her eyes for a moment, a familiar movement which precedes the whitening of her eyes.

She's sure she doesn't want to see this.

But she has to.

[tongueamok]

In good news, the flow of putrid, intangible energy from Carlisle's abdomen is slower than it was when Kate last inspected him, the result of the patch job Ravine did in his dire moment of need; however, that is the only good news about his condition, save for the fact it didn't kill him immediately.

He remains still as he feels her own eyes upon him, the glow of theirs far different than his own. That light from his chest, once small and subdued, is the most vibrant aspect of his frame, its energies reaching into his eyes, though his limbs... and vanishing as well once they reach the claw marks at his abdomen, swallowed entirely by the wound as it bleeds with foul, poisoned mana from another plane. What energies that actually belong to Carlisle himself are so drained, so thin by comparison -- the Mote is propping him up, its strength likely all that is keeping him animated at this point, almost like some twisted form of not-yet-undeath.

And Carlisle knows it. He knows all too well he'd be out of time if not for the charity of others.

[dedikated]

It's clear, even without looking through her powers, every change in his appearance all but screaming how much of him has been lost, how much time has slipped through their hands. Maybe she doesn't need to look, but she trusts in the familiar world her powers show her, in the flood of colour and light it creates.

For all the times she's seemed to bite back all emotions, all the times she's kept an inscrutable expression and remained unaffected, even Kate can't hide her gasp, the sharp inhale of breath which whistles through her teeth when she stares at him.

Every time she's stared at Carlisle, that seeping injury has been there, dark and strange and so blatant that it angers her. She saw it, all that time ago, but it was so easily dismissed in the moment. Written off as unimportant, or something that's simply unique to his world and his powers. Something she didn't need to ask about when they had so much work to do.

God, what a fool she was.

It's barely the space of a few seconds, enough to look over once, and then she's dissolved the light in her eyes, returned to staring at something that's just as achingly wrong, and she flexes her fingers thoughtlessly, the slow movements a comfort. Words seem to fail her — they have to do something, but she's said as much, and there's nothing that's coming to mind. The energies she could control, stem and even out, probably won't do a lot.

Wait.

There is one thing.

"Glacius— he know?" She'd guess so, but he's away, who knows how far across the planet right now.

[tongueamok]

"He—" Carlisle's brow wrinkles in offense. "Of course he knows."

And then, realizing not everyone -- even Kate -- knows of the actual benefits of the Bond between himself and Glacius, he explains, his voice softening. "He's here. He- he left them and returned when he felt something was wrong. This voyage and getting those fragments and finding a way out of this place -- it was all so important to him, and yet... he returned for me."

As Glacius always says he will. He is truly an alien of his word, and that he would place Carlisle's well-being over something he has been so passionate about is... touching, at the least, and eye-opening at the best.

[dedikated]

Look, no one has ever said that Kate was good at communicating, even with those she loves. She saw her temporary blindness as something not worth bothering others over. It's something that's taken arguments for her to realise in herself, but it's much easier to poke at the idea in others. Much easier to know how Glacius would react if he didn't know, if he came back to find that out.

But she didn't know that about the Mote. The telepathy, that awkward conversation comes back to mind, but that it would allow him to feel something off too. Perhaps they really are more alike than even Kate realises, sometimes.

"No shit," she scoffs as she says that. Of course Glacius would return for Carlisle. "He loves you." She knows that. Anyone who's lucky enough to see them together knows that, whether they understand the Mote or not.

[tongueamok]

"I am aware, but" —he clears his throat briefly, feeling an itch at the back— "this need for him to escape this place, and return to his people, to his mission and his duties and his place in this existence... you know how important it is to him, and how all-consuming such a pursuit can be. His determination is, more often than not, a strength."

And when it isn't, it is the kind of folly that could blind him at the worst times, especially were he a lesser man. Carlisle knows how Glacius dotes on him, had considered himself to be the warrior's weakness so often, but there was always that lingering thought at the back of his mind as to just how far the icy alien would go to escape Hadriel.

And unfortunately, it led him to travel away at the worst of times. The false gods took advantage of their separation, as Carlisle had worried they might one day, and now they feed upon their combined sorrow. A pity.

[dedikated]

She does know, because it's one of the many ways in which they overlap. A determination to get home somehow. A need to find the Door, to do something which stops them feeling so powerless under the gods' rule. But because Kate knows that, she knows just as well how important Carlisle is to Glacius — she feels shades of that very thing when she's with Ignis. A desire to just... stay here, where she can have that happiness and peace which comes from their relationship.

"Doubt he'd leave this place without you." Not by choice, anyway. That much she feels certain of. Glacius' loyalty burns fiercely to his friends, to his people, but most of all... to this man, right here.

[tongueamok]

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."

[dedikated]

"You're not dying." It's not denial, it's a statement. A declaration. There's a couple of months, and she has no idea where to start, but she's not giving up. Not leaving, not like last time. Not like she did with Marc.

Even if it seems hopeless. She has to fight. Has to believe something will work, otherwise what's the point.

[tongueamok]

Though Carlisle allows Kate her declaration, he doesn't seem to believe it himself; he resigns himself to staring at the memorials once more. He hopes those who see his name among them remember him recall him with color in his hair. Cisth, he can hardly remember what it used to look like.

"If you say so, Kate."

No argument, no insisting it's a foolish endeavor -- just quiet acceptance. He can give her that much.

[dedikated]

Not as grey as that. And, for a moment — as her eyes rake over his total colourlessness — Kate almost finds herself wishing for simpler times, when their biggest worry was running from an unkillable ink demon. When Carlisle still looked alive, far before they were so far out of time.

"I do."

She has to. Goddammit. She can't let herself give up, even if the odds seem impossible.

[tongueamok]

Carlisle lets the silence fall between them for a solid minute, feeling neither determination nor optimism at his chances. He wrings his stiff fingers, his eyes finding a spot on the horizon to fixate on.

"They say when you leave this place not of your own accord, you are returned to your world, and it is as though time stood still, and you had never been spirited away at all. Is that true?"

[dedikated]

The question catches her off guard, just for a moment, and she's back to thinking about the way everything became so jumbled up when she returned to Hadriel. How memories suddenly reformed themselves in her mind, how a year's worth of chaos mingled with three years of home and made everything so difficult to recall.

"Aye." She rocks back on her hands and looks up at the sky. Grey, grey, ever so grey. "Like you were never here. Can't remember shit."

But surely, surely she must have retained those memories somehow? There were so many little things, strange impulses, subtle changes she couldn't explain. Shifts in her interests and priorities. So many things which don't make sense if it had been completely forgotten rather than just suppressed.

[tongueamok]

"I see. Perhaps— hm."

He cuts himself off from that thought. Returning home through the Door would be the best way to undo the damage done to him -- assuming it is all as Kate says. If he were to return to Bear Den, or even to the jungles around the Tranquility, his soul would certainly be in better shape than it is now. It would buy him time... but at the unfortunate cost of his memories.

His lips stretch into a thin frown. Glacius will find him, he reminds himself. No matter what world he is returned to, his icy beau will come for him, as promised. However, there are so many uncertainties standing in the way: what if worse happens in those worlds, and he expires before Glacius can find him? What if Glacius arrives, only to be met with a husk who no longer recognizes him?

He pushes a sigh through his chest, feeling defeated again. "Nevermind. An idle thought."

[dedikated]

It certainly was that way for her, and that's all she can give him. But his thoughts remain unsaid and it takes a long moment for her to follow the half-formed sentences to what she thinks is the idea behind it.

Idle indeed.

"No guarantee it'd happen," she comments, without asking more. No one has come here because they wanted to, and no one has left under their own power. The day of having that kind of control over The Door seems impossibly far away, another near-insurmountable task, even with the promise of its fragments coming back to the city.