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
"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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
"All right," he replies as he settles against Glacius, his forehead resting in the curve of the alien's powerful neck, his icy shell soothing the dull throbbing behind his eyes. Pulling in a breath, Carlisle tries to steady his trembling, desperate to hide how truly anxious he is. He may have accepted what is coming, but he undeniably fears it nonetheless. He fears what he has seen when he sleeps; he is frightened of becoming something so changed that he can no longer remember his lover's face, recall how his caresses felt upon his pale skin. Most of all, he is terrified of what his end means for Glacius. Even now, he puts his partner through a torment he wouldn't wish upon anyone.
Is it worse for your loved ones to simply vanish one day, or to be damned to watch them wither away? Carlisle doesn't know. He holds onto what truth keeps him grounded:
"We will face those challenges together," he responds, closing his eyes, "as in all things."