The blades come out easily with Glacius' strength pulling against them. Carlisle cries out in anguish, his face contorting from the pain that rips through him as the shears are removed, but surely enough, he did know what he was doing: after a few seconds, the wound in his back mends itself, flesh coming together like fibers knitted into a piece of cloth. Despite the fact that he is healed, he continues to writhe on the ground, his chest heaving as he takes in a few labored breaths.

"Thank- thank you," he manages finally, trying to push himself off the ground as more ink trails from the corners of his mouth. It coats the side of his face and glasses from where he was lying in the puddle, trails down onto his bloodied tabard -- he wipes at it with his hand, his entire body trembling, eyes struggling to focus on the face of his friend.