At first, Carlisle flinches again from Glacius' touch, so certain the alien will drop dead right then and there if he reciprocates that bid for solace in any way; however, with unbridled remorse upon him like a thick, heavy blanket, he returns the gesture only a moment later, placing a bloodied hand atop Glacius' as the alien reaches for him.
"I can fix this, Glacius," he sobs, pawing at his throbbing eye with his free hand. "I promise, just- just don't die. I'll do this and you'll be fine and I'll leave and then you won't be suffering but please please please don't die."
Still holding Glacius' hand tightly, he places the other one in the middle of the alien's back, using his energy to reach into the Glacius' core. Carlisle starts his channel slow, trying his damnedest not to overwhelm Glacius with that stinging, burning sensation that unfortunately comes from his craft, but determined to mend his friend regardless. His own energy is shaky as he expels it, but his grasp on it is tenacious -- he must control this. Glacius' life may depend on it.
He starts with the smaller wounds first, easing into it as he repairs bruises and cracks in the alien's form, damage done by the double's violent assault once the original was grounded; thankfully, Glacius' icy armor seemed to take the brunt of the onslaught. His gills are the far more worrying injury, and one Carlisle isn't sure he can fix.
But he must try, he urges himself through the raucous thunder in his head. He takes in a deep breath -- almost immediately chokes on it because of the ink pooling in his mouth -- and pushes energy toward the open wounds. The thorns did what they do best, having latched onto the filaments in Glacius' gills, leaving holes and tears within the alien's neck. Carlisle's hand tightens as he works to repair the damage, one wound at a time. His head pounds explosively, harder and harder with every passing second, sapping him of his strength; the sharp pangs that run down his neck and into his middle leave him feeling as though he might wither away if his head doesn't kill him first.
Still, the clergyman keeps channeling, his teeth grinding together as he chokes back an agonizing breath, conviction pushing him past the brink. His energy finds another puncture within the alien, but Carlisle can practically feel it within his own abdomen: one hole, two, three, four as the claws latched into his side, much like the fanged ivy—
And then there is nothing, the channel ending abruptly as Carlisle collapses, his eyes staring blankly ahead, his grip on Glacius' hand suddenly slack as he falls atop the the wounded warrior before him.
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"I can fix this, Glacius," he sobs, pawing at his throbbing eye with his free hand. "I promise, just- just don't die. I'll do this and you'll be fine and I'll leave and then you won't be suffering but please please please don't die."
Still holding Glacius' hand tightly, he places the other one in the middle of the alien's back, using his energy to reach into the Glacius' core. Carlisle starts his channel slow, trying his damnedest not to overwhelm Glacius with that stinging, burning sensation that unfortunately comes from his craft, but determined to mend his friend regardless. His own energy is shaky as he expels it, but his grasp on it is tenacious -- he must control this. Glacius' life may depend on it.
He starts with the smaller wounds first, easing into it as he repairs bruises and cracks in the alien's form, damage done by the double's violent assault once the original was grounded; thankfully, Glacius' icy armor seemed to take the brunt of the onslaught. His gills are the far more worrying injury, and one Carlisle isn't sure he can fix.
But he must try, he urges himself through the raucous thunder in his head. He takes in a deep breath -- almost immediately chokes on it because of the ink pooling in his mouth -- and pushes energy toward the open wounds. The thorns did what they do best, having latched onto the filaments in Glacius' gills, leaving holes and tears within the alien's neck. Carlisle's hand tightens as he works to repair the damage, one wound at a time. His head pounds explosively, harder and harder with every passing second, sapping him of his strength; the sharp pangs that run down his neck and into his middle leave him feeling as though he might wither away if his head doesn't kill him first.
Still, the clergyman keeps channeling, his teeth grinding together as he chokes back an agonizing breath, conviction pushing him past the brink. His energy finds another puncture within the alien, but Carlisle can practically feel it within his own abdomen: one hole, two, three, four as the claws latched into his side, much like the fanged ivy—
And then there is nothing, the channel ending abruptly as Carlisle collapses, his eyes staring blankly ahead, his grip on Glacius' hand suddenly slack as he falls atop the the wounded warrior before him.