Thankfully, Boris takes the expression his supposed-nephew gives him in stride, offering him a smile. "Ah. You need not explain yourself if ya don't want. I suppose the urge to get some fresh air every now and then is as much in your blood as it is in mine."

He claps a hand on Carlisle's -- now Glacius' -- shoulder; though the gesture is gentle, his hands are coarse from years of handling the axe strapped across his back. Pulling in a deep breath, he looks to the stars above them, steam rising from his nostrils as he pushes the air out of his lungs.

"I..." He sighs in a manner very much like Carlisle himself before trying again. "It's hard now, lad. No one is denying that. But we'll make it through this, I promise you. You know that, right? We'll make it through this together, as we always have."