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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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?
no subject
"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...?"
no subject
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?
no subject
"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...?"
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
... 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."
no subject
"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!"
no subject
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."
no subject
The effects of the Land Beyond Living butt up against his words from earlier. "If- if it meant... if it meant being with..."
Oh. He looks back toward Glacius, his face twisted as realization tightens in his throat. He straightens up just a little, his entire frame trembling; his tone is softer, even, much like the specter that had inhabited his body. "You must be real. I... can feel you through it, through the Mote."
His hand shakes as he reaches out, wanting to put a hand on Glacius' chest as though to reassure himself that he's truly there.
no subject
"Is... is this helping..?" Glacius asked in a hushed tone, the Mote wavering with his worry. Wanting to do more, the ice alien gradually lowers his head towards Carlisle and turns it to the side so that the scars that have ruined it face him. He knows that caressing that old, gnarled mass of scarring has helped his partner feel connected to him in the past... he doesn't know if the clergyman will remember what they mean or where they came from when he's in this state, he just knows he has to try.
no subject
Though one hand remains tight on his chest, his trembling slows as he reaches toward his partner with the other, sliding it from his torso to the side of his face. "You kept this for me," he murmurs; though his voice is barely above a whisper, it rings in the unnatural stillness all around them. "There was... regret in this, in how it happened and why you would remain so scarred on my behalf, but- but also... gratitude. Fondness. A comfort I could not describe. That you would keep such a thing because of what it represented meant so much to me. It... still does."
He slides his hand into the familiar grooves, closing his eyes as he feels the Mote thrum. Ah, there's that something he could not grasp earlier, what it was -- is -- Glacius feels for him that he had struggled to recall. He basks in it for only a moment, color returning to his form, the world around them both less clear than it was—
And he awakens with a gasp, coughing as he breaks through the ink in his throat.
no subject
The big ice alien at least waits for his partner to recover from his coughing fit, but then he speaks up in a cautious, if not hopeful tone. "Are... are you alright, Calrisle?" There's a pause in which all of Glacius' gills flutter, and a little bit more nervousness creeps its way into his voice. "Do you... remember me..?"
no subject
"Fine," he croaks out; his eyes, though still vibrant from the energies of the Mote, are no longer so bright that the light is all that can be seen. "I'm- I'm fine, Glacius." He reaches to the nightstand as he pulls himself into a sitting position, his hand shaking as he retrieves the water he keeps there and takes a long swallow. At least he's able to lift it now, however stiff his movements may be -- it's an improvement from before he went to sleep... and certainly from after.
"Forgive me for waking you, my friend," he continues with a faint, but lopsided smile, having apparently missed Glacius' other question in his coughing. He looks to the window, trying to determine what time it is -- still dark outside. "Go back to sleep. It's still too early for your patrol."
no subject
The ice alien trails off, nervousness tempering his insistence just a bit. Perhaps it would not be a good thing, he thinks to himself, to remind Carlisle of what he had just been through. Perhaps he should keep the cleric as far away from that realm as possible in mind and spirit. Glacius huffs, averting his gaze entirely. "Never mind. Never mind, you are alright. You said it yourself. You even said my name, so you clearly... know who I am. Of course."
The alien is clearly trying to convince himself, but he sounds like he isn't buying his own attempts. Carlisle calling him by his name and referring to him as a friend are heartening developments to be sure, but they're still fairly general terms compared to how they usually talk. All he can do right now is hope that those memories that he cherishes haven't been lost forever, but he's not quite sure how to broach the subject right now.
no subject
Right. Right right right. He'd been at sea. Carlisle spent many a night with the company of his brews to give him a dreamless, restful sleep, something nearly impossible to obtain without Glacius' company, the feeling of his partner beside him having become routine, welcomed... almost necessary. That had been real, hadn't it? As had—
Carlisle's head dips as he looks to his hands, inky residue dried beneath his nails, tracing the crevices and curves of his fingers. Oh. That had happened, hadn't it? He recalls the cliffs, the water, the monster -- pain. A lot of it. And then Glacius had come, as though emerging from dream. He'd thought he'd been delirious, dying. His mind would be cruel enough to conjure his lover just before his demise.
But he's here. This kind of confusion is... somewhat normal when Carlisle awakens from a deep slumber, but his head feels particularly clouded. Too much tea? An effect from Miss Ravine's treatment? Or had he truly come too close to his end this time? Carlisle rubs at his eyes, feeling more vague memories he hasn't managed to put into place yet. They can wait, as he has more important matters to attend to.
"Of course I know who you are," he reassures Glacius. He sets the glass aside, turning his full attention to his partner, placing a hand on Glacius' arm. "I merely... had a moment where I thought it had all been a nightmare. I suppose it'd be a, ah. Bit of a stretch to say I am well, but fine for now will suffice. Are... are you all right?"
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So Glacius tries to scrounge up a reassuring smile, placing one large hand over Carlisle's. "...I am now. I suppose I just woke up from my own sort of nightmare. I... think..." The words come out a little more forced now, as though the ice alien is trying to make himself talk about things he's not used to, or perhaps he is just looking for the proper words to describe what is truly bothering him.
"... I think I am just worried that I... I might not be able to stop any of this," he finishes, frowning sadly. What if the Mote on its own is not enough anymore? What if he cannot keep his partner's condition from deteriorating further... and thus cannot keep Carlisle from actually forgetting him? What if he turns out to be useless to the one he loves in the end? He has always tried his very hardest not to leave any room for doubt so that his partner can latch on to him and use some of that steadfast strength for himself, so he is not quite sure how to talk about any of this out loud... but it is very hard to deny that this recent turn of events and everything that has been happening so quickly after it has left him scared.
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But his biggest regret has not just been what he would leave behind, but who. He's made plans to have the Revenant taken care of, but it's Glacius he's most worried about. Carlisle knows what it's like to be left alone with the sorrow and guilt that comes from the death of a loved one. He is no mere loved one, however: he is Glacius' beloved, a distinction that should be taken into the highest consideration. He's not s ure how to help Glacius cope with that. He feels his partner's remorse, his concerns -- fears draining his strength. That apprehension is new, unexpected, and Carlisle immediately kicks himself for having not seen it before.
"Oh," he murmurs softly, unsure of how to respond -- in all honesty, he doesn't think Glacius can stop any of this, not with the time they have. What force could cease the gnawing of that abyss within him?
Not that Carlisle doesn't want to stay. He does; he truly, irrevocably does. More than he fears death, he is afraid of what agony he will put his partner through following his end, and to spare him that misery, Carlisle would do just about anything.
And so he tries to be Glacius' bulwark for now. "I would say death is something we all must face eventually, but you and I both know that this is no mere death. I—"
He cuts himself off, his eyes meeting his partner's; he casts his gaze away, unable to mask his own trepidation as he tries again, his hands tightening on Glacius'. "I... I don't want to go, but- but if there is nothing we can do, you must not blame yourself. Promise me that. Promise me you'll at least try. I would—"
The facade starts crumbling, his teeth grinding together. "I would rend myself from this world before I put you through that. Before you had to endure the same guilt I have for years and years and years now. So please, do not take it upon yourself to stop this, and that, if it proves impossible, do not blame yourself for having done your best. You've... given me more reason to live than I have ever had."
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"I can promise you that I will try," the ice alien rumbles, the sound so thick with emotion it almost consumes his words. He does not know how successful he will be, but it seems a pointless thing to bring up when this could be his Bondmate's dying request. He should honor it as best he can. "But I will also try to stop this. With all that I am. If it do not do everything in my power to save you, then not only will I not be able to live with myself, but I will not be the partner that you deserve... and I will not let you pass without getting everything good in life that you do deserve."
A pause, then Glacius huffs a mournful sigh, scooting a little bit closer to Carlisle so that he can thread his long fingers through the human's hair and tuck his head up under his curving chin. "I will continue to fight this. I might be scared, but I am... not ready to give up yet. For tonight, let us try to just... let ourselves feel what we need to feel. It is not wrong to be sad or scared—especially not with what we face now. But we will be together through it. Let us try to find some comfort in that, so that we may gather our strength for the challenges of the days that yet lay ahead."
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