And just like that, the stubborn, angry heartbeat slows to a low and gentle underscore to the clergyman's own thoughts; the raging current calms under his hands, allows itself to be directed. Why did he come here? What was he hoping to accomplish? Even if he kills Glacius, he won't be accepted--word of his deed will spread and he will be scorned one way or another. He should leave this place, lest he show himself to be any more of the monster that he never wanted to be turned into... and he shouldn't come back, lest his desperate actions hurt his friend any further.

A long, low hiss escapes the double's gills, his arm lowering slowly and shakily, as if a few last reservations are trickling out of him. Then he turns to move from the room, his head lowered on that long curving neck, his arms dangling limply at his sides, his steps plodding as he is moved by a will not his own. It's the same sort of posturing that Glacius had taken on when his will had been subverted by detestable Rage. The lance of his arm drips a trail of his double's blood as he goes, never to return to Carlisle's room.

As for Glacius, he remains motionless on the floor, still a prisoner to Carlisle's earlier command. His beaten body doesn't so much as stir as he lays in a growing pool of his own blood, more of which is bubbling sickly up out of his lowermost gills as his breaths slow.