The light of the Mote, however dim, is still bright enough to illuminate the clergyman's face; uncertainty colors him even now, but the alien's convictions bolster Carlisle's own, determination appearing as soon as Glacius loses his breath mid-sentence. It is truly in their support for one another that they find strength, as Carlisle cannot worry about himself when his friend -- his dearest friend, more precious to him than he can truly express -- is so wounded before him. To see such a proud warrior so vulnerable, if only for him...
Carlisle's hand trembles still as he tightens his grasp on Glacius' own; it is only a fraction of what pressure he could normally offer, but given his health, he does his best to reciprocate the trust he's being shown, the compassion, the solidarity... and more. His chest aches, though he cannot discern exactly why -- he meets Glacius' eyes, his own brimming with a mixture of shame and gratitude behind his glasses. As the heir of the Longinmouth line, he should be better than this --
Glacius cares not about his bloodline.
It's his place as a twice-cursed to be shunned, and to separate himself from society for the good of others. The only reason he hasn't done so yet is because of his cowardice. He brings misfortune in his wake; his curse befell his father, his uncles --
Glacius cares not about his curse, either. Glacius cares about him, about Carlisle himself, not for who he is or what he can do, but because of what he -- as an individual rather than the heir of a prominent line, a twice-cursed, or even a skilled healer -- means.
And frankly, Carlisle isn't sure how to handle that. Usually a man of many frivolous words, he's left silenced by Glacius' confession, his mouth agape as he fails to form an answer. He wants to ask why the alien would think such a way; he wants to tell Glacius he's wrong, misguided in his devotion.
But as he sits there with his head and his chest pounding in tandem, he finds that he can't. He opens his mouth to say one thing, but something else pours forth, something more candid.
"I don't want to lose you," he utters, his breath unsteady, his voice full of unabated remorse as he offers Glacius a rueful look. "And I thought I had, all because of a mistake I- I made. Because- because I failed you." He struggles to pull air into his lungs, his body quaking with apprehension. "And I would've done anything to bring you back. I would raze myself from this existence if I thought it'd behoove you."
And while he's not sure it wouldn't, he can't do that, either -- not when, by Glacius' own admission, he means so much just by being alive, just by being there. That's a new and terrifying feeling for Carlisle, one that batters his chest from the inside out. His fingers curl along Glacius' hand as he leans forward just a little, silently begging for the icy giant to return the gesture, their sign of assurance in one another, of dependence and acceptance.
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Carlisle's hand trembles still as he tightens his grasp on Glacius' own; it is only a fraction of what pressure he could normally offer, but given his health, he does his best to reciprocate the trust he's being shown, the compassion, the solidarity... and more. His chest aches, though he cannot discern exactly why -- he meets Glacius' eyes, his own brimming with a mixture of shame and gratitude behind his glasses. As the heir of the Longinmouth line, he should be better than this --
Glacius cares not about his bloodline.
It's his place as a twice-cursed to be shunned, and to separate himself from society for the good of others. The only reason he hasn't done so yet is because of his cowardice. He brings misfortune in his wake; his curse befell his father, his uncles --
Glacius cares not about his curse, either. Glacius cares about him, about Carlisle himself, not for who he is or what he can do, but because of what he -- as an individual rather than the heir of a prominent line, a twice-cursed, or even a skilled healer -- means.
And frankly, Carlisle isn't sure how to handle that. Usually a man of many frivolous words, he's left silenced by Glacius' confession, his mouth agape as he fails to form an answer. He wants to ask why the alien would think such a way; he wants to tell Glacius he's wrong, misguided in his devotion.
But as he sits there with his head and his chest pounding in tandem, he finds that he can't. He opens his mouth to say one thing, but something else pours forth, something more candid.
"I don't want to lose you," he utters, his breath unsteady, his voice full of unabated remorse as he offers Glacius a rueful look. "And I thought I had, all because of a mistake I- I made. Because- because I failed you." He struggles to pull air into his lungs, his body quaking with apprehension. "And I would've done anything to bring you back. I would raze myself from this existence if I thought it'd behoove you."
And while he's not sure it wouldn't, he can't do that, either -- not when, by Glacius' own admission, he means so much just by being alive, just by being there. That's a new and terrifying feeling for Carlisle, one that batters his chest from the inside out. His fingers curl along Glacius' hand as he leans forward just a little, silently begging for the icy giant to return the gesture, their sign of assurance in one another, of dependence and acceptance.