Glacius huffs out a mighty gust of breath, shaking himself out of what little bit of the trance remains as he pushes himself up to his feet. The bottles of water (now mostly empty), his soggy mauled shirt, and the towels (save for the one the clergyman still has wrapped around his body) all get summarily shoved into the tote bag, and then he's urging Carlisle to pick up his neatly-folded clergy outfit. "Get your things. We are leaving. I'll not lose you--to this, or to... to anything else..."

The ice alien trails off, but the waver to his voice is already detectable--and a surefire sign that the reminder of his friend's expected lifespan has struck him deeply. The wound causes a surge of overprotectiveness in Glacius, the desire to wrap Carlisle up and keep him away from anything that could hurt him... which he realizes belatedly is not an entirely realistic goal, but still. In the very least he can not keep the clergyman out in an unfavorable environment that could potentially be contributing to the problem--he's cursing himself for the blunder, for sitting out here making his friend rinse a mostly-healed wound while his life ticks by.