Even as overwhelmed with agony as Glacius' body and mind are, he does seem to react to the clergyman's aid. When the human's hands first go to his neck he shudders, goes very still... and then when he feels the first few barbs gradually get worked out of his gills he starts to turn his head this way and that, the better to expose the regions that still need to be seen to, desperately trying to garner help from his trusted friend. It's a grisly process--lots of his gill filaments are coming out with the thorns, so tightly entangled as they were-- and he's unable to keep from coughing painfully here and there, his neck quivering against Carlisle's hands... but he'll be better for it when it's finally over. Already some of that maddening pain is leaving his mind as the vine loosens, and the clergyman's touch seems to help him focus, as he's trying to draw steadier breaths.

And then the vine is finally out-- a long, sinister tendril, completely coated in the alien's clearish purple blood. Amidst it all, he'd been aware of the human carrying on as he works, but he couldn't understand it--he's unaware that the clergyman was speaking in a damned language, thinks he's still just too overwhelmed to parse anything. And truthfully, that is a part of it; though his middle is no longer sporting a large open wound, and the thorns have been pulled from his gills, he's still been through a lot--he needs some time to recuperate. The massive alien lays on the ground panting vacantly, blood still bubbling up from the ruined respiratory organs and trickling from various other minor wounds... everything feels awful and, barely conscious as he is, he makes a transparent bid for of solace. His hand scrounges around for whatever part of Carlisle he can reach--his knee, his hand, anything--and then grips it weakly.