The effect of those words is immediate; as Carlisle has said before, when he cannot trust himself, he will put his trust in Glacius, his friend, partner, lover. Carlisle rests himself as close as he possibly can to his partner's body, a word of gratitude escaping him with a shudder that quakes through his entire frame, the metaphysical pull of his curse subsiding as the seconds pass into one minute, then two, then several. Shielded by the warrior from the room, from the sudden frights, and from his own paranoia, Carlisle's breaths become steadier, and building apprehension in his chest that was eating him alive finally wanes.

He opens his eyes to the floor beneath him: there is so much ink, blackness threatening to pull him in. His pulls his hands from his hair, the sweat on the strands clinging to his fingers, and wraps his arms around Glacius.

"I'm fine," he murmurs, more of an agreement with Glacius' earlier assessment than his usual, placating insistence. "I'm here. You're here with me."