The first sensation Carlisle becomes aware of is the throbbing behind his eyes, a heavy pulsating so strong that it managed to breach even the depths of his unconsciousness. Next, he realizes how stiff his fingers are, his hands uncooperative as he tries to flex them. That's not unusual for a man of his particular condition practicing what he does. As his idle mind tries to discern if that's sweat or ink on his brow, it occurs to him that he feels feverish: his muscles spasm and twitch as his body shivers in the chill of the room. The temperature isn't out of the ordinary -- he does share an apartment with Glacius, after all.

And then he feels worry, though he can't remember why. The vague glimpses in his mind's eye become clearer the longer he thinks about it. There was the double -- the other Glacius -- and fanged ivy, and...

And the inexorable guilt that this is his fault. Carlisle's body jerks as he snaps awake with a new feeling: concern so turbulent that he can think of nothing else.

He turns his head to the side, his bleary eyes taking in the darkness all around him. Of course it's dark -- there's no lamp. His vision is blurry -- his glasses are missing. His body aches -- he has no energy. Aural exsiccation. It takes him a moment, but he manages to sit up, feeling weary beyond his years. In the silence, his voice calls out: he almost doesn't have one of those either, given how raw his throat is from all the ink he's been coughing up in his sleep.

"Gla... cius...?"