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

[glacius]

Glacius isn't going to agree with that... out loud, at least, as there's no call to make Carlisle feel chastised. It's not his fault, of course; it's just the way things work in Hadriel that the one time he felt strong and bold enough to go out on his own was when all hell broke loose. No doubt the gods planned it this way... the vile parasites, this is why he needs those fragments—

—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."

[tongueamok]

"Please don't blame yourself for this," Carlisle insists again. However, when more honest with himself, he does have to admit he wasn't thrilled to hear Glacius would be going on a voyage to look for the fragments of the Door. It was likely to be a lengthy mission, facing the dangers at sea, being aboard a ship with a demon, all while leaving him alone. He hadn't wanted to impede his partner, though; he'd told himself it was for both of them, that it was best if Glacius found a way to escape the city. He could return to his people, perhaps take Carlisle with him—

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.

[glacius]

"They were... I know that much to be true. I do wish for a better, safer life for us, and the fragments were a mean to that end. But they were not worth the consequences of our separation... so my intentions, while good, were perhaps misaligned with what is most important in the end. I suppose what I am trying to say is that... even if I never do manage to leave this place..."

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."

[tongueamok]

Glacius' sentiment strikes Carlisle so strongly that the clergyman can't help but be taken aback; his eyes widen, mouth agape. He knows how important escape is for Glacius, how much he values it over nearly everything else. Getting back to his people and his mission has almost always been at the forefront of his mind, weighing on his thoughts, pressing guilt that he is not there now into him. He has struggled with the idea of other Glaciuses in other worlds, wondered if they were as noble than him, if they were more successful in their endeavors.

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."

[glacius]

"Don't look at me like that," Glacius chuckles; he knows there's a nine out of ten chance that Carlisle's reaction is a good one, but it is hard not to feel sheepish with a human gaping at him like that. He wonders what exactly is going through his partner's mind right now, but thankfully their metaphysical link helps him out as he feels that mixture of emotions roll across it.

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?"

[tongueamok]

Carlisle meets Glacius' gaze, his own filled with as much resolve as he can muster.

"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."

[glacius]

That gets a shaky sigh of relief to slip form all of Glacius' quavering gills. He knows it will likely take a lot more than simply resting for Carlisle to recover from this, but it's such a profound comfort to hear his partner speaking with any amount of optimism that it does help him feel a bit better about their chances. The alien treks them both back to their home as quickly as he can go without jostling the ailing human, holding him as carefully as he can as though he might fall apart if he were to set him down; occasionally he runs one hand through his lover's hair or dips his head ever-so-slightly to give him a gentle rake of his mandible, as if trying to provide them both with intermittent bits of reassurance.

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."

[tongueamok]

Glacius is painfully kind, Carlisle notes as his partner reassures him about the sheets; he knows how the clergyman's mind works, what it is he will fixate on and worry about. Unfortunately, his tabard cannot be replaced so easily, as they both realize. His own frown nearly matches Glacius', albeit tempered by his utter exhaustion. Though the alien carried him the whole way home, he still feels completely drained, his limbs absolutely leaden as he raises them to remove his tabard.

"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."

[glacius]

At least Carlisle is learning to keep his priorities straight... though on second thought, perhaps the fact that he simply doesn't have the energy to fret about the mundane as he usually does is also a worrisome sign. The tabard itself isn't a mundane issue, anyways; though it might just be a garment, it is also a part of the clergyman's identity. To see something with a holy symbol marred so thoroughly by his curse...

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.

[tongueamok]

As Glacius helps him disrobe (and then robe once more), what energy Carlisle had sapped from the Mote fades, leaving him limp, painfully still against the bed; even the rise and fall of his chest is muted, nearly imperceptible. His voice is lost somewhere amongst the fatigue, but he answers regardless.

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.

[glacius]

Glacius is heartened by the response—but only for a moment, as Carlisle slips from him the very next. Now that he's the only conscious one in the room, the alien allows his face to fall, unguarded in his sorrow and worry. He knew his Bondmate's condition was likely to become dire at some point, but to see him like this... it is going to take every ounce of strength he has honed over his long life to not give into despair.

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.

[tongueamok]

Carlisle might not slip further from Glacius, but he certainly does awaken in some form. It's not even a quarter hour that Glacius is in the bathroom when he might feel the slightest of tugs upon the Mote, that sensation that comes with Carlisle drawing strength from it, often unconsciously. It's just a small withdrawal of energy, nothing too severe or alarming; however, given the clergyman's condition, Glacius would have every right to be alarmed from even the barest of activity.

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.

[glacius]

It's the slight tugging at the Mote that Glacius detects first; it draws his attention up from his intent washing, done as though scrubbing the ink from the clothes could somehow also scrub his mind clean of the equally dark worries that stain it. The ice alien looks up as his hands still... is he... imagining things? Given how completely and utterly drained Carlisle was, there's no way he's ready to rise yet, is there?

Deciding to find out for himself, Glacius sets the soap and washcloth down and turns off the faucet for the time being before wandering out into the kitchen, where he now detects quiet noise. Not just any noise, though—the telltale sounds of tea-making in progress, the clatter of ceramics and the scratching of chalk on the counter-top. Sure enough, there Carlisle is, going about one of his favorite rituals; the sight is familiar enough that it's a comfort, but only briefly.

"Carlisle..! What are you doing up... and..." the ice alien trails off, quickly noticing all the oddities before him. The jittery, uncoordinated movements as if he's going about the motions on autopilot, and most noticeably, the unnatural light emanating from his eyes. It's not the normal glow they possess even when calling upon the Mote; it is brighter, unworldly, making it seem more as though his partner has two soulless orbs stuck in his skull than anything. Glacius' gills flutter, unnerved.

"Can... can you hear me, my partner?"

[tongueamok]

He doesn't react as Glacius enters the kitchen and calls his name, the chalk worn down as he scrawls in the approximate circle he's drawn; however, as Glacius questions Carlisle, his head tilts back in the other direction, evening out as he glances upward, as though looking for the source of the sound. He looks around, finally settling on the alien behind him. His expression -- a frozen, impassive stare -- doesn't change in the slightest as he repeats his greeting from earlier that day.

"Ah. There you are."

His voice seems to echo in both the room and the mind, feeling very similar to his compulsions, albeit without the actual command. Bit by bit, his frame turns: his head first, then shoulders, waist, and finally legs trying to catch up, nearly tripping him. He doesn't regain his balance as quickly as he normally would, and falls right into his partner, his expression still unmoving.

[glacius]

Glacius remains still as he watches this strange display, finding himself more and more perturbed the longer it goes on; however, he reacts immediately to his partner's fall, having switched into hypervigilance over the cleric's wellbeing some time ago. He catches Carlisle deftly, letting the human slump into his powerful arms; he doesn't seem to quite have the hang of moving himself, so it seems safest to hang onto him right now so that he doesn't flop or stumble around any more.

"So you don't hear me," the ice alien figures that out for himself easily enough based on the impassive stare he received, and the way he is spoken to so indirectly. It's unspoken, but not through the Mote... but that doesn't mean that he can't be reached that way. It's worth a try, right?

Can you hear me, Carlisle? Glacius tries again; he's felt his partner pull upon the Mote, but never like this. Why like this? Why now? Deep down he thinks he knows the answer, his mind calling back to a fate that Carlisle had been so deeply worried about. While he has always known his partner's demise was a possibility, the ice alien hadn't believed that the human becoming a shade of himself could be reality. It seemed more like an old superstition of his world, just one more lie taught to paint the twice-cursed as less than human, something to be feared...

Now faced with some fairly convincing evidence that it might be more than that, Glacius still refuses to yield to it as a possibility. Carlisle isn't acting maliciously; though he is using his will to communicate, he is not compelling him to do anything. The alien still believes with all his heart that he can reach his partner... and so he tries again, focusing all his will to try and make contact. I'm here for you. I'm here. Are you here?

[tongueamok]

With the support of Glacius' arms around him, Carlisle -- or what being this may be -- finds his footing. His voice is a more difficult challenge, and though his response seems to come again from a place of compulsion, it reverberates through the Mote, as well.

"With you, I believe I would be safe."

More he had said before, but the words are now a mere shade of themselves, lacking any and all of the emotional emphasis they once had; they escape from him steadily, devoid of his usual cadence. The rest of him goes through similar motions, his eyes unfocused as he brings his hand to rest along Glacius' chest, allowing his fingers to trace the lines of his microweave as he has so many times before.

"How gentle can you be...?"

[glacius]

Plenty gentle, you know that by now, Glacius responds, though by now he has half a mind to be anything but. Would it be best to just wake the cleric up? Maybe a few quick shakes would solve this, bring back the Carlisle he knows, get rid of the empty husk tracing his chest now—turning an expression of intimacy into unnerving contact.

But no, the ice alien thinks. This is not a natural sleep—clearly—and so one probably cannot wake from it by natural means. There are also probably a number of risks that could come of being too rough; he might harm Carlisle while he's so frail, or he might elicit a more aggressive responds instead of the placidity he's been exhibiting so far. How to fix it, then? He doesn't know—and in that moment he's never felt not only so out of his depth, but so alone, with nothing but a shade of his partner in his arms reminding him of all he has to lose. Glacius feels that sickly terror threatening him again; what if he cannot wake him up?

No, he will not give up. He has brought Carlisle out of the depths of his own compulsions before; this may not be the exact same thing, but it is similar. He just has to keep trying. Keeping a steady hold on his partner, the ice alien tries to see if he can steer him back into the bedroom. It will be easier to focus on reaching him if he doesn't have to worry about the cleric moving around so clumsily.

Come, Glacius urges gently. There is a place for you, and being lost to your own influence is not it. You belong with me, yes?

[tongueamok]

Something in Glacius' words reaches Carlisle, however entombed within this shade of himself he may be.

"I see," he murmurs, spouting another of Carlisle's more common reassurances. What attempt Glacius makes to steer him does seem to work, as he readily allows himself to be turned in the direction of the bedroom, lashing either neither physically nor aurally. His body trembles as another sigh rattles out of him, one far more ragged than his usual ones.

His fingers loosen on the chalk; it slips from his grasp as he takes a step back toward the bedroom, clacking loudly as it lands on the hard floor of the kitchen, his tea-making ritual forgotten entirely. "So long as I am with you," he starts again, his voice still as unfeeling as the rest of him, "I will be content."

He takes another step, his hand resting on his abdomen; though he doesn't look as though he's hurting, it is terribly reminiscent of all the times he has clasped at those scars, felt them aching as though they were new. "Are you close...?"

[glacius]

I am, Glacius replies, the gears churning rapidly in his mind as he tries to figure out how to fix this. Clearly this has something to do with Carlisle's curse if the way he grips at the scars across his abdomen are any indication, and yet it is now manifesting differently than it ever has before. Normally simply talking to the cleric is enough to anchor him, but this isn't a simple case of him losing his tongue or being bent to his own panicked compulsions; it's as though his partner's true self is adrift elsewhere, and something else has taken over his body and mind...

Something ticks over in Glacius' mind just then. Minds, anchors... hadn't Carlisle told him a time or two about his nightmares? About how he wanders that other plane where twice-cursed are damned to end up? Is that where his partner's soul has gone now, leaving room for something else to anime his now empty shell of a body? This might seem impossible to combat for another human, but not for an alien whose powers aren't entirely bound to the physical realm. His people do have a way of linking mind to mind, in a way even more direct than their subconscious conversations via the Mote. There's no guarantee that things will work entirely the same given that Carlisle is a human—and honestly, that difference between them is the primary reason this hadn't occurred to Glacius months before—but he should be able to walk into that dream and see just what it is that is holding Carlisle back.

The alien's expression firms as he settles Carlisle on the bed once more, under the sheets to keep him from moving around too much. It would surely seem intimidating to some to consider venturing into an accursed land, to risk whatever darkness or corruption might lurk there that is currently plaguing his one's very own partner... and yet Glacius feels better with a course of action in mind that he can take, something he can actually do rather than simply watching helplessly as this specter parades around in his lover's skin.

The big alien settles on the bed right besides Carlisle, touching their foreheads together carefully. At first he seeks his partner's hand, first... but then, thinking better of it, retracts the ice from his fingertips before slipping them between the folds of the cleric's robe to press against those ghastly black scars. He might be searching for metaphysical channels, but he's also seeking the heart of the cleric's curse... and as far as he knows, both reside in those old fissures.

But I believe that I could be... closer, Glacius finishes speaking as he closes his eyes, preparing to plunge into darkness—not knowing what to expect, but ready to brave it to bring his partner back.

[tongueamok]

The world that greets Glacius is one that should be simultaneously familiar and foreign. Gone are the plants, pictures, and papers that normally adorn the bedroom; no longer are there walls around them, the entire landscape having changed in the blink of an eye. What is in its place is an endless wasteland, one even more devoid of color than Carlisle himself. Were it not for the lack of hue, one could mistake it for the desert planet they were on before, the dunes and outcrops identical in many ways. The horizon is dotted with the occasional shape, odd protrusions from the ground the only notable features this place has to offer; however, they are not entirely organic in appearance, some of them smooth and branching, others angular and threatening, seeming to move toward any who would approach as though feeding upon their apprehension.

This is no illusion, no trick of the gods, as they have done before; though the ground beneath Glacius' feet holds no warmth, the sand upon it -- so cold and lifeless, like ash -- clings to his icy body as though he were truly there, not merely a traveler of the spirit. There is just enough of a wind to pick up the particles, allowing them to attack the alien's eyes. The gusts cause no sound, as they should; it is painfully quiet.

Well, quiet save for one noise: hushed muttering from beneath a nearby outcrop, what little shelter it offers the perfect place for a frightened man to hide, curled against the earthen wall, his head in his hands as he suffocates in his own doubts. The closer Glacius gets, the more words he can likely make out of the frantic muttering.

"... that this isn't- I know it isn't real, but- but what we had was. It- it was, and he- he felt... something. Something for me. We were partners, and I know his face -- I know his face! I- I can't see it, but- I- if I could just remember what it is that- please don't do this to me! Please, I- this was important to me. He was- he was everything, and I- what- what was his name?"

[glacius]

Glacius is not sure how to feel about just how quickly his mind is pulled into this plane; the Mote must be facilitating their connection, for in the blink of an eye he is ripped from their apartment and transported... elsewhere. It is a barren land his mind walks him through now, devoid of color and life; the ground beneath him is loose, particles whipped up by silent winds. The ice alien scrubs briefly at his eyes before regarding the substance on his fingers, grimacing as he identifies it: deadfall... or ash, as he recalls the humans naming it. The sort of grey powdery residue created in the wake of fire or death; the remains of things once living.

Suddenly the name of this place taught to him by Carlisle makes more sense now—too much sense, in fact. Are remains all that can thrive in this realm, this Land Beyond the Living? Glacius remembers his partner telling him that his twice-cursed are considered both dead and alive, in a way. When he comes here, is he being shifted from that fulcrum, the balance being tipped more towards death? Is that why he seemed more like a ghost of himself when he came upon him in the kitchen? The more pieces of the puzzle that Glacius is able to slot into place through frightening first-hand experience, the more his urgency to act becomes. He has to find a way to reset that balance... no, to tip the scales back the other way, so that Carlisle's life force grows stronger than the curse of death steadily gnawing at it.

To do that, though, Glacius now knows he'll have to bring his partner back from this land and anchor him firmly in the realm of the living where he belongs. At first the alien frets as he scans this barren landscape—it seems to stretch on forever, its ash-colored lands stretching in all directions and disappearing into the equally grey horizon. How is he supposed to find anyone here? He could wander aimlessly, only walking further from Carlisle without knowing. The ice alien frowns, closing his eyes and trying to focus on their link, seeing if he can detect his partner that way...

In the end, it is not even that difficult. Glacius shuts out all other senses, his sharp hearing easily detects a familiar voice in the unearthly silence; his face falls as he hears the panicked, disoriented tone he's become all too familiar with in Carlisle's lowest moments. The ice alien opens his eyes and heads towards it, eventually ducking under a strangely-shaped outcrop and... there his partner is, huddled in some mix of terror or despair against a cold stone wall. Glacius smiles sadly as his heart breaks for his partner; he's probably assuming that respite will not come, but now, he can finally be there for him.

... Or can he? Whatever little spark of hope had ignited inside the alien's chest in his empathy is nearly snuffed out completely as his partner's words become clear. "Carlisle..." Glacius speaks up softly, a quavering sigh pushing itself from his gills. Is his Bondmate... talking about him? There's... there is no way. It can't be.

"I am here," the alien tries again, taking a careful step towards the cowering human. "I can help now. You know that, do you not? You... know me?"

[tongueamok]

Though Carlisle himself is nearly as colorless as the landscape -- save for his eyes, which still hold just a hint of their usual blue -- Glacius is vibrant, his will shining beacon in this barren, dying world. His voice draws the attention of the clergyman, who is then immediately taken aback by his vivid appearance. He seems to recognize Glacius immediately, a smile crossing him; it dissipates only a second later as he puts a hand on his head, his eyes unfocusing, his mind struggling to recall why he was so happy just now to see him. Because he's someone in this world of no one? He knows him, doesn't he? But where? Is he someone he wronged once? He must be.

No no no no no, Carlisle says inwardly, almost muttering it aloud. This figure says he wants to help. He must be good, surely. But there is no goodness in this place, is there? No, no there isn't. Carlisle knows he belongs here because of that.

But does this stranger before him?

He slowly slides to his feet, his eyes flicking back to the icy warrior. "I- I feel as though I do. I do know you, don't I? We- Glacius. Like ice. Aheh, it makes sense! And we were- we..."

He trails off, his expression faltering as it slips from him. "We... we were... I know this was important. We know each other, I- I wronged you in some way, didn't I?" His fingers curl against his scalp, fear gripping him. "I must have, or you wouldn't be here. To- to torture me? No, that's- that's not right."

[glacius]

As Carlisle rises, Glacius' posturing becomes much more tentative—if the timid cleric really has... forgotten him, then he does not want to risk scaring him now. Aside from the heartbreak of one who used to accept him unconditionally now reacting to him with fear, which is plenty hard to cope with as is, it would be a disaster if he were to run off and get lost. Thankfully, Carlisle seems to recognize him for a moment; it is such a relief when the clergyman says his name that Glacius actually perks up and stands taller, giving a tentative smile. He should have known his partner could not forget him...

... Oh. The ice alien's tentative smile crumbles, his one remaining mandible twitching as sadness pulls at all of his features. This isn't real, he tries to tell himself—this is just a nightmare. It is a nightmare for both of them, now, despite the fact that Glacius had gone in to save his partner; one of them is tormented by what he cannot recall, while the other is tormented by being the only one who can.

"No, it is not right," Glacius rumbles, trying to fight back the hurt and sadness welling up in his hearts. "You have never wronged me, and I would never dream or torturing you. I want to deliver you from all this, I—I have to find a way to bring you back to the light."

Wait—Light! Of course. His operculum flaring for a moment in realization, the ice alien quickly extends one hand palm-up, allowing his Mote to wink into existence. In this dull, barren land, its light shines like a beacon, magnified by the way it reflects off his icy shell; he hopes it can guide Carlisle back to him.

"This is familiar to you... is it not? I know you can feel it—that you can feel me, with you always."

[tongueamok]

The Mote draws Carlisle's full attention, his apprehension giving way to awe; he grasps at his chest, fingers digging into the tattered tabard that covers him as his breath catches in his throat for a fraction of a second. "I- I have seen that somewhere," he recalls, trepidation making him shrink from it despite his curiosity. Unable to handle its brilliance, he closes his eyes, burying his face in his hands once more.

"I- it was a gift. It was a gift to me, from- from him. It was real, unlike..."

He trails off, still feeling the ground beneath him, the ash and dust clinging to his frame, poisoning in the air he breathes. The world feels so real, no matter how much he tries to tell himself it's not. He starts repeating himself, trying to refocus.

"A gift! From- I- I know his name. I know his face. I haven't- I haven't lost that. I know who he was, and how- how he felt, and we were real. I need only- I need only remember. Please don't take that from me!"

[glacius]

"Why would I take that from you? I'm the one who gave it to you!" Glacius replies, fighting to keep the sharpness out of his voice born of pain and loss. He's always thought their Bond was strong enough to endure despite anything. Was he wrong? "You say you remember who he was, but that is clearly not true... for he stands before you and you... you do not even recognize him."

The ice alien's voice wavers as his own emotions crash up against his insides like a heavy wave, but he refuses to break under them just yet. He keeps the Mote open, hoping Carlisle might be able to feel that channel and use it to find his way back. "I have crossed planes to come find you, and... I am not leaving this place without you, Carlisle. It-it does not matter if you have forgotten me," though the quaver to his voice suggests is it very much does, "I am not leaving your side. Not ever. I love you. You have to remember... I know deep down that you remember."