That's the way they spend some time, then, both of them too worn from the horrible ordeal they've just went through to so much as move a muscle. Glacius does stir before too long, however--he's pushed through brutal beatings and grievous injuries before, and with a lot of his wounds mended and the burning from Carlisle's healing channel fading, he is able to return to a state of consciousness. His lowermost gills will never function again, at least not without Healing Ice, and his throat still feels raw and awful... but he can breathe through the others, and he can think more clearly than he could with the agony from so many sources overwhelming him all at once. He takes a moment or two to do just that, cycles some breaths through his airways, then lifts his head shakily from the ground and regards the cleric draped across his body.
At first he assumes Carlisle is just resting as he had been, but then he notices the lack of warmth from the human's body, the blank gaze of his slate-colored eyes, and the utter lack of strength or weight to the hand that had been over his own... and he becomes afraid that something far worse has happened while he recuperated.
"Car... Carlisle!" Glacius coughs out, his voice wasted, as his entire body tenses underneath the human's prone form. He attempts to shake him, but there's no movement, no response. Raw fright, the likes of which the alien has never known despite the terrors he's had to face down--despite how often his own life has been at risk--grips him, and he forces himself to move despite the exhaustion of his body.
This can't be happening, is all the alien can think as he desperately tries to disprove the worst of his fears, even as he worries that he may only end up confirming them. Using lessons learned from his repeated visits to the clinic, he takes the clergyman's hand in his own and uses his other to try and check for a pulse, pressing his fingers to the man's wrist... and after some time he does feel one, but it's faint, so faint. Still feeling concerned and frantic, Glacius moves to check his neck as well just to be absolutely sure that he's not mistaken, that he's not only feeling what he so desperately wants to feel--and sure enough he can feel his heartbeat there, as well. Despite the fact that he's addressed his immediate, worst fear, the ice alien is still far from settled.
He moves the human off of him as carefully as he can, then forces himself up to his hands and feet with a groan of exertion, stubbornly continuing to push himself despite his body's warnings that it could easily do the same thing that his friend has. An urgent hiss rises up from his throat as he removes the human's shirt--sorry about the breach of privacy, but he's petrified that he's going to discover some grievous wound contributing to his unresponsive state, slowly sapping away at what little strength he has left. When he doesn't see anything save for those dark violet scars, Glacius at first doesn't understand... but then he looks down at himself, notices the lack of most of his wounds, puts that together with the ink seeping from his friend's mouth and eyes and fingernails... and he understands.
Carlisle had put so much energy into healing whatever of the alien's wounds that he could--and so soon after the ordeal with his own double, which had already been so taxing. He had clearly expended almost everything that he had left on the alien's behalf, and aside from being deeply moved, the otherworldly being couldn't imagine what the repercussions of that could be. Would he ever wake up, or would his already diminished strength continue to wither until this claimed him? Could he even do anything to stop it?
Now it is the alien's turn to feel raw, unfettered sorrow and guilt. He bows his head, lets it drop into his hands for a moment. He should have been more alert, shouldn't let himself get caught off guard. He was supposed to be protecting his friend-- he never should have even left his room tonight. Though he's honestly no longer sure how much good he's doing the clergyman, or if all he's really doing is bringing trouble down upon his head, at least has sense enough to realize that simply up and leaving him now would be one of the worst possible things he could do. They can figure out where to go when Carlisle isn't passed out and helpless; for now, he owes it to his friend to stand by him and look out for him when he can't look out for himself.
So, using what little strength he has left, Glacius hefts the clergyman in his arms and tucks him securely back into his bed, then sits down himself, trying to do whatever he can think of to keep himself awake so he can stand guard. And that is how the alien spends the next day: slumped in a chair by his friend's bedside with only his guilt and sorrow for company, neglecting his own needs as he tries so hard to look out for the human; wishing for nothing but that the clergyman might wake up again.
no subject
At first he assumes Carlisle is just resting as he had been, but then he notices the lack of warmth from the human's body, the blank gaze of his slate-colored eyes, and the utter lack of strength or weight to the hand that had been over his own... and he becomes afraid that something far worse has happened while he recuperated.
"Car... Carlisle!" Glacius coughs out, his voice wasted, as his entire body tenses underneath the human's prone form. He attempts to shake him, but there's no movement, no response. Raw fright, the likes of which the alien has never known despite the terrors he's had to face down--despite how often his own life has been at risk--grips him, and he forces himself to move despite the exhaustion of his body.
This can't be happening, is all the alien can think as he desperately tries to disprove the worst of his fears, even as he worries that he may only end up confirming them. Using lessons learned from his repeated visits to the clinic, he takes the clergyman's hand in his own and uses his other to try and check for a pulse, pressing his fingers to the man's wrist... and after some time he does feel one, but it's faint, so faint. Still feeling concerned and frantic, Glacius moves to check his neck as well just to be absolutely sure that he's not mistaken, that he's not only feeling what he so desperately wants to feel--and sure enough he can feel his heartbeat there, as well. Despite the fact that he's addressed his immediate, worst fear, the ice alien is still far from settled.
He moves the human off of him as carefully as he can, then forces himself up to his hands and feet with a groan of exertion, stubbornly continuing to push himself despite his body's warnings that it could easily do the same thing that his friend has. An urgent hiss rises up from his throat as he removes the human's shirt--sorry about the breach of privacy, but he's petrified that he's going to discover some grievous wound contributing to his unresponsive state, slowly sapping away at what little strength he has left. When he doesn't see anything save for those dark violet scars, Glacius at first doesn't understand... but then he looks down at himself, notices the lack of most of his wounds, puts that together with the ink seeping from his friend's mouth and eyes and fingernails... and he understands.
Carlisle had put so much energy into healing whatever of the alien's wounds that he could--and so soon after the ordeal with his own double, which had already been so taxing. He had clearly expended almost everything that he had left on the alien's behalf, and aside from being deeply moved, the otherworldly being couldn't imagine what the repercussions of that could be. Would he ever wake up, or would his already diminished strength continue to wither until this claimed him? Could he even do anything to stop it?
Now it is the alien's turn to feel raw, unfettered sorrow and guilt. He bows his head, lets it drop into his hands for a moment. He should have been more alert, shouldn't let himself get caught off guard. He was supposed to be protecting his friend-- he never should have even left his room tonight. Though he's honestly no longer sure how much good he's doing the clergyman, or if all he's really doing is bringing trouble down upon his head, at least has sense enough to realize that simply up and leaving him now would be one of the worst possible things he could do. They can figure out where to go when Carlisle isn't passed out and helpless; for now, he owes it to his friend to stand by him and look out for him when he can't look out for himself.
So, using what little strength he has left, Glacius hefts the clergyman in his arms and tucks him securely back into his bed, then sits down himself, trying to do whatever he can think of to keep himself awake so he can stand guard. And that is how the alien spends the next day: slumped in a chair by his friend's bedside with only his guilt and sorrow for company, neglecting his own needs as he tries so hard to look out for the human; wishing for nothing but that the clergyman might wake up again.